Being a member of the LGBT community in the South isn't always easy. I live in a state where just last week, the largest city voted against a provision that would include sexual orientation and gender identity as items in a nondiscrimination ordinance. For a broader scope, members of the LGBT community can still get legally fired for their sexual orientation in more than half of the United States, the number totaling 29.

With this in mind, being a member of the LGBT community in the South is actually never easy. Many of us are stuck in a state of constant fear in school, work and Greek atmospheres.

I mean, when you hear of a South Carolina college outright banning homosexuality because two athletes come out as gay, being a homosexual in just the next state over leaves you uneasy. I used to be a student-athlete myself, and had committed to play soccer in college when I experienced residual headaches from a past injury of post-concussion syndrome and had to retire from the game.

The world of athletics — while continuing to grow in being accepting — is already pretty accepting, with several national team athletes being out and proud. Yet when I heard of Erskine, it took a turn for the scary.

Instances such as these are the ones that leave members of the LGBT community in fear, especially members of the LGBT community that are Greek. The Greek system is one of tradition, with customs and rituals for every chapter across campuses in the country, with huge presences on campuses in the South. With the Greek system being so dominant on southern campuses, it is no wonder that members of the LGBT community are fearful of getting involved in the Greek community; many local governments are already against us, so it would not be surprising if many Greek organizations also were. I've had friends question why I could ever even think of being in a sorority while being out and proud. And the answer is simple.

The purpose of a sorority or fraternity is the sisterhood and brotherhood, the togetherness and recognition of something larger than yourself. In my experiences thus far as a LGBT member of the Greek community, I have found my family in my sisterhood. They don't see me as a lesbian, but rather a sister, and this is what makes them my haven in the midst of a discriminatory South.

My sexuality is just a matter of describing whose hand I want to hold at formal, and in being recruited for my sorority, I was fearful of this. My family warned me to be careful, because after all, this was still the South. But slowly, I began to feel safe with my sisters. I would drop subtle hints or post pictures on Instagram with captions about my girlfriend. And after a while, when the officers of my chapter began to like my pictures or when my sisters began to ask me how Valentine's Day with my girlfriend was, I knew I never felt more at home in my life. It was the simple things — liking a picture or asking how things were — that truly made me feel welcome, accepted and loved. I was their sister, and regardless of whose hand I chose to hold, they were still going to love me nonetheless.

That being said, what was meant to be a political editorial turned into a letter of thanks to my sorority sisters and a plea to the rest of the LGBT community that were once in those same fearful shoes when it came to the Greek system; don't discount them, write them off or think that you would never be good enough to be Greek just because you are gay. Because at the end of the day, no matter what, your chapter is your family and they don't care whose hand you hold at formal, just as long as you throw what you know every other day of the year.