When the conversation finally moved past the awkward yet well-rehearsed introductions of residential college and major, I was quickly lost in a Hispanic world of food, cultures and cities I had never heard of. After five minutes of struggling to understand the various foods and topics of discussions, I started to wish my white shirt would help me blend in with the white walls. Desperate to contribute something to their discussion about good local Mexican food, I blurted out that I had seen the movie Amores Perros, they had eaten food in the movie ... right? After I had clearly interrupted a good conversation with a trivial fact, someone asked, "did you like it?"
I guilty responded, "not really, it was kinda lame." My unfortunate assertion had sealed my fate and the conversation quickly traveled from cold colonial New England in favor of a warmer location somewhere in the bustling Southwest. As the conversation changed locales, it also changed languages, and Spanish poured from their mouths with speed and passion.
I nervously sat in the small room waiting for the blazing mouths to pause to announce that I had to leave because I was late for ... something. In between what I think was the delivery of a joke and its punch line, I again interrupted to tell this warm and jovial group that the person they had forgotten about was leaving.
I think this story highlights the difficulty of cross-cultural exchanges. It would be easy, and probably accurate, to blame my awkward encounter on deficient social skills and utter lack of worldliness. Nevertheless, there was also the difficulty of overcoming the basic assumptions shared by the group of Hispanic students that allowed them to quickly become friends in the first place. During their discussion of home-cooked food, they all envisioned their parents cooking the same savory dishes. For me, a home-cooked meal involves chitlins, collard greens, fried chicken and a litany of heart-clogging foods that are probably alien to most people. The various interpretations of home-cooked meal, traditional dance or clothing are the assumptions upon which groups like the Chicano Caucus, Black Student Union (BSU), Chinese Students Association and the ever-growing list of ethnic and cultural groups on campus are built.
As a black male not involved in the BSU or similar organizations, I have struggled to understand the place and importance of ethnic and cultural groups on campus. Having come from a small town that is 93 percent white, glimpses of black success were rare and fleeting. To arrive on Princeton's beautiful campus and see dozens of intelligent, beautiful and highly accomplished black people was a source of comfort because I was no longer "the black kid." Surely, that is a sentiment held by anyone who was known as "the minority" at their school. The benefits of joining one of these groups are very real, but I worry that something equally important and slightly less tangible is lost.
At what point do commonalties of food, language, skin color or belief simply become superficial? It seems hard to believe that a Trinidadian, Sephardic Jew and an African American from Oregon would have much in common besides all being black, yet the BSU caters to each. While being black in the Diasporas may be an important part of someone's identity, it shouldn't preclude exploring diverse groups that may also form a part of one's identity.
The solution to this dilemma should be as multifaceted as people's definition of identity. There is no easy solution to finding the balance between gravitating toward people who look or talk like you, but that does not mean a sincere effort should not be made. If I could go back in time and relive my awkward conversation in that common room, I would have stayed a few minutes longer, trying to find a connection shared between us. While I tend to blame myself for awkward encounters, I also think that my newly made acquaintances should have noticed my discomfort and tried to build a bridge between us.
Sexual orientation, religion, race, country of origin and political belief are all ties that bring various parts of our disparate community together, but I fear that these same ties that bring us together sometimes restrain us from reaching out.
Michael Collins is a freshman from Glastonbury, Conn. He can be reached at mjcollin@princeton.edu.
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