As the door opened, a cloud of smoke billowed from the room, and I knew I had made a terrible mistake. I stood in the doorway, clad in my seersucker shorts and pink Polo shirt, as my nose contemplated the variety of illegal substances that were wafting through the air. Then the carcinogenic cloud settled above my head in a cartoon-like fashion. As Martin Sheen said when he boarded the swift boat to Cambodia in "Apocalypse Now," "I was headed to the worst place in the world and I didn't even know it." Except I wasn't in the heart of darkness — I was in an NYU dorm.
I had landed a summer job with Salmon-Suisse-Bernie-Mac-Banc (after turning down a generous offer from The Merrimack Group) and had embarked on a mission to Manhattan — quite a journey for this humble redneck. With the eco-friendly objective of walking to work every day, I had opted to reside in an NYU dormitory in West Greenwich Village. Though the trip to work was only a few blocks, the journey from the Village to the Financial District every day felt like something out of Epcot Center, during which I watched man evolve/devolve (you pick which direction is which, unless you believe in intelligent design).
While my trading job had reasonable hours, my roommates in murders-and-acquisitions were tethered to their Blackberries even on Saturday nights, and to my dismay, my first weekend in the city was shaping up to be a lonely one. This seemed like a story more suited to a Carrie Bradshaw column than my War on Fun chronicles. Then, a booming bass beat vibrated through the wall, and I remembered that the girls next door had slipped an invitation to their BYOB party under the door. I mixed a couple of Sapphire-and-tonics, flipped my collar up and knocked on their door.
As the portal swung open, I knew that I was doomed. A cadre of t-shirt-clad film students looked up from their hookah and stared. In their eyes I could see the terror exhibited by all Villagers who meet me and instantly suspect I am a narcotics agent. But their burnt spoons were of no concern to me; I was already surveying the scene for a girl who had washed her hair this month. Their annual demand for shampoo seemed to be low; I made a mental note to go short on Johnson & Johnson stock on Monday. The hot militant chick to whom I offered my second G&T showed her colors when she winced at the drink. So much for girl power, or four shots of good gin.
Each of the people I met on the way in asked me to repeat myself when I said that I went to Princeton. One particular McGovernite asked me, "Is it hard?" I told him, "YES!" More grimaces were elicited as I announced my vocation. One independent fellow expressed his contempt for the brigade of bankers that had descended upon his dorm. Showing great restraint, I did not voice my objections to his legion of resident hippies who were well on their way to living off the National Endowment for the Arts while I lost half of my hard-earned income to taxes.
Suddenly I longed to be back at Princeton, where ambition is not immoral and the rules of etiquette command us to supply our guests with fine liquor. Then, remembering a trick that numerous girls had used on me, I scooped my cell phone out of my pocket and faked a phone call. My presence was requested, I announced, at a trendy club called Dorsia, where my friend Art Vandelay had bought a table.
My retreat must have seemed painfully obvious. I fit into this crowd about as well as Lawrence Summers in Cambridge, Mass., and our only possible viable conversation topic would have been, "So, do you guys read the Nassau Weekly?" "Whoah, man, do you know Jacob Savage?" they would probably respond. As I slipped out the door, I knew they must be laughing at me. But as my grandmother and Josh Lyman always said, "Better to look chicken than to get roasted." We'll just say that they smoked me out. Powell Fraser is a politics major from Atlanta, Ga. He can be reached at pfraser@princeton.edu.
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Before you can give back, you have to get by
Joel IbabaoTaking a high-paying career can help us give back to both our own families and society at large. Financial security is not at odds with intellectual seriousness or social responsibility; in fact, it can enable a more profound and lasting impact.
Could Princeton avoid the endowment tax by expanding financial aid?
Isaac BarsoumInstitutions will have to pay 8 percent on endowment returns if they have “at least 3,000 tuition-paying students” and “a student adjusted endowment in excess of $2,000,000.” Princeton checks all the boxes. So, we have to pay. Right?
Institutions will have to pay 8 percent on endowment returns if they have “at least 3,000 tuition-paying students” and “a student adjusted endowment in excess of $2,000,000.” Princeton checks all the boxes. So, we have to pay. Right?
Keep academic authority in human hands
Lily Halbert-AlexanderThe Trump administration’s attacks on research and higher education as well as a blind reliance on AI chatbots are reflective of a societal backslide: a commodification of knowledge that prioritizes “efficiency” over the messy process of getting to an answer, where nuances are flattened and the truth is fungible.
The Trump administration’s attacks on research and higher education as well as a blind reliance on AI chatbots are reflective of a societal backslide: a commodification of knowledge that prioritizes “efficiency” over the messy process of getting to an answer, where nuances are flattened and the truth is fungible.