Warning: Content in this story may be triggering or disturbing for some readers.
My memories of Fraternity Row have damp, jagged edges.
They were made during my freshman year at the University of California, Berkeley.
I was 18 years old when I moved into Griffith Hall, a high-rise dorm that loomed across the street from Neuman Hall, a Catholic parish with an oddly brutalist design.
Everything that I knew about my school came from its marketing materials.
Everything that I knew about frats came from comedies like “Revenge of the Nerds.”