The reasons for this are fairly clear. People “go independent” for all kinds of reasons: Some may passionately despise eating clubs, sure, but others simply cannot afford them, others were rejected from their preferred clubs and still others (such as myself) base their decision on a vague, morally neutral sense that “it’s just not my thing.” A Marxist seeking sites of resistance to Princeton’s hegemonic culture would no doubt relegate independents to the unenviable position of the fragmented, hopeless “lumpenproletariat”; Terrace Club, with its revolutionary “Food = Love” mantra, would be a much better bet.
So, in writing about my own independent existence, I recognize that I am taking a shot in the dark. Conceding that going independent means something different to everyone, that each individual is independent in his own way, is perilously close to conceding that going independent means nothing at all. Nonetheless, let me take one small step in the direction of a coherent account of my dining status: If independence ought to mean anything, it must not mean getting your groceries delivered from McCaffrey’s at no extra charge.
This option, offered by the USG and advertised through its “Independent Student Guide,” is undeniably convenient. In fact, I would not be surprised if quite a few people took it up as a result of my having mentioned it. I was certainly tempted by it, and I expect to use it during my most stressful weekends. But when I do use it, I would like to think that I will do so with a hint of guilt, a sense that I have, in a moment of weakness, betrayed a certain ethos.
Being independent is, to me, about not being served. Yes, we will go to inordinate lengths in pursuit of free food, but that word — “pursuit” — is key. A certain genial contempt for eating clubs, which (and this is a fact I have for some reason never gotten used to) have their own cooks on hire, ought to be an integral part of any sense of independent identity. Regardless of the strides they have made in transcending their elitist heritage, the clubs cannot change the basic fact of their elegant dining rooms and working-class staff; independents need feel no such lingering guilt (and thus have more time to feel guilty about everything else associated with Princeton life).
But this is not all. The reason the McCaffrey’s deliveries are so unfortunate is also why they are so appealing: McCaffrey’s is so damned far away. In seeking grocery stores of substance (Wawa doesn’t count), independent students are forced to move beyond the confines of campus life. What a revelation it was to discover an entire shopping center, a vital part of local existence, lying less than two miles north of Nassau Street. What else have I missed?
This is not about the snobbish connotations of living in the Orange Bubble; it is about the more simple fact of expanding one’s horizons, of at least glimpsing what it is like to be a resident here rather than a spoiled guest. It is about discovering that this town can actually be interesting in its own way, from the trails along the Delaware-Raritan Canal to the south to the ethnically varied neighborhoods to the north. A former preceptor of mine, a Princeton alum, once lamented the disappearance of long bike rides through Princeton’s surrounding farmland; though I suspect some of that farmland may be gone now, it is well worth reviving that exploratory spirit.
Grocery stores and bike trails don’t make very good subjects for a revolutionary manifesto. But I have no such ambitious aims. The best I can claim to have done is to have added some content to what has hitherto been a purely formal category and to have begun making sense of what has so far been a thoroughly enigmatic brand of Princetonian.
Andrew Saraf is a history major from Chevy Chase, Md. He can be reached at asaraf@princeton.edu.
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