I am neither a fraternity brother nor female. So after a couple years of watching women pour their hearts, their wallets and their free time into decorating coolers for fraternity away-formals, I never expected to join.
Take a walk through Central Campus in the spring, and you’ll probably see groups of girls huddled over beverage coolers with painting supplies. At Duke and many other universities, the last months of the spring semester brings fraternity away-formals—multiple-day trips for brothers and their dates to celebrate the end of the academic year.
As a thank-you for the invitation, women traditionally gift their date a painted cooler. They’re usually personalized, usually time-consuming and usually expensive.
Last spring, when I got invited to an away-formal, I had to decide whether to make one.
First, I needed to clarify the expectations with my date. The first things I asked about were logistics. “Where are we staying? One bed or two? You’re sure you’re okay to just go as friends? Your frat is okay with you bringing a guy?”
“Should I make a cooler?”
“If you want to make one, that’s awesome! But don’t feel like you have to.”
I’m skeptical that even the most sincere statement of “no pressure” is actually capable of removing an expectation. But even so, there are other reasons why women choose to decorate coolers. For some women, they’re a fun break from work. And for others, they seem like an appropriate “thank you” for the invitation.
But it’s not that simple.
To some, the tradition is sexist. The argument is relatively straightforward: consensual or not, fun or not, insignificant or not, the expectation to make a cooler is predicated upon stereotypes of female domesticity, and those stereotypes are upheld when men in positions of power continue to informally require and normalize the tradition.
Maybe that’s a problem, or maybe it’s not. But as a gay male making a cooler for another gay male, there was something else to it.
In the age of gay-marriage and blurring gender binaries, queer pairs at fraternity formals are still uncommon—even at Duke. It’s not mysterious why even other gay men brought women that weekend. It’s not necessarily a fear of retaliation or ridicule—it’s just easier.
It’s easier when two matching blazers don’t break the symmetry of group pictures. Easier when dancing with your date doesn’t draw attention. Easier when the next morning’s Facebook pictures don’t become an inadvertent political statement.
Making the cooler felt like a “thank you” to my date for doing the harder thing—for inviting a guy. It was my way to make our date feel normal.
But soon, the cooler felt like the first payment on some kind of debt I owed for receiving the invitation. Was the second payment supposed to be sex?
By the time we got to the party, the cooler seemed to adopt a more insidious symbolism. It felt like currency—like something that men and women exchanged in order to purchase sexual expectations.
It’s hard to imagine that sexual pressure at formal is unique to LGBTQ folks. But for two men, those expectations work a little differently. The fact that male-male relationships operate without gendered power structure helped me to never feel physically at-risk. But socially, sex can assume different meaning. While for a woman to deny sex to a man may seem like a subversion of power, for a gay man to deny sex to another gay man may seem like a subversion of identity—like a rejection of another’s self-expression.
I knew that norms around sex at away-formals make things awkward for almost everyone. I also suspected that by making a cooler—by buying into some of the expectations—the other expectations would weigh on me more strongly. So I considered skipping the cooler altogether. Besides, if I hadn’t done the decorating, no one would have been surprised.
But maybe that’s a problem: that no one would think twice about a man deciding not to make a cooler for his date. I had an easy-out. Cooler-making isn’t supposed to be a man’s job, and using that as an excuse felt like little more than exploiting male privilege.
Sitting outside Few Quad, paint dripping everywhere, another justification rattled around in my head.
“Look at me,” I thought. “Coolers aren’t about gender! If I make one, it can’t be sexist, it’s just tradition!”
But that’s not honest, because when my date and I arrived, we didn’t look like the other pairs. We didn’t fit the mold. The fact that my cooler felt like a subversion of a tradition means that the tradition itself is, in fact, steeped in gender roles. My participation did not change that.
The whole weekend, I just wanted to blend in, but I don’t think a cooler could have done that. My sexuality doesn’t lend itself to the symbolism of the cooler. Coolers remain a trophy for the straight fraternity boy and an unofficial participation requirement for the sorority girl. And while I was given the chance to paint my way into a tradition that wasn’t designed for me, the tradition itself still doesn’t do me—or maybe anyone—much good.
So if you somehow have several free afternoons and the money to buy and sand and prime and paint and seal and stock a cooler for your date, go for it.
It might be a blast. But it’s not just a cooler.
Tanner Lockhead is a Trinity Senior. His column, "not straight talk," runs on alternate Mondays.
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