As one of more than 100 Princetonian Princetonians, I came into freshman year thinking I knew exactly what to expect. After all, I had lived in Princeton nearly all my life. I thought the black squirrels all knew me, and, as a toddler, I even had the gall to stroll through FitzRandolph Gate once (shh ... don't tell anyone).
So naturally, I thought that coming to the University would be a breeze. After all, I could say things like, "Did you know that the Congress of the Confederation met at Nassau Hall?" I could even give directions to Forbes.
Cool, right?
Of course, as move-in day came along, it became clear to me that I was in for a rougher time than expected. This day-long epiphany began early in the morning, when my mother asked a Public Safety officer how to get to Baker Rink. Never mind that the officer was positioned there to help families like mine; I was appalled. Who was I? An out-of-towner?
As the day progressed, my subconscious goal became to assert my Princetonianity. I would scoff that "of course I know where Nassau Street is" and talk about how it was a "good thing I can drive home to pick up more stuff."
I was finished with these shenanigans by the end of freshman week. No one honestly thought it was cool that I live in Princeton.
Every time I met someone new, the conversation would be painfully predictable: "Nice to meet you, Gabe. I'm Kenyon Nelson DeWitt VIII. Where are you from?"
Upon hearing that I hailed from Princeton, my fellow freshmen would befriend me, and I would immediately become suspicious. Was I really that cool? Or did DeWitt and company just want a tour guide for the town until they got their bearings?
My suspicion finally waned, as (most of) the friends stayed when I inadvertently made it clear that I didn't really know what I was talking about.
I thought that festivities of some sort occurred on Prospect Avenue. Of course, I was wrong: People just "go out" to the Street. Students don't just stumble to Wawa inebriated. They stroll - completely sober - to the Wa.
I was wrong about more than just late-night activities. For instance, it turns out that the Princeton University Band looks goofy to people inside and outside the school.
Luckily, I was largely forgiven for my errors and was able to keep some (begrudging) friends.
Being a Princetonian Princetonian, it seems, is no big deal. There are plenty of us, and we're not as special as I once thought. My living in the town has its perks and its drawbacks, but it represents little more than a geographic happening. Most students have accepted this, though some of my fellow freshmen still seem astounded at my "old" home's proximity to my "new" one.
I'm slowly learning to deal with the inevitable questions. Over the summer, I was often hit with "Will you live on campus?" (answer: of course). Now, I have quick responses for "Did you go Princeton High?" (no), "Do your parents do your laundry?" (I wish), "How long would it take you to walk home?" (I would never walk home), and "Where can I get cheap food?" (Trenton).
So yes, I've been put in my place, but I've also learned the ropes in this somewhat new environment. My move from the Township to the Borough has served me well, helping me quiet my initial "confidence."
All this has not been without sacrifice, of course: I have had to largely forego the life of a "regular" Princetonian - the student kind - by virtue of my living here. My carrying around a campus map would be seen as even less cool than for most freshmen; I can't make fun of the townies; and, above all, even more than before, I can't even think about U.S. News and World Report. But I guess we don't care about rankings here.
Right?
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