Finding a place for Chicano students, their culture

Adrian Rosales '02, a politics major from Texas, took a student-initiated seminar last spring with the assumption that he could use it toward his graduation requirements. As a second semester senior, there was no messing around — departmental crunch. And why would a course titled "Chicano Politics: A History of the Chicano Movement" not be acceptable to the politics department? The reading list examined the political party system in the late 20th century, electoral participation among Chicanos and various examples of political protest and grassroots activism. Still, the course was denied as a departmental. Too similar to a "Latino Politics in the United States" class he took a year earlier that focused entirely on a theory of transformation. He argued to deaf ears: "But the reading list! And subject! It's not the saaame!" We're happy to say that Rosales graduated nonetheless.

Student-initiated seminars reveal two things: (a) the topic of study is so badly desired that students will suffer quietly through the bureaucracy and paperwork of creating one, and (b) University curriculum had failed to satisfy this desire in the first place. All Chicano studies courses at Princeton have been student-initiated. Let's count them; it'll be easy — a two-year-old can do it. One. Two. Three. The first was Chicano Politics in 1981, the second Chicano Literature in 1989, and we know about the last one. Admittedly, there have also been classes with the more conservative and omnibus "Latino" label in the course title, but likewise, these are few and infrequent.

Let us be forthright: If we replaced "Chicano" or "Latino" with "African American," there would be cries of "racism!" and "white devil!" to be heard from Newark to Newcastle, Wyoming. And understandably so. Historically, African Americans have gotten the worst end of the stick when it comes to in-your-face oppression. No words here can properly express the agony and injustice of over 250 years of institutionalized slavery. Nonetheless, Latinos now represent the nation's largest ethnic minority, and according to the U.S. Census Bureau, our population will rise to 100 million by 2050. Never again will anyone run for state or national office without seeking the Latino vote. Our voice will no longer be relegated to the sidelines, as many of us will hold positions of political and economic power. Why, then, does Princeton continue to treat race relations as a black and white paradigm? Why the resistance with the Chicano/Latino studies courses, when it's clear that Latinos are becoming as vital to American prosperity as blacks and whites are? Does the University think we'll continue to self-segregate if they offer us another opportunity for gathering en masse? As long as our population remains less than 10 percent on campus (largely including those who checked "Hispanic" because their Spanish surname let them get away with it, but, like, totally don't, you know, like, associate), self-segregation is bound to happen.

But the University has tried to redeem itself. For the spring 2002 semester, a new course was introduced to the curriculum titled, HIS 307/LAS 307: "The American Southwest: Ethnicity and Development on the U.S.-Mexican Border." Interesting that states like California, Arizona and Texas are now considered part of Latin America, as well. Don't blame rookie professor Marc Rodriguez, though. Looking to cross-list the course with the American Studies department, they instead sent him to the program of Latin American Studies. The program of Latin American studies, confused, sent him back to the American Studies department. Someone had to lose — administrative ping-pong.

It's uncanny how this battle managed to encapsulate the Chicano experience since the mid-19th century. Too American for Mexico, too Mexican for America, we are caught in perennial limbo. Wanted by no one . . . sniffle. It's OK, no pity necessary: just give us two, three courses, por favor. C'mon, it's not like we're planning hunger strikes or creating a human chain around West College until talks are held on a Chicano/Latino Studies program. We realize that Princeton has its limitations. The pennies can only be stretched so far. We need those Alcohol Initiative events that students go to drunk. We needed those classical ice sculptures at the installation party of a certain president.

Financial aid and talks on diversity are not enough. It's like giving a kid a really, really expensive Tootsie Pop to get him off your back. Kind of insulting. Arriving at Princeton, we find ourselves more needy than we have ever been. Our numbers are few, the weather is evil, the food is subpar — home is a different world from this place. So to soften the culture shock, we seek any reminders of what home was like. Suddenly, we care to learn about our history, about the role we play in society. We need reaffirmation of our identity. But, alas, we open the course booklet and are dumbfounded. No academic acknowledgement of our culture here. Apparently, we have nothing to offer except "increased diversity" and the workers to vacuum Frist, to wash dishes at Terrace, to serve and clean up after the elite. Then human nature makes the situation fouler: People want to be identified with the powerful. If it becomes obvious that one's culture is undervalued, thought of as unsubstantial, many will bolt towards the dominant crowd. That's when Guillermo starts introducing himself as Bill, modifies the accent, chucks the language, and thinks of mariachi music as "quaint." We have enough of these sellouts roaming around — Princeton, you helped create it, now make it stop!