When I entered Cornell University as a freshman in the fall of 1971, I was a naive, privileged 18 year old with a vague and hopeful notion of college being a time to try to figure out my place in the universe. I was filled with high-minded ideas of studying philosophy and physics and literature and history in order to try to find answers to the big questions in life, questions that had concerned me for a much of my mostly introverted and driven childhood. I had been a very serious kid, way more so than I am now. Having read a lot in high school, from 19th century Russian novelists to James Baldwin to Abbie Hoffman to Nietzsche, I was passionate and confused and angst-ridden and grasping, and I thought if I only read the right books or asked the right questions or found the right spiritual path I could figure out this crazy thing called life.

Cornell seemed beyond beautiful that September. The air was fresh and sharp and the light was angled, warm, and deep, casting a glow on the fabled ivy-covered buildings. Isolated in western New York State, set among gorgeous rolling hills and valleys, it seemed like an ideal place to sequester oneself from the larger world and have the luxury to study the great works of mankind. The first few weeks of school the weather was invigorating and intoxicating, the sun still warm during the day but giving way to a brisk chill in the evening. I felt awake and aware and thrilled to be alive.

But I quickly realized that my notion of college was skewed and overly idealistic. As an incoming freshman in 1971, self-righteously disdainful of the corporate power structure and our military provocations, I was taken aback during orientation week by the rows and rows of tables of corporate recruiters in Willard Straight Hall, the grand old student union. Every major corporation in America was represented, from Dow Chemical to 3M to General Electric, and many of the tables had lines of students seeking literature, connections, and advice, wanting a secure work situation as soon as they graduated college. I quickly realized that I didn't fit in. My head was lost in the philosophical clouds while most of these bright young people were preparing themselves for a life of corporate plenty.

Those first weeks I was introduced to fraternity or "Greek" life, though I had no intention of joining one. Being a male freshman in a dormitory in North Campus I was recruited by representatives from various houses. Parties at the frat houses were ubiquitous. Drinking was rampant and voluminous to the point of self-harm. As part of an initiation routine at one of the houses, my next-door dorm mate was encouraged to drink an eight ounce glass of whiskey straight down, no stopping. Not only did he do that, but he followed it with another eight ounce glass and then an additional four ounces. Twenty ounces in the space of twenty minutes. Of course he passed out, and what did the frat guys do? They carried him back to his dorm room and dropped him on the bed, unconscious. He was vomiting on himself when I called medical security and they came and took him and pumped his stomach. He joined that fraternity.

But most troubling was frat house sex culture. As part of the push to get boys like me to "rush" a fraternity, all sorts of things were said. One guy bragged about "brothers" getting women drunk and having sex. Another told me they'd get women stoned on quaaludes and the guys at the frat would have their turns with them. At first I thought it was just talk. But I went to only one party and within minutes I was told I could get laid upstairs. Just like the allegations being made about Kavanaugh and that whole culture of power and misogyny. I left disgusted but I didn't do anything about it. In the light of recent events those memories are more disturbing and haunting than ever.