On the Campus - June 9, 1999
Website Exclusive...
plus, from the print magazine...
Send money, please!
Asking former Campus Club members to donate is an introduction to
marketing
SO YOU'RE SICK of Princeton calling you for money. Eating Clubs, sports
teams, and Annual Giving interrupt your dinner once a year wanting "a
small donation," even though you probably paid more to attend Princeton
than the GDP of most developing nations. Haven't you done enough?
But take pity on the callers-it's just as rough to be on the other end of
the line. That's where I was recently during a Campus Club phonathon to
raise money for run-down windows, a boiler, and a 40-year-old fire alarm.
Our phonathon consisted of a bunch of us sitting in the "Annual Giving
Room" (yes, they have a room specifically for getting money!) each
with a pretty intimidating phone, a list of hopefully sympathetic Campus
alumni, and a politely worded script. You would think that calling people
you have never met and never will meet wouldn't be too stressful, but trust
me, it is.
TIME TO REMINISCE
Overall, though, most people were pretty friendly, especially the older
gentlemen who wanted to spend a bit of time reminiscing. OK, a lot of time
reminiscing. The most excited was a former Campus president: "Sure!
I guess I should donate a bit. Do they give you guys enough pizza and beer?"
Most answers were "maybe," "send me the information,"
and "you've caught me at a bad time." Young women were by far
the most brutal. My favorite: "I was wondering if you would be interested
in making a donation to Campus Club. . .?" "No." Click.
The odd thing about being in this AG room is that everyone around you is
doing exactly the same thing, which simultaneously puts you at ease and
makes you feel like a cold-blooded mercenary. It also lets you hear alternative
approaches, like the guy across the table from me: "Hey, this is Jake
from Campus Club-you used to be in it. We're asking for money." I don't
think he got much of a response.
Pieces drift in from other callers too: "Yes, we do have women now.
No, I don't mind. I actually like it." "Oh, I'm sorry. Good luck
with the operation." "You were in Cloister?"
Since I speak Spanish, I got the list of alumni living in Puerto Rico. Not
one answered the phone in Spanish. In McLean, Virginia, and Washington,
D.C., on the other hand, phones weren't answered in English.
OR SHOULD IT GO TO STARVING CHILDREN
One guy patiently listened to my spiel, by this time a little wooden, and
answered politely: "No thanks. I think if I give money there are people
who need it more than Campus Club." I actually agree with him. I think
if I had money I would rather give it to starving children in Somalia than
to Princeton college students. But even at Princeton there are different
degrees of need. Last year I was on the club sailing team, which can't sail
without boats, gets almost no funding from the university, and has big expenses
and a small alumni list. Donations were what kept us on the water. And even
Campus Club, which could probably exist with decaying windows and a broken
boiler, is both a legacy of its former members and a growth experience for
students. It's hard on us poverty-stricken college kids, and while we have
it better than most, we can always use a little help from those who can
spare it.
This doesn't mean you have to give us money when we call you, but just give
us a chance to tell you who we are and what we want, and then make your
refusal a polite "no thank you." We don't really mind. In the
end, after spending an hour talking to about 35 people I got $25 in an on-the-spot
credit-card gift, two pledges, and about 15 outright no's. More than the
money, this experience gave me an appreciation for credit-card hawkers and
the invisible telemarketing underworld-especially those whose jobs are on
the line instead of a new boiler.
Of course, this has also given me something to look forward to after I graduate.
The infrastructure of Campus Club is bound to decay further, and someone
has to pay for it. I had better start making money.
-Emily D. Johnson '01
Emily D. Johnson is PAW's intern.
Another side of Paradise
Coming to terms with conformity and careerism at Princeton
The memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment;
and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years.
-- Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time
I will never forget the first time I called Princeton "home."
One winter break, I told my parents at dinner that I had to go back home
after the New Year. My mother blanched and dropped her fork. My father cast
me a glance that suggested, "Now look, you've gone and made your mother
upset." But it was a slip of the tongue, Mom. Really. Princeton has
never been a home to me.
A knot forms in my stomach whenever I return to campus after some time
away. I dread returning "home." Though this knot untangles some
after I see my roommates, it never fully comes undone. I am not alone in
this feeling of anxiety. One friend says he pauses before he steps off the
train, takes a deep breath, and says to himself, "Here we go again."
For as long as I have been here, I have struggled to become a Princetonian.
The process of socialization began the first day of orientation week, when
I learned how not to dress and what eating clubs were cool, and will end
when I return to campus for Reunions, wearing a tacky jacket, checkbook
in hand.
···
Freshman year, with the regularity of a weekly seminar, I learned how
to act like a Princeton underclassman. The first lesson: the eating clubs
are my only social option. The next: how to get passes to parties at bicker
clubs (and which windows to sneak into if I can't). I memorized the archetypal
taproom conversations -- What clubs are on tap? Did you go home for break?
-- and I recited them week in and week out. After a while, the eating clubs
began to feel like some giant social experiment. By sheer force of will,
we were all trying to fit into an awkward social hierarchy reminiscent of
middle school. We were being processed by the Princeton social machine.
Sophomore year, I took advantage of my residential college, Mathey. I
lingered at Tuesday evening study breaks and went to Broadway musicals for
$10 through subsidized trips offered by the college. If I needed to escape,
I took road trips with my hallmates to visit high school friends. Though
I still missed the security of home, I felt myself starting to settle.
Then, in junior year, I lost whatever refuge Mathey College had offered.
I lived in the junior slums and stopped knowing my neighbors. I joined Charter
Club and the Woodrow Wilson School. My standards for acceptable classwork
rose just as I was given vastly more to do. I worked too hard and did assignments
only because they were assigned. I spent entire weeks in the library, went
days without talking. Extracurricular activities became résumé
bullet points. I read corporate literature. My weekly conversations at the
eating clubs -- Where are you interning this summer? Do you have as much
work as I do? -- felt more appropriate to office water coolers.
The knot tightened.
And then it disappeared when I gave up trying to become a Princetonian.
Today, I deal with Princeton's social psychoses by pretending they aren't
there, and I have found the only thing harder than trying to fit in at Princeton
is coming to terms with the fact that I don't.
Earlier this year, in a fit of rebellion, a friend, William Golden '99,
wrote in fluorescent green on his wall, "All you care about is your
career." Then he threw a party. His guests complimented him on his
sense of humor. By midnight, they had all left for the Street. A week later,
he was fined $150 by the university.
···
I still miss home -- that pocket of warmth in the depths of my memory.
But my homesickness is not for my parents' stone-and-brick house outside
of Philadelphia. It is a longing for my youth.
A professor once told me that the most important aspect of a Princeton
education is growing up four years. At first I resisted this notion (the
professors! the students! the resources!), but I have grown up a little
since then -- and I have learned to cherish the piece of home in a phone
conversation with an old friend or a cup of coffee with a new one.
--Daniel A. Grech '99
Daniel A. Grech's e-mail address is dangrech@princeton.edu.
This summer he begins an internship at The Washington Post
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