At the tray return area in Princeton’s newest dining facility — Choi Dining Hall, shared by Yeh College and New College West — a small opening exists at the base of the metal wall for utensils. After you discard your leftover food in the compost bin, you place your plates onto the conveyor belt and watch them promptly disappear into the hands of a Campus Dining worker. Rarely do you see the faces of the workers on the other side or clearly hear a response to the “thank you” that you yell at the wall — your dirty plate seems to magically dissipate into thin air, and an endless stack of clean plates sit ready should you want to grab more food. Similar designs are replicated at other dining halls.
I eat at least two meals a day in one of Princeton’s four residential dining halls. This is likely also the norm for most student readers of this article. It might be surprising, then, to consider that the architecture of our dining halls is political — even dehumanizing — something revealed by the subtleties of the serveries’ designs.
“When I bend [over], I can see [students’] faces,” said Ebong Itomo, a Campus Dining employee who has worked at the Choi Dining Hall’s plate return area for three months. “I want to be seeing [the students] because when I’m going home or when I’m closing, I do see them on my way.” But when asked whether he would prefer that the face barrier didn’t exist, Itomo responded that he would “not like [the back area] to be exposed,” because it would not be “good for [students] to be seeing inside.”
Choi Dining Hall was designed to give “architectural expression” to values such as diversity and inclusion. Yet when considering the space with these values of inclusive community spaces in mind, it seems that the “modern” 21st-century additions to one of Princeton’s most prominent community spaces feature a form of segregation between the students and dining hall staff.
Itomo expresses a complex perspective shaped by experience — one that acknowledges both the value of brief moments of recognition and the reality of working behind the scenes. A full view of the dishwashing area, with its constant motion and mess, might not feel like something meant for public display. At the same time, his desire to see students — even in passing — reflects an understanding that visibility matters. That acknowledgment, however small, makes a difference.
But if workers like Itomo feel that their labor is meant to be hidden, it raises the question: why must certain types of work remain out of sight? What would it mean for Princeton’s campus culture if the spaces that sustain our daily lives — spaces where students and workers alike spend so much of their time — were designed to foster more moments of connection rather than separation between students and staff?
The way we construct the spaces that we inhabit — both publicly and privately — reflects political choices about visibility, power, and belonging, shaping not just how we move through them, but whom we are encouraged to see or ignore.
While most buffet-style restaurant services don’t prioritize a connection between the kitchen staff and the people they serve, Princeton’s dining halls are not private, commercialized spaces. As my colleague Asa Santos mentions, evidence suggests that Princeton students can benefit from a dining space constructed to prioritize interpersonal connections with staff — and dining halls are precisely a space where those interactions can occur.
The small architectural details of a dining hall may seem trivial — especially because many workers are visible in some contexts, such as behind food counters — but the historical background of architectural features we often overlook remains an unignorable political force. Take the architectural history of the hallway, for example. Hallways first emerged in homes as a way of separating servants and preventing them from intruding on other occupants of the houses. Previously, rooms had all flowed into each other, requiring inhabitants to face one another when moving within the indoor space.
These architectural features in the dining halls are not just neutral design choices. They are symptoms of a broader social attitude, one that renders invisible the labor that keeps this campus running. The uncaring mentality embedded in these spaces and the attitudes of students do more than simply limit interaction — they subtly reinforce a hierarchy between those who eat and those who serve. It’s not merely the physical barriers that keep dining staff unseen. It’s also the social dynamics that permit this labor to be overlooked.
Yet this divide is not inevitable. If Princeton is committed to fostering an inclusive and interconnected community, then perhaps the most meaningful interventions aren’t just to be found in abstract values or mission statements, but also in the spaces we move through daily. The design of a dining hall — whether it invites interaction or erases presence — says something about who we acknowledge and who we don’t. And if we aren’t careful, these small, unnoticed details might just shape how we see — or fail to see — one another.
Siyeon Lee (she/her) is a sophomore and an associate Opinion editor from Seoul, South Korea. She can be reached at siyeonlee[at]princeton.edu.
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