The Stripes | Volume III by The Stripes

table of contents 01 02 03 04 07 08 09 12 14 15 16 17 19 21 24

Letter from the Editors

The Staff

“Freedom and Equality go to a Party,” Ozichi Okorom

“The ‘Brown’ Sabbatical,” Taylor Pearson

“Ancestry.” Lauren Johnson

“Privilege:” Anonymous

“Chasing Perfection,” Nate Lambert

“Sinners in the House of God,” Asia Matthews

“Diasporic Blues,” Sirad Hassan

“Black,” Anonymous “Multiculturalism,” Lutfah Subair

“White Men Can’t Jump. Black Men Can’t Kneel,” Ashley Hodges

“Rationalizing the Irrational,” Cierra Robson

“The Most Segregated Hour,” Sharon Musa “From the Mouth of a Privileged, Black, East-Coast Prep School Girl Turned Ivy-League-Educated Citizen,” Anonymous

letter from the editors Dear Readers and Contributors, The time has come again: after much hard work, political change, and international dialogue, the Print Edition III has finally arrived. Our staff has discussed what it means to be an intersectional young person, in the World, in America, and in Princeton. This year, we have reflected on the first year of Trump’s presidency, the evolution of musical and art forms, what it means to be young and religious, and even Princeton’s policy on taking time off. The pieces in this print edition span all of these topics and more, as we struggle to gain a greater understanding of what it means to be global citizens who are real: we live, breathe, and work to understand ourselves and our place. The thematic nature of Volume III of The Stripes Magazine is Poetic Justices. We hope to convey the message of reclaiming who we are forcefully and creatively. Within these pages, our writers embrace radical honesty about and true commitment to the world around them. Woven together, these pieces begin the materialization of the imaginary surrounding true global justice. This project would not have been possible without the help of several fantastic people. As Editors-in-Chief, we would like to thank our fantastic new Executive Board: Asia Matthews, Lauren Johnson, Ozichi Okorum, Destiny Salter, and Amanda Haye, thank you for your ceaseless effort, passion and determination to continue the legacy of The Stripes, and to make it what it is today, a place for all to be brave about who they are and the things they believe. To the Staff, thank you for your honesty, your writing, and your commitment to teaching others what it’s like to be you. And finally, to our former executive board, Lauren Richardson, Rosed Serrano, Imani Thornton, and Raje Enjeti: thank you for your consistent encouragement, dedication, and love for The Stripes. We work to make you proud. Additionally, a very important thank you goes out to those who helped fund this print edition. Without you, this project would be impossible: thank you to The Office of the Dean of Undergraduate Students, The African American Studies Department, and The Women’s Center for your continued support. This year, we dedicate The Stripes Print Edition to those we have lost to recent avoidable tragedies. The Stripes honors the lives of Stephon Clark, the seventeen individuals of the Parkland shooting, and the many other lives whose stories have been forgotten. We continue to demand justice and peace for each of you and your families. It is our pleasure to present the third print edition of The Stripes to you. Cierra Robson and Ashley Hodges Editors-In-Chief

the staff. CIERRA ROBSON ASHLEY HODGES AMANDA HAYE ASIA MATTHEWS DESTINY SALTER LAUREN JOHNSON OZICHI OKOROM TAYLOR PEARSON LUTFAH SUBAIR SHARON MUSA SIRAD HASSAN DANILLE TAYLOR IMANI THORNTON

Editor-in-Chief

Publicity & Recruitment Chair

Production Manager

Head of Design & Layout

Managing Editor

Secretary/Treasurer

NATE LAMBERT

freedom and equality go to a party by Ozichi Okorom Freedom is the last one there, and the last one to leave She lifts up her metallic skirt and shows the DJ the limits of his dreams. She shouts, “If you follow me you’ll never know pain. The people you knock down, the hearts you break, won’t ever be in vain.” Equality picks up cups that are about to fall. She is the friend that makes sure no one is roofied. She shouts into the abyss Hearing the echoes of her own loneliness, “Enjoy your fun, but know there are limits, EVERYONE deserves the fun you exhibit” When does equality get to have fun? She doesn’t because Freedom is on the run Away from responsibilities and consideration for others. Someone needs to pick up after her unbridled carelessness.

Those who party with freedom find themselves in abandoned alleyways tapping their veins to let sweet old liberty run through No one parties with equality. She is the head of the maintenance crew.

the ‘brown’ sabbatical by Taylor Pearson

In the fall of 2013, Jamie Ayón-Facundo, a first-generation, low-income, Mexican American, went to his academic dean about dropping a course. His dean expressed concern. “Statistically speaking, you’re more likely to drop out.” When reflecting on the memory, Ayón-Facundo is visibly frustrated. “Statistically speaking, I shouldn’t even be here.” In the fall of 2016, Ayón-Facundo felt an eerie sense of déjà vu. He was sitting across from the same dean handing in a leave of absence form. He was told that he had seventy-two hours to pack up and store his belongings, get a number of signatures from professors and administrators, turn in his student ID card, and find his way back to Northern California. He was unsure he’d ever return. The East Palo Alto native was a part of a new wave of first-generation, low-income students attending Princeton. In 2007, only 6.5% of Princeton’s graduating class received Pell grants, federal aid awarded to students in the bottom half of the national income distribution. Today, Pell-eligible students make up 22% of Princeton’s freshman class. It is estimated between sixty and seventy percent of Latinos at American colleges and universities are first-generation students. Of these first-generation, low-income students, Latinos appear to have a particularly difficult time acclimating to and graduating from the nation’s leading university. In 2008, the Latino Coalition of Princeton, the Acción Latina, Ballet Folkló de Princeton, CAUSA, the Chicano Caucus, and the Latino Graduate Student Association compiled a “Report on the Status of Latino/as at Princeton.” The report found that Princeton is the only Ivy League institution with a significant difference between the overall graduation rate and the Hispanic/Latino graduation rate. Ten years later, little has changed. According to the 2018 U.S. News & World Report, Princeton has an 89% 4-year graduation rate while 97% graduate in 6 years or fewer. As of January 2018, the Princeton Office of Institutional Research Graduation Dashboard reports that 79% of first-generation, Hispanic/Latino students in the Class of 2016 graduated in 5 years or fewer and 21% have yet to graduate. On campus, there is a term to describe the experience of first-generation, low-income Latino students who take time off. It is known as the “brown sabbatical,” a certain rite of passage, one might say. After Victoria Navarro, a first-generation, low-income, Mexican American, took time off in the spring of 2016, she noticed that a lot of her peers began to follow suit. One of whom is her current roommate and close friend, Jamie Ayón-Facundo. But, they only began to talk about the problems they were facing after the fact. This is why she decided to launch “The Leave League.” The Scholars Institute Fellows Program (SIFP), a program started in 2015 that aims to provide mentorship, academic enrichment, and a welcoming community to historically underrepresented populations at Princeton, helped bring Navarro’s dream to reality. “The League” is a discussion group that meets periodically throughout the semester. Sometimes over dinner and other times over tea, the group serves as an alternative to University Counseling and Psychological Services’ (CPS) group therapy, is completely student-run, and focuses on the experience of first-generation, low-income, students of color. Some administrators think this discussion group is more harmful than helpful though. According to one dean, “The Leave League makes [a lot of things] up” and forwards the false notion that “ill fate…discriminate[s].” Besides, she reasons, many first-generation, low-income white students also struggle to graduate on time. Other deans, like Khristina Gonzalez, who helped launch the SIFP program and is of Latino origin herself, believe the “experience of taking leave… feels different for brown students” even when all else is equivalent to their white counterparts. Under the Trump Administration, first-generation, low-income Latino students face many unique challenges. Indeed, a big contributing factor to Ayón-Facundo’s decision to take time off relied on who was elected president. “After the [2016] election, I really was just like, ‘I have to go home’ because when Donald Trump was elected, my biggest fear was my mom because she is undocumented and I did not know what this meant, what risk we ran. Also, I’m the oldest so I didn’t know

what this meant for my younger brothers…. I did not want to graduate if my mother could not be at my graduation because I am where I am because of [her].” When he got home, things weren’t much easier though. Ayón-Facundo felt pressure to get a job and contribute to the household since he was now bringing in expenses his family wasn’t necessarily anticipating. Though he hoped to tackle the anxiety and depression that overwhelmed him while at school, he found he did not have much time to seek the care he so desperately needed. At a Princeton event co-sponsored by Latinos y Amigos and CPS titled, “Latinx Mental Health and Wellness: A Dialogue,” Associate Director of CPS Jonathan Pastor, who is the only Latino in the department, reported that 50% of students who leave school for mental health reasons never seek help. Latino students also have the lowest counseling center utilization rates of any racial or ethnic group in the United States. Only 11% of students who visited CPS in 2015-2016 identified as Latino or Hispanic. Tlaloc Estopier-Ayala, who is also a first-generation, low-income, Mexican American, encountered similar difficulties when [at home]…. My mother didn’t really believe in mental health issues [even while] she herself was struggling with mental health issues…. She didn’t see me as being a productive human being… if I wasn’t working 60 to 80 hours per week…. So, I was working my ass off… but also really hurting my mental health further.” Estopier-Ayala is on the University Student Health Plan, as many first-generation, low-income students at Princeton are. This school-run health insurance did not carry over during his time away from campus. Though his mother had a job and health insurance while he was home, he worried about finding an in-network therapist with whom he connected and sometimes did not go to see his therapist as often as he wished because of the accumulating co-payments. Instead, Estopier-Ayala has to find other avenues to recovery – a journey that really only began when he returned from leave. “For me… I’ve noticed that a lot of times I have to do things on my own – my mental health, my academics, my financial aid…. I don’t really go to CPS. I have to find other ways. I am very active in the office of religious life. I do a lot of meditation. I find other ways to take care of my mental health…. There are other avenues that some students have to find….” For Victoria Navarro, it was hard going back to living in her small trailer with her sister and mother in El Paso, TX when she had a room to herself at Princeton – a luxury she had never before enjoyed. But, on campus, the dorm where she lives is known as a “slum.” It is not clear where this name originated but some speculate it is because of the notoriously filthy bathrooms, the fraternity parties on any given night of the week, and the relatively far distance from the happenings of central campus. To Navarro and Ayón-Facundo, though, their dormitory is closer to a castle than a slum. Indeed, for many first-generation, low-income Latino students, Princeton is the first place they have had heat and three meals a day. It was also hard for Melissa DeQueredo Solano, who is a first-generation, low-income, half-Mexican, half-ItalianAmerican, to go home to Brownsville, TX. Brownsville, TX’s two “claims to fame” are that it is the poorest city in the country and that it is the last city to find out the Civil War ended. So, when DeQueredo Solano returned home in fall 2014 after withdrawing from her first semester at Princeton, there was little to do besides “cry a lot.” Her father did not speak to her and her mother constantly cried because she “did not understand what depression was.” When DeQueredo Solano returned to campus the following year, she found it difficult to explain how she spent her time off to some of her peers. “Every time I try to have a conversation with [a white student] who took a year off, it’s always the same thing. It’s always ‘Oh, what did you do during your year off? And, I’m like, ‘I stayed at home and cried a lot… and they just look at you blank – unless you’re talking to a person of color and then the conversation completely shifts because they usually have a similar experience and they say, ‘Oh, yeah I just went home and stayed home… and didn’t go travel some place exotic or anything like that.” Aside from the day-to-day realities associated with homework, extracurricular activities, campus jobs, and mental illness, Jamie, Victoria, Tlaloc, and Melissa all worry constantly about being “another statistic… another first-generation, lowincome student of color who is not going to make it through college.” It’s all the more difficult when there are few people looking out for them. While Latinos make up approximately 10% of

Princeton undergraduates, only 2-3% of the faculty is of Latinoorigin. Princeton also lags far behind its peer institutions in not offering a Latino Studies major. Princeton may be ranked as the number one university in the country but Estopier-Ayala says it should really be judged by how well it serves its “most marginalized students.” When confiding in a dean about financial, academic, and mental health concerns, Estopier-Ayala recalls being told that “there [are] a number of other students who [don’t] have the issues [you’re having].” But, that’s just it, students like Tlaloc – firstgeneration, low-income, Latinos – are not “the average student.” They are still Princetonians though.

ancestry. by Lauren Johnson

I do not know my great great grandmother’s name. I do not know her values, her beliefs, or her story. This is because throughout my life, my knowledge on my past has been incredibly limited. When I was young, I constantly asked my parents about their grandparents and great-grandparents and they always left me empty-handed or immediately changed the subject. I quickly grew upset at them for not sharing, yet I did not realize at the time that there was actually nothing they could share. We were stripped of our ancestry because of oppression, racism, and ultimately a system that was (and still is) not in our favor. I found it completely unfair how difficult it was for me to discover my past while I saw how easily accessible it was to others around me. It was a privilege that my peers did not know they had and something that I thought they took for granted. And to make matters worse, these peers treated my experience of not knowing my ancestry as abnormal and strange. This only reinforced the internalized feeling surrounding my minority state, making me feel like an outcast because I could not relate. Not knowing my ancestry was not fair to me back then, and it still is not fair to me now. But it is clear from my experiences that this topic has always been on my mind and has turned into something that I am very passionate about. In fact, I believe that ancestry should be looked at and treated as a human right. Everyone should be entitled to access their past quite simply because we all have families with rich unique histories that need to be preserved and shared. And even more simply, human rights focus on the human. What is a human without the mother who gave birth to him? And that mother had a mother who gave birth to her. This cycle goes on and on. We need to know the history of our ancestors before the ties are erased, forgotten, and lost. Ancestry should be universal, inalienable, non-discriminatory, and allow people to live with dignity and in peace. All of these terms are used to describe our current human rights, and now it is crucial to include ancestry in this list. Recently, the subject of ancestry was addressed by antagonist Killmonger in the film Black Panther. Throughout the film, Killmonger struggles to find his roots. Eventually he discovers that his father was from Wakanda and also realizes that Wakanda has a plentiful amount of resources which they refuse to share. While he is in the midst of his adventure, he notices a complete contrast with the people in Wakanda. In their society, there is a sense of belonging, togetherness, and appreciation that Killmonger has been dreaming about since he was a little kid. They also stress familial history in their society by praising their ancestors before any ceremony or ritual. Wakanda has traditions, a past, and a collective identity. Meanwhile, Killmonger only has confusing clues from his dead father. As a result, he becomes envious and jealous, and his pure curiosity transforms into an obsession. Unfortunately, Killmonger resorts to violence, succeeds (for a brief period of time) at taking over the throne, and attempts to kill his cousin and prior king, T’Challa. But who is to blame for Killmonger’s corrupted mindset? Killmonger becomes, as T’Challa explains to his community, a monster of their own creation. If only Wakanda had accepted him as one of its own instead of turning its back on him, maybe the situation would have been different. He might have not made the choices that he mad, and he might have not become this “villain.” After seeing the film for a second time, I caught even more references to ancestry. In fact, in Killmonger’s first and last scene, the idea comes up. In the first scene at the museum in London he blames the white woman’s ancestors for locking up the artifacts in a cage. And in the last scene, Killmonger states that he would prefer to be buried in the ocean with his ancestors who jumped from the ships. He accepted his death because he had nothing left to live for and no one left to live with. Killmonger played a bigger role than just a villain. His actions relate to the ancestry struggle that many African-Americans such as myself face. As someone who knows little about my past, it was only natural for me to be sympathetic towards Killmonger’s situation. What Killmonger did was not selfish. He fought for something that he deserved, and ultimately something that everyone deserves. Ancestry should be considered a human right that is available to all, but unfortunately that is not the case. So, I say to those who know their roots and history, remember that this is a privilege which cannot be taken for granted, and also be open-minded to those trying to find their own. And to those who know little or nothing, continue to be resilient and stay determined in trying to find it. And I am aware that transforming this idea into policy is a challenge but it is certainly not impossible. But first we must all agree on this transition from personal desires to concrete entitlements for all.

privilege:

by Anonymous

Privilege is the concept that a Princeton student can argue with another Princeton student about the ways in which being an English major is better than being an engineer because “the idea of being poor in your twenties is exciting.” Clearly, she has never been poor; and seeing as how her “parents can pay for things if she really needs them,” I don’t think she ever will be. When will we stop making an economic condition a fad for rich artists who refuse their parent’s money with the knowledge that they can ask for it later. “Don’t you want to get excited about something even if it means that you won’t have much money.” In theory, yes. But hunty— bills are no joke. Tuition doesn’t pay itself.

chasing perfection by Nate Lambert When I came to Princeton, I was quite nervous. College. I mulled the word around in my head. It held ample promise, and the potential for a lot of letdown. As I had learned in my high school health class, college wasn’t just the place where you play beer pong until earning your diploma. For gay boys like me, college was the place where It finally gets better. This was my time. I’d pushed through high school, overcome my fashion illiteracy, and begun to feel much more comfortable with my sexuality, as evidenced by my sassy political rants on Facebook and ever-growing collection of Calvin Klein microfiber underwear. The opportunity had arrived to finally thrive as gay and grown, artistic and unapologetic. The stakes were high, given that up until this point life had stalled me from embracing such confidence. I grew up in Lexington, Virginia, a small, rural town. Robert E. Lee is buried a few blocks away from my bedroom, and Stonewall Jackson a few away from my kitchen. Although my childhood was idyllic in many respects—playing on hay bales, rolling down hills, and building ‘salads’ at recess out of

grass, leaves, and wood chips—I did not have the privilege of growing up in an area where gay men had a visible presence. From an early age, my relationship to my sexual orientation centered around a fear of homophobia and rejection. My peers suspected that I was gay, and refuting this perception shaped much of my interactions throughout middle school. Remember, this was a time when people thought that Justin Bieber was gay and that Lady Gaga was hermaphroditic. So, to help lessen the effeminacy of playing Britney Spears on my play dates, I decided to play sports! Although I was always picked last in PE, I got a fair amount of playing time in my local soccer league. Unfortunately, the sports organizations in my hometown were not exactly known for serving “Athlete Ally” realness. My soccer coach would punish boys on our team by forcing them to hold hands as we continued to scrimmage. As two boys grasped hands, standing as far apart as possible, the coach smirked, shook his head, and turned around. The boys would chuckle and exchange looks. I never had to do this, because I was very well-behaved and quiet during soccer. I followed the rules and was careful never to bring too much attention to myself. This manifested both in my subdued demeanor and also in how I played soccer. I preferred to play midfield or defense because most people blame

the goalie for not blocking the ball or blame forwards for not scoring goals. As a midfielder, I could run up and down the field, seeming engaged and urgent but not really doing much. As a defender, I was good at getting to the ball before the other guy, and kicking the ball in the general direction of upfield. Precision didn’t matter that much, it was more about just getting the ball as far away from me as possible. I rarely tried to score, even if I had a clear shot. Nothing was more embarrassing than kicking the ball and missing. I wouldn’t give my teammates an excuse to ridicule me. I avoided the risk. I was solid. I was consistent. I earned a decent amount of playing time. There were better players. There were worse players. I was proud and content no longer to be the one picked last. I left home at the age of 14 to attend Episcopal High School in Alexandria, Virginia. In summary, John McCain went there and most of the students are conservative, preppy, and white. Still, I developed a strong support system of friends and teachers, and decided to come out during my sophomore year in a speech to the entire school community on Valentine’s Day. I had a flare for the dramatic. I was very proud of the speech I gave, but felt conflicted about some aspects of the editing process that I made with our school’s reverend. He encouraged me to edit out parts of my speech that criticized my peers’ homophobia and instead focus on how much I loved the school and

how I hoped that people would respect my decision to come out even if they “disagreed” with it. I even added a complete lie that I would be happy to be friends with people who had “differing views on issues of sexuality.” The speech was curated to minimize conflict and be palatable for students who’d never before interacted with an openly gay classmate. And it worked. After that speech, I was never harassed because of sexual orientation or gender expression. At Episcopal, I had an unspoken agreement with the other boys. I would walk by them, silent and stoic with my nose upturned, and in return they wouldn’t harass me. Irrespective of whether or not this pact existed entirely in my head, I enjoyed my time as the Gay Best Friend of many, many girls who giggled at my Nicki Minaj impersonations and loved to hear that I thought that their boyfriends were cute. Still, I couldn’t help but secretly desire validation from the straight guys that I pretended to despise. Nothing was more affirming than having your typical homophobic white guy walk past me on dorm and gift me with a scratchy, hesitant “Sup?” All he would notice was the bored, apathetic nod of my head. I was careful to hide how delighted I was, how seen I felt. As college approached, I realized that refusing to engage with half of the world’s population was unsustainable. I decided that the time had come to throw caution

to the wind. All the hours I’d spent cranking out homework while the boys on my hall called each other “faggots” were about to become worth it. But then I arrived at Princeton, and still acted standoffish and aloof around straight guys. I auditioned for some dance groups. And I didn’t get in. Next, I auditioned for theater groups. And I didn’t get in. Then I tried a cappella. And I didn’t get in. Performing arts had been everything to me in high school. That was where my friends were. That was where I could express myself. That was family. That was where I was once the best. And now there were other gay guys. And they were in these groups. And they had nicer clothes. And nicer abs. And more friends. And stronger jawlines. And they could make girls laugh one minute and then flatten their voices to a masculine timbre and hold conversations with straight guys seamlessly. Furthermore, their being gay wasn’t what made them special or well-known. I felt wholly inadequate. Suddenly my sexual orientation no longer made me unique; it did not earn me sympathy or brownie points; it simply placed me in a category of guys who seemed to be living out the utopian lifestyle that I had hoped college would provide for me. I couldn’t compete with them, yet I couldn’t help but

compare myself to them at every turn. It took time for me to realize that the idealization of the Princeton gay man I perceived was largely a myth. Imposter syndrome is real, y’all. I projected every quality I felt that I lacked onto these students. I created an archetype in my mind similar to the “Cool Girl” described in Gillian Flynn’s 2012 novel Gone Girl. I imagine the Cool Gay at Princeton as attractive and well-liked, funny but humble. He is a walking LinkedIn profile whose public expressions of gayness extend only to posting a pride photo on National Coming Out Day or overusing the phrase “as a gay man” in precept. He rarely acts “extra.” He never talks about gay sex in front of straight men. He is probably in a competitive eating club, and although he doesn’t know everyone in it, everyone in it knows him. He’s always the lead in Triangle but also a soloist in his a cappella group, until maybe he quits to join a dance group, before dropping his 5th class to spend more time maintaining his perfect body. He’s totally fine with the throwbacks on the Street consisting of “Mr. Brightside” and “Everytime We Touch” instead of “Bad Romance” and “Gimmie More.” He might occasionally watch RuPaul’s Drag Race, but his favorite shows will forever be The Office and Friends. If you ask, he’ll let you know that being gay doesn’t define him. In a word, he’s inoffensive. Palatable.

No gay student at Princeton perfectly matches this description. I compose these character traits based on insecurities I have about my own shortcomings. Objectively, I realize that I’m doing just fine here. Although I sometimes long for the days of high school when I was the star in school plays, I no longer need the performing arts as a place to safely express myself or be theatrical. As for not being in a dance group? Honey, go to Cap and Gown on a lit night and you just might see me slaying the girls. A capell-who? If anyone was foolish enough to put me on an a cappella group here, those boys would find themselves reenacting the full nine-and-a-half minute “Telephone” music video with me under Blair Arch. Oh, and I’d be playing Lady Gaga and Beyoncé. Actually, that might not be the worst idea…

not to compare myself to others, especially to other gay men. I look at their strengths and internalize them as my weaknesses. I forget that I have my own great set of qualities that make me special as well. I doubt that I’m alone in this phenomenon.

True, these two years at Princeton have not turned out the way I had planned. And that’s fine. The toxic ways in which I learned to navigate through the homophobic aspects of my life before Princeton taught me that in order to be loved, and to love myself, I needed validation from others. In high school, I no longer wanted to be the kid who ran up and down the field unseen, not doing any harm but not doing much good either. To earn others’ respect, I had to do everything, and be twice as good. I didn’t just want acceptance. I wanted to be envied.

“Impersonating Beyoncé is not your destiny, child.” -RuPaul. Paving your own path is a lot fiercer than creating a pale imitation of someone else’s. Focus on bettering ya damn self, queen.

At Princeton, it’s been hard for me

There are three quotes from RuPaul’s Drag Race that have helped me keep my insecurities at Princeton in perspective. I hope that they brighten the days of other gay men on campus struggling with similar doubts and insecurities: “Do I want to be Miss Perfect? Yes, of course, don’t we all, a little.” - Alyssa Edwards, Season 5. None of us got to Princeton without to some degree being an overachiever. Remember that someone else’s success does not represent your failure.

“If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell are you gonna love somebody else?” - RuPaul. As gay men, most of us grew up hearing that we weren’t normal or good enough, and as a result constantly chase more perfect versions of ourselves, as determined by what we notice as likable in other people. This isn’t always a bad thing. It’s not shameful to want stronger abs or to make it into a

competitive club. However, there comes a point when external validation is only so gratifying. In the same way that you don’t like everyone you meet, not everyone you meet is going to like you. But when you unapologetically embrace who you are instead of “toning it down,” the people who do like you will appreciate you even more. And who knows? Maybe by the time that you graduate, some poor, insecure freshman boy will look up to you in wonder as his exemplary Princeton Gay.

sinners in the house of god by Asia Matthews I’ve always thought the minister was gay, But I also knew that God didn’t like gay And neither do black people. They don’t like Mr. Sammy. Him and I had matching Louie Vuitton purses. Mine was from a thrift store and his was from the back of a truck but he’d admire me still. When the minister preached he would sway his head violently shaking the noise out of his ears. Sensually but spiritually The Saints said that God was helping him shake the Devil off, but what they really meant was homosexuality. He would caress my shoulder with his French tips and give me hair salon validation that I was a popping ass 9-year old. He would do the same thing to the minister but his reception was tense. I just wish God would focus on racism before homosexuality. Hallelujah. Amen Hallelujah. Amen ________________________________________________________ I never knew where my tithes went And whether God would accept even the money I stole. My cousin walked to the front of the church, past the minister to put money in the offering basket The back pockets of her jeans moved up and down yet her curves stopped at her bra strap He admired her stature but wondered what she had done with what her momma gave her. Still he watched her walk back to her seat with a holy gaze that didn’t know the difference between a good girl and my cousin And she didn’t know the difference between laying with a minister and laying with a sinner So I figured God would let me slide with putting empty envelopes into the offering.

After all, He let my cousin give the leftover singles from the tip she stole from the table when the minister took her out to eat, After they fucked. I didn’t notice the minister watching her because their eye contact was passing, but he wore his smirk until he opened his Bible to preach that Sunday He seemed to look over her head from the pulpit as he preached but made eye contact with her that she couldn’t even see. Hallelujah. Amen Hallelujah. Amen _______________________________________________________________ I never knew I could love old people so much. And you can’t understand what it means to be 9 with an 85-year old best friend until you stare at her so long her wrinkles make sense. And her eyes begin to match the ones in her sepia baby picture hanging on the pointy paint wall in the apartment that you’ve been in for 5 hours on a Tuesday. Or until you wonder what her breath smells like without her dentures. Or until you found out that she too fucked that minister. The first lady’s white skirt brushes up against my bulging knees and I breathe in as her air tickles the flesh between my nostrils. She smells like fried chicken, Avon, and corner store mint balls I leave myself in Mother Lasie’s hug longer than her grip permits and I breathe in the spot of her uniform where she left the iron too long. The tighter she grips, the more my chin sinks into her shoulder and force my lips into a smile. And in this hug, I can smell the dust on her window sill And I can smell the plastic on her couch and I can smell the money she is stuffing into my fist as we hug. So I rest and thank her with 4 more seconds of this hug. Hallelujah. Amen Hallelujah. Amen

diasporic blues by Sirad Hassan

Bris iyo moos is a staple meal in Somalia meant to be eaten with the whole family But what can be done when that whole family lives on five different continents with no means to return home What is home? When you’re too Somali to be American but too American to be Somali

When your mom’s city was the pearl of the Indian Ocean and her Nation, a nation of poets sheds tears silently What is home? What is home, When your home bans you from visiting her home and your passport does nothing to stop “random” checks What is home? Because it isn’t here

What is home? What is home, When your hijab is yanked from your head your black brothers and sisters lie dead What is home? What is home, When most are blinded by patriotism and frazzled by domestic terrorism of neo-Nazis claiming the streets unashamed and not wearing their old sheets What is home? What is home, When your entire religion is defaced by claims that are completely unbased When in Ramadan, you cannot fast without hearing that a fellow Muslim sister has passed A holiday now marked with funeral dates, soaked in tears,washing away all sweetness What is home? What is home,

black by Anonymous

Black It is the color of my hair One of my most repeated outfit color choices It is not the color of my irises or my skin Black is nebulas and open sky at night splattered with glimmering patches of light Black is oppression Loss within movement and inability to breathe Black is fatigue and worried calls from mothers Black is Section 8 and EBT I remember my momma telling me,”you see, the government, they give you money for each child you’re taking care of; you, your little sister, your brother. Now, go get the Similac in the other aisle, go.” Black is classism and talented 10th An understanding of “no we’re not that type of black, there is a kind of black you should be afraid of, but those people are the black Americans.” Black is hood rat, black is ratchet “We shouldn’t associate with them, don’t use that slang. We’re better, you’re good, my daughter is Haitian. You’re not like those hoodlums” Black is fighting for life, black is my life I am not even recognizably Haitian, I’ve been mistaken for African, or African-American

Living with a double-consciousness An intermeshing of what I know of myself and what others perceive My therapist and I call it my quadruple conscious An understanding of all that pertains to me, the things that matter to me and how that may or may not matter to others My consumption, the commodification of black strife and black plight mish-mashing with lynching daguerreotypes and the trauma porn I’m told to sell for institutional applications and inquiries Peaking into the ins and outs of my somewhat fucked up life Black is the realization that this Very fine nation was built on the backs of varying colored classes Now we’re told “if you’re black and you’ve got class, well then, your better than most blacks, why you’re a part of the model minority.” So subservient. Such class. Black is knowing that 40 acres and a mule Could never really subdue the rage and hate Black is KKK Black is living when so many people would much rather your death

multiculturalism

by Lutfah Subair

Multiculturalism won’t save us. It’s too simple of a strategy that is often reduced to sharing cultures. Sharing “culture” can be problematic because it is often deemed as a declaration of society’s advancement beyond race. Many who push for multiculturalism confine culture solely to food and clothing. When culture is defined as such, the sharing of cultures often occurs on a shallow level where the complexities behind the practices of a culture are obscured. Our abilities to mix and share do not represent advancement. I acknowledge that sharing food, clothing, and music can be ways of educating people about different cultures. However, this is only at a surface level. There’s a constant overflow of potlucks and dinners aimed at sharing culture but few result in the difficult conversations about race, appropriation and inequality. There’s only so much that we can get from eating together and listening to a particular song, while smiling and having conversations about schoolwork or the weather. Difficult conversations are avoided because people don’t enjoy being uncomfortable or experiencing conflict. Since I’ve been at Princeton, I’ve witnessed a lot of white men wearing traditional African clothing. Many may argue that this is a testament of culture reaching many different groups. The “sharing” of traditional African clothing at Princeton isn’t a testament to how “diverse” the University is: with 8% of the total population of the school being black, Princeton still struggles to even uphold the national average of black people in the United States (13.3%). If the administration can barely represent black people appropriately, how can it expect the student body to be wholly invested in diversity? Our proximity to each other does not always mean that we share the same experiences. Our encounters with culture are not the same. Clothing is a political statement. As a dark-skinned woman, wearing my traditional African clothing is an unapologetic embracement of my African culture. Only I can understand the personal struggles that I’ve had with my culture and my skin. We do not all share the same experience; simply putting on an article of clothing will not make you fully understand this experience. The acceptance of multiculturalism as a solution is a dangerous form of erasure. A clear example of this would be Canada. Many people offer Canada as a pinnacle of multiculturalism, and a gold standard for many of the United States’ issues surrounding identity. Canada’s emphasis on culture instead of race as a possible solution for America’s issue with racism is dangerous in that it has led to the erasure and dismissal of Canada’s abuse of its aboriginal population. While Canada’s aboriginal population is about 4 percent, more than 25% of Canada’s prison population is aboriginal. However, the systematic oppression of Canada’s aboriginal population is overlooked by the false notion that multiculturalism means true acceptance of everyone. This emphasis on culture instead of race as a possible solution to racism is also a myth. Our cultures often align with our racial identities. The acceptance of a culture varies greatly based on the race that it is affiliated with. Cultures that are associated with whiteness or Eurocentric ideals are accepted in their natural forms. However, cultures that are affiliated with people of color are questioned, seen as primitive, eroticized or simply rejected. Multiculturalism is not a solution to racism. To think of it as such is dangerous. More than often, it causes erasure and is used as a strategy to avoid the real issues that we have with racism. I’m not against enjoying different kinds of food and listening to great music but we need to acknowledge that this is not enough.

white men can’t jump. can’t kneel. en m k c a l b

The National Anthem: the lasting symbol of our nation’s creed. With that, it is no wonder why Colin Kaepernick, a former quarterback for the San Francisco 49ers, taking a knee during the National Anthem sent a ripple of reactions, both negative and positive, throughout America. According to Trump, black professional athletes should be appreciating the “privilege” that they are given when they are able to call themselves professional athletes. He says, “If a player wants the privilege of making millions of dollars in the NFL, or other leagues, he or she should not be allowed to disrespect....” The same privilege is not given when the time comes for them to express their rights as Americans, more specifically black Americans. Yes, it is true that these men are applauded on their efforts on the field, but when their personal obligations interfere with the harmony of good ol’ American football, they are ridiculed and deemed unfavorable and disrespectful ingrates. Now, what exactly does it mean to be a black male professional athlete in America? What rules are you expected to adhere to? What freedoms are you denied? It has been over a year since Kaepernick first took a knee, but his influence has continued to erupt conversations in the realms of professional athleticism, social media, and politics. This issue remains controversial as arguments are made that athletes who kneel are either anti-American, anti-military, antiTrump or all of the above. There have been over two hundred professional athletes, high-school athletes, and even college athletes on Princeton’s campus who have joined Kaepernick is his stance against the oppressive

by Ashley Hodges systems of America. Despite the growing support for the protest that was catalyzed by Kaepernick, still, black male athletes are kneeling more and are among the group that is most heavily criticized for their actions. Since the point in our history when blacks were permitted to participate in professional sports, there have been questions regarding a very important, seemingly unanswerable question: Why do black people seem to dominate the world of athletics? Even with this domination, why black professional athletes expect to be content with their voices being unheard? The expectation imposed on black professional athletes to perform but remain silent is damaging because it proliferates the image of blackness requiring censorship. From a young age, black boys are seemingly fed the seeds of desire to become pro-athletes. Place yourself in any elementary school classroom. Ask a group of young black boys what they want to be when they grow up, and listen closely to their responses. Football player or LeBron James is guaranteed to be an answer among them. This is a phenomenon that can be explained by the large visibility of black people in sports. This visibility is what creates the common conception that blackness excels in sports; consequently, because the NFL is not free of racial hierarchy, this perception can lead to negative products of socialization. Admittedly, when Sunday night football is being watched by millions of Americans, the only stats that are prioritized are of those of the players on the field. However, it is important to acknowledge the numbers that paint the picture of the ways in which the NFL is highly racialized. Around 70% of NFL players are black (no surprise here), but most interestingly, the positions that are occupied by black players demonstrate this racial divide; there are certain positions that are almost always dominated by black players for reasons ranging

from historical discrimination to stereotypes that the NFL just can’t shake. For example, historically, blacks were unofficially banned from player quarterback positions due to the belief that blacks lacked the intelligence and leadership qualities needed to fulfill the position. Even when black players did occupy positions such as quarterback, they were pushed to other positions due to their perceived ineptness by coaches. So, as black children sit in front of the television and see their favorite player celebrating in the end zone, they are subconsciously intaking these images of their role models; people who look like them. Where does this representation fail? When there is a scarcity of black men who occupy ownership roles and even coaching positions. The New York Times cites the racial disparity in coaching positions as the product of minority coaches being unable to move about ranks as fluidly as their white counterparts. Black men are so well-represented on the field (and even that has its stipulations) but not as much off the field. Why is this? Many have tried to answer this question. Some even to go as far as saying that black pro-athletes are the modern-day slave. The strange dichotomy shown in black people’s role in pro-athletics versus white people’s role entices this idea of racial hierarchy while then comparing in to slavery. To put it into perspective, Paul Allen, the highest paid NFL owner (The Seattle Seahawks) has a net worth of 18.9 billion as of 2016, while Cam Newton, the highest paid black NFL player has a net worth of 26 million as of 2017. Yes, there are obvious differences between the forced labor completed by a slave, and the multi-billion dollar sports industry in which many blacks willingly partake, however, this difference in power cannot be ignored. There is a recipe to this madness. These power hierarchies grant society the permission to make assumptions on what a black man’s role should be

when they are pro-athletes. These assumptions are then further reinforced when we look at the way black children are socialized to perceive these roles. There is much statistical evidence that black men do not have a diverse representation within the occupation of a proathlete, yet it is still one of the most glamorized, maledominated professions in our society. That is the key when searching for explanations as to why Kaepernick’s kneeling is deemed offensive. It is this illusory power given by the heroized profession of pro-athlete that provides an avenue for critiques of Kaepernick’s stance made by the NFL and Trump to be taken seriously. To put it simply, black male pro-athletes are expected to have no real power when it comes to governing themselves in a way that may excite conversations regarding social issues. Black athletes are recognized for their exceptional athletic abilities but looked down upon when they speak out against systems that have always sought to exclude them. Black male pro-athletes are expected to play the game without making a fuss. Will America ever be able to see the black man for matters that are beyond reach of his wingspan? Perhaps not, for he will always be reminded that he is simply a black footballer being granted the privilege of playing on a white man’s field.

rationalizing the irrational by Cierra Robson I have always felt entitled to the land that which my ancestors built. I have always felt that the United States government--more specifically, white people--owed me something, anything, to make up for the horrors of American Slavery. I have always felt the need to demand, somewhat controversially, that my family and I be paid reparations. And no, a Black president is not reparations. Point blank. Period. Studying African American Studies has far from subdued my radicalism. So when I traveled to Israel on a 10-day trip with the David Project to learn about the Israel-Palestine conflict, my immediate allegiance was to the Palestinian people. While I knew little about the details of the conflict, what I saw on the news seemed clear: Palestinians were being pushed from their homes into the West Bank, placed under the rule of terrorists, denied food, water and humanitarian aid, all because Jewish people wanted to make Israel a Jewish State because the Bible said they should. I felt that the Palestinians, like me, were entitled to the land that they had lived on and cultivated for centuries (after all, they, too, were in the Bible). Like me, Palestinians are denied every protection under the law because the government viewed them as ‘dangerous’ or ‘legally unrecognizable’. The struggles are not the same, nor will the details of each situation necessitate a comparison, but my ability to draw similarities between the plight of Black people in America and the Palestinian people was driven by my personal experience and knowledge of American history. After talking to Israeli and Palestinian soldiers, students, and citizens, I realized that the conflict was far more complicated than what I had seen on television. Talking with these people, I was reminded that the Jewish people were persecuted for centuries: there were many mass killings, wars, and forced labor, resulting in the Jewish diaspora. This anti-Semitism reached a climax with the horrors of the Holocaust during the Second World War. In an attempt to find safety, Jewish people sought a new homeland where they could govern themselves. Given their religious connection to the land, they settled on the what is now Israel. Before this mass migration back to Israel, Britain held control of the land. In 1923 the British Mandate for Palestine was passed, which granted Palestinians the right to live on, cultivate and call the land home. As more and more Jewish people began entering Israel requesting protection and citizenship, the British terminated their rule and with it, they terminated the Mandate on May 14, 1948. Once the mandate was officially ended, the resulting power vacuum allowed for the leader of the future Jewish state, Ben Gurion, to arise and declare the state of Israel. This Jewish control of the Israel has remained until today. To my surprise, I also identified with the Jewish people of Israel. They were also entitled to reparations. They were owed something for the pain that the world had caused them during the Holocaust. And after gross violations of human rights and little state action to rectify it, many Jews declared their own reparations. Their goal: the creation of a Jewish state that both protected Jews and asserted their right to peoplehood and selfdetermination. Many flocked to Israel to create just that. While I do not condone the treatment of Palestinians, I understand the Jewish desire to create and protect a homeland: the idea of a place where black people are protected and held to the highest level of citizenship only seems possible in my wildest dreams. I even felt jealous of the courage that the Jewish people had to assert their own reparations: they took what they believed they deserved after being terrorized while the entire world stood by and watched. If there is anything history has taught us, it is that real action to correct injustice is rare, and when it occurs, it is often superficial. The Jewish people taught me that if Black people want reparations, they must do more than demand them, they must take action. The conflict arises from a sense of ownership: do the Palestinians, who have worked and lived in Israel for

centuries have more claim to the land than the Jewish people who have been denied rights throughout history and who have legally declared statehood? This question remains to be answered. What is clear, though, is that everyone deserves a home where they feel protected and empowered. My new understanding of the Israel-Palestine conflict has granted new light to my understanding of American society: unfortunately, racism is logical. The people who voted for Trump, the neo-Nazis and Klansmen who continue to practice cross-burnings, the citizen-vigilantes who shoot at immigrants crossing the MexicanAmerican border, the police officers who shoot and kill black children holding bags of Skittles without repercussion-- these people feel that they are protecting their lives in the face of rampant unemployment as the mining industry declines, no access to medical care or facilities, and failing education systems. Do I agree with their methods? Absolutely not. Do I condone their racist thought patterns? No. But I do understand that racism is more than just human irrationality. It is complex, legalized, structural, interpersonal, internalized and driven by something--something more intricate and human than we often like to admit. On the final day of my journey through Israel, I wrote on a notebook page, â&#x20AC;&#x153;my fate as a black woman is intimately tied with the outcome of the Israel-Palestine Conflict.â&#x20AC;? And it is: for what we as people decide to tolerate in the Middle East is a direct reflection of what we are willing to tolerate with our own people. We, as global citizens, have a responsibility to dig deeper, and recognize the forces animating issues like American racism or the Israel-Palestine Conflict, for solutions are impossible without understanding.

by Sharon Musa “Like Dr. King said, the most segregated hour in America is Sunday morning.” On a brisk Saturday morning in mid-October, several members of Witherspoon Street Presbyterian Church met for their bi-monthly bible study held in the church’s upper room. Six Black church members sat around two rectangular plastic tables that had been pushed together discussing Acts 6, the day’s passage. The chapter, Seven Men Choose to Serve, depicts the growing Christian community in Jerusalem. As the community grew and different ethnic groups joined the church, some were discriminated against because of their backgrounds- an

issue still present in the Christian community, some suggested. One member chose to serve the neglected communities while others secluded themselves in the church behind the guise of religiosity, his name was Stephen. “Martin Luther King Jr. could be Stephen, Jesus could be Stephen” Barbara Flythe commented, reflecting on how a figure like Martin Luther King Jr. saw civil rights reform as a form of social activism for his, underserved, community. Before long, the text was related to modern events, and analogies were made between the early Christian church and how religion is still used to justify discrimination and division in present day. One of the other women chuckled and shook her head, “My father always said that if White people have an option between acting White and acting right, they will always choose White”. Another woman, nodded in agreement, reminiscing on how in the 70s and 80s she remembers there were some places in the neighboring town of Trenton that you, as a Black person, couldn’t go because you would be beat up and run out by the White population. One member believed that issues of racial and ethnic tensions have not disappeared. “It has evolved but not for the better” she pointed out, citing increased levels of poverty, inequality, segregation and child mortality. Another chipped in, “while there is racial progress, there is also racist progress”. Witherspoon Presbyterian Church itself, has been gathering since 1836. The church stands on the corner of Witherspoon and Quarry, facing Princeton Cemetery - a small off-white box structure, with a single steeple ascending from its slate gray roof. Looking old, tired and weather-worn, it is hard to imagine that it is one of the few remaining anchors of the Black community- or what’s left of it- in this township. The walk between the church and campus is brief, spanning only three blocks, but if you weren’t told you might not think you were still in Princeton. You immediately notice the run down feeling of the neighborhood. The juxtaposition of the grandeur or Princeton University and the mansions on Prospect Street makes these small, weather-worn, grayish-white houses feel seemingly out of place. Some are preceded by cement porches, one with a rolling office chair flanked on either side by two dark green, plastic chairs. On this same street sits a small bodega, outside of which, on any given day, you might find some middle-aged Latino

men conversing in Spanish and vaguely watching the goings by on the street. These off-white, tired looking homes continue as far as the eye can see, occasionally interrupted by townhouses ranging in color from faded olive green, to faint yellow, and even powder pink. Cross the street, continuing in the direction of the university. Behind you is the grey and crumbling cemetery, strewn with dead leaves over the final resting place of an era long gone. In front of you is Princeton’s Public Library, recently renovated and shining. As compared to the Witherspoon Jackson neighborhood, which is typically quiet and relatively empty, this area is bustling with people spending their money “downtown”. You hear less Spanish, see fewer people of color. nothing here looks tired. Despite being crafted in a distinctly colonial style, the buildings feel just as youthful as the undergraduates promenading the street. The gold inscription ‘Dei Sub Numine Viget’ above Hamilton Jewelers, still gleams as if it had been painted only a week ago. Elsewhere on the block sits a decaying house. “That used to be richest house on the street in the 1940s… they had a restaurant that entertained lots of famous people, like Booker T Washinton.” The yellowed paint on the abandoned, two story building is peeling. Its front porch no longer has stairs. No one has entered the house in years. More than half of the windows have been boarded up with plywood, while the others peer into a completely empty house. Overgrown grass in the backyard is visible through the remaining open windows. From the back, the exposed wood siding shows the onset of mold. The house sags haphazardly, as if having just let out a deep sigh, ready to collapse in on itself. Two plots down where there should stand another home, is merely a vacant lot, rocks and sprouts of grass standing in for centuries of history. Most early Black residents originally came to Princeton as cooks, janitors, and servants. The first nine presidents of Princeton also owned slaves that worked in the President’s House. Outside of the university, in the 1760s into the 19th century enslaved people worked on farms, drove carriages and sleds, cooked and cleaned throughout town. Prospect Farm, which later became much of the central university campus, also relied heavily on slave labor. Beyond that there was an established free Black community that lived on and around Nassau Street and Witherspoon, north of Nassau Hall. These people are the basis for the historical Black community of Princeton. However, since integration in the mid-twentieth century,

the already largely invisible Black community truly began to disappear. While some community centers remain, they are few and far between. The best stand in now becomes the local churches, like Witherspoon Street Presbyterian Church. Most members of the community agree that the loss of these strategic centers would have a definitively detrimental effect on the ability of the Black community to resist pressure from developers, but even these churches are not immune to the demands of the modern economy. The number of churchgoers is dwindling, and buildings aren’t up to modern religious methods. Witherspoon Presbyterian has seen its own share of struggles. Early efforts for the church to buy up local historical properties, and later requests to replace the pews were both initially met with disagreement due to the potential financial hardships. However, at times, history and current needs can work against one another The church was already once approached by a real estate company hoping to buy the plot of land that the church sits on. “We need money badly” but we won’t give up ownership if we can help it, Barbara Flythe determined. This time they could afford to turn down the offer, but next time may not be the same. At the same time, there are dangers of getting too stuck in history. The church- especially the Black church, is not just a repository for history; it is part of the active social and political dialogue. “The past can have such a magnetic pull, that you can’t move forward. We want to move forward… History can paralyze us, it can also energize us if we let it”. While Black churches were at one point, a necessity because of the nature of racial segregation in the nation, they can now appear at times a redundancy. At one point, the Black church was also the seat of grassroots political organization, especially during the Civil Rights era. It’s no mistake that Martin Luther King Jr was a reverend before he devoted his time to political activism. In that era, social justice and religion were intrinsically intertwined with one another. Former mayor of Princeton, Yina Moore, was severely disappointed in the interactions of many of Princeton’s historical churches apparent lack of engagement with their changing community. “Churches should be involved but I don’t know what they’re doing… There needs to be more active engagement by churches in the community”. What was most disappointing for Moore was the sheer difference in community engagement by churches now when compared to past decades. “In the 70s and

80s pastors did but now there’s a lack of that type of leadership getting engaged”, she asserted, referencing how in decades past churches organized buses to go to marches and sit ins but nowadays the most that could be organized was a bus to a museum. Even if it were not about going elsewhere, churches seemed uninterested in engaging with the sociopolitical issues in their own backyards maybe because newer pastors found it hard torelate to the endemic issues that the Witherspoon-Jackson neighborhood is currently facing. It could also be because those who were so very politically active are aging and no longer can sustain such political organizing, but maybe it’s because the church is stuck in the past. While part of the downfall of the church has to do with external politics and changing communities, the internal politics are not without complications. Especially within Princeton, the dynamics of the Black church community, and the rest of the Black community for that matter, changing with the demographics of the neighborhood are complicated and multi-faceted. Since the 90s, Princeton has seen a significant influx of Hispanic immigrants, especially from Mexico and Guatemala. The church on the other hand hasn’t seen increases in the number of their Latino congregants. The only Hispanic member of Nassau Presbyterian’s staff works in Janitorial services, and of the over 60 members at the Veterans Day service at Witherspoon Presbyterian, there was little evident Hispanic presence. More than the potential language barriers, the Black community is wary of the incoming immigrants as they see themselves being systematically replaced. Patricia Fernandez-Kelly, the self-described “token Latina” at Witherspoon Presbyterian Church, expressed frustration over how the church has handled the new immigrant community. “If we had been really smart, people would have been recruiting immigrants and doing something for the neighborhood” Fernandez-Kelly said. She recounted a specific encounter between the church and the immigrant community: The Guatemalan Evangelical Church started to use the building for their services twice a week –paid rent, painted walls- but members of Witherspoon Presbyterian began to complain about their presence and the Guatemalan congregation was eventually kicked out. “This is bullshit” she fumed, “The Christian spirit is about welcoming everyone as equals”. Outraged, she explained that the remaining Black community is

steeped in respectability politics, as demonstrated by their concern that the growing immigrant community would bring down property values. She paraphrased her peers: “My family has been in this church for six generations and those people are destroying my church”. Fernandez-Kelly saw this not only as a morally wrong action, but also self-sabotage. “The great barrier [in integration] are the attitudes… Unless something happens this church will die.” She concluded “I love what this church stands for… but religious people are terrible”, shaking her head. Princeton is not the only place wrestling with historical amnesia. Around the country, monuments topple, flags fall and the debate over what history is worth preserving continues without foreseeable end. Three blocks away, on campus, you would be hard pressed to find a student who knew the history of the Witherspoon-Jackson neighborhood or Palmer Square, let alone it’s importance. This is historical amnesia at work. The neighborhood tries to forget its sins by tearing down their physical remnants, but rather than expunging old sins it gives way to new sins. A community that was once fenced in to this physical space, was in one continuous action legally freed and economically banished. Princeton, a microcosm of this national trend, struggles between a rock- gentrification- and a hard place- successfully integrating the immigrant community. In the 90s alone, Princeton lost 15 percent of its Black population. As Princeton’s population rose from 12,150 to 14,200 the number of Black residents fell, and home occupancy decreased by 25 percent. It was the only demographic to decrease. In the same period, the number of Hispanic residents rose by 55 percent, and Hispanic home occupancy doubled. If any institution were capable of spearheading a movement to integrate these communities that now live in coexistent isolation, it would be, it should be, the church. In Princeton, however, the influx of immigrants hasn’t been a source of strength for the community as much as a reason for tensions as both groups struggle with the question of who’s turf Witherspoon-Jackson neighborhood is. “Some would lay down in the street… they would give blood to get [the neighborhood] back to what it was in the 50s… the neighborhood is never going to be the same, the way it once was. It has changed before, it will change again”.

from the mouth of a privileged, black, east-coast prep school girl turned ivyleague-educated citizen by Anonymous There are a few things that a 30 thousand-dollar high school education followed by a 64 thousand-dollar college experience teaches you about the world. 1. Biologically, humans of different races have more in common genetically than people of the same race. 2. Race is therefore socially constructed rather than biologically determined. 3. Cheap vodka tastes like shit and fucks you up, but you take a few shots of it anyway to get you through the everyday patriarchy.

24 24