It is about this time of year that sophomore and junior guys start to receive mysterious visitations from final club fairies who put strange handwritten notes in their drop boxes. Not to be confused with poorly photocopied investment banking presentations advertisements, there is a certain “old school” care taken with these notes that is seldom seen nowadays, and that is both a little mysterious and eccentric.

There are no other organizations on campus that inspire such sound and fury as the final clubs. For starters, they are not even officially on campus—they are not recognized by the University and their property is held by their own trusts. They’re not big on affirmative action or gender equality and are generally derided as, at best, places where you can discuss the finer points of tweeds, cigars and sherry. At their worst they are described as places that are simply not safe if you like your sex consensual.

If you do get one of these mysterious cards, you are likely to ask yourself just what you should do about it. Tearing it up is certainly an option, especially if you feel that the clubs represent all that is patriarchal and inequitable in the world. However, I would seriously question just how sensible that is.

Punching a club does not oblige you to join one. Contrary to popular perception, the schmoozing goes both ways during punch season: You are working out whether you want a part of this scene (and, if so, where you want to be) at the same time as members are working out who they want to have in. There is a very good reason the clubs are paying the caterers.

So what would make someone want to join a semi-secret, somewhat silly, glorified tree house, complete with “no girls allowed” signs and bizarre rituals and customs? It’s socially stigmatized, it is not particularly cheap and it probably is not good for your studies or your other extracurricular activities. It is also a bizarre thing to put on your resume, which to some people at Harvard is the measure of all things. What’s more, there is going to be a substantial section of the campus judging you based on what kind of animal is on the tie you wear to a dinner once a week. Some people will want to make friends with you because of some perceived qualities you have, and other people will just assume you’re a drunken marauding rapist who only comes out on Friday and Saturday nights.

So what is in it for the prospective member or “punch?” First, the cynical answer. Harvard’s administration is so obstinate and aggressive in its efforts to control the amount of partying on campus that being a member of a club entitles you to a building which is beyond the reach of the long arm of the Harvard University Police Department, where you can do more or less whatever you please until whenever you please—for better or for worse. It is no coincidence that most final clubs are not frantic evening hotspots until approximately 1 a.m., when room parties are shut down and people are forced to take their fun elsewhere. If Harvard’s attitude to parties were more in line with that of Yale’s, the final clubs might be no more sociable than their Secret Society counterparts. In the meantime, being a member of a club bestows certain social privileges that are hard to ignore on a socially stunted campus like this one—including the right to vote on letting women into the clubs. If you are seriously concerned with gender equality in these organizations, you can do nothing from the outside.

There is something else, though. If you do join any of these clubs, you are joining a permanent institution for life. Ultimately, when you are old and bordering on senility you can come back to these places at your graduation anniversaries and catch up with a group of people with whom you have a real bond. The crew team isn’t going to give you back your four seat, The Crimson is not going to publish your work anymore and you will not be able to take up your place in the Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra. However, you will be able to go back and drink and hang out with people who have all been through that particular building, and when Harvard seems like an alien place as it no doubt will in twenty or thirty years, that really does count for something in the eyes of most graduates.

If you do get one of these peculiar handwritten notes and go through this process, just remember: You are joining an organization of people of whom you will see a lot and with whom you will be able to stay in contact for the rest of your life. At the very least, make sure they are the sorts of people with whom you want to be friends. If you have not got that worked out, you have made your first mistake and are turning the stereotype of the clubs as being full of opportunistic party animals with excessive credit limits into a reality.

Alex B. Turnbull ’05 is an economics concentrator in Quincy House. His column appears on alternate Mondays.