Ducking a Punch

I wouldn’t be at Harvard without generous assistance from women at every stage of my life.

Take my mother, who set aside her professional career to homeschool me and my three siblings—an extraordinary gift I’ll never be able to fully repay. Then there’s the female scientist who invited me to work in her lab—where I was mentored by a female grad student, whose letter of recommendation was a highlight of my college application.

Female teachers, professors, and advisors of all kinds gave me invaluable guidance and assistance throughout my life, and continue to do so in my classes and research at Harvard.

So when a hand-written invitation to a reception hosted by the all-male Porcellian Club slipped under my door, I knew I couldn’t accept it. Of course, I was honored that such an august group had even noticed me. And I admit I’m tickled by the idea of being in a club that boasts alumni like Charles Sumner, Robert Gould Shaw, Teddy Roosevelt, and the Winklevoss twins.

My curiosity was piqued, too; I’d love to get a glimpse of how the famously secretive organization operates, and thank the mysterious acquaintance who got my name past the punch selection cabal. (I heard this would be an open punch, but I was the only one in my suite of five male sophomores to get a letter.) However, it would be wrong to accept the hospitality of a club I do not intend to join, and I owe too much to too many women to acquiesce to the Porcellian’s staunchly defended single-gender policy.

To become a member of a club committed to a form of social bonding in which women are unable to participate would feel like a repudiation of my female mentors’ kindness. Indeed, it would be a poor way to express my debt of gratitude to the women who helped me get into Harvard in the first place. And as a man in a society where simply putting a female name at the top of an academic job application makes it less attractive, it seems wrong for me to use women’s generosity as a springboard to get into this oldest of old-boy networks.

More selfishly, I don’t want to limit my friend group unnecessarily. Setting aside high-minded considerations of personal obligation, let alone appeals to abstract concepts of justice and equality, I’m disinclined to commit so much time to a social group drawn from only half of the College’s amazing student body.

Some of the most fascinating and impressive people I’ve met at Harvard have been women. One female friend’s international work in drug policy taught her how to win allies among ambassadors and drug dealers with equal assurance; another immigrated to the U.S. in eighth grade, speaking no English, and within a few years was doing biochemical research; another launched into advanced math classes, earning top grades while gaining a reputation for being friendly and entertaining.

Finding and connecting with people like these is all I wanted from social life at Harvard, and getting to know these friends has been the among the best of my experiences here. I wouldn’t forgo the opportunity to spend more time with them—and other women like them—even if the myths about the financial prospects of PC alumni were true.

Growing up homeschooled, my siblings and I spent most of our childhoods playing games together; our mother, as a part-time referee, always taught us to value fairness and inclusivity. I am encouraged by the recent changes to final club membership policies that move closer to these ideals, and I would be honored to participate in the punch process as soon as it becomes possible for my non-male friends to do so as well.

As Groucho Marx didn’t almost say, I wouldn’t belong to any club that would have me as a member—unless it would also admit the scintillating, accomplished, and generous women I’ve been fortunate enough to know.

Zeke Benshirim ’19, a potential mathematics or life sciences concentrator, lives in Cabot House.