On the Campus - April 21, 1999
Website Exclusives...
What's in a name
Why I hardly ever reveal I'm a Princeton student
by Emily Johnson '01
I try not to tell people I go
to Princeton. It's a little embarrassing. But people invariably ask where
I go to school, and when I tell them they invariably answer in one of three
ways. There's: "Wow! You must be smart," or "I think I've
heard of that," or just "Oh," all of which bring the conversation
to a dead halt. Imagine meeting a hot guy at the beach. Conversation sparkles.
He has just told you he goes to Texas A&M, and asks about you. "Princeton,"
you say. "Oh," he says. "I think I've heard of that."
To solve this, I try not to tell the whole truth.
I go to school in the North, in New Jersey, or if all else fails, a small
private school in the Northeast. This doesn't mean I'm not proud of my school.
Princeton houses the most brilliant minds in the country, the best teaching,
the most innovative research, but with the prestige of its name comes stereotypes
of rich, brilliant brats, which are sometimes true and in general ridiculously
false. It is curious that one word can immediately label me as a snob, and
it is sad that I would ever be reluctant to tell anyone and everyone the
place where I study.
Before my freshman year the Army recruiter called
and asked where I was headed. "Princeton," I said. Princeton Community
College, he wrote down cheerfully. No, sorry, Princeton University, I said.
"Oh.' Silence. "You must be smart."
Of course, the name also carries instant connections.
While at presenior prom dinner, I met a woman in the bathroom. After a minute
she asked the usual question, got the usual answer (at this point I hadn't
learned to fudge), and instantly exclaimed, "My husband went to Princeton.
You must come meet him!" She dragged me off to talk to him; he then
gave me his name, address, phone number, and told me to call him if I had
any questions. I saw my my date and friends trailing out the door. "I
have to go to the prom now. . ." I kept saying apologetically. The
man and his wife didn't seem to notice. (By the way, if that gentlemen is
reading this column, I appreciated your interest; it's just that at the
time my very handsome date, also my ride, seemed more important.)
Still, it's frustratingly hard to convince people
not familiar with Old Nassau that my parents do not own a small private
island (or even a Porsche!), I didn't go to private school, I am not headed
into investment banking, and I most certainly do not consider myself better
than anyone else because I had the luck and parental support to get into
a great school. I much prefer the rap Princeton gets in other countries.
Response there: "You have Einstein!"
A lot of my friends here actually did go to Andover
or Philips Exeter and live on Park Avenue in New York and want to make money.
But that is not by any means what makes Princeton's name resound everywhere.
I am smart, and I know it. But even smarter friends from high school chose
state schools and less famous universities because they were a better fit.
I chose Princeton for the random reason that the campus looked nice and
Gothic during a pretty snowfall during my whirlwind college visit. Sometimes
I'm glad I did, other times I wish I could be a little more normal and be
able to wear some other school's less recognizable colors with more pride
and less fear of being called a snob. Then I wouldn't mind the "Oh,"
as long as it was accompanied by a blank look and not raised eyebrows.
So if we ever meet, let me know you went to Princeton
and I'll admit that I did too. Just let's keep it between us.
Tales of the tour
Orange Key guides fend questions -- routine and otherwise
By Elisabeth M. Cohen '99
I've been giving Orange Key tours since the spring of my freshman year,
and now that I'm a senior, my tour has evolved into something approaching
polished. I've become fuzzier on certain dates, replaced some anecdotes
and shelved others, expressed more complicated feelings toward Princeton,
and varied the route to avoid construction around first the Woolworth Center
and now Palmer Hall.
I've grown accustomed to the inevitable questions from prospective students
and their parents about average class size, the accessibility of professors,
how safe I feel walking around campus alone at night, and where the nearest
bathroom is. Three years, though, and I'm still not quite prepared when
the questions are aimed not at Princeton-the-institution but at me, a convenient
stand-in for that elusive creature, the Average Princeton Student. Nearly
as frequent as questions about the faculty-to-student ratio are questions
from visiting high school students, or, more often, their parents, about
my extracurricular activities in high school (newspaper editor, volunteer
work), whether either of my parents went to Princeton (no -- Penn '70 and
Mount Holyoke '70), whether my high school was public or private (public),
and, most awkwardly, what I scored on my SATs (no comment).
Sometimes the questions are simply springboards for parents to volunteer
information about their children's achievements or abilities. When, for
example, I mention the language requirement, someone often remarks that
such information is irrelevant to their talented offspring: he or she is
already fluent in Russian, Swedish, and Cantonese. I treat comments like
"Alison is a straight-A student" with a smile, a nod, and a quick
trot to the next significant site. Even less comfortable for me, but which
I try to do my best with, are questions about my social life and personal
habits: questions posed by concerned parents which begin acceptably enough
-- "How much binge drinking takes place on campus?" -- and end
up trying to elicit a beer-by-beer account of how much alcohol I drink in
an average week, the level of drug use I've encountered, and even how happy
or satisfying I've found my love life on campus.
While I try to deflect very personal or inappropriate questions, sometimes
people ask things so odd that it's hard to understand what they mean: one
sunny afternoon, a very serious young person applying for admission asked
if Princeton students are allowed to carry weapons on campus. I've been
asked by an elderly gentleman how to get to the "Princeton Medical
School," where a nephew was apparently earning a very dubious M.D.
Occasionally, a confident high school student announces that he or she plans
to major in a nonexistent Princeton department like bioethics or hotel management
and then asks me how strong I think it is.
John Dabiri '01, working in the Orange Key office during last summer,
had a woman call up to ask about the amount of walking on the tour. When
told it would take about an hour, she asked if the guide could carry her
son while giving the tour. When John said that wouldn't be possible, she
insisted -- "He's only three. I'm sure you could do it." He demurred,
and she continued to insist that he could carry the toddler -- "He's
very small" -- with one arm while gesturing with the other.
PUSHY MOMS
While prospective students tend to be self-conscious and not ask many
questions, their mothers are nearly always anxious to discuss the quality
and frequency of my social life. I've had mothers who carried clipboards
to take notes, and one who systematically ran down a checklist of required
amenities: frozen-yogurt machines in the cafeteria, dorm rooms wired to
the Internet, flexible meal plans, exercise facilities, 24-hour library
reading rooms. Right now, Internet access is a popular concern, and the
eating clubs are another perennial source of confusion and curiosity. Visitors
want to know how much it would cost to have their name affixed to Princeton
Stadium, why the doors to Dickinson Hall are blue, and (from an elderly
man, astounded by this botanical wonder) why such a southerly species of
tree (the bald cypress in front of the Art Museum) would be found in New
Jersey. My aunt (employed by the EPA) kept asking about what sort of environmental
mutagen results in the campus's black squirrels.
Sometimes, visitors foresee more than just a stroll past Blair Arch.
I've been given more than a few phone numbers at the end of a tour. Once,
I got daily e-mails for a week from a male visitor who had even more to
say to me than I had said to him. In these cases, a divergence from the
usual helpfulness seems in order.
"Where's the law school?"
"Across the golf course and down past the cricket pitch right by
the business school, mister. Any other questions?"
Elisabeth Cohen is a comparative literature major writing a creative
thesis. She can be reached at emcohen@princeton.edu.
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