This past Sunday, hundreds of students across campus participated in Wellesley’s oldest tradition: Flower Sunday. Flower Sunday is an event designed to soften the transition for first-years (referred to as “littles”) by pairing them with older students (“bigs”) who will post pictures of them with the caption “best little <3” and then ghost them by mid-October. The following POV is brought to you by our very own Wendy Wellesley:
The tradition begins bright and early outside of the residence halls where littles, painfully eager for 9am, participate in what they hope will be a joyous sorority-style big-little reveal (you are hungover) (the RAs can’t load the spreadsheet) (someone is missing) (help). After awkwardly wandering around, locating your little, and sharing all relevant information (name, major, hometown), you count down the minutes to the next part of your day: either the ceremony in the chapel, or the sweet release of death—whichever comes first.
Still alive, you arrive at the ceremony and are treated to a sensory smorgasbord of flowers, spiritual ambiguity, and five reworded versions of the same speech, between which the choir sings a collection of songs drenched in messages of love, empowerment, and community (among this year’s choices: “Who I Want to Be,” “A Choice to Change the World by Getting That Research Position,” and “You Belong Here, Legally, Because You Paid Tuition”).
Phew! That’s over. Shuffling out of the chapel, you are reminded of a darker truth: your campus opps have littles now. The sidechat-famous classmate of yours with a title IX violation or two now has a soft-eyed first-year trailing behind her like a duckling, blissfully unaware that their big has probably fucked their roommate. And yours, too.“It’s important to guide the next generation,” they say, gently braiding their little’s hair. You throw up a little.
All that’s left of the festivities is the most whimsical purgatory you will ever encounter: waiting for brunch. Fresh berries and food decorated with edible(?) flowers await you in the dining hall—or so you hear, you’re not close enough to see. There are around 700 people in line in front of you, 650 of which you’ve never seen before in your life. Wtf. Starving, dehydrated, delirious, you reach the front of the line and put three sad, shriveled strawberries in a bowl. You stagger over to a table with no chairs, feeling victorious. The first few bites are delicious. The rest are cold. You feel the inevitable crash, but you can’t leave yet—your little is recounting the tales of her pre-college program. You nod encouragingly as she tells you, for the third time, how she “contemplated going direct med” but wanted to “slow down to enjoy frivolous little traditions like this one.” You sip your cucumber water and experience ego death. Twice.
Brunch concludes. Your little gives you a sticky hug and skips off into the sunset (Caz, 2pm). You open your phone to 75 of the same instagram story.
Same time next year?
