October 22, 1746: The first charter of Princeton University (then known as the College of New Jersey) was established. From that point on began a series of many changes: of name, of location, of size, of ideology, of identity. There are key moments along this timeline that can be considered significant turning points in the trajectory of Princeton’s development. Many of these are the “firsts” of Princeton University’s history. The first instance of a holistic admission process at Princeton. The first time Princeton admitted students of color at large. The first time the University transitioned to a coeducational institution. The stories of the “firsts” that Princeton tells have the ability to inform and inspire, such that we can truly act “in the Nation’s service and in service of humanity.”
Of course, it would be remiss of anyone to say that the presence of these firsts is enough to outweigh the work that still needs to be done and the obstacles still to be overcome. I look to the past and see the initiatives of the students of the past to increase accessibility, from Sally Frank and her battle for inclusive eating clubs to Jimmy Tarlau and the SDS’s anti-war protests. But I also look to the past and see a University distinguishing itself from its peer institutions as the “northernmost outpost of Southern culture.” Princeton’s commitment to this sentiment would go so far as to conflate the Union and Confederate causes through their Civil War memorial. The names of the soldiers who perished in combat are displayed with no acknowledgment of which side they fought on; if you chose a name at random, however, you’d likely select a Confederate soldier based on their numbers. As for more contemporary times? Various buildings, resources, and groups are dedicated to the growth and cultivation of the University’s more vulnerable demographics, and opportunities for grassroots activism abound. Unfortunately, these groups are oftentimes forced to acquiesce to individuals and organizations whose most significant institutional oppression is their fear of an open space for their views to be challenged; hiding under a blanket of neutrality and University-sponsored events, they sanction “debates” on the validity of marginalized groups’ identities and realities. With that in mind, what can we say about the “firsts” of Princeton, both of their status and their implications for the campus climate as a whole?
In late October of 2022, I had the opportunity to visit and explore “Princeton 275,” an exhibition dedicated to providing an “appetizer of the story of Princeton’s 275 years found within the University’s Archives,” through a guided tour. Among the vintage items and photos, three records of noteworthy firsts at Princeton drew my attention. More than just their story, the story of the campus culture and choices that revolved around them inspired me to write this article. In Part One, I will be discussing the first two items.
Samuel Atkins ‘31’s Application for Admission, 1927
Morristown High School Graduate, Chair of the Princeton Classics Department
Princeton’s holistic approach to admissions attempts to strike a “balance” between an intent to create a diverse class of backgrounds and interests and to have a highly rigorous and selective admission process. The foundation of this comes from the University’s attempt to solve a different issue; the emphasis that the preparatory schools of the time placed on passing the entrance exam to Princeton, rather than actually being successful at Princeton. Given that the exam required proficiency in Latin and Greek literature among other subjects, the playing field was very much tipped against public high school graduates. Those that did succeed, however, demonstrated a greater aptitude for academic success than the prep students studying solely for the entrance exam. This was the driving force behind Princeton’s change towards a more holistic application process. Out of a desire to have a more academically elite class arose (almost ironically) the opportunity for students who would have been unable to matriculate otherwise, to do so. Indeed, they demonstrated that they do belong there.
But of course, disparities and opportunities between populations at Princeton still exist, whether they be economic or identity-based. Over 70% of Princeton students come from the highest-earning 20% of families in the United States, according to data from 2017. This observable trend has been fairly consistent since graduating classes in the 2000’s, even in spite of initiatives of that time to promote the enrollment of students from diverse socioeconomic backgrounds. I keep this in the back of my mind as I consider the massive revamping of the financial aid program for the 2023-2024 school year and beyond. Once again there are promises of bolstering “socioeconomic diversity”; nevertheless, that is not an indication that these students will feel supported or even treated equally at this institution, should they even be accepted.
The Honor Code, a supposed great equalizer in the pursuit of academic integrity, is not immune to this. Students found guilty of academic dishonesty who are suspended for a period of time are not permitted to use financial aid to support their cost of attendance when they return. This, of course, has a disproportionate impact on lower-income students who otherwise would not have the opportunity to attend Princeton. This undue strain placed on disenfranchised students is both financial and psychological, one that goes well beyond the conclusions of Honor Code proceedings. One that they must bear the burden of for the rest of their time at Princeton. This mentality of sinking or swimming, of powering through one’s mental distress to achieve success, forms one of the many components of the mental health crisis that is plaguing Princeton students to this day. It is sustained by our community, by our regulations, and even by our very own University president. This rhetoric is dangerous. And FLI students are among the most severely impacted by it.
Graduate Record of Leonard Zachariah Johnson, 1903
“The whole temper and tradition of [Princeton] are such that no negro has ever applied for admission, and it seems extremely unlikely that the question will ever assume a practical form.”
–Woodrow Wilson, 1904
In many records and sources, James Everett Ward and Arthur Jewell Wilson Jr. (both taking part in a naval training program) are commemorated as two of Princeton’s first African American graduates. Such a significant moment in Princeton’s history, however, wasn’t marked by a key event or turning point. There was not a recognition of systemic inequality that the University committed to remedying; rather, an opportunity arose through a military training program. Even more importantly, there were black students before who were the “firsts” of their time, as is the case with Leonard Johnson. And even worse, Black students who never had the opportunity to be “firsts”. When I think of the latter, I think of Bruce Wright, a would-be Princeton student in the 1930s that was turned away by the Dean of Admissions upon his arrival; “if you’re trying to come here, you’re going someplace where you’re not wanted.” When pressed further by Wright about his choice, Dean Heermance wrote in a letter to him that despite “very pleasant relations with [his] race”, he did not think Wright would be happy at Princeton, given its status as the “Southern Ivy.” Wright’s response in the margins of the letter:
“Damn the pleasant relationships, want to go to college.”
Furthermore, what does it mean to be the first Black… anything? Does it galvanize efforts on behalf of the University to continue its efforts of diversity, equality, and inclusion? Or is it merely a means treated as an end? Recent news and my own stories, unfortunately, make me consider the latter to be a possibility. While President Eisgruber cites the importance of affirmative action in maintaining and bolstering diversity at Princeton (which I 100% agree with), DEI initiatives at Princeton appear to suffer from administrative constraints and push-back. The University touts its countless learning opportunities, organizations, and resources all in the name of being inclusive. Yet each of those can be met with a story or incident on campus where students were made to feel alienated or disenfranchised because of their identity, which is believed to be so sacred to Princeton. Thus, what is the end goal of Princeton’s DEI efforts? Is it a numbers game? A matter of prestige?
I had a conversation with an African American Studies professor about the “forgotten firsts” at Princeton, and she shared with me an anecdote about a conversation she heard at a past Princeton Reunions. In a large audience of Black alumni, she heard the words, “I was told I was the first Black doctoral graduate from Princeton in my field. I didn’t know at the time that I’d be the last.” I do not wish to entertain the narrative of “a University gone woke” that a rather vocal subset of Princeton’s community claims to be silenced by via progressive activists. Rather, this is a conversation about Princeton and the support and resources that it provides to those in need. Inclusion is an ongoing process that doesn’t stop when a target is reached. The story of the last underrepresented graduate in anything should not be a story that needs to be told.
I hope to further explore Princeton’s obsession with the symbol of being first and being inclusive, as well as the evanescent promises that come with such a distinction, in Part Two of this article.
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