The Time I (Regrettably) Joined the Junior League

Before I begin this fish out of water tale, let me provide a little background to my readers. If you are from the South, have run in the circles of the wealthy elite or both, congratulations (I guess?) you can probably skip the next paragraph. If not, read on, friends. 

The Junior League claims to be a group of service-minded women who get together periodically for (ostensibly) the purpose of giving back to their local community. In reality, the Junior League is a group of women who coagulate (you may think I mean congregate, but I assure you, I do not) in order to feel relevant and superior.  The real purpose of these groups is to drink wine, gossip and generally look down their noses at the less fortunate, all with the false air of magnanimity. 

As you may have (correctly) inferred, these groups tend to be comprised of the wealthy elite. These folks are looking for ways to contribute to society because they are not burdened by the necessity of doing so through actual employment. 

So. 

It was my 29th year of being a person and I was feeling a bit…well, useless. I spent most of my free time taking up space on a barstool and being fairly lazy when I wasn’t busy keeping myself upright on the aforementioned barstool. Being a woman of action, I decided to make a change.  I wanted to do something productive and make some new (less drunk) friends in the process. I started looking around for community service organizations I could join. And that’s when I found the Junior Service League. 

I was leery at first because I knew about the Junior League. I wasn’t going to be fooled (Spoiler alert: yes, yes I was). I started reading their website and thought, “Wow. This seems like a great group of ladies.” I looked at the group photos of the smiling female volunteers. Such diversity! Maybe this wasn’t the Junior League of the past. It had the word service in the middle of the name! This group was totally different! This was the future of women empowering each other and coming together for the greater good! 

They had an informational happy hour the following week for prospective new members! “It must be kismet,” I thought. 

I found out one of my friends was an “inactive” member, but a member nonetheless and insisted she go with me. I’m not going to an unstructured social event alone where I have to talk to strangers. I’m not a psycho. 

So I arrive with my friend in tow at the wine bar for the information session and am immediately offered a glass of wine. Social lubricant? Yes, please. 

Right away I’m approached by a perky blonde who introduces herself and begins peppering me with questions about myself, my favorite topic. This is followed by more mingling, more introductions and more wine. 

Here. Have some more wine. We’re totally not a cult.

“How much are the membership dues?” I ask a slightly different perky blonde. 

“They’re only 50 dollars,” she says cheerfully. 

OK, I can afford that. That seems like a reasonable amount to pay for a group that has now given me at least half that in free wine. At one point we all sit down for some canapes and more wine while the HBIC details the next steps in the membership process. This is where my memory gets a little fuzzy as the series of events that unfolds hereafter. It was 10 years ago and I’ve had a lot more wine since then. 

The meeting where they induct new members will be a brunch the following Sunday. Having had a delightful time at the happy hour, I decide this is definitely the group for me! 

It’s brunch, it’s a special event and I don’t get to dress up much in my job as a public school educator (you gotta dress ready for battle in that job) so I decide to wear a cute little spring dress and kitten heels. I was not then, nor have I ever been a person who “brunches” so I wore what I’d imagine brunch people would wear. I must have imagined correctly, because I blended in perfectly with the brunch crowd. 

The HBIC took the stage in impossibly tall platform stilettos and began to tell us about the requirements and expectations of JSL membership. 

“One of the requirements for membership is that you purchase at least 3 of our super special Junior Service League cookbooks. They’re absolutely beautiful and full of local recipes from right here in our county! They make great gifts so you’ll probably want to buy way more than 3!” 

That seemed silly to me. Who wants cookbooks when we have every recipe ever available online? But I get it. Fundraising and all. You can’t help the less fortunate with just a smile and a good heart. 

“Your first year you’ll be under provisional membership. If you do not complete the requirements within the first year, you will not be allowed to return.”

Ok, this is sounding a little cultish, but I’m sure the membership requirements won’t be too crazy. 

“You have to log at least 55 volunteer hours during your first year.” 

That’s a little more than 1 hour per week. Seems fair enough. 

“And you are required to volunteer at least 8 hours during Thanksgiving weekend and our Sweet Treat Holiday Market. But don’t worry. STHM is so much fun!”

Thanksgiving weekend? Isn’t that supposed to be for family? Seems kind of unreasonable to ask me to give up my entire Saturday during a holiday break. But honestly, that does sound really fun. I could do that for a day. 

“Alright! That’s it ladies! If you fulfill all the requirements during your provisional time, you’ll be a full member by this time next year! Lindsey is at the table at back of the room. She’ll take your membership dues and give you your cookbooks and information packet. Enjoy this wonderful brunch!” 

I did enjoy my brunch, particularly the mimosas. I chatted with other ladies at the table. They were warm and welcoming and gushed about how much this amazing organization meant to them. I was excited to become the type of person who put a dress on, went to brunch and then volunteered for charity. 

As I approached the table in the back, Lindsey asks, “So how many cookbooks are you going to be getting today?”

“Just three.”

“Just three? But they’re so incredible and they make such thoughtful gifts.”

“Just three thanks.” 

“Well, ok then,” Lindsey says with a look of mild disgust. 

“How much are they?” I asked. 

“Only $75!” Lindsey proudly proclaimed. 

How I managed not to shit myself upon learning this information, I still do not know.

“$75? Like for all three?”

“They’re $75 each,” Lindsey said, not hiding her disdain at my incredulity.  

“Plus the dues?”

“We take checks, cash or credit cards,” Lindsey replied. 

I do some quick math in my head. $75 per cookbook plus $50 dues…

“And of course you’ll want a t-shirt!” Lindsey chimes. 

At this point, what I should have said was, “I gotta go. This is a racket and I’m not here for it.” 

What I actually said was, “Who should I make the check out to?”

Fast forward to our first meeting.  It was in the afternoon after what would be work for most people, myself included obviously. I show up in a Baylor dri-fit t-shirt and Columbia khakis with my hair in a sweaty ponytail. I teach at an under-funded public high school with spotty air conditioning and it was so hot that jolly ranchers would melt in my desk drawer. My kids fought to sit in the front row because it was closest to the fan. That I of course bought with my own money. I didn’t even go to Baylor, I bought my shirt at the thrift store because I couldn’t afford to spend $30 on those types of sweat-wicking shirts. 

I was getting some side-eyes from the ladies who apparently dress like they’re going to brunch all the time. 

“I’m sorry, I just rushed over here from work,” I say, providing what I now see as an unnecessary apology. 

“Oh, what do you do?” One lady inquired, like it was quite the curiosity that I did something.  

“I teach Freshman English,” I responded. 

“Where do you teach?” 

“At Franklin High School,” I answer. 

The ladies’ eyes all doubled in size instantly. 

“Franklin!? Isn’t that..dangerous?”

“Not particularly.”

“But Franklin! I heard there are gang fights and violence there! It’s such a poor school.” 

“I mean, yeah, it’s a poor school but the kids aren’t violent. They’re good kids.”

“How absolutely selfless of you!”

“You know they pay me, right?”

“But, just wow! I could, like, never do something like that!”

Are you, like poor? That's so fascinating.

They continued to pepper me with a few more mildly offensive questions about my kids and my job. I felt like they viewed me as a curiosity, like an exotic animal in a zoo. I like talking about myself, but that was…uncomfortable. 

When I started my volunteer hours, I did so at the literacy council. What better place for a high school English teacher to make a difference. They immediately put my valuable skill set to work…stuffing gift bags for donors. The items they were giving these rich donors were all things I could have killed for in my classroom-fancy pens, post it notes (those things are expensive), notepads…all likely to be taken for granted, or worse, thrown out. When they found out I was “crafty,” I got promoted to the job of bowmaking. If I never have to make another bow in my life, it’ll be too soon. 

Seriously, though. What kind of insane system takes donor money and instead of actually using all that money for people that need it, spend part of the money buying gifts the donors probably don’t even want? Insanity. 

For some insane reason, that I still cannot articulate, I keep trying to fulfill my provisionary duties for membership. So I show up to the Sweet Treat Holiday Market to volunteer. This thing is HUGE. It is in a giant convention center and there are booths everywhere selling any type of overpriced merchandise you can possibly imagine. 

I get there and ask where I’m supposed to go. This question seems like a massive inconvenience to the woman that I had the gall to speak to. 

“Ummm, we already have a lot of volunteers today. I guess you can sell raffle tickets,” she said with more than a little disdain. 

I sign in for my hours at the raffle ticket table and sit down. I was given a book of raffle tickets and told that I was to interrupt passing patrons and offer them tickets like one of those obnoxious mall kiosk people that shout at you while you’re trying to shop in peace. Despite being incredibly uncomfortable doing this, I persist. Each shopper I bother is nice enough, but absolutely no one stops to buy a $50 raffle ticket. 

“How many raffle tickets are you going to get?” One of my fellow volunteers asked. 

“I’m not going to buy any myself.”

Horror washes over her face. 

“But you have to buy raffle tickets…” She was in shock. 

“Well, I just totaled my car last week and it’s almost Christmas. I can’t really afford to buy raffle tickets right now.”

“Oh.” She grimaces. She inched away as if she might catch poverty by being in such close proximity. 

No raffle tickets? Ew.

That was enough. I placed the raffle tickets back on the table, grabbed my purse and quietly walked out the convention center, never to return to the Junior League. 

I later asked my friend how she put up with that while she was a member.

"I don't know, I was drunk the whole time."