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Managing editor and migrant student Sam Parsons (no relation) recently offered his perspective on the state of America’s immigration system in a looming 2,100-word column titled “Defending Princeton’s 12 percent: The unseen side of the anti-immigration movement.” In what quickly morphs from an insightful remark on the often untold vocational difficulties faced by international students to a partisan diatribe, Parsons lurches into a clumsy yet familiar attack on Trump and his not-so-recent failure to pass immigration reform. However, besides the conflation of the F-1 visa, which Parsons presumably uses, and the H-1B, which he clearly does not, what I found particularly problematic was his framing of American identity as merely an arbitrary construct. To me, like millions of other Americans who support key elements of Trump’s immigration proposals, the question of who is admitted to our country for work, travel, and citizenship is a weighty question that requires continued scrutiny.
The #MeToo movement has come, but it has not yet gone; while the testimonials of women who were sexual harassed have largely faded from our Facebook and Twitter feeds, the issue of sexual harassment — in the workplace, in the classroom, at the bar — has continued to dominate public discourse. In the wake of the allegations against numerous seemingly laudable men — Harvey Weinstein, Louis C.K., even our own Professor Sergio Verdú — I’ve come to reflect on my own experiences with women on Prospect Avenue. I’d like to say me, too. I, too, have been the problem through what seems to be innocuous behavior typical on the Street, and I posit to you that in order for men to become more effective allies as we work to create a more equitable and safe world for women, we must accept and grapple with our own socio-sexual transgressions and their consequences to create a dialogue in which men can positively contribute to the #MeToo movement.
Almost two weeks after I lost the election for freshman class president in a close final runoff where 40 votes could have swayed the outcome in my favor, I took some time reflecting on the reasons for my loss and the interesting phenomenon of Princeton elections.
During this midterm elections campaign season, many female candidates have used their status as mothers to defend their policy stances and appeal to voters. Some argue that this is detrimental to gender equality, because it plays into the idea that women must justify their leadership in some way. But while using motherhood as a campaign strategy may play into gender norms in the short term, it will be advantageous over the long term in the fight for gender equality.
Dear Princeton University Administration,
Princeton likes to pat itself on the back when it comes to the treatment of first-generation, low income students on campus. Just this academic year, the University has been featured in multiple Washington Post articles and a recent segment of CBS’s “60 Minutes” in praise of the work that is being done to improve FLI students’ Princeton experiences. Despite the positive publicity, the recently proposed and now largely discarded changes to the University dining plan were just the latest evidence of the University failing to understand the outsized impact of proposed changes on the FLI community.
We need more women like Cardi B. The first solo female rapper to top the Billboard 100 in 19 years, she has become a rare voice who is helping redefine #MeToo in entertainment sectors like hip-hop and the adult entertainment business. In those industries, the perception of gender power imbalance is inflated, which has been found to increase the likelihood of sexual assault by those in power. Cardi B is a rare representative for women in those industries who view themselves as taking control of their sexuality, although society may deem their occupations powerless. To shift the dominating perception of women having less power in those industries, we need more women like Cardi.
Princeton University’s inspiring informal motto, “In the Nation’s Service and the Service of Humanity,” challenges the University’s students, faculty, and administration to pursue a higher purpose in life and broaden their perspective from personal gratification to the well-being of all members of the human community.
Princeton University is world-renowned. Our endowment, at $23.8 billion in 2017, is bigger than the GDP of Iceland in 2016. Our students are increasingly diverse and hail from all 50 states and many different countries. Our alumni include presidents, astronauts, authors, and royalty.
This May marks the 40th anniversary of Asian Pacific American Heritage Month. It is our time to focus on not only the successes of Asian Americans but also the overlooked barriers they continue to face. Asian-American women face unique challenges. They are victims of both glass and bamboo ceilings — invisible barriers that prevent women and Asian Americans, respectively, from advancing in their careers. While it is tempting to lump Asian American women in with either all women or all Asian Americans, this approach is shortsighted. Instead, we need to consider how the stereotype of Asian femininity compounds with the “model minority” myth, the stereotype that all Asian Americans are hardworking and successful without requiring help. The complex interplay of these stereotypes generates unreasonable expectations of extreme compliance and unquestioning service for Asian-American women. And it is these expectations that can severely restrict them from moving forward.
The power box appeared in my courtyard last week, stuck on a wood post and silent, the harbinger of spring in Princeton. Soon, the wooden fences will appear, unannounced and under cover of darkness, to be followed by white tents and finally white-collared alumni, ready for a weekend of nostalgic revelry. Reunions, our annual campus-wide, beer-fueled bonanza, is right around the corner, and among all the boozing and schmoozing, plenty of Tigers (this senior included) will be on the hunt for that special someone in orange and black.
For the past two weeks, Princeton University’s campus has been teeming with giddy high school students in bright orange lanyards and drawstring backpacks. Usually, they travel in packs of two to seven, though an occasional singleton can be found looking down at their phone before asking a passerby where the building called “Frist” might be. As I watch Princeton Preview unfold, I wonder: What will the Great Class of 2022 be like?
Sexual Health and Wellness Services are a major and valued component of Medical Services at University Health Services, located in the McCosh Health Center. An opinion column published by The Daily Princetonian on April 23, 2018 drew my attention. As the Director of Medical Services, I agree wholeheartedly with two of the primary points, that “the failure to disseminate knowledge about how such services work only heightens fear and apprehension in the student body,” and that there is always room for improving access to services. Therefore, I felt it important to respond by clearly communicating information about our approach to ensuring ready access to health care and a few of the specific services we offer.
Imagine a crowded living space with bad plumbing, old hallways, and exposed pipes, where toilets overflow and make an unsanitary disaster, where human feces are found in the shower, urine found in trash cans, shower curtains removed as pranks, and then people of color and people of unprivileged socioeconomic backgrounds have to clean it all up.
In the fall of 2018, Princeton’s history department will offer sixty-four courses. Of those courses, none are cross-listed with the Program in Latin American Studies. Only one, a junior seminar open only to juniors in the history department, addresses a Latin American topic: U.S. Imperialism in the Modern Caribbean.
There is a university that exists where everyone says hi to each other. They greet one another with a warm embrace, arms outstretched and welcoming. Most of the time, the hugs aren’t hollow. Everyone eats together. They live together. Community is more than a euphemism. Apartness is elided.
The first time I met the Class of 2019, I was Anna in the SHARE play. I met the Class of 2020 the following year, as a director. A funny thing happened to me when I did that. When I told people, “I’m directing the SHARE play,” more often than not, they would tell me their opinions about misconduct on campus. Sometimes, people would share a personal story. I learned that lots of people don’t know the University’s definition of sexual misconduct. I learned that many people, more than I originally thought, have dealt with misconduct, but would never dream of talking to the University’s Title IX committee and couldn’t handle the stress of an investigation. Moreover, I learned that people don’t talk so much about misconduct after freshman year. One RCA went so far as to say that juniors needed to see the SHARE play again — that they were the ones who needed it.
Last winter, the passage of the four referenda concerning the Honor Committee made it clear that students wished to reform the Committee. The implementation of the fourth referendum opened the door to changing practices of the membership without changing the Committee’s current institutional framework. While we may not be able to change the “rules” of the Committee, we can and should ensure members are “playing by the rules.”
The Board Plan Review Committee’s draft of proposed changes to the University’s dining plan claims they will create “more flexibility, affordability, and efficiency for an increasingly diverse community.”
I’ve been reluctant to write this — or anything pinning my issues onto my race. Anything impassioned about racism, to be honest. While I am appreciative of my heritage, I’ve always felt that I’m not defined solely by my ethnicity and, more than just being apathetic, I have found it unrelatable — I’ve been fortunate to never have felt openly discriminated against because of my skin. Yet, I want to write — I am uneasy.