By Hannah Reich Berman
As a young child, I thought it was cool to belong to a club. At age eight, I joined the Brownies and eventually I graduated and became a Girl Scout. Strictly speaking, neither of these actually qualifies as a club, but I thought of them as such, since there were weekly meetings with my peers.
But as I got older, my enthusiasm for clubs began to wane. As a result, I had no interest in joining a sorority. In my opinion, the idea of having a sorority in high school was ridiculous, since everyone knew that sororities were for college. In the high school I attended, two sororities existed. I no longer remember the names by which they were known, but I clearly remember that there were visible ways to identify which sorority one belonged to.
The members of one had no choice but to wear royal-blue and hot-pink bows in their hair—which, to me, looked preposterous. I had no idea why these colors were chosen and did not know who made the choice. I did know that I would never want to wear the foolish-looking bows, so I was delighted not to have been approached and asked to join.
The second sorority also had hair bows, and these, if memory serves me correctly, were yellow and green—an even uglier combination than the blue and pink. That particular group—the girls who so proudly wore the yellow and green hair bows—apparently decided that I was a worthy candidate, and I was asked to join.
It gave me great pleasure to refuse that invitation. It arrived in the mail, a small note advising me where and when a meeting was to be held so that I could come and “pledge.” I had no desire and no intention to “pledge” for any of this nonsense, so I never bothered to respond. The invitation went into the wastebasket next to the desk in my bedroom.
It is unclear to me why my mother was proud of my lack of interest in joining a sorority, but proud she was. I remember overhearing her on the phone telling my aunt how pleased she was that “Hannah has no interest in joining such a silly group of girls.”
For my part, I was neither proud nor ashamed; I was just not interested in joining. And as time went by, my disinterest in clubs and organizations grew. I had no desire to attend meetings. I always had one project or another that gave me more pleasure. When an organization was of a charitable nature and committed to helping those in need, I did my part, but I did it my own way. While I did not agree to attend meetings or to provide services, I made financial contributions. My thinking was that everyone does what she can do, each in her own way. And I would always rather write a check than go to a meeting and sit around listening to a bunch of women plan for one event or another. It was not about snobbery; it was just the way I felt.
At the time, I did not feel that I was missing anything. Many years have passed since then, and I still feel the same way today.
But there are many types of clubs. Though most of the clubs I chose to eschew over the years were sensible and worthwhile, many clubs today are neither of those things.
While I never saw the point of gun clubs, I suspect there are hundreds of thousands (primarily in the great state of Texas) who would challenge me on that statement. And if they are persuasive enough, it is conceivable that I might even change my mind; anything is possible.
But there is one club about which I will never change my opinion. A large number of people have formed a club that perplexes me endlessly. These are the hardy (or is it foolhardy?) souls who belong to the Polar Bear Club.
Each year, at the peak of the winter season, and irrespective of the thermometer reading, these folks head to a beach where they disrobe and then race headlong into the frigid waters of the Atlantic Ocean. One group does it in the Coney Island section of Brooklyn and another, the Long Island contingent, does it on Long Beach. (There may be others that congregate in other areas, but these are the two groups that I usually hear about.)
On January 1 of each year, the Coney Island members take the plunge. What a way to start the New Year! My idea of what to do on January 1, given that it is federal holiday, is to snuggle up with a good book and a cup of hot cocoa. I just cannot wrap my head around disrobing outdoors, much less going into the water. But when these folks are interviewed on camera by reporters, invariably they claim that it is a wonderfully exhilarating experience.
Why anybody feels this way is a mystery. Their desire to do this is, to me, beyond all reason, especially since I am a creature of comfort. I do not even step foot in the shower unless I stick my hand in first to test that the water is at a comfortable temperature. And this is in a heated house, not on a windswept beach in the dead of winter.
So, apparently, nothing has changed. I never did care for clubs, and this one is certainly no exception. That’s just the way it is.
Hannah Berman lives in Woodmere and gives private small-group lessons in mah-jongg and canasta. She can be reached at Savtahannah@aol.com or 516-902-3733.