Root Canal by Nassau Weekly

This week, the Nass looks deep into the construction of cavities, finding a world where the dance is improvizational and the restrooms are mindful.

The Nassau Weekly

In Print since 1979 Online at nassauweekly.com

Volume 46, Number 8 April 23, 2023

4 6 8

Root Canal

The Construction of Concealment: Princeton’s Geo-Exchange System and Why We Can’t See It

By Alex Norbrook

Telescoping Cavity

By Charlie Neurmberger, Alexandra

Orbuch, Beth Villaruz, Daniel Viorica

Putting People on Stage: Pursuing Equity Through the Choreographic Process

By Isabelle Clayton

Eating Clubs, A’s, and AI: What Are Profs Really Think About Us

By Lara Katz

Below the Belt

By Hasan Hameed

Desert House

By Hazel Flaherty

Princewatch

By Sierra Stern

Below the Belt

THE CONSTRUCTION OF CONCEALMENT:

of the University’s new hot water pipe infrastructure to provide heat from a renewable geo-exchange system.

This system will replace the steam heating network that has been used for the last two decades, and which provides heat from Princeton’s natural-gas-powered cogeneration plant. Princeton aims to lay a staggering 13 miles of new, insulated hot water pipes to complement 700 geo-exchange wells currently under construction, which will provide the temperature control apparatus that the pipes will support. I was amazed that this ambitious project, a landmark commitment to sustainability, was happening right in front of my eyes, and that I didn’t realize its significance until I stopped to look.

The construction of this hot water pipe network reveals an otherwise concealed system of energy infrastructure, part of what cultural anthropologists Mike Anusas and Tim Ingold describe as “an ultimately controlling apparatus, which secretly and inconspicuously organizes and directs the

course of corporatized life from beneath the realms of everyday awareness, revealing itself to our experience only in the form of our dependency upon it.” How energy moves around us, controls so much of our lives, yet we’re encouraged not to take notice of that process. As a result, our energy network insidiously encourages us to use more energy—it keeps us in the dark about the extent of our consumption.

Once completed, the geo-exchange system will become a part of this obscure and vast web of infrastructure, sinking beneath the awareness of the greater Princeton community as its pipes get buried and quite literally covered up. This loss of awareness is almost inevitable—it happened already with the steam pipe infrastructure which the geo-exchange system is set to replace, infrastructure whose existence is virtually unknown except by the occasional student who sneaks into the tunnels at night.

While under construction, though, the pipes seem impossible to ignore and the attempt at

concealment appears to falter. The pipes are laid bare for everyone to see; their assembly is heard virtually everywhere through the rumbling of construction vehicles and the screeches, bangs, and earth-shaking pounds of equipment. While this construction has caused a lot of complaints (justifiably, in some cases), it has the potential to reveal our otherwise hidden entanglements with the energy infrastructure around us. This could fundamentally reshape how we perceive our campus by allowing us to see, and therefore value, all of the energetic processes that sustain, comfort, entertain, and power us.

However, at a surface level, it appears that the campus community doesn’t want this kind of reimagined perception. When I talk with people about the pipe construction around Whitman College, all I hear is negativity. One person I spoke to felt sorry for the people living in the college who had to endure the noise. Someone else described construction on campus as “dystopian,” and another said that they feel “rage” whenever they

think about it. People use construction as a conversation starter, or a cheap butt of their jokes, their sense of humor hiding frustration at the disruptions to everyday life.

But I don’t think these people are actually complaining about these energetic entanglements and their newfound visibility; it didn’t seem like they understood the entanglements inherent in the construction of the hot water pipes in the first place. In a couple of my conversations about the infrastructure, people told me that they knew construction was happening at Whitman, but they didn’t know what was actually being built.

This is in contrast to other projects on campus like the construction of the art museum or the Dillon Gym addition, cases in which it’s pretty obvious what’s happening on each construction site. In these instances, the projects are slowly being built up and out. These operate within conventional design schemes: when you see a skeleton of metal girders, you understand that there’s going to be a building there.

Volume 46, Number 8 4 PAGE DESIGN BY VERA EBONG

What do we miss when we complain about construction?

Princeton’s Geo-Exchange System and Why We Can’t See It

This knowledge is part of an object-oriented perceptual framework that considers objects as self-contained. For instance, we think of the Art Museum as just that: a discrete structure separate from all other buildings on campus. This isn’t unique; most of Princeton’s construction projects are just more buildings, certainly variations on the current campus structures, but still on the theme of educational facilities.

By focusing on the objects of the construction, we fail to notice their relational aspects. This impedes upon our understanding of the hot water pipe infrastructure and how it will create and sustain the energetic entanglements in which we are enmeshed. When we look at the art museum, we don’t see the network that ensures it can function: the hot water pipelines that will keep it at a comfortable temperature, the power lines that keep its lights on, the sewage pipelines which siphon away waste, the water pipes that fill the taps and water fountains. And when that network is being rebuilt, as it is with the hot water pipes, we don’t see it

either.

Princeton adds to our inability to see these energy entanglements through making “invisible” some of its hot water pipeline construction sites. Construction projects like the ones mentioned above boast banners around their sites with concept images of the finished products, or big bullet points showing what will be built and when. No such bold indications exist at hot water pipe construction sites at Frist Campus Center and on Washington Road. The lack of signage at Frist and Washington suggests that students don’t have anything in particular to look forward to when the pipes get finished: the finished product isn’t displayed or even hinted at, because there will be no visible finished product at all.

Moreover, there is only mesh fencing to obscure the construction, and traffic barriers and cones to signal that the site is off limits. Princeton sends a message here: We students should stay away, and we shouldn’t fret or think too much about the project because other people have it

under control. Even though a couple of Princeton websites do cover the geo-exchange pipes, the on-theground signal we receive is to ignore the project until it’s no longer noticeable. These factors create a barrier that prevents students from noticing their energetic entanglements.

The construction of geo-exchange pipes could be an opportunity to bring forth our entangled relationship with energy. But at some of its construction sites, Princeton flattens and anonymizes the project, thereby contributing to a re-invisibilization. It is through a lack of communication around geo-exchange pipes, rather than their construction, that contributes to complaints. This lack of understanding harms our ability to transition to a climate-safe future because it prevents a greater understanding of our relationship to, and reliance on, energy. If people only think about sustainable projects like pipe construction negatively—in part because of our entrenched perceptual framework oriented around discrete objects—they are

less likely to accept the disruption necessary to reimagine our infrastructure for the net-zero energy transition to come. And, if the builders of that infrastructure conceal it as before, then our relationship to energy will remain one of unbridled and careless consumption.

Watching the worker straddle his pipe, pushing the steel girder back and forth, I find that I’m not frustrated that this construction site blocks off Washington road, hindering my path to class. Instead, I feel inspired: I’m watching the future of sustainable infrastructure be created before my eyes, a future that doesn’t need to be hidden—if we deem it worthy to be seen. This energy transition is one of inconvenience, sure. But it’s also one of promise and possibility.

Alex Norbrook could fundamentally reshape how we perceive the Nassau Weekly by allowing us to see, and therefore value, all of the energetic processes that sustain, comfort, entertain, and power us.

Volume 46, Number 8 5

BY DANIEL VIORICA

I’ll write this as an elegy, but I’m not yet sure for what.

I started on Zoloft two months ago. It felt necessary; I couldn’t be alone because there was something crawling in my throat. Even anxiety became an escape. Better to lose time than to feel it dropping upon me.

Heavy. Almost like rain.

At first there was nothing. Sleep wouldn’t fill me in the evenings. I’d lie in bed, too tired to move, too tired to read. When I had a headache I would be too nauseous to turn around, so I’d lie face-up with closed eyes.

I woke up each morning not knowing when in the night something had changed.

The first thing I noticed was a shimmer: an error in the dark. The air above me laced with ripples, wide and layered. But invisible somehow. My sheets melted under me. I felt warm and was thinking when I vanished.

So now I could sleep again. And now the pit in my throat was gone, but it was cold outside, and the light in my classrooms thickened, I felt my head trailing against the sunlight, my eyes going grey. On weekends there was nothing I could do except drift in and out. Put my head down at one, maybe. Then wake back up at five.

This went on for weeks.

At one point I stopped taking it. Then went back on. Called a friend for advice. Started again, with a lower dose.

Whenever I got asked if it was working I just said I don’t know. Sometimes got told to stay on it. Sometimes that I should stop. Maybe switch. But always, don’t worry. It’s subtle. Maybe impossible to tell.

Every day I knew: I’ll open my eyes. Today will be the day that changes my life.

In the morning I picked up the pieces. Material and immaterial: clothes on the floor, and pens and books and notebooks. But also emails and texts. Regrets from the haze before sleep.

I had trouble with these. They seemed very real.

Last semester, I felt the same way during all my lectures. I flipped through my notes at the end— sometimes they were neat, sometimes illegible.

Can we ever tell how we’re doing in the moment?

A while ago I read Milton—or I was supposed to. I only remember one thing. Paradise Lost tries to capture impossibility. Tries to imagine a state now lost to us. Syntax shattered. Fallen language pushed past what language can be.

I don’t know how it happened every morning: waking up, putting on clothes. Out of my head and into the world.

Stepping outside to see the sky. Blossoms just breaking from the trees.

uncomfortable. Kept seeing people I knew, one after another. And I realized each one of them has a world in their heads. Every person, each stranger a possibility.

In Lund, we came across a runestone on a hill, just sitting there. A thousand years old. Meaningful if illegible. Carved in granite.

I teared up. Here’s a world that can still surprise us, sometimes.

Want to know a secret? I planned this piece from the start. A rhetoric of change. First nothing. Then richness leaking in, then color.

In the end I can’t be sure. The sun is cold today but bright.

TELESCOPING

When the air is warm and soft, life feels numinous. Pleasant and

April 23, 2023 6 PAGE DESIGN BY HAZEL FLAHERTY ART BY HAZEL FLAHERTY AND HANNAH MITTLEMAN

BY BETH VILLARUZ

CAVITY

Iknow my mother has always regretted getting me that toy dentist set when I was five, but this is a new low, even for her. The text says: Ruth, I signed you up for a matchmaking service. It cost $100. Don’t make me regret it. Maybe you’ll find someone to fill your cavities. Hahaha.

Gross. Ew, mom, I text back. It’s outlined in old-person-Android green. God. You’d think she’d be happy I’m the best pediatric dentist this side of the Hudson. I’m referral only. I was voted “Most Painless Cavity Filler” at the Kids’ Choice Physician Awards three years consecutively. (Okay, that’s not a real

subject line surrounded by heart and sparkle emojis, is a message from TrueLove Perfect Match, Inc. I glance at the clock in my monitor’s bottom corner. Definitely at least 15 minutes until I have to check out another kid’s teeth. Enough time to fill out a matchmaking profile, certainly.

“A good day?” he asks. I begin to nod, until he shocks me with a tentative follow-up: “I hate filling cavities.”

My jaw drops, revealing perfect teeth.

He took care of the cavity himself, even though he hated it. We shared a kiss under the fluorescent office lights. So Mom was right— the matchmaking did fill the cavities in my life, in more ways than one.

CONTINUED ON PAGE 16

thing, but I’ve never made a kid cry). But my mother has been trying to marry me off since I finished dental school, as if I need to add another three letters to my name.

Another buzz. I click my phone open again. You’ll do it, right? A second message appears. You just seem so lonely these days.

I’m not responding to that. Lonely my ass. I know that she had a daughter in the first place just so she could eventually plan a wedding, and I’ve failed to deliver.

I look at my inbox— and right there at the top,

Name: Ruth Kincaid. Easy enough. Profession: Dentist. And a damn good one. Hobbies: Dancing, LEGO, Westerns. A rare combo that had failed to get me married thus far. My special skill: I didn’t know what to say. Eventually, I settled on filling in the gaps.I assumed the whole thing would be stupid, and for the most part, it was. The first match was awful, a bumbling accountant with no sense of humor who was definitely not worth my mother’s hard-earned money. The second was fine, but too into theater for my taste. But the third—oh, the third. Tall. Well-dressed. Shared my distaste for soda. Knew how to approach a dance floor. But best of all, the matchmaking company had used the last of my mom’s membership to set me up with another dentist. It was the first match I’d cared to continue seeing, and three days after our first orchestrated date, we’re drinking sugar-free cocktails while the sun sets.

“Good day tomorrow,” I say. “Doing a bunch of fillings, seeing my best patients.”

“Nice maw,” he says, grinning.

I close it indignantly. “Filling cavities is the foundation of dentistry. It’s a common task, but you wouldn’t be able to do anything without that skill! How can you hate filling cavities?”

“How can you love it? You’re fixing rot!”

I down the rest of my drink. “Wait,” he says. “Open up.” I do, suspiciously.

“I think… I think you might have a cavity.”

Volume 46, Number 8 7

Putting People on Stage: Pursuing Equity Through the Choreographic Process

By ISABELLE CLAYTON

When my friend Gigi Pacheco asked me to dance in her senior dance thesis this past summer, I felt honored but also unsure of what the commitment entailed. All I knew was that for three hours once a week, we would meet to rehearse her piece. Gigi was the choreographer, and I was one of her five dancers. And though I didn’t know it at the time, I was also her lead. Our rehearsals began the first week of fall semester, and almost immediately I felt outside my comfort zone. I had anticipated a certain degree of discomfort that day, the kind that comes with familiarizing yourself with a new choreographic style, or with entering a new space and having to establish yourself as a dancer before a new set of peers. But the nerves percolating through me felt new. Rather than immediately teaching us her choreography, as often happens in dance rehearsals, Gigi wanted us to improv––to understand how we moved, and how we felt comfortable moving. She offered us prompts, asking us to dance with certain qualities,

feelings, in mind. She asked us to split into pairs and have conversations through movement, or to improv while never once breaking eye contact with our partners.

These were vulnerable exercises. I stressed over the prospect of improvising new movements for myself, worrying over how I looked, how Gigi might perceive me. But for many of her prompts, Gigi danced alongside us. She introduced herself to us through her own vocabulary of bodily movements, allowing herself to be vulnerable, too. We were the objects of her gaze as much as she was an object of ours. I remember leaving that rehearsal feeling dizzy, disoriented, thinking, what have I gotten myself into?

I had never encountered a dance environment in which I was not positioned within a clear vertical hierarchy. I grew up attending a pre-professional ballet school, where we danced to be corrected—to be transformed by our teachers from

pre-professional to professional dancers. Corrections as seemingly insignificant as the placement of our fingertips in an arabesque were moments to relish, moments in which we felt immense support. If teachers asked us to fix problems in our technique, it meant they believed we could.

We hounded support by catering to the opinions of our superiors. The girls who received the most attention in

adherence to a hierarchy in which choreographers and teachers held absolute authority over dancers.

Perhaps this was why I felt so jolted by Gigi’s choreographic process. Although Gigi was our choreographer, she didn’t make me feel inferior. Although I didn’t realize it at first, Gigi had opted for a more horizontally structured studio environment. Gigi blurred the traditionally strict bounds between the roles of choreographer and dancers. As a dancer in her own thesis, she occupied both roles at once.

But more importantly, she asked us to occupy both roles, too.

the intersection of honor and pressure I experienced in that moment. I felt an incessant desire for vocalized feedback from Gigi—for critiques to improve my dancing, or praise to validate what I was already doing, because, in a thesis dedicated to her own life experiences, I felt responsible for doing her narrative justice. My lack of experience with improv only enhanced my craving for her support. But to my dismay, Gigi offered me few notes in our rehearsals. Anxieties multiplied; I had always equated the dancing subject with the subject being judged, and yet here Gigi was asking me to trust myself. She was the first choreographer to ask this from me.

class were usually those who played into their subordination, staying quiet, keeping to themselves, and most importantly, nodding emphatically in response to notes (however brutal) from their choreographers. Corrections felt like things we needed to earn. Acquiring such capital relied on a strict

She often asked for our advice, beckoning us to choreograph sections of her project for ourselves. Teaching me my final solo section, Gigi told me to “let it all loose,” and instructed me to do so until the musical score ended. And she left it at that, relinquishing the movements that would finish her piece, her senior thesis, to me.

Floored, flabbergasted— words could barely describe

Prior to Gigi’s thesis, I was used to choreographers coming into rehearsals with set ideas and material to teach. I had no say in what I would be dancing—rather, I was expected to learn the movements, and execute them exactly as demonstrated by my choreographer. This was my experience both within my pre-professional ballet school and at Princeton.

My freshman fall, I participated in a staging of Justin Peck’s “Rodeo” for the Princeton Dance Festival. The audition atmosphere for the piece foretold its vertically structured choreographic process. I remember it

April 23, 2023 8 PAGE DESIGN BY CATHLEEN WENG ART BY CHAS BROWN

A senior thesis reimagines the relationship between choreographer and dancer.

vividly: standing at a cramped barre with a paper number seven pinned to my leotard, while the guest choreographer stood in front of us, arms crossed, speaking in hushed tones to the head of the Dance Department as he indicated to her the dancers he wanted in the piece.

For weeks, I spent my afternoons in rehearsals where my sole focus was on what this choreographer thought of me. Every rehearsal felt like its own audition—for different roles within the piece, for corrections, for attention. I remember seniors complaining to me about how toxic the environment felt, telling me, “This is not the environment we’re used to dancing in at Princeton.” And yet, fresh out of high school, the environment cultivated in the staging of “Rodeo” was aligned with the only dance environment I had ever known. I would nod my head yes when other dancers mourned the lack of support they felt within the space. But even this was a force of habit: I was just a freshman, so those senior girls felt like my superiors, too.

However, after spending the year working with Gigi, I’m beginning to understand the salience of these complaints. I’ve realized that the bewilderment with which I initially encountered Gigi’s prompts—her sparse, but positive feedback—was never a product of some disappointment I felt. It was quite the opposite. Never once did Gigi make me feel the incapacitating anxiety I felt constantly before teachers and choreographers as a pre-professional dancer, or as a dancer in “Rodeo.” I didn’t feel the need to prove myself to Gigi. In her framing of improv as a form of self-expression, self-exploration, she demonstrated clear interest in meeting us, not molding us, as dancers.

By incorporating our choreography into her piece, she highlighted a desire for the

project to feel as much ours as hers; for us to appear on stage not as bodies executing steps, but as individuals speaking ourselves through our bodies. What really mattered to Gigi was not how perfectly I executed my steps, but how I expressed myself, how I felt, in their execution. And only I could be the judge of that. Indeed, the night before our first performance, Gigi pulled me aside and told me, “The choreography you’re dancing, the story you’re por-

thesis, which was motivated by her personal experiences navigating communities as a Mexican-American. To genuinely communicate the theme of community for her audience, she wanted her dancers to feel a sense of community and support with one another. Moreover, the environment of collaboration and support enabled by Gigi’s horizontally structured choreographic model was as valuable to us as it was to her. In a recent conversation,

technique, nor because I wanted Gigi, as my superior, to make me feel supported, but because I wanted to support Gigi in the creation of her thesis.

I do wonder how much of my ability to feel supported in Gigi’s thesis was attributable solely to our rehearsal structure. I think of choreographers like Hope Mohr, who champion horizontal collaboration models as necessary for dancers to express personhood, and for dance companies to be truly

for us?

Even through my work with the Princeton University Ballet, a dance group with vertically structured rehearsals, I feel comfortable talking to choreographers about discomforts I face. It is precisely because these dancers are my friends, and because I know them as people who value me as a person. I wonder if a similar sense of trust—physical and psychological comfort—could have been cultivated within the context of a staged piece of choreography like “Rodeo.” Had our choreographer asked us how we were feeling, or invited us to be more vulnerable with him— had he even been more vulnerable with us—would we have felt a greater sense of community? Support?

What I do know is that as dancers at Princeton, we are capable of creating dance environments, more specifically, ballet environments, that foster community and are more equitable than those we have come from. Within the Dance department or student-run dance groups, we can make dancers feel heard, supported, as people first.

traying, it’s yours now. I’m giving it to you. It’s up to you who you want to be on stage.”

This sort of support didn’t simply come from Gigi—it came from the sense of community fostered among all members of her piece. We began our rehearsals by engaging in deep discussions about identity, dance, and community, and ate meals together as a group. The meaning and process of building community existed at the very core of Gigi’s

she explained how it allowed her, as a choreographer, to feel supported. There was something comforting in knowing her dancers “would call [her] out if [she] made a choice that didn’t align with the storyline” of her piece. Because we were all collaborators in the making of Gigi’s piece, we were all embroiled in and responsible for its outcome. I found myself working fervently throughout our rehearsals, not because I wanted to improve my

equitable. I find merit in these assumptions—Gigi’s methods provided us dancers with a level of vocal and physical agency that was more equitable than the dance environments we were accustomed to. And yet, in my eighteen years of dancing, I have only had one experience of the like. I understand that horizontal models are more popular in the field of modern dance, but what does this mean for the realm of ballet? Will equitable environments always be a rarity

Participating in Gigi’s thesis has reminded me that I didn’t come to Princeton to dance. I’m dancing at Princeton because it is a form of meditation, self-expression; because through dance, I’ve found enduring communities, best friends. I’ve found a form of movement here that cultivates confidence, rather than stripping me of it. And I’d like to pass it on. I’m keen, like Gigi, to “create a space at Princeton that I wish I had as a child; a space where I feel valued not just as a dancer, but as a person.”

Volume 46, Number 8 9

The Nassau Weekly hounded support by catering to the opinions of Isabelle Clayton.

Eating Clubs, A’s, and AI: What Profs Really Think About Us

“Singing. In a class. And the students might have jokes.”

Eating Clubs

By LARA KATZ

These quotes have been lightly edited for clarity and grammar.

This past month, I conducted interviews with Princeton faculty on Princeton topics— ranging from eating clubs to student mental health, grade inflation to the Honor Code. Here’s what I learned.

What Happens in Class? The Outtakes

“My classes [are] always around 7:30 [PM]. My students are always tired. I don’t think that they have the energy to do anything.” - Siavash Isazadeh, of the CEE department.

- Jing Wang, of the Chinese department.

“Someone who’s a Twitter phenomenon kind of invaded the class and took over for a few minutes… [it was] a little bit unpleasant.” - Leeat Yariv, of the Economics department.

“Oddly, some of my very best classes were conducted via Zoom, despite all the handicaps, though we prefer classroom teaching of course.”

- Joyce Carol Oates, of the Creative Writing department.

“Some witty undergraduates [at Oxford] transcribed a lecture by a professor and submitted it as an essay to another professor, whereupon it received a very poor grade.” - Nigel Smith, of the English department.

Eating club operations and contributions to campus life are mysterious to our faculty. Oates could only speculate what students might be looking for in them, saying she “would certainly want to be associated with an eating club to which arts students, humanities students, and students studying science belonged.” And what happens to Tower’s Milk Money? Isazadeh suggested a possibility: “Maybe they buy milk and then they give it to someone.”

Hanna Garth, of the Anthropology department, has “had several students do projects or write theses on them.” Still, she said, “even with that level of experience, I don’t actually know enough to say what they do socially for people.”

Wang didn’t see a great distinction between the eating clubs and dining halls: “My students like being members of eating clubs because it creates a new community for them where they have closer relationships with their friends. But if you talk about the dining hall, that also creates a space for interactions and communications among a different group of students. It’s just two different spaces.” Yariv was more doubtful. “I’ve always had this concern that they might select for certain dimensions and not be open to everyone on campus, and that would bother me if that’s the case.”

But when it came to eating clubs’ specifics, everyone was at a loss. “People have stereotypes or impressions of eating clubs, but I have personally never set foot in one—even though I’ve

had a lot of conversations about them,” Garth said. “I’d be hard pressed to name three of them,” Yariv admitted.

Honor Code Smith and Oates both discussed the symbolism of the Princeton Honor Code system, with Smith referring to “the privilege to come together and study” and Oates pronouncing it “a tradition that makes Princeton University special.” But Oates also put herself in students’ shoes. “Obviously there are moral quandaries involved in any uniform code of conduct. It would be very difficult to report a friend—or any classmate—who was believed to have violated the code; each individual must search their conscience if confronted with such a dilemma.” Wang agreed. “I

Volume 46, Number 8 10 PAGE DESIGN BY CATHLEEN WENG ART BY EMMA MOHRMANN

Princeton, from our professors’ point of view.

don’t think many people would choose to do that.”

Yariv had similarly mixed feelings. “Right now, if someone is found to have made a mistake, we punish them severely—and young people who are under a lot of stress sometimes make mistakes. I would prefer to prevent those mistakes, rather than punish mistakes very harshly when they happen.” Garth suggested that the onus for preventing violations falls on a clear and well-constructed syllabus. She stressed that professors should encourage their students to pursue projects which require independent thought and couldn’t be completed by AI, let alone mere Googling, rendering the Honor Code irrelevant. Smith brought up AI as well, a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve been reading this half-semesters’ papers just to see if I can find out if anyone’s getting an app to write their paper!”

Grading Policies

It’s well-known that different departments have vastly different grading policies. Wang told me how the Chinese department’s grading policies have changed over the years, causing an overall increase in the number of A’s given out by the department. “We stick to the percentage policy now. We stick to the actual grades,” she explained, with a hint of pride.

Smith emphasized progress over numbers, describing the ideal response from a professor as “detailed, informative, productive comments on a paper… so that the student is enabled to do better next time.” He noted that because of the competitive nature of Princeton applications, the average admitted student is already “very strong.” Instead of encouraging students to regurgitate ideas or write in a certain

way, professors should advise students “to help somebody; take themselves to the next plane. There’s always a next plane. Even professors have next planes,” he added with a chuckle.

Isazadeh also lamented students’ focus on grades, citing the individuality of his department, CEE, as a complicating factor. “I don’t have exams, I have five homework

an instruction, even if you go and teach it in the class, and it’s all over the place in the slides, it’s not an instruction, and they don’t follow it.” He also described how students are “coming and complaining” about their grades. “Undergrad students are more fixated on getting A‘s in whatever class they are taking than paying attention to the course content.”

I was surprised to hear that

myself in their shoes, right?” He brought up his own experience as someone who works in industry. “I just keep telling them, look, if you come and work for me, I’m not going to accept that. You could easily get fired because you’re just saying, ‘oh, I did this.’ You have to bring a solution. You’re an engineering student.”

Although Isazadeh seemed more heated about this topic

“it was very hard for me to not give every Princeton student an A… it’s a really competitive environment.” She also described the administrative perspective on grading policies. “The language is not necessarily to limit the number of A’s, but to really think about the A as being the absolute best stellar work. And to really use the full spectrum of grades.”

Yariv suggested a possible solution: increasing the number of courses students can take on a pass/fail basis. “It would be a shame if we’re in an in-between zone, where students are not taking challenging classes for fear of lowering their GPA.”

As a corollary, Wang said she doesn’t “want to see that over 90 percent of the students in a class will get an A, just because professors are making the tests easier. I don’t think being the easy class is a good reputation for any course.”

Yariv also emphasized the utility of grades for judging whether one is putting enough time into coursework.

assignments. I have a presentation, I have a site visit report..” He sighed. “Nobody wants to take even one step out of his own comfort zone.” Should students be taking more initiative? I asked him. “If you’ve given an instruction, the students follow it. If you don’t give

this happened to him so regularly, so I inquired further. It turned out his grading policy was quite different from Wang’s. “In my average class, I usually give two A‘s. Most of my students are B‘s, plus some of them are C‘s.” He emphasized that “I’m just trying to put

than some of the other professors, each professor expressed a different kind of consternation about the process of grading. Garth described how the quality of work she sees from Princeton students was such an elevation from the work she saw at her previous institution that

“Undergraduates are extremely busy—maybe that’s what makes Princeton special for our students. They have so many opportunities both in the classroom and outside the classroom.” She laughed. “You know, when I was an undergraduate, all I did was study. That’s all I did. I didn’t do any extracurriculars at the same time. It’s okay. Eight classes each semester. So for our students that would be unimaginable, you know—in fact, we wouldn’t allow it. So we need to figure out the balance. Thankfully, grades provide almost immediate feedback.”

Oates expressed her gratitude that Creative Writing courses are pass/fail-only. “It is inhibiting to arts students to be

Volume 46, Number 8 11

CONTINUED ON PAGE 18

BELOW THE BELT

By HASAN HAMEED

[All names used here are fictional, for obvious reasons.]

Muhammad was in an uncomfortable position. Midway through a writing seminar, he could no longer ignore the forces that were rumbling deep in his core. He had to poop. But he had no water bottle with him today, and the restrooms in Frist had no watering can. As a Muslim who needs water to wash, Muhammad was experiencing a challenge silently endured by many Muslim students on campus.

Trained from a young age to use water to wash themselves after using the toilet, Muslim students at Princeton often find themselves in difficult situations. In my interviews with students from a wide range of backgrounds, I found that different students have developed different strategies to cope with the lack of watering facilities in restrooms on campus.

“I always carry a disposable water bottle with me when I’m on campus,” shared Alizah, a sophomore. “When I sense nature’s call, I go to the nearest bathroom, fill up the bottle with tap water, do my thing, and dump it.”

Alizah’s strategy appears to be a common one. On a campus where plastic water bottles are notoriously ubiquitous, students find it convenient to carry one around for the day to come in handy when needed. For Shamir, now in his third year, the water bottle can provide greater efficiency with a bit of creativity.

“If you poke a hole of the right size in the cap of the bottle, you get a nice fine squirt of water that is great for aiming and ensures greater water-pressure.” (Unsurprisingly, Shamir is training to be an engineer.)

Not everyone feels comfortable using a disposable water bottle. Some avoid it for sustainability issues, while some dislike its limited capacity. One student mentioned an alternative:

“As someone who travels a lot and someone who cares a lot about hygiene, I’ve found that the best solution is a trusted reusable water bottle. It might shock some people, but it all depends on how you’re using the bottle. I personally am very careful about my usage, and always wash it with hot water after every use.” He added with a smile, “it’s a one-stop solution for all my drinking and washing needs.”

Some students avoid bottles altogether, preferring to use ordinary toilet paper—with a twist.

“I try to soak the toilet paper so that it can retain the maximum water content. The problem is, at times I go into the stall with my dripping mass of toilet-paper and others using the bathroom can see some drops falling onto the floor. They probably think it’s not water,” an embarrassed first-year shared.

For many students, however, water bottles and toilet paper just don’t get the job done like an actual lota—a kettle shaped water container used in many Muslim households across the world. For these students, the

only solution is to avoid using restrooms on campus altogether and to return to one’s dorm where they’ve kept a reliable lota. But walking back to your dorm every time nature calls can be incredibly inconvenient, especially during the middle of the day. The problem can be exacerbated for those who share communal bathrooms:

“One time I had to go really bad. I literally ran from Equad to Bloomberg, fighting for my life. When I finally reach my dorm, I grab my lota, enter the bathroom, fill the lota, and enter the stall—only to find pee on the toilet seat. The 30 seconds it took me to wipe the seat with a wet paper towel were the hardest of my life,” shared Adil, a junior. “Since then I’ve left a note: ‘Please least lift the seat if you’re urinating while standing.’”

For those who can’t return to their dorm rooms, there is one refuge on campus: MurrayDodge Hall. As home of the Office of Religious Life, MurrayDodge is the only place on campus that has watering pots in the communal bathrooms.

“I try my best to simply not use the restroom at all on campus. But when I absolutely have

to go, I travel to Murray-Dodge, no matter where on campus I am. It’s highly inconvenient, but it gives me the peace of mind that at least I’m clean,” said Maryam, a graduate student. Sometimes, however, going to “MD” is more than inconvenient.

“I have 3-hour seminars where professors generally give a ten, fifteen-minute break. Sometimes, I really need to go, but there’s no way I can rush to MD, relieve myself, and return to class on time. As a first-year PhD student, I’ll have a relationship with this professor for the next five or six years, and I don’t want to make a bad impression in my first year. My only option then is to suck it up, which is so uncomfortable and makes it impossible to focus on the discussion.”

*** Maryam is an international student. Unlike many domestic Muslim students who have years of public-school experience in developing a workable strategy, students from Muslim-majority countries arriving into the US for the first

Volume 46, Number 8 12 PAGE DESIGN BY CATHLEEN WENG

***

A Nass writer details the struggles Muslim students face using university restroom facilities.

time find themselves thrown into the deep end—with no water where needed.

“If you get dirt on your hands, would you use tissue paper to clean them? No. Why not wash your behind with water too?” wondered one student from Nigeria. He was echoing an often-voiced sense of bemused dismay which can best be phrased as ‘it’s-hardto-believe-that-the-world’s-superpower-knows-not-how-toclean-its-butt.’

Even for a domestic student raised in a Muslim family in central Jersey, the issue remained a mystery: “I had been in school for many years until one day when the vague suspicions I had became an irrefutable reality: not everyone used water to wash. ‘I’m not touching anyone after today,’ I told myself.”

The issues are even more acute for Muslim students diverging from what appears to be the university’s default consideration when providing facilities on campus: healthy undergraduates. “If you get a loose motion, how can you use toilet paper to properly clean up?” asked Noor, who suffers occasionally from digestion issues. For Fatima, a graduate student and a mother, the problem affects her baby’s hygiene: “I don’t use baby wipes when

changing diapers. They’re bad for my baby’s skin and bad for the environment. But on campus it is almost impossible to use water when changing diapers. We thus avoid bringing the baby to campus, and even when we do we remain in constant fear that she may poop without warning.”

These issues have forced students to occasionally share awkward personal information with university personnel. One Muslim student, for instance, wrote a desperate email to housing to change his room assignment to one where he could have a private bathroom or a Jack & Jill with another Muslim student:

“I am currently living in Bloomberg with a communal bathroom and it has been very hard…I don’t want to touch my clothing if I have to fill water for the second/third time and if there are any people outside the toilet door, I have to wait for them to leave. Because of this, I am late for my classes quite regularly…”

Unfortunately for this student, the university replied that the room draw process had no room for religious accommodations.

students in their struggles to use water to clean themselves? Muslims, of course, are not the only students on campus who prefer water to toilet paper. Many students coming from places like East, South, and Southeast Asia, Africa, and the Middle East are used to using water to wash, for different reasons. However, the Muslim students I spoke to felt first and foremost that using water was a religious obligation.

“If I do not use water, I will remain ritually impure and be unable to perform my namaz (daily obligatory prayers).”

Amna’s words succinctly capture the prevailing belief: Islam demands a certain standard of hygiene. At its basic, this involves removal of all impurities from the body. For most students, toilet paper is simply inadequate for the task. In my conversations, I find that the force of lived experience has etched this inadequacy of toilet paper into the deepest recesses of their minds and hearts. Many recall trying paper at one point or another, only to feel a profound sense of discomfort.

“It’s like you’re walking around dirty, sitting down dirty, getting back up dirty,” admitted Ndeye. Other students voiced similar thoughts: “It’s like the mind is screaming: Unclean! Unclean! Unclean!”

Here’s how an international student put it: “Back home, urinals are not a thing—and for good reason. It’s difficult to avoid drops of urine ricocheting from the urinal back onto your body. And we know from the Prophet’s saying, peace and blessings be upon him, that one of the punishments in the grave comes from not being mindful of purity when urinating.”

It’s not just the body’s purity that is at stake. “The body— how you clean it when nobody is watching, how you cover it when you go out into the public—is not something cut off from the mind and the soul. The physical is intimately linked to the emotional and the spiritual,” explained one student. As another student put it, “your connection to another world, with God, with the angels is disrupted when you’re impure.”

***

The most frustrating aspect of the whole problem is, for many students, how remarkably cheap and simple the solution is: the placement of a watering can in communal restrooms. Ali spoke for many when he proposed:

“Just place a watering can— you can get a good lota from any Indian store for $5—in every restroom. Nobody’s being forced

to use it, and it doesn’t take much space.” He added: “Many male restrooms on campus now have pads and tampons. Not all students using the men’s room need these, but the logic is that some students need them on occasion, so let’s accommodate them. The same logic should apply in this case: Some of us need water to wash—every single time. It’s not just a matter of personal preference. It’s a religious requirement.”

Some students report making some efforts in this regard. Especially for graduate students who treat the PhD as essentially a job and Firestone as their primary office space, the library needs to have better toilet facilities. Until it doesn’t, students are making their own efforts.

“I’ve placed a water container in the Religion Study Room which my close girl-friends and I use when we don’t want to leave the library,” reported a graduate student in Religion. Another student put his own lota in the first floor men’s bathroom.

“I spoke with the janitors and they were all cool with me putting a lota in a corner of the bathroom. So I bought one and placed it there with large notes sticking on the sides: ‘DO NOT REMOVE.’ Sadly, after about a week, I came in one day and

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*** What is at stake for Muslim

it was gone. I asked PSafe and Facilities, but it could not be found. I think if the university were to put it in more bathrooms on campus, the problem would be solved.”

What would it mean to students if something like this solution were adopted—if a small watering can or lota were placed in communal restrooms on campus?

“My attention in class would be so much better,” shared Karim, a junior. For another junior, even getting to class on time would become easier. “I’ve trained myself to poop every single morning and then shower. Sometimes the poop takes time, and on so many mornings I’ve been late for the 9 a.m. or 9:30 a.m. lecture because of that.”

Some students felt that the gesture would mean much more than immediate relief. “It’d be freedom!” declared Alizah, her eyes sparkling at the prospect. “It would be an acceptance of who we are as Muslims.”

Alizah’s comments speak to an underlying tension for many

Muslim students on campus: the feeling that you don’t really belong. While there are many sources of this unease, the water-in-the-washroom issue is a major one precisely because it affects Muslim students across race, class, and gender—and affects them every single day. Yet it remains outside the bounds of polite discourse, leading to a certain unease even within Muslim students when it comes to discussing the issue. “Unless I’m like best friends with someone, I wouldn’t ask even a fellow Muslim if I could borrow their empty plastic bottle,” admitted Wakeel, a senior.

***

The silence around the lota is not universal, however, as Lisa pointed out: “Women— regardless of religion—are recommended to use water to wash after giving birth, and using water has a host of health benefits. Also, because of periods, etc., I think girls are more open to discussing these things. Personally, one of my most memorable early experiences in

Princeton was bonding with fellow Muslim girls over our lota practices.”

The need to use water to wash thus shapes the experience of Muslim students in diverse ways. It can foster community, encourage creativity, and build fond associations with a place—Murray-Dodge, for instance. Nonetheless, for most students, the need is primarily experienced as an everyday challenge, a reminder of Muslim difference on a liberal campus—perhaps even an insight into the nature of life. As one student who graduated last year put it, “Our lives in this world are a test, and I consider all the inconveniences associated with being clean as part of that test. It’s difficult for sure, but ‘Allah loves those who keep pure,’ and I hope these small efforts of mine make me worthy of that love.”

Many recall trying Hasan Hameed at one point or another, only to feel a profound sense of the Nassau Weekly.

Volume 46, Number 8 14

PAGE DESIGN BY CATHLEEN WENG

DESERT HOUSE DESERT HOUSE DESERT HOUSE

Volume 46, Number 8 15 PAGE DESIGN BY VERA EBONG HAZEL

FLAHERTY

HAZEL

FLAHERTY

BY ALEXANDRA ORBUCH

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 7

You were planted in a cavity in the soil, patted down by gentle human hands, wrinkled from years of tending to you, to your stately, trumpet-shaped white petals littered with pink accents and your rising stem and lace-shaped leaves; they potted you when you were just a handful of buds, huddled protectively inward. They unfurled slowly as you became comfortable with the delicate hands, and now you inch closer to the sun with each passing dawn. The hands never stray too far, the wrinkles on their palms intersecting and dispersing in unending patterns because they have been with you for so long; for the growing and the wilting, gathering the petals from your darkened soil and tending to the ones that open, facing the sky’s countenance. You can’t say thank you—at least not in words. But your incremental growth and vibrant petals are thanks enough. They know that when they

tend to you, you flourish, and when they haphazardly sprinkle you with water or forget to position you by the sun-drenched, blue windowsill in the sitting room, you feel the cool shadow of their absence. They don’t often forget you though. But the pale yellow orchid that sits across the road that you lock eyes with through the window has a different tale to tell. Shriveled yellow and green leaves and wilted petals spotted with brown envelop her. The human hands around her grasp the tassels on the curtains day after day but leave her untouched. Sometimes they splash water on her soil. Other days, they tilt her towards the sun. But on most, she sits in the shadowy corner of the counter, just out of reach of the light. Soon dark brown overtakes her pale yellow, and her stem atrophies, descending into the cavity from which she sprang.

You were planted in a cavity in the soil, molded by gentle human hands, wrinkled from years of tending to you. You inch closer to the sun with each

passing dawn, the hands never straying too far. They have been with you since you were just a seedling. You can’t say thank you – at least not in words. But your growth is thanks enough. They know that when they tend to you, you flourish, and when they haphazardly sprinkle you with water or forget to place you in the sun, you feel their absence. They don’t often forget you, but the pale yellow orchid that sits across the road has a different tale to tell. Shriveled leaves and wilted petals spotted with brown envelop her. The human hands around her leave her untouched. Soon brown overtakes pale yellow, and her stem atrophies, descending into the cavity from which she sprang.

You were planted in a cavity, molded by gentle human hands. They have been with you since you were a seedling. You can’t say thank you, but your growth is thanks enough. The yellow orchid across the road has a different tale to tell. Shriveled leaves and wilted petals envelop her. The human hands around her leave her untouched. Soon brown overtakes yellow, and her stem atrophies, descending into the cavity from which she sprang.

The yellow orchid across the road. Shriveled leaves and wilted petals envelop her. The human hands around her leave her untouched. Soon brown overtakes yellow, and her stem atrophies, descending into the cavity from which she sprang.

TELESCOPING

Volume 46, Number 8 16 PAGE DESIGN BY HAZEL FLAHERTY ART BY HAZEL FLAHERTY AND HANNAH MITTLEMAN

BY CHARLIE NUERMBERGER

It’s really beautiful, under the gas station canopy lights, when snow falls, and Emmylou Harris plays on the radio, and Luci gives me the first hit of her disposable vape. I would rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham, says Emmylou.

A hot January. Snow runs to slush then wetness and antifreeze at my feet. Her vape crackles softly. It’s grape flavored, says Luci.

Under the canopy lights, we can barely see the ordered rows of loblolly pulpwoods, which project

warm night, the night that’s become mostly vacant and thin between my fingers. We leave the pulpwoods and their uncanny orderliness that actually scares us and sets us off running like animals.

By the time we get to the tunnels, which channel deep into the mountain like sacral lines, the snow has turned completely to rain. I know the way, in the dark, through the rain, to a fourth tunnel all covered with knots of brown milea-minute. Luci and I enter

CAVITY (cont.)

themselves interminably far into the dark. They’re whispering, just out of earshot in this noise-dampening snow. Everything keeps telling itself how beautiful it all is. The snow pats the ground with snow words, and the canopy lights hiss in their own cryptic language. An advertisement plays on the small screen of the gas pump. The gas gurgles then stops.

We haven’t been drinking this time. We haven’t been smoking. And we wash our hands in this not unusual but maybe uncommon occasion of abstinence. It’s like we forgot about it, I tell Luci. Almost a million charged particles irradiate the hollow space between us. Anyways, it’s beautiful.

So we drive into the night. The hard night, the

he touches something he shouldn’t have. Gets electrocuted. Falls fifty feet. His friends see he’s not at home, but they think he’s out in town. Some jogger finds him in the morning.

Jesus, I say.

Couldn’t happen here,

hopelessly, stumblingly drunk. Everywhere you look, someone says. We clean each other into long, boyish bodies; we leave faucets at a drip.

the ventilation tunnel like virgins, in the dark, which has already been pierced almost a million times, as if by radiation.

In the evening, Sam tells me about what happened to Faith’s brother.

It’s Thursday, Sam says. All his roommates go out, but Faith’s brother stays in, just getting piss-drunk. He leaves the apartment, Sam says, drives west, and at some point, he gets to the mountain; so he climbs.

And he goes up some path, up to some hilltop. He can see the whole valley: the campus, the town. The quiet houses, the Thursday night. He wants to go higher, to get a better view. Luckily, there’s this electrical pylon, a whole line of them. Sooner or later,

Sam says. Right. Not enough parking spaces. Not enough apartments to get drunk in.

Her cat died almost a year ago, but when Luci takes her antiarrhythmics, she drinks from a mug that says, “Life’s Better With a Cat.” Big swallows. Peachflavored wine.

Even more rain tonight, and it tears apart the crabgrass lawn; it rivers down the slope. We don’t know where all the rainwater goes, where all the wine goes. Someone turns on Rockin-New-Years-Eve, and Ryan Seacrest is also

Overnight, pipes freeze.

A vampire bat suckled my toe in the dream; A mist off the water called to say I love you.

April 23, 2023 17

‘graded’—one can only imagine the low grades Stravinsky might have received a century ago, or Picasso, or D.H. Lawrence; certainly Faulkner,” she explained.

“In fact, I think that William Faulkner earned a grade of D in freshman English—at the U. of Mississippi, which he attended briefly.”

Mental Health

Mental health is a huge topic on campus, with some students sensing that faculty are numb to the severity of the problem. But that was not the sense I had in these interviews. Wang described how things have changed. “Since the pandemic, students have been more and more cautious about their mental health.” Garth agreed: “Since 2020, I’ve been getting all kinds of signals from students that they’re having difficulties.” But the newness of the phenomenon—or at least its visibility—has made things challenging for faculty. “We’re educating ourselves on this topic. This is something new to us as well,” Wang said.

Garth provided a broader insight: “I prioritize mental health—I don’t think everyone does. That’s not necessarily nefarious. I just think sometimes people don’t think about it. They forget to think about it.”

Because Garth teaches on “topics of race and racism, material about sexual violence, material about eating disorders and obesity”—topics which could potentially trigger students—she explained that it is “important to find ways to learn and teach material that don’t replicate or reproduce violence.”

But Garth’s expertise on these topics is unique among

faculty, as Oates noted. “I would not think that world-expert professors in any field, including physics, math, and literature, are hired to focus primarily upon the psychological states of their students.” Likewise, Yariv commented, “This is not

have enough to contend with without being concerned with the ‘mental health of the faculty’—about which they would know little, I would guess,” Oates said. Wang laughed lightly when I asked this question. “It seems we don’t have mental

actually more about physical health,” she said. “Make sure you’re taking care of yourself. Make sure you’re not doing too much. Make sure you’re drinking water and eating well, so that you don’t get sick. So that you don’t have to be absent.”

being.” He paused. “Is this a reference to the advancing age of some faculty members?”

I assured him it was not.

What Do You Really Think of

Us?

In conducting these interviews, I not only hoped to get a sense of professors’ personal opinions on student life but also their opinions on us as people. “My colleagues are always interested in and fascinated by their undergraduates,” Smith said. “It’s always a topic of conversation in meetings. People love sharing stories about their undergraduates. Usually, it’s in terms of how accomplished they are and what great work they’ve done.”

But I was more interested in what they thought we could improve upon. Yariv described the challenges that can arise before declaration day.

“It’s very hard to tell students that maybe [their major] is not a good fit, and that doesn’t mean you’re an unable human being. But rather it’s just that you would excel in something else and you would be even more spectacular.”

something we should dabble in, but we’re facing these issues day-to-day.”

But what about our faculty, and their mental health? Perhaps unsurprisingly, all the faculty were reluctant to comment upon this topic. “Students

health issues.” When I probed further, she explained, “We don’t talk about it. We don’t use that term. My colleagues mention ‘work-life balance.’”

Garth described the language coming directly from the administration. “It’s

When I inquired whether there was anything we students could do for our faculty, specifically regarding their mental health, Smith looked surprised. “Just on the general level of being attentive and respectful of your fellow human

Wang described the specific issues students face in her Chinese classes. “I know we criticize 死记硬背 [sǐjìyìngbèi, “rote memorization”] in our class. But for language, there is a memorization component in the learning process.” She said that instructors try to come up with creative ways to make memorization more fun, but students still need to put in the work. “Maybe they don’t want to do it, but they have to do it.”

Isazadeh described his regrets from his own undergraduate days. “I wish I’d been told that safety and new life and people’s lives are much more important than research and

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 11

the work and the project and anything. And I—for any design—I have to keep that in my mind, and I should not resist that idea.”

Meta: Thoughts on the Job?

Isazadeh stressed that there’s something fundamentally wrong with how universities approach engineering courses: “We do not train for a job. We just train for content. And that is scary, because if you are an engineer and you graduated without any education on the importance of safety, you are going to create a huge problem in your design, in your behavior—and most engineers are going to be in charge of others’ lives, right?”

He went on, explaining that professors “are normal people. They could have any

stupid answer. They don’t always have the answer that you are looking for. So don’t think that your professor knows more than you. There is always some area that you would know more about than your professor because they are busy with other things in their head. They may not even have thought about the problem or solution as you have done. So don’t be scared of expressing your opinion and don’t think that they know everything.”

Moreover, most of the professors felt, like students, that the demands on their time were too great. “The hard thing is the energy and the concentration it takes to really look after undergraduates,” Smith said. Garth added, “We’re expected to be amazing teachers, amazing researchers, amazing people in

general. But there’s not enough hours in the day. There’s no possible way.” Yet she also expressed that “all the work I’m reading is just really excellent and thought-provoking.” Oates agreed. “Being a Princeton professor is a perpetual pleasure… Princeton undergraduates are outstanding. This was true when I first began teaching in 1978 and it continues to be true to the present time.” Or, as Smith simply put it, “Princeton is fantastic.”

In conducting these interviews, Lara Katz not only hoped to get a sense of the Nassau Weekly’s personal opinions on student life but also their opinions on us as people.

April 23, 2023 19 PAGE DESIGN BY CATHLEEN WENG ART BY EMMA MOHRMANN

By SIERRA STERN

PRINCEWATCH

Back from hiatus, PrinceWatch is here to keep campus journalism accountable. This week we’re punching up with this triumph of data analysis:

“Top Universities released decisions. Admissions Instagram followers plunged.”

(Published April 3rd, 2023)

A melodramatic headline that captures the meaningful relationship between cause and effect. Not much to say about this one, except:

“I drank milk as a lactose intolerant. Diarrhea.”

“Guy gets punched in the face. Is not pleased.”

“I rolled around in mud. I am covered in mud.”

And to the Prince , if you see this… Please don’t hurt me! It’s my birthday.

April 23, 2023 20 PAGE DESIGN BY CATHLEEN WENG