Music and us

I remember the first time I realized the music of my childhood wasn’t acceptable for college. To clarify, my musical tastes were unacceptable not in the sense that they were explicit, but rather because it wasn't "just music" anymore. It was political.

It was during Community Action, and fellow frosh were picking songs to play after a long day of volunteer work. There was some EBM, a little rock and even some classical. The entire time while I waited for my turn, I racked my brain for something that wouldn’t be difficult to explain; I assumed that as the only black girl in the group, no one would understand if I played Erykah Badu or an old Jackson 5 tune.

Until that moment, I didn’t consider my musical tastes to be particularly unique or alienating, but when it was my turn, I picked a random pop song. What would it have meant if I had instead played Marvin Gaye’s "What’s Going On?" or Earth, Wind & Fire’s "September”? Perhaps nothing would have happened, and even if my fellow classmates hadn’t liked the music, maybe nothing would have been inferred from it. Perhaps my musical tastes would not have been considered profound, brave or somehow indicative of the way I was raised. Regardless, I let a part of me — something that had never really felt like a large part of my identity before then — slip away as the next song played.

During my time here at Princeton, similar incidents have occurred. My roommates play a great deal of music in the common room, everything from country western to 70s rock. I play music in the common room too — just when they’re not around. On the off chance that I happen to be playing music while someone else is in the room, I quickly turn it off or capitulate to a Miles Davis track. Nothing too political, nothing too contentious. Once, my roommate walked in while Al Green’s "Let’s Stay Together" blasted from my computer; before I could turn it off, she asked me about the genre of the song.

"Was it jazz?" In the moment, it felt like more than a personal inquiry even though I didn’t own the song and indeed there was nothing particularly controversial about the romantic lyrics. Despite this, the inquiry felt like an interrogation of home, images of which the song evoked: warm summer nights with my parents, driving down a long highway. I had been indulging in such memories of home on a college campus that seems, many times, the opposite. Songs like this always played on my hometown R&B radio stations. In my community, it’s considered a classic. At Princeton, what felt like an invasion was perhaps a simple inquiry, an innocent question that no one at home would have ever asked. As I explained to my friend that Al Green was a soul artist, I couldn’t help but wonder what about my musical tastes had marginalized me.

Music helps to define many cultures, and within the African-American community, musical genres such as jazz, soul, funk and hip-hop are emblematic of the specific time periods in which they originated. Much of this music has political undertones, but it also has been the casual soundtrack of my life in the same way that other people have songs that played large parts in their childhoods. The difference here is that I didn’t realize this music might not be mainstream — or even recognized — until I got to a "diverse" college campus.

All of this represents something more than differences in musical tastes. This is neither a condemnation nor a hipster manifesto. I probably will never like country music and it is possible that none of my roommates will ever appreciate Lauryn Hill or Frank Ocean the way that I do. That’s okay. However, what are the larger implications of pieces of our home lives that are not within the mainstream of Princeton’s campus? When you’re looking for home during the four years we are here, how can you do so when many of the pieces of your identity must be explained in a way that your friends’ do not?

College is a place to learn, but minority students do not often think of themselves as teachers. The same frustrations may exist for any minority on campus whose musical comforts from home — and even culture in general — come to necessitate explanation due to their perceived obscurity. When leisure must become a lesson, what are marginalized cultures to do?

What is home?

Imani Thornton is a sophomore from Matteson, Ill. She can be reached at it4@princeton.edu.