On the P-Bomb and being a little smarty pants

The number one school in the country, huh? According to U.S. News and World Report, that is exactly where I go. Princeton University. Top of the top, best of the best, this is where the bar has been set? That's pretty impressive, if you ask me.

I mean, honestly, there are a whole bunch of colleges on this vast stretch of land we call the United States. To say that this is the best of them all is to say that I must be attending one damn fine educational institution. And, to say that the title had nothing to do with my perception of the school when I came to visit last winter, or when I finally made up my mind to make this my new residence last spring, would be a pretty transparent lie.

It entered all of our minds, and, if you are like me, it still does. The notion that I am going to "the country's best school" lingers somewhere in the back of my mind and greets me at odd junctures during my excursions across campus - say, as I glance up at the new statue of John Witherspoon and wonder how I ever ended up here - giving me that warm feeling of accomplishment that we all seem to have been searching for during the previous 18, 19, 20, 21 or 22 years on this planet.

I feel proud of the work I did to get in here; I feel proud that I continually chose to challenge myself in high school; I feel proud that I have been deemed worthy enough to go here by the great college application gods in the sky; I feel proud that I am going to "America's number one school."

Lately, though, I have been feeling guilty.

Over a steaming plate of turkey and Stove Top (I hate "normal" stuffing), I (again) was poked and prodded as to my experience thus far at Princeton. This time the questions were spewing forth from people I hardly knew, members of my sister's (and, by default, I guess that would make them my) family-in-law. Most of the questions and comments were your standard fare: "How are you liking it?" "Have you met any interesting people?" "What classes are you taking?"

All of this I handled like a pro, having already memorized the standard responses after my trip home for Fall Break. But, with one quick squint and sinister raise of the eyebrows, my great-aunt-in-law (I think, at least) left my jaw dropped to the floor and my proud exterior bruised.

"Oh. You're Amy's brother? I heard you were a Princeton man. You must be a little smarty pants."

I think she meant it as a compliment, but, somewhere there, intertwined with the heart-felt holiday cheer, was a tone that smacked of disgust. Maybe I took it wrong, but I could have sworn that in her comment lay more than just a friendly conversation starter. I couldn't quite understand it, at least not at that point. I mean, wasn't it a good thing to go to Princeton? Wasn't getting in here a good thing? Why should I feel that tinge of shame that was flooding to my face? Why did I feel awkward?

Of course, I just smiled and said "yes" and hurried my way back to my sister's side. I was safe there. Or was I?

"What's up, Princeton?" she snickered.

Had the joke spread to my real family too? What was going on? The embarrassment I felt was growing, if only ever so slightly. But why? Shouldn't I be cheerful about my school? Shouldn't my achievement be a mark of pride, not of humiliation? What was going on?

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I just smiled and ate my food, of course. When I got on the train to come back home, I was feeling my oats again, and I decided I'd wear my Princeton sweatshirt back to campus like a Roman soldier coming back by chariot in his armor. After all, I had worked hard to get in here, and I wouldn't let some familial snickering bring me down.

About half way home, at the Metropark stop of the N.J. Transit Northeast Corridor, a college-aged kid sat down next to me. He smiled at me and said hello. I was polite and returned the favor. I offered a little more as well.

"Where are you headed?"

"Back down to school. Rutgers. What about y—"

At this point he looked down and saw my sweatshirt. "Oh, you're one of them."

There was a slight giggle before he put his headphones on and left my life forever. That was all it took though. At this point, I felt more excited to get back to campus than I ever had before, to get back to a place where people wouldn't wrinkle their nose at me. I couldn't wait to get back to Princeton.

As my chariot (the Dinky) rolled me home, I thought about all the reactions I had received in one quick trip up to the Adirondacks. I tried and tried to see it from their point of view, to see why this place, this Princeton University, could be mocked, snickered or giggled at. For the life of me, I couldn't. All I could think about was the great facilities, great teachers, great campus, great minds, my great education. So, I kept searching, trying to find the reason for the ridicule.

Out of my left ear, I let myself drift into a conversation that two (obviously) upperclassmen were having. The one to the other remarked:

"Man, I have it all set up. My internship last year almost guarantees me the job. Salomon Smith Barney will be shelling out big dough for this Princeton grad. Oh, yeah. That's what I'm talking about."

I finally got it. He was my peer. He went to Princeton, too. But he wasn't me. He was nothing like me. To me, this school has been about learning. It has been about getting to hear, on a daily basis, the world's greatest professors speak to me about Shakespeare, Maya Deren and Margaret Meade, all people they themselves had spent a lifetime getting to know. This "number one college" has been about exploring new avenues of intellectual liberation, new places that my mind has yet to wander.

It hasn't once been a place that I've attached a paycheck to. I have not once thought of Princeton as a "down payment" for my later success. This "number one college" has not once been about furthering my chances on a future job or internship. Not once.

But I guess to some, that is what this place becomes - a place to perpetuate the wealth and success that has been associated with this, the country's number one school. How else would our endowment be as large as it is?

To others, this is a school, and, thus, a place to learn. That doesn't always bring in the big bucks, though, I guess. Some of us were made to be Princeton men. The rest of us were just made to go to Princeton. Alfred Brown is a freshman from Manhattan Beach, Calif. He can be reached at aebtwo@princeton.edu.