Picture this: you’re a starry-eyed first-year, clenching a fistful of command strips and a cushy Twin XL mattress topper, ready to take on welcome week. As the campus populates, so do the community bulletin boards. You linger a moment, dizzied by the hypnotic array of QR codes. Should I give Mock Trial a try? Dabble in improv? Eight Google Forms later, and your inbox is a battleground for witty letters, stacking on top of each other like wrestlers, sweating and screaming at you to attend their recruitment show, their info session—there’s pizza!
You’ve never taken part in any of these activities before. In high school, you stuck to your talents: stage management and math club. You think, they must call it the “old college try” for a reason, right? Besides, the nonstop onslaught of guerrilla recruitment must signify a dearth of enrollment, a desperation for membership. Cross Campus walkways were lined with sophomore members behind tri-fold poster boards. I’d heard about the cutthroat club scene, but this recruitment blitz made me a skeptic. Clubs were doing their job: I felt wanted, inspired to pick a time slot, and lured in by promises of no preparation required! Just bring yourself!
That curious first year was me, mere days ago. I had never even heard of consulting before last week; suddenly, everyone has an investment portfolio ready to whip out at a moment’s notice. My interest lies in the stage, though. Improv felt daunting, and I’d never been able to hold a note, so the logical path to pursue was sketch comedy. I soon learned, three on-the-fly fun facts and many cold reads later, that my odds of success were slim with a chance of none. These groups perform at an exceptionally high level—or so it felt as I sat squashed in the sweaty crowd that overflowed the seats and stairs of LC101— the audience roaring. It was this view that first inspired my pursuit.
As a self-proclaimed non-performer, I felt a surge of pride walking out of my first audition. This is what college is about! I thought. To no one’s surprise, I didn’t make the cut. What was more surprising was the steady uptick of whispers of club rejections. In dining halls, on campus walkways, and in pre-lecture small talk, freshmen hurled exclamations of disbelief: “I can’t believe how hard the clubs are to get into!” and “It doesn’t make any sense!” It’s unsurprising, though, that many performance-based groups are highly selective. There is certainly not a scarcity of musical and theatrical groups for us hot-shot group rejects. Sure, I could write a sketch sequence and put on an amateur show with my friends, but the “big players” inspire awe. I found myself starstruck passing a student donning their neon yellow VQ shirt: I saw you on stage last night! You were funny! And now you’re walking around, same as me. Week one, the thick crust of flyers felt staggering, and auditions slots were crammed into every nook of my GCal. By week two, I had grasped the dissonance in the numbers. Hundreds of first years try their hand. Only a handful make it. I had naïvely fallen face-first into the same trap as generations of frosh before me, welcomed with open arms by cheery recruiters. My pointed questions about each organization’s time commitment now seem wildly optimistic, knowing weekly rehearsals would never see the light of my weekly schedule.
A delicate balance must exist to preserve the quality and tradition of these clubs. Where the issue arises is in the promises of “experience not necessary!” For a wide-eyed first year, that line suggests a foot in the door, a chance to start fresh. But when the bar is already sky-high, those words read like a bait-and-switch. The disconnect isn’t in the groups holding auditions or valuing talent; it’s that the branding frames exclusivity as accessibility.
I’ve found fantastic organizations to take part in this semester, and I’m sure more lie undiscovered ahead. The club rejection cycle isn’t meant to validate every hidden talent you thought you had, nor to crack every selective club. Rejection stings, but there’s liberation in realizing you don’t need to be chosen to belong here.