We stand at the entrance of a sprawling space that must extend beyond the length of the foyer. A half dozen fans whirl over our heads despite the room being empty. There’s something oddly sterile about the place—rows of folding chairs in the front and a collection of leather couches and a flat-screen television in the back, a flag with bold-faced fraternity letters, and, for some reason, an ATM, but that’s it—nothing personal, nothing to indicate the thirty-five different personalities of the house’s current residents. But maybe it’s not supposed to. This is a space that will see a rotation of faces. Every year, men who have considered themselves a part of the house’s very foundation will be replaced by new ones who will grow to view themselves as just as indispensable, and so on, and so on. The room’s a reminder of a shared vision and shared identity, molding its residents, not the other way around.

“This is where we conduct fraternity business and hold social gatherings,” Tripp tells us. “Now it’s set up for a meeting. But we clear out the chairs if there’s a party.”

I pull out my notepad and begin writing—mostly flower doodles and nonsense, but I want him to get used to me scribbling while he talks.

“That,” he points to a ten-foot portrait of an auburn-haired man with an oiled beard and mustache, “is our founder, J. E. B. Stuart. Jeb for short.”

I let my eyes linger on the painting. Jeb’s knee-high boots are crossed demurely; one gloved hand clutches a sword, the other a feathered hat. Gold stitching and buttons give his jacket, with a red flower in his lapel and matching red-lined cape, an elegant, if effeminate flair.

Next to the portrait is a body of text written in a fine calligraphic hand.

“What’s this?”

“It’s Kap-O’s creed. We recite it before every meeting.”

“Do you know it by heart?”

Tripp smiles shyly and then clears his throat. I take a step back so I can see his face and read along as he speaks.

“‘The Honorable Man is the man who promotes brotherhood and friendship, whose self-control is refined and practiced, who is confident in his accomplishments and yet boasts of neither riches nor achievements, who is a leader in his community and shepherd of his family, who guards the virtue of himself and others, who respects the humanity of all, especially those lesser than himself; and who is a model of strength for the weak, a beacon of wisdom for the ignorant, and a symbol of courage for the coward.’”

A shiver sneaks up my neck. There’s something uncanny in his repetition. The pauses are all there, not a word too many or too few, but there’s no room for error or individual emphasis. He looks straight ahead. And he doesn’t blink.