It’s that time of year again when the staircases are rainbowed up, the walk from my dorm to Frist smells like lilacs, and supposedly, hidden somewhere in the nooks of Princeton campus, are over 1,000 gay alumni ready to party.
Just a few nights ago, I was eating at Whitman when the band came to play during dinner. Their entrance was met with the usual palpable dread. Aside from a few clapping friends, the reaction of the dining hall was mostly a muffled groan, rolling eyes and petulant, commiserative stares at nearby friends.
Before, she had felt as though of the night as a separate space—a sealed pocket of her life—but now she was reminded that everything that existed around the pool at daytime still stood by at night: the black hardtop of the basketball court, a racquetball wall, and the town Rec Center itself, a building which tomorrow would reveal to be little more than a grey dome without windows.