In one scene in the 1987 film Dirty Dancing, Baby (Jennifer Grey’s character) is about to go meet dashing, dangerous Johnny (played by the dear, departed Patrick Swayze), but she lies to her parents that she’s going to play charades in the West Lobby. Her sister, Lisa (played by Jane Brucker, who was brilliant in this role but whom I don’t think I’ve seen in anything else) — no stranger to illicit liaisons, herself — knows the real deal, and quips snidely, “Ohh, quite the little joiner, aren’t we?”
Seeing that film for the first time when I was eleven, and literally hundreds of times since, made its message, humor and values hugely formative for me. That particular line taught me that being a joiner is a bad thing, something only goody-goodies and dirty liars would do.
Unexpectedly, it has turned out that I am quite a joiner. I love belonging to groups! I love having membership cards in my wallet and attending group meetings. Thus, it seems paradoxical to me that all of the groups to which I belong are of my own choosing, and yet none feels like a completely natural fit. Take music, for instance. For years, my band members and I played shows with several other bands, traveling together in packs like minstrels whose scope spanned three small blocks of Red River Street. Making music with my band mates made me feel as close as I’ve ever felt to the Spirit, and yet many times I wished I weren’t a part of the music scene. Like any small, intimate group, things often got messy within the band and the community.
Another of my chosen communities: writing and writers. For nearly a decade, I have been a member of the Romance Writers of America. As a group, romance writers have cultural peculiarities that make me feel excluded from what has to be an inside joke. Here is one that even has a joke-like setup: Walk into a room full of romance writers and say the word “chocolate.” Mention you love dark chocolate, or make a joke about chocolate, or say you’re having a crap day and ask if anyone has some chocolate to share. Everyone will titter knowingly, as if you were talking about orgasms instead of candy. Every time this happens, I wonder — what in the world is the subtext? Is it that eating chocolate triggers the release of oxytocin, which is also released post-coitally? Is chocolate truly a good substitute for sex? If so, is there a future in chocolate novels? They could complement the numerous choco-porn TV commercials advertising Dove Dark (my personal favorite — tee-hee), Hershey’s Bliss, Godiva and other brands with purple prose that would rival the best romances of the ’80s.
Another example of my unease within this group: When the Austin chapter of the Romance Writers of America elected me to serve as their chapter president in 2004, I felt I had to begin shaving my armpits. At twenty-eight, I was one of the youngest members of the group. I came to meetings wearing clothing ensembles even I considered odd (picture a former-punk, Target-meets-vintage aesthetic). I couldn’t figure out why the group had elected me to serve; the stark differences between myself and them, of which my hairy pits were one obvious example, made me ostracize myself in my own mind.
My fellow members of Austin RWA had elected a hairy president, and yet I felt with deep certainty that I could not possibly serve with unshaved underarms. Where did this irrational idea come from? Looking back, it seems to have materialized spontaneously in my mind — Chapter presidents do not stand up at group meetings with hirsute pits! Before the January meeting at which I took over the job of president, I shaved. Until then, I had been hairy and proud, a product of my permissive family, my own laziness regarding personal upkeep and hygiene, and the tiny northeastern college I had attended, where people espoused such progressive ideas as women’s bodies being beautiful in their natural, hairy state (though that actually seems more regressive to me — a return to the way things once were). Ever since, I have kept my underarms smooth and inoffensive. In my own mind, I have sold out.
Another community in which I have an uneasy membership: athletes, gym rats, people who work out, enter races and get ripped. After a childhood beset by asthma, bad vision that necessitated glasses, and the attendant fear of objects flying at my face (including any kind of ball or puck), I became a kickboxer in my early twenties in San Francisco, and discovered I loved being athletic. When I moved back to Austin, I switched to swimming, biking and running, and started competing in triathlons. But I often felt excluded at races or group workouts. When registering for my first triathlon, I was dismayed to find that my weight qualified me to enter in the “Athena” group — women weighing over 150 pounds, whose racing times aren’t expected to be as fast as those of lighter women because we have more bulk to haul around. At the free core strength training classes I used to attend at Jack and Adam’s bike shop, I would overhear conversations that made me feel as if I must be in a parallel dimension. “I did an eighty-miler this morning,” someone would toss off breezily. “I was so mad at myself — I only averaged twenty-two miles an hour!” (Cycling, not running — I think.) Who are these people? I would wonder. Even at a “mere” 22 mph, an “eighty-miler” would take nearly four hours, and the core classes were on Monday and Wednesday afternoons. Didn’t these folks have jobs?
It seems at once pitiable and amusing to me that there is no one group to which I feel comfortable belonging. I am reminded of Groucho Marx’s quote about not joining any club that would have him as a member. On the other hand, I think that must be part of the reason why I appreciate my husband so much, and our marriage — our little community of two, another group of my choosing, and the only one in which I almost always feel completely known and utterly at ease.
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Last time I checked, Jack and Adam’s Bikes, on Barton Springs and S. Lamar, still hosted their free core strength training classes on Mondays and Wednesdays at 5:30 pm. If they’re anything like they were two years ago, they are incredible, challenging, kick-ass, 60-minute classes. Show up at least 30 minutes early if you want to get a spot anywhere near the instructor, which helps with hearing instructions. The shop also hosts free weekly training rides. Check their Web site for more details.
Really enjoyed this. And as a writer, the ONLY group I've ever felt completely part of is the group of 4 other women who met every Wednesday for 10 years (!) — most often in my sunroom — in small-town NJ. Maybe it's the difference between the groups who live with you as you grow, versus those who only take you once you're fully developed.
Lee — thanks so much for reading, enjoying and posting! I like your theory, too — that it's the groups who live with you as you grow. I have a very small group of writer friends whom I feel that way about too. (I only wish we had a weekly get-together that was a decade long and counting — that's great!)
I know, right? I am such a lonely joiner. San Francisco made me feel that way in particular- like picking your neighborhood was signing up for a definition. Where you lived boxed you in and made it easy for people to casually "understand" you. Lucky for me, despite our different hoods the our ven diagram intersected with astrology. I love reading what you write!
Emily — Girl, there was a whole other section of this essay that I wrote and then discarded about that very phenomenon you describe about SF! Did I ever tell you about going to an Irish bar in the Haight with Chelsea, and she got so up in arms when a goth chick came in, because "Irish guys HATE goth girls!!!" Weirdest thing! I always felt totally ostracized there, and always based on my appearance (keeping me separate from the groups I might want to join). Thanks for reading, honey!
I'm glad you joined my group, now get your butt on the couch we need to start our meeting!
Ahh – group meetings right in the comfort of our own home! What could be better?
Maybe they elected you president because they wanted to move toward becoming hairy underarmed women who didn't give a damn about what other people thought. I've worried about that myself. Sometimes changing would mean more than shaving, but it's an interesting question, non?
Rebasaxon, I thought of the same thing — maybe they were trying to break out of the mold, and then I changed myself to fit that mold, defeating their purpose. Sigh. Anyway, thanks for reading and for your thoughtful comment!
I loved this piece about belonging! I definitely belong to the Dirty Dancing Fan Club, as well as the Catherine Morris Personal Essay Fan Club! Keep 'em coming please!