My alarm clock roused me at 5:15 am and, by 6:10 I was outside the dorm, on my way to catch a train to New York City. In my sleep deprived stupor, I noted three sophomoric lads ending their night out. What was I doing out at this hour?

After a quick sigh, I met my fellow student and workshop partner, Laura Winn, and boarded the train, uncertain of exactly what awaited me. The workshop we were scheduled to run at a Queens middle school was a preparation for the students attending “The Crucible,” recently opened on Broadway with Liam Neeson and Laura Linney. I wasn’t sure a rousing discussion of witch hunts, hysteria and people being executed for upholding their beliefs was going to go over well with these eighth graders at 9 am.

After a 45 minute drive from HAI’s SoHo offices to Ozone Park, Queens, my partner and I arrived at MS 202 nervous but confident in our ability to manage and entertain 30 thirteen year olds for 45 minutes.

I have never felt so old in my life.

I left middle school seven years ago, and I walked up to the dingy door, thinking, “Ah, the old days come rushing back!” Lockers, bag lunches, and my Trapper Keeper. Yet I was met immediately by a police officer who told me I had to sign in with an ID. We passed two more guards who directed traffic between class and issued tardy slips to the lagging students. Sad, I thought, to go to school under martial-like rules.

The workshop began without a hitch. The thirty were divided into 2 groups of fifteen. All went well until I looked up and realized that I was surrounded by fourteen 8th grade GIRLS! When I asked them why no boys had joined us, one girl responded, “Cause they stupid and ugly.” Well, that settled that.

The point of our workshop was to convey to the kids a sense of what it meant to be singled out, how rumors get started, etc. I thought it would be a good idea to play the game “Telephone” to give an example of how messages are confused, leading to rumors and possible hysteria. I started with something inane like “The dog has red spots,” which produced “I heard you go boom,” after being filtered through thirteen-year-old brains. We played again and then paused to have a discussion and do some role-playing.

A third game of telephone was requested by my increasingly enthusiastic fans. Amid a flurry of giggles and whispers between friends, the result came out, “Shake what yo’ mama gave you.” It was as if the Lord had descended to the stage of MS 202 and made them all move in unison at this command. The girls lapsed into a bout of bootylicious, ready-for-this-jelly dance, the likes of which I had never seen before.

But perhaps the most rewarding moment was when a girl approached me at the end of the workshop. She had not spoken at all during the hour. She tugged my shirt sleeve and asked, “Where is Princeton?” Rarely do words give me pause as these did. I told her, she nodded, smiled and walked away. Since then, the scene has haunted, or rather, enchanted me.

I ask you, where is Princeton? Where is the spirit of Princeton? Is it in debates between campus organizations? Is it in a night spent partying with friends? Yes, it is. But we students often run the risk of forgetting that Princeton extends beyond Fitzrandolph Gate. We need to remember the people outside “the bubble.”

Our country needs to smile a little bit and to remember the simple joys that can come from sitting in a theater and watching a play. I also promise you that a child who can still smile after the world has crashed down around him or her would be more than happy to get to know a Princeton student. We students can rediscover where Princeton is. Princeton is in New York. It is in Queens at MS 202. It is in the mind of every child who smiles during an Arts Alive! workshop. It is wherever we dare to take it.

Michael Ritter is an English major from Athens, GA
He can be reached at mritter@princeton.edu