Community Should Not Require an Interview

When I arrived at Harvard, I thought I’d have a break from applications. I was quickly proven wrong.

For many campus clubs, students must submit applications and undergo a “comp” process to become a member — and they’re not always guaranteed acceptance. At the same time, these selective organizations often advertise themselves as “communities.” From posters to email chains to application questions, the word is ubiquitous. It promises the embodiment of the college experience: friendships, mentors, and a sense that one truly belongs.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with selectivity. An a cappella group cannot have unlimited singers, a theatrical production cannot have 200 leads, and organizations handling intensive projects may reasonably need members with particular skills or high commitment.

Unfortunately, exclusivity has become the default. A community, at its best, offers a feeling of belonging. A competitive organization demands, on the other hand, that before you can belong, you must demonstrate what you are capable of contributing. The more we apply the language of “community” in spaces structured around selection, the easier it becomes to value ourselves as community members according to our capacity to compete.

This logic reinforces an obvious myth — not only does admission supposedly distinguish the deserving from the undeserving, but it also encourages those who are accepted to view themselves as inherently more capable, talented, and worthy than those who are rejected. In this sense, exclusivity does more than determine who belongs to a community; it shapes how its members understand their own value within it.

That dynamic becomes particularly odd when competition enters explicitly social spaces. Competing for a spot in a consulting group makes intuitive sense — only a certain number of students can work on a given case. But battling it out for a career development organization, for example, is effectively battling for a chance to be included in the first place, and is quite harder to justify.

Students who already possess professional connections may be better positioned for admission to organizations meant to provide those advantages. Meanwhile, students who could benefit most from such exposure may be excluded because they lack the experience that membership would have helped them acquire.

The problem extends beyond rejection. Exclusivity affects how we view and choose to perceive such organizations, too. The appeal of a “community” lies in the possibility of being valued beyond one’s measurable contributions — of finding people who appreciate your presence rather than continually assessing your qualifications. Selective organizations on campus, however, begin by establishing precisely the opposite relationship: Before students can belong, they must prove that they deserve it.

Of course, meaningful friendships can still emerge from competitive organizations. But when belonging is something to be won rather than a given, the language of community obscures the distinction between personal acceptance and institutional approval.

Students arrive at Harvard after years of navigating systems in which scarcity is a metric of achievement. Competitive colleges, selective internships, and prestigious awards all reinforce the idea that limited access signals exceptional quality. As we become skilled at seeking opportunities that are difficult to obtain, we lose sight of whether those opportunities will make our lives more meaningful.

Competitive recruitment asks students to make consequential commitments before they know what membership will actually entail. Before joining a club, I can assess its reputation, read about its accomplishments, and imagine the professional opportunities it might provide. What I cannot reliably predict is whether I’ll enjoy a club’s work, connect with its members, or find its weekly commitments personally fulfilling. Such qualities reveal themselves through participation, not through an organization’s acceptance rate.

College provides a rare opportunity to pursue interests without requiring every activity to contribute to a coherent professional trajectory. Students should be able to experiment with dance without being accomplished dancers, or explore consulting without spending hours a week making slide decks. Just as importantly, they should be free to discover that an activity is not for them, and that’s perfectly okay.

The value of experimentation lies partly in its unpredictability. We cannot know which experiences will become meaningful until we try them.

Some may argue that competitive recruitment is what makes certain organizations meaningful. A demanding application process will filter for students who are willing to invest time and effort, allowing clubs to gain committed members rather than accommodate an indefinite number of casual participants. Nevertheless, commitment and exclusivity are not interchangeable.

A student who has never written for a publication may become its most dedicated contributor, while someone who easily completes its application process may discover that the work itself holds little appeal. Selection measures how well students satisfy an organization’s expectations before joining; it cannot reliably determine how much they will value the experience afterward.

If an organization genuinely values community, it should distinguish the commitment required to sustain one from the competition required to join.

Ally Hwang ’29, a Crimson Editorial editor, is an English concentrator in Winthrop House.