Our membership ought to include all who suffer from alcoholism. Hence we may refuse none who wish to recover. Nor ought A.A. membership ever depend upon money or conformity. Any two or three alcoholics gathered together for sobriety may call themselves an A.A. group, provided that, as a group, they have no other affiliation.
— Alcoholics Anonymous, Tradition Three (Long Form), first published in The A.A. Grapevine, April 1946
In the earliest days of Alcoholics Anonymous, many groups kept their own lists of rules about who should be allowed to join. When the Alcoholic Foundation office eventually gathered those lists together, the total ran, as Bill Wilson later wrote, “a mile long.” If every one of those rules had been enforced at once, he observed, nobody could have possibly joined at all. Beggars, people leaving asylums, former prisoners, those who were openly gay, people with other addictions, atheists, and people of colour were all viewed as possible threats to the fragile young fellowship. The fear behind those rules was not imaginary. These were people who had watched friends relapse and die. Many believed that one wrong decision about membership could destroy everything they had begun.
In the second year of AA’s existence, a man came to a meeting and asked to join. He was clearly an alcoholic. Before entering, he told them he carried another stigma, one that at the time was widely condemned. Many later accounts suggest he was attracted to men, though the record has never been formally confirmed. Three of the group’s most senior members stepped aside to discuss the situation. Their concern was not the man himself but what admitting him might mean for the group’s reputation. Then one member asked a simple question drawn from their religious experience. What was the right thing to do? Nothing more was said. The man was welcomed. In time he carried the message to many others, and his case later became what the Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions described as an early step in the formation of Tradition Three.
Not long after, another test arrived. A travelling salesman named Ed began attending meetings. Ed was an outspoken atheist who frequently challenged the group’s references to God and irritated nearly everyone. Many assumed he would relapse. He did not. Eventually some members proposed that he be asked to leave for attacking the program’s spiritual language. When confronted, Ed picked up a draft manuscript of what would later become the Big Book and read aloud the sentence that would stop them. The only requirement for membership was a desire to stop drinking. He then asked whether they meant it or not. No one answered. Ed stayed and remained sober for the rest of his life.
A decade later, in 1945, a man walked into AA’s clubhouse on 41st Street in New York. He was Black, an ex-convict, carrying all his belongings on his back, his hair bleached blonde and his face made up. He told the members at the desk that he was a drug addict. No one knew what to do. The member on duty called Bill Wilson and described the situation. Bill asked him to go through the list again. Then he asked one question. Was the man a drunk? Yes, there was no doubt about that. Bill replied that this was all that could be asked. The man was invited in. He did not stay long, but his presence set a precedent that endured.
The situations look different today, but the underlying question has not changed. Who belongs? It appears when someone arrives still struggling with other substances, when a newcomer questions the spiritual language, when someone walks into a meeting carrying a past that makes them feel they might not fit. These moments still test the spirit of Tradition Three. They remind the fellowship that its role is not to judge readiness or sincerity, but simply to make room for anyone who says they want to stop drinking.
I can see parts of my own story in all three of these moments. I am gay. I am an agnostic. I also struggled with many different substances, including alcohol. Reading about these early experiences, it is reassuring to know that the fellowship developed as it did and that other fellowships later grew from that same spirit. Those decisions created a space where we did not have to prove ourselves before we walked through the door. For that, I am grateful.
Where do I find myself deciding whether someone else belongs in recovery spaces?
When have I questioned my own right to remain when my willingness felt uncertain?
How does Tradition Three challenge the instinct to measure sincerity or readiness?
What becomes possible when belonging rests only on the desire to stop today?
