Hiiiiii!!!! My name is Margaret Viña, and I am a self proclaimed chi o sappy senior- cheesy, I know. The extent I have with writing blog posts is my failed fashion blog from high school with 1(!) consistent viewer aka my mom, so bear with me. A bit about me: I’m a wannabe tea lover with an overstuffed closet, appetizer and dessert enthusiast, and am rarely seen driving with the windows up. I’m a Texas girl (and proud of it too) who grew up with 2 brothers. And now don’t get me wrong, I love my brothers. They are smart and caring and taught me the importance of watching The Sandlot from a young age. My older brother Henry is honest and my baby brother George is the biggest late night Sonic trip advocate. But as wonderful as they are, they’re not sisters. They had this bond growing up, one I just “couldn’t understand.” Pretty sure it was all over March Madness brackets and plaid color bedspreads and athletic cups, I think. I wouldn’t play in the dirt with them and wasn’t “one of the boys” no matter how much middle school Marg wished she was. I didn’t have a sister, and honestly, didn’t think I needed one. No bathroom to share, no one stealing my clothes, anything pink was automatically mine. 18 years of sister-free life. And then, college came.
I entered this new stage of life with eagerness and excitement and a bit of fear tucked somewhere in my brain. Days felt like years until recruitment, but the week went by in the blink of an eye. Bid day started with butterflies in my stomach and ended with the biggest smile on my face. That cardinal and straw jersey fit like a glove; and by glove I mean oven mit. I said the word “sisters” probably 100 times that day. Why? Because everyone else was saying it, duh. I used this 7 letter word fairly often, but there wasn’t meaning behind it for me. I still didn’t understand this connection people had with this word. Until one day, I did. And I know you’re waiting for the big hurrah, the turning point, the moment in the plot when “Ribs” by Lorde starts playing and you feel like you’re flying. And I can now say with full confidence that I’m so glad that wasn’t my story.
My sisters in Chi O didn’t start to feel like my sisters because we had our movie moment and everyone clapped. My sisters felt like my sisters because of the small moments. Familiar faces in the UC or being taught how to navigate the SamTram for the first time. Lauren Bell letting me cry on her couch (and in her car, and in my car, and probably the Lib if we’re being honest). Addison Toy never saying no to going to get a milkshake with me, even though she never gets one. Sophie McRoy never letting me walk to my 8am and consistently picking me up at the stop sign every morning for a year. Ellis’s cackle at the same New Girl episode she rewatches once a week. Tatum Foreman’s welcoming smile on BBP, Liza Yates who is the biggest caf advocate other than myself, and friends who make sure you eat and sleep during the most stressful time of your life. I’ve learned there’s never a limit to sisterhood. I have 200 something sisters, who will call me higher and never make me watch The Sandlot unless I really really wanted to.
And now I know blood is thicker than water, but I would go to the ends of the earth and back again for the women in Chi Omega. *Correction, my sisters(!!!!!!) in Chi Omega. These people have taught me the definition of sisterhood in its purest form. I now have sisters to share my overstuffed closet with, sisters who ask for a dessert menu before I can. Sisters who care way more about the internal over the external and who know me better than I know myself. I think back to 18 year old Marg who would use the word “sister” as such an empty word. This word holds weight for me now; like tub of C is for Cookie or carrying the spreadsheet kind of weight. Sisters mean sharing clothes and always having a dinner date and being the LAST person on the semi dance floor. Sisters mean forever, and I thank Chi Omega for all of mine!!!!
