As a daughter of Cuban immigrants who was born and raised in Miami, moving away to college in Boston was a culture shock. After 18 years of being constantly surrounded by morning cafécitos, conversations in Spanish, and a community that understood my roots, my transition to Emerson College — a predominantly white school in the heart of downtown Boston — wasn’t easy, to say the least. In my freshman year, I struggled to find my place. I found myself surrounded by people I couldn’t relate to or laugh with, and often tried to impress people I didn’t even like. By sophomore year, I’d distanced myself from those individuals, but then I was lonely and had no friends. I felt stuck in this place of regret: Was Emerson even the school for me?
I considered transferring — but instead, in my junior year, I decided to rush to a sorority.
I’ll admit, I had reservations. Panhellenic sororities can be pretty exclusive, and I assumed most were looking for members who some of the common sorority girl stereotypes — ones that did not describe me. For one, I’m 5-foot-3 with black hair (a far cry from the “college blonde” you see all over TikTok) — and don’t get me started on the assumptions people make when you’re a girl from Miami. On top of all of that, I have an accent, so when I speak, you can tell right away that I’m Cuban.
These women didn’t just accept my culture and where I came from, they also helped me reconnect with parts of myself that I had begun to repress since moving to college.
I can’t even count the number of times people at school have hit me with, “OMG, where are you from? Your voice is so… unique.” Unique. I hate that word. Apparently, my accent isn’t “foreign” enough to be sexy. But it’s not white enough for me to fit in. My whole life, I’ve had this internal struggle of not being “Hispanic enough” because I was born in the United States, and not being white enough because I look and sound Latina. College only intensified this feeling.
However, rushing a sorority changed all of that, no matter how surprising that may sound. During rush, I met some of the most amazing sisters at Alpha Epsilon Phi, women who didn’t judge me for the stereotypes I may or may not identify with — they saw me for the person I am. These women didn’t just accept my culture and where I came from, they also helped me reconnect with parts of myself that I had begun to repress since moving to college.
Growing up in Miami, my culture was everything. It was in the way my dad would come home every Sunday with pastelitos and croquetas from the bakery down the street, and how every family gathering would turn into dance parties and domino games. The way I would tell secrets to my best friend in Spanish so that the new boy she liked, who transferred to our high school from New Hampshire, couldn’t understand us. But at Emerson, I found myself code-switching more than ever, softening my accent, learning how to speak like a girl from Boston, and laughing off little comments people would say to me just to avoid being “too much.”
Joining AEPhi changed all of this for me.
On the last day of rush, the recruitment team hosted an event for PNMs to share about themselves on a deeper level, giving us a feel for how their sisterhood really is. I decided to open up and express how much I missed my home, how I felt lonely and isolated in the Northeast. I explained that I missed coming home from a workout to my mom’s arroz con frijoles, I missed walking next door to my abuela’s house to catch her up on my life. The women empathized with me and wanted to know more about my family and culture. They made me feel proud to tell people where I come from, and it felt great to be seen in that way.
The more I opened up, the more my sisters embraced me.
After I ran home on bid day, one of the sisters pulled me aside and told me, “You don’t have to pretend to be anyone but yourself here. We love you for you, and we see the great girl you are.” It was a small moment — she probably doesn’t even remember it — but it made me realize that I didn’t have to put my personality in a fun-sized bottle to fit in. And the more I opened up, the more my sisters embraced me. They asked me about Miami, wanted to learn Spanish phrases, and even asked me to teach them salsa. At first, it felt a little performative. Back home, these things were just a natural part of life, not something to be “shared.” Their genuine curiosity, however, made me realize how much I’d taken my culture for granted.
Before joining my sorority, I had convinced myself that my Latina culture was something to be compartmentalized, reserved for home and hidden at school. But my sisters encouraged me to bring it into every part of our sisterhood. Most importantly, they helped me realize that being Cuban isn’t just about where my family comes from; it was something tied to me, and I should be proud. In a school where I often feel like an outsider, my sorority became a safe space where I could let down my guard and really showcase who I truly am at my core.
People always assume sororities are all about matching T-shirts and themed parties, but mine gave me something far more valuable: the courage to love my roots unapologetically. Moving to Boston made me question whether I belonged, but my sisters reminded me that my culture isn’t a barrier, it’s a gift.
Now, when I call home, and my parents ask me about the new PNMs or what dress I’m wearing for formal, I smile — because not only did my sorority embrace my roots, but my roots also embraced my sorority right back. And when graduation comes, I won’t just be leaving with a degree, I’ll be leaving with a renewed love for the culture that shaped me since I was a little girl and the sisters who helped me remember its worth.
So, to anyone who thinks sororities can’t be inclusive, or to any Latina wondering if they’ll fit in: Your sisterhood is out there. And sometimes, it’s the place that helps you fall in love with yourself all over again.