A word to the Wankstas

My favorite things at Princeton are theme parties — and I take them seriously. In fact, I've started dressing in theme regularly. Hawaiian Luau Wednesdays, Old School Nickelodeon Precepts — my unmentionables are pure 80s revival. I insist that my gentlemen callers wear spandex and serenade me with "Hungry like the Wolf." In a related story: I don't have many friends. All right, I have none. But it isn't because I'm weird. It's because I'm a Negro. Oops, I mean black. Oops, I mean African-American.

To my Caucasian, Oriental and Mexican friends; stop calling me African-American. It's awkward to the point of being painful. If you're sitting there wondering why your ethnic group wasn't mentioned, it's because you aren't important.

Lately, people seem to wear their political incorrectness like a badge of honor; maybe it's because they are starting to realize that race relations do not hinge on superficialities like skin color and have little to do with indifference or ignorance. Rather, they hinge on concentrated efforts to not give a damn, when we really ought to.

For example, it is not that hard to say a person's name correctly. It's fine to not recall a name, especially if it is one you aren't used to hearing, but when a girl introduces herself as Shaniqua, don't act like Hooked on Phonics just bowled you over. We all struggle with vowels sometimes (personally, the word "cat" just kills me), but enough is enough. I cannot count how many times I have heard people mispronounce the names of non-American/British world leaders. It's one thing to not know who is in charge of North Korea (nuclear what?); it's unacceptable to not be able to sound out the words Kim Jong-Il.

And I have news for you wankstas: just because you regurgitate Tupac lyrics with earnest and pleading eyes, that does not mean you know the struggle. I've spent my life in classes where the teacher would mention Harriet Tubman, and everyone would look at me as if she were my aunt. And just to clarify: no, I do not eat fried chicken on a regular basis (I'm in a sorority; I eat diet pills and the pages of Daphne Oz's book). You don't know the struggle — but even if you did, I still wouldn't care that you took an hour out of your time to memorize "Brenda's Got a Baby" off of azlyrics.com.

But if the issue is not about these surface indicators, what is it about?

I contend that it is the notion of "us versus them" which drives race relations. Exclusivity is a historical fact. Notions of exclusion underlie community-building; often defining oneself is more about what one is not, than what one is. "I am American" carries with it millions of "I am not's," and we see that at play everyday. You can sit at that table but not at this one. Those are your type of people, these are not. This is where I shop, this is who I am. And who are you? It's one of the most difficult questions to answer. Who are you not? Now, there is a (we suppose) infinitely easier question.

I am not white, I am not a man and I am not a squash player. If that were all it took to reach a self-definition, the world would be a simpler place. But what happens instead is that we divide ourselves into these identity clubs based on exclusion, and they ferment into ones of hate, jealousy and, at its root, fear. As we start to confront the fact that superficial divisions like race, class, gender and religion matter little, we are also simultaneously unearthing the failings of the communities we have built. We have to decide which is more important: comforting, albeit superficial, stability or a less stable, but honest Socratic endeavor to discover true sources of connection. The latter is no easy task, but a belief in American idealism is a belief in our ability to transcend institutional barriers towards a more perfect democracy. It is also, coincidentally, our proud legacy.

When we talk about America and when we talk about Princeton in the Nation's Service, we must recognize that politics are not to be conducted like theme parties where people clothe themselves in fancy words colored red, white and blue. It's a more commonplace thing. Like saying a name correctly or spending 20 minutes finding out where North Korea is on a map, instead of trying to impress that black kid in your hall by learning Biggie lyrics. Max Maduka is a sophomore from Columbia, MD. She can be reached at umaduka@princeton.edu.