Picture the iconic Southern Belle of the 1890s: Scarlett O’Hara and Melanie Hamilton in Gone With The Wind; perhaps the more child-friendly example of Charlotte La Bouff in the animated Disney film The Princess and the Frog. Real life figures plucked from Confederate America like Sallie Ward, daughter of a Kentucky plantation owner, defined the beauty standard of the gracious white woman: impeccable blonde ringlets, hooped skirt, hospitable, demure demeanour, beautiful yet virtuous. The Southern Belle was even converted into a marketing ploy by Dick Pope Sr., a promoter of Florida tourism, who deployed Southern Belles as hostesses at his botanical retreat, Cypress Gardens.
Melanie Hamilton, Gone with the Wind, portrayed by Margaret Mitchell
What has become of this stereotype? I never gave it much thought until, a few mid-Augusts ago, I stumbled across Bama RushTok during an episode of doom-scrolling in the throes of the pandemic.
RushTok exploded in 2021 at the beginning of the Biden administration, in the midst of a prolonged lethargic lockdown where we were all aching for stimulation. Biden’s cabinet was filled with childless career women (dubbed ‘cat ladies’ by Vice President J.D. Vance) who rose to power quietly and without much scrutiny of their appearance. Naturally, the internet diverted its attention elsewhere, to a different kind of female ascent. Thus on TikTok the Southern sorority girl emerged: young, (normally) white, showing off her thousand-dollar outfits and perfectly manicured appearance. The internet demanded more, and successive generations delivered: PNMs (potential new members) gained millions of likes from documenting the stages of Rush, armed with thousand-dollar jewellery and a face caked in impeccable makeup – the modern day incarnation of the Southern Belle.
‘Rush’ refers to the process both men and women go through to join Greek Life: fraternities and sororities, often referred to as ‘Greek Life’, date back to the founding of Phi Beta Kappa at the College of William & Mary in 1776. The social organisations are labelled with Greek letters, gesturing to the exclusivity of antiquity. For men, the process of joining includes a week of hardcore drinking and suspicious initiations. For women it is anything but.
Institutions like the University of Alabama, University of Georgia, University of Texas, and the University of Mississippi (just to name a few) are just some of the top universities in the United States for sorority recruitment. There are three competitive rounds: Open House, Philanthropy, and Sisterhood. PNMs visit their sorority houses of interest, learn about each charitable cause, and are then interviewed by the current members. During such interviews, girls are advised to avoid the three Bs: booze, boys, and bucks. It is crass to mention anything drinking or partying related, romantic interests, and how much money your family has or what your outfits cost. In other words, the epitome of curated and performed traditional elegance – reiving the paradigm of Southern womanhood of bygone years.
According to an article by Helen Petersen on Culture Study, RushTok views skyrocketed during the Biden administration because America was lacking the Trump-esque hyper-femininity and hyper-consumption. Viewers became engrossed with hopeful girls showing off David Yurman bracelets and Lilly Pulitzer dresses: both comfortably aspirational symbols which display wealth without seeming garish. This image is the way into the sacred mansions, a ticket to American high society.
This conservatism sparks both shock and interest. The ever right-wing FoxNews interviewed Brandis Bradley, makeup artist and reality TV show star of A Sorority Mom’s Guide to Rush. Bradley naturally credits the University of Alabama as the Rush craze catalyst: “They started something down there in Alabama. (…) These girls who go viral, they gain the attention of beauty and fashion brands – they’re not only paying their sorority dues with the money they make, but they’re also paying their tuition. It’s wild.” With social media weaponised for financial self-sufficiency, sorority girls have the means to jump onto lavish makeup and fashion trends – as well as drive them. Petersen’s Culture Study deep-dive into BamaRush outlines the connection between beauty queens and sorority recruitment. Since the University of Alabama accepts Miss America scholarship money, it is a popular university choice for pageant stars to get an education without graduating in debt. It is also an image marketing ploy: ‘How do you get more traditionally beautiful, academically invested, proficient public speakers to come to your school? Recruit them where (many) of them gather: on the pageant circuit.’
How does all this tie into American heartland conservatism? As explored in Rachel Allison, Leticia Bulla, and Megan Phillips’ ResearchGate article It’s a Show that Everybody Puts On: Enacting Femininity in Southern Sorority Rush, the answer lies in the intersection of gender, race, and class performance. They argue that “hegemonic masculinity”—the dominant ideal of manhood in American culture—is closely aligned with whiteness, affluence, and heterosexuality. For women, this model requires subordination to that masculine ideal, while still relying on the same racial and class structures for legitimacy and respect. In other words, idealized femininity within Southern sorority culture doesn’t just mirror patriarchal values—it actively reinforces them through rituals of exclusivity and appearance-based social capital.
This performance of femininity is especially potent within institutions like Alabama’s Greek Life, where tradition and hierarchy are central. It’s important to recognize that the University of Alabama’s Panhellenic sororities and fraternities were not officially racially desegregated until as recently as 2013—a strikingly recent shift. Yet even more telling is the fact that many of the so-called “top-tier” organisations remain almost entirely white, despite this formal change. These lingering racial boundaries reveal that whiteness is still embedded as a prerequisite for social status. Rush becomes not just a ritual of selection, but a performance of everything white, wealthy, polished, and deferential.
A glance at the women who surround the Trump administration is remarkably revealing. Figures like First Lady Melania Trump, Secretary of Homeland Security Kristi Noem, former Florida Attorney General Pam Bondi, and the President’s trio of glitzy daughters all exemplify a highly curated, glamorous femininity. For women, a polished and impeccable appearance is part of the job description. In this political sphere, femininity isn’t incidental; it’s performatively aligned with power. Beauty and composure operate in service of a conservative vision of gender roles.
This quite obviously replicates the Southern Belle archetype once again. The poised and polished daughter of a plantation owner, reconstructed in the 21st century. Yet the current reigning queen of Alabama sorority life, Kylan Darnell, admits this behaviour is very much learned – for she was once the opposite. In an interview for Petersen’s Culture Study, Darnell admits “I was not ladylike at all – a total tomboy. I was even on the boy’s football team. I was very shy, and my mom was like, ‘why don’t you just try a pageant, get your self-confidence up?’” Her transformation from shy child to RushTok star reflects how contemporary femininity within sorority culture is often something cultivated, coached, and ultimately performed.
Preparing girls for rush has opened up a new sector of Sorority Recruitment Coaching. One recruitment coach, Trisha Addicks of It’s All Greek to Me, was featured in Rachel Fleit’s HBO documentary Bama Rush, offers a mentorship package costing $3,500. Another coaching company, SororityPrep, offers a premium coaching package – including everything from wardrobe consultation, interview practise, social media review, and ‘rebranding’ – all costing $2,700. To play the game you have to pay. Not to mention that sorority membership can cost up to $20,000 on top of annual course fees. These organised cliques demand wealth and social capital.
Are sororities all glitz and glam? Though the stereotype seems but skin deep, a survey I released on Instagram told me that looks and social capital are not the only thing most sororities value. With the exception of big Southern SEC universities, a student at the University of Chicago tells me “I think most people aren’t what you would typically expect at a D1 university. People could stereotypically be more fratty, whether they are at a fraternity or a sorority or masculine/feminine but I tend to think it plays significantly less of a role than you see online. I think they’re overly stigmatised by a large portion of the population needlessly.” A recent University of Southern California graduate also commends sorority girls on their ability to juggle social and academic commitments (it’s not all Elle Woods): “People still performed really well in school. Lots of sorority girls are involved in lots and are probably used to being stretched thin socially.” There are quiet displays of resistance against the appearance-driven elements of Greek Life. Amidst this hyper-feminine branding of Trump-era women, there are women simply navigating ambition and identity. Though public perception may aggrandise this quest for acceptance, it doesn’t change the double-edged sword: femininity being a method for empowerment but also social constraint.
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