I am a female freshman.
I am a blonde, female freshman.
I am a blonde, female freshman from an all-girls Catholic school.
Needless to say, Lord help me.
I walked through the Princeton gates three weeks ago, fresh from five days of Outdoor Action, with dancing visions of all upperclassmen as nurturing sugarplum fairies who genuinely cared about my smooth college transition.
I know. My naivete is comical.
Despite my initial obliviousness, I soon learned how stuff really goes down in the 08544. I discovered the importance of “Street shoes,” the label that comes with bringing a purse to an eating club and, most importantly, Princeton’s own breed of Don Juan-aspiring Casanovas.
Fellow freshmen, watch out. He speaks eloquently about whatever major you are leaning toward. He is clad in coral. He “met you on Preview weekend.”
Now, I am by no means implying that this archetype applies to every junior and senior walking the Street. I have already befriended quite a few upperclassman males who defy this stereotype. I am, however, affirming that there is a reason this persona became a cliche.
On my first night out at the Street, a group of girlfriends and I headed to the backyard of an eating club. Within five minutes, a line of Brads, Jeremys and Matts started to infiltrate our giddy, giggling freshman circle. Small talk began. Polite questioning ensued, each of us knowing that the other really couldn’t care less about our hometown or residential college or where we went on Outdoor Action.
This was not a talk over coffee. This was an eating club on a Saturday night. This was Princeton mating time.
Tempted as I was to tell the Vineyard Vines shareholder about my plans to get a women's studies certificate (and watch him instantaneously vanish back into the crowd), I decided to play along. I smiled, laughed and, when I told him I came from a school called the Convent of the Sacred Heart, I watched as four glittering words lit up in his head like a Las Vegas billboard: Britney Spears’ music video.
So some older guys talked to us. What’s the big deal? It’s just a little harmless fun, right? Well, that’s what I thought, until I saw a girl standing on a table in a white see-through T-shirt, thoroughly drenched in beer. Swarming around her was a crowd of guys, catcalling and urging her to take off her clothes. One boy shouted, “Come on, baby, don’t be a tease. Take it off!”
As we finish up our third week of college life, most female freshmen know by now exactly what I am talking about. Sexual harassment could happen to anyone at Princeton, but freshman girls are particularly vulnerable. You might as well stick us in a pumpkin patch with a sign screaming, “Get your virgins here! Innocent, far from home and enticed by seniors: while supplies last.”
While I may have been idealistic coming into Princeton, this was one thing I shouldn’t have had to be ready for. I know this extreme behavior only represents a handful of male Princetonians. The vast majority are considerate and respectful gentlemen. But, like at any college in the country, there are cases when a night out goes too far. Many think Princeton is an exception. It’s not.
During the discussion sessions after the annual “Sex on a Saturday Night” performance, one international girl in my ’zee group admitted to feeling particularly vulnerable.
“Every time I open my mouth,” she said, “I feel like the older boys hear my accent, know that I am out of my comfort zone and think they can take advantage of me.”
A freshman girl is a hot commodity. I get that. But it’s time that upperclassmen stop seeing us as easy ways to score and start seeing us as intellectual, confident women who went through the same rigorous application process that they did.
This isn’t a sermon; it’s just a request to upperclassman guys to think before you pounce. Do you genuinely care about the girl in question? If not, consider her circumstances as a freshman one month into school and pick on someone your own size.
Caroline Kitchener is a freshman from New Canaan, Conn. She can be reached at cakitche@princeton.edu.
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