The night air was chilled not cold, more like a drink with three respectable crackling ice cubes than the Arctic beverages more careless waiters bring filled with more ice than water. Or maybe it was cold but our bodies were so hot as we crossed back into campus under the Mathey College arch that instead of making us frigid we were further vitalized.

By this point, I had taken off my gloves and hat and wanted to remove my shirt, but as I glanced right, Doug, glowing in sweat under the half moon was speeding up. One hundred meters were left.  I straightened my head and lengthened my stride to take a slight lead, but Doug contested it immediately quickly pacing forward, and prompting me to push deeply, lift my legs faster and swing my arms harder.  

“Woooh, get it!” some voice cheered as we passed. Indeed we were try to get something. Victory? Perhaps, but more than anything we sought exhaustion, the kind that is a pleasure come by pain. You have it when your legs do not feel all that different from much dated milk, which is to say not in a liquid state but only having pretensions to being a solid.

Side-by-side we continued and just as a tied crossing became inevitable so too did unintended pain… almost. We forgot the path after our intended finish changes to steps. Just enough light was cast ahead to avoid a rapid stumble. Our feet not far from the edge we laughed and began walking taking a left into the courtyard of our dorm.

Much too hot to go inside we cooled outside, reclining on a table perhaps, as Phidippides would have done if he had run just as intently but over a shorter distance. Each heavy exhalation came out as white cloud before disappearing into the air. 

As our breathing slowed, and hearts took a more moderate beat, I realized how still were the lawn and view extending in front of us. The miles we had taken up just before were filled with passed scenes and things on campus – dark and lit rooms, the football stadium lights, that student who cheered us – and in town – oncoming cars, a beautiful friend I shouted hello to, a slight fall over raised pavement – but now there was just this one scene. Two young friends happily sweating in below freezing temperatures, looking out onto a campus quiet and still over the holidays.

More lights shone from the peculiarly white glow of the lanterns dotting the paths leading across campus than could be counted in Pyne, Henry, Little or any of the other places in view where students should reside.

The shift from speed to rest, of being aware of only one other body pacing beside my own, to the absence of many bodies one would usually expect around here was not particularly alarming, but just an observation that perhaps held a little delight as the uncanny does, and was as passing as it also is.

Rested and finally getting cold we went inside. 

Earlier this month, I stood in front of Frist Campus Center, crying. On any other day I would have been embarrassed. Passersby probably would have been humiliated for me. But on that day, shortly after noon on Dec. 4, it was different. During a 4 1/2-minute moment of silence honoring the lives of Michael Brown, Eric Garner, and countless other black lives, I was surrounded by hundreds of my peers, many also crying, and I knew that I didn’t need to hide my emotion. In that moment, my tears were a form of protest, along with my voice, and my presence.

A half hour earlier that day, hundreds of students silently walked out of their classes with their hands raised. Waves of students marched across campus toward Frist Campus Center, voices echoing in the air, meeting others. Hundreds of distinct voices came together to form one unified statement: Black lives matter. I was standing in front of Frist, carrying signs my friends and I had made the night before. I wondered how many students would sacrifice their class time to participate. I did not expect the roar that was coming toward me.

This moment was a long time in the making. Princeton is a quiet place. The grandeur of the architecture and the history and tradition it represents can leave many speechless—including its students. In the three-plus years I have been at Princeton, the Occupy Movement swept cities and college campuses across the nation. Military operations continue in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other foreign nations. Campuses have protested against sexual assault policies, discrimination, investment in unethical industries—the list goes on. There have been rumblings of these movements on campus, but the overwhelming majority of campus has remained silent.

Until now. On November 24, the night that the Ferguson grand jury decision was announced, I was packing my bags to go home for Thanksgiving break, until I saw a post on my news feed: “Frist North Lawn. 11:30 PM Tonight. We are marching in Prospect Ave. in protest of the events that transpired in Ferguson. #BlackLivesMatter.” I was shocked. This was a real call to action. Among the outraged, demoralized posts my friends had made, this one asked me to channel my hurt into something real, and to share this hurt with my peers and the institution that shelters us. I thought about practical things like the reading I planned to do that night, or disciplinary policies. And then I thought about the words I had heard Cornel West say to us on this campus just weeks before: “We are more concerned with creating smart people than creating courageous people.” I knew what I had to do. I hurriedly texted a few of my friends, and we, along with hundreds of our peers, headed toward the student center.

Over the course of the last few weeks, I have joined my peers in chanting across campus, participating in planning meetings, sitting before University administrators, and marching through New York City, and I have never felt more confused or frustrated about my own role and identity. This is not my movement. I am not black. I do not experience the brutalities that black Americans are forced to endure. I am not systematically discounted, oppressed, and silenced. It is not appropriate for me to chant “I can’t breathe,” or stand in front of my black peers. I have never been more aware of my abilities and my limitations.

And for the first time in my Princeton career, I am not supposed to have the answers. It’s a different kind of learning. I may be confused and hesitant, and I may misstep. But out of these moments, I have learned more about myself, and I have learned more from my peers than I have in a classroom. The classroom doesn’t teach empathy, restraint, or courage. Instead, I have looked toward my peers for inspiration and guidance, peers who are selflessly reaching out to the community, planning protests, and drafting letters and op-eds until 2 a.m., on top of their schoolwork.

Although I have only been at Princeton for a little over three years, I know that what is happening now is new and remarkable. I firmly believe that we are in a pivotal moment where we should think critically about Princeton’s mission and impact on the world. At Princeton, we are privileged to be surrounded by knowledge, resources, and opportunities— just a look around this blog can tell you that. Yet perhaps the question at hand is not whether or not we have these resources, but rather, what we are doing with them. More and more, I see my fellow peers asking these uncomfortable questions.  We are trying to act in the nation’s service. In the “Orange Bubble,” Princeton teaches us to be smart. We are teaching ourselves to be courageous.

For more information on recent protests and organizing, please follow @Ferguson_PU on Twitter.

 

Peer down over the light and let’s go back in time…

 On the edge of an island you can see four men at land’s edge near tranquil tan colored waters that parallel slightly lighter tranquil tan colored skies. A shirtless black man emerges from the bush; a basket atop his head filled with some tropical leaf. Another black man also shirtless with breezy white shorts stands on the far right attending to a horse whose coat is just a shade darker than his shorts; next to his feet is a basket full of orange fruit.

Both of these men are slaves, overseen by two other men between them who readily betray a European identity. Both are layered in billowy shirt, cape, large pants stuffed in riding boots, and wide brim hats (either the slaves must be quite cool or they quite warm). One of the overseers is mounted on his brown mare, and just behind him is the other. With hand raised as if to beckon someone, he looks across the waters to an island saturated with thick green vegetation, save for a vast clay crater revealing the orange-yellow foundation of all the green. Atop the island is a settlement of several limestone walled, red tile-topped buildings. Perhaps this is where the horse will trod sleepily through the sands, as the slaves follow with their goods?  

The Dutchman Franz Jonsz Post painted the scene I have tried to describe above, called "Itamaraca Island, Brazil" (1637). Had this painting not come first to mind perhaps I would have chosen Charles Sheeler’s "Water" (1945) depicting the power generators of the Tennessee Valley Authority. These massive machines stand monumentally under metallic skies, with all the pride and arrogance of Ozymandias—“Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!” Or perhaps more homely Jean-Baptist Chardin’s "Still Life with a Basket of Peaches, White and Black Grapes with Cooler and Wineglass" (1759), in which said objects appear to the viewer at eye level, with one white grape hanging just over the table edge ready to be plucked.

I have not learned about these painting in an art history class, but on the second floor of McCormick Hall at the University where the Visual Resources Department is located. Four times a week I go there to work. My job is to sort, organize and discard the hundreds of thousands of 30mm slides once used to teach students about every image the hands of man have made from Lascaux to Warhol. The only tools I use for the job are a light table (to illuminate the images), a magnifier and my own notebook and pen, for while very few of these slides are called out of their shelves by professors, they now provide a more personal education to my own eyes, which just as Rilke’s are “learning to see.”

 I place the magnifier over the small strip of film cased in glass, and then I bring my eye down to it. I see myriad representations of history, culture, faith, passion and imagination, from long gone empires by now obscure artists, to names and places still very current today. I don’t like all works equally, but it would be to the disadvantage of my eyes and studies not to look earnestly upon yet another crucifixion—there must be hundreds in Western art—as I would the non-religious variety of modern art. After all, once an hour or so passes, I clean my workspace and bid farewell to the other people in the office, and return to looking at the literal world that has not chosen its colors so carefully or arranged object so meaningfully. Looking at that brings me real work. 

...Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! 

I'm out in Singapore now, and I know that even if you're spending Winter Break away from campus (and cold), every tiger brings a little bit of Princeton home with them. Especially since exams are after break! Hahaaaa.

But actually, whether you're somehow connected to Princeton tigers or are just a sightseeing rando passing through this admission blog, I hope you have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! 

Lots of love,

Aliisa

A week ago, I was hobbling from University Place to the Mathey Common Room with about 100 samosas precariously balanced in my arms, hoping that I wouldn’t trip or collide with anyone on my way. That night, I was also responsible for two Yule logs, dozens of Christmas cookies, three trays of baklava, a whole bunch of dumplings, dozens of jelly donuts, hundreds of potato latkes, and the biggest jar of applesauce I’ve ever seen. 

All of this was central to Mathey College’s second of four diversity events held throughout the year, Holidays of the World. With three other Mathey Residential College Advisers (RCAs), I helped to plan, organize and host this event. It went off without a hitch, except for the one tray of baklava that was dropped en route to the Mathey Common Room (unfortunately, the five-second rule doesn’t apply for baklava spilt all over the sidewalk). 

It was our hope that students coming through could get a welcome reprieve from their end-of-the-semester cramming, enjoy some good food, and learn a bit about the religious and cultural traditions associated with the dishes we were serving. At best, we hoped that our fellow Mathey-ites would actively engage with the student representatives we had asked to be present at each table; at the least, we hoped that our fellow Mathey-ites would try some items that they had never had before. 

To be honest, planning the whole thing was more of an event than the event itself. There were the humorous aspects: trying to explain to a very sweet and also very skeptical store owner that I did, in fact, want to order 150 pieces of baklava; the panicked phone calls about who was to pick up 100 jelly donuts and potato latkes; the horror when we thought we had misplaced all the plastic silverware and plates minutes before the event was to start. 

There were also more serious aspects. In some ways, I found the very concept of being asked to plan and host a "diversity event” to be rather uncomfortable. I value and respect other cultures and beliefs as much as my own, and am happy to attend events that celebrate other cultures and beliefs. However, I often find that events that are programmed around teaching about diversity can be rather clunky. For our event, we hoped to include a variety of major cultural and religious holidays from fall through spring—Diwali, Eid, Christmas and Hannukah—in a manner that was sensitive and inclusive to all. Hopefully, we achieved that. 

Planning Holidays of the World was a fun, frustrating, and ultimately rewarding experience. I laughed a lot at the ridiculous crises and shared some good memories with my fellow RCAs. But, more significantly, it made me seriously reflect on how the topic of diversity should be approached and addressed on college campuses in ways that are useful and constructive.

At 185 Nassau St. stands an old elementary school. At first glance, it is mysterious. If you walk by at night—10 p.m., midnight, or even 3 a.m.—you'll see the lights are always on. Maybe you'll get a glimpse of a mysterious shadow through a 2nd floor window, or maybe you'll see lights flicker from the 4th floor attic. You'll hear weird sounds, too—the sound of an electric saw, maybe a pounding, vibrating beat. 

This building is the Lewis Center for the Arts, and home to many programs, including the Program in Visual Arts, also known as VIS, or as I like to put it, Princeton's best kept secret. Students enrolled in the Certificate and Program 2 are not only able to take studio courses, but are given their own individual studio spaces, funding for materials and individual advisers. In return, we get to make whatever we want to. It's a pretty good deal.

As a result, I've spent a good amount of time in my studio at 185. As I shape my senior thesis, a solo exhibition, it's become my second home. The building features: 

• a film theater 
• an acting studio
• multiple dance studios
• a ceramics studio
• a darkroom
• painting and drawing studios
• a sculpture shop
• digital studios (for film, photography and graphic design)
• a typography studio/printing press
• a printmaking studio

And, most important:

• Student visual arts studios

I'm constantly amazed by all of the work that my peers are doing. Our studios are spaces where we are free to explore and create whatever we want. We are able to paint, manipulate, tack things onto the floors and walls. They become our sanctuaries and the places where we make sense of the issues we are thinking about, and the questions we are asking. And accordingly, they are deeply personal, incredibly inspiring and sometimes bizarre spaces. And so, to give you all a glimpse into our lives, I decided to ask my peers for photos of their studios. Specifically, I told them to "send me something weird." Interpret as you will.

Jaime Ding '16

Amalya Megerman '16

Ben Denzer '15

You can find part of his senior thesis here. 

Louisa Wills '16

Me (Wendy Li '15)

It’s easy to sit back and let Princeton life wash over you. But if you want to see that crazy city, it's only a few train rides away. Come on board!

Just before Thanksgiving, Princeton Disabilities Awareness, popularly known as PDA, hosted its first fall conference/carnival. This event involved two simultaneous programs: a conference including keynote speakers such as Rachel Adams, famed author of Raising Henry; and a carnival for children with disabilities, pairing students with children and setting up activities run by student groups.

The event is entirely volunteer-based and built by students from the ground up. For it to succeed, each party’s participation is crucial. If not for the student organizers, the impressive panel of speakers, which draws parents to come to Princeton for the day, would not come together.  If not for the parents and their interest in coming to Princeton for the day, including some who travel considerably to make it to the event, the Princeton student body would not have the opportunity to interact with these children, an unforgettable experience for many. 

I have had the distinct pleasure of watching students who had filled out “no prior experience” on the application really open up and give all of their energy to a child they were introduced to that morning.  It is a beautiful thing to watch.  And of course, if not for the student volunteers, the children would not have the fun of having a “buddy” they can treat as a big brother or sister. Given the smiles on the kids faces and their reluctance to go home at the end of the day, it is clear that they too have fallen under the spell that is this fantastic and inspiring day.

When I was a freshman at the first PDA carnival, I was so impressed by all who devoted time and energy to making this event possible. Now, as a junior, I feel lucky to have been able to be on the board this year, coordinating volunteers among other things and working with other passionate students to create the event of the semester. 

I can’t wait for the spring carnival!

Like all freshman, I was assigned to a Residential College Adviser (RCA) when I came into Princeton. Each RCA is responsible for a group of around 15-20 advisees (“zees”), and the primary role of the RCA is—as the RCA Handbook says—to "foster a welcoming, safe, and stimulating environment for all residents of the college” and to help ease the transition into college life.

My RCA was fantastic—thoughtful, funny, and full of advice. I was so grateful for all that she did for us. She held weekly study breaks (which are a great excuse to take a break from work to get together with friends and hallmates and eat a bunch of food), doled out tons of snacks, and stayed up late listening to our complaints and making us feel better about our worries. I couldn’t believe how generous she was. I knew she was a full-time student and involved in a million activities and writing a thesis and applying for jobs, and yet she took time out of her days and weeks to be there for us. I felt like I was so lucky to have such a wonderful role model to look out for me. 

What I’ve realized since becoming an RCA is that this feeling goes both ways. I am so grateful for everything I do as an RCA. Yes, it can be time-consuming, especially at the beginning of the year, but it’s work that I enjoy.

Last year, I worked with some amazing sophomores, and this year I have a group of wonderful freshmen. My zees are among some of the most incredible people that I have met at Princeton—thoughtful and talented, generous and respectful. Each of my zees has such an incredible story; each one has such big goals. And to see Princeton through a freshman’s eyes again! It's rejuvenating. Listening to their stories and answering their questions reminds me of all that I felt when I first came to campus. It reminds me of just how engaging and vibrant our campus can be, and of just how frustrating and scary it can be, too. 

For some, the RCA and zee group structure is something that helps the zees immensely, and they become very involved in this community. For some, the RCA and zee group factor very little into the zees' Princeton experience, and they find their place outside the zee group.

As RCAs, we're happy either way—the idea behind the zee group is just to provide built-in support for freshmen if they want it. For most, the RCA role and zee group is something that is important for the first few weeks, when zees want someone to field their questions, and when they need friendly faces to help them navigate somewhere new, and the RCA and zee group becomes less important over time. For me, the RCA role is something that has spanned across my years at Princeton, and I am so grateful for that experience and for all those I have met through the role.