{"id":1087,"date":"2026-10-20T17:19:41","date_gmt":"2026-10-20T21:19:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn449-f26\/?p=1087"},"modified":"2026-10-20T17:19:41","modified_gmt":"2026-10-20T21:19:41","slug":"pardon-my-ribaldry","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn449-f26\/pardon-my-ribaldry\/","title":{"rendered":"Pardon My Ribaldry"},"content":{"rendered":"

The room was far from quiet. The cacophony of drilling and hammering woke me in a daze. \u201cWhat the fuck?\u201d I exclaimed, still half-asleep, while my classmate sharing the adjacent bed snored just as loudly as the construction, though I was careful not to wake him while dressing myself in yesterday\u2019s unwashed clothes. I am truly cursed by my own ingratitude, and cursed still further by the awareness of it\u2014my complimentary hotel breakfast, on my complimentary class trip, courtesy of my complimentary tuition. I should welcome whatever inconvenience hotel maintenance sees fit to subject me to.<\/span><\/p>\n

Like the cold eggs, or the displayed carcinogenic deli meats held at the same temperature. I ate them, of course, and when finished, set my plate aside, signaling to the waitstaff that it was ready for retrieval, while drinking my machine-dispensed \u201cCaf\u00e9 Latte,\u201d whatever that means. I don\u2019t speak German; however, Vanessa, the German translator hired by the university to mitigate the language barrier, speaks fluently.<\/span><\/p>\n

Vanessa sat across from me at breakfast.<\/span><\/p>\n

She is a kind woman. Contemplative and well-mannered, yet I sense it unwise to cross her.<\/span><\/p>\n

Estar joined Vanessa and me soon after.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cStary,\u201d as she prefers to be addressed, is a faculty member at the university. Despite speaking with her for several hours on the first night of our trip, I failed to ask enough questions to know much about her. For the majority of that evening, I spoke <\/span>at<\/span><\/i> her. Perhaps that should not be considered a conversation since I wanted her to think highly of me, or, at the very least, not think too little of me\u2014a theme consistent throughout my life, and evident in my relationship with Deborah, whose approval I desperately seek.<\/span><\/p>\n

Professor Deborah Amos, or \u201cDeb\u201d as she permitted us to call her, is a short-haired, short-statured, long-time international journalist framed by her uncommonly striking glasses, one of many fashion commonalities we share, as we humorously discovered on the first day of our trip when we both arrived dressed in Canadian tuxedos.<\/span><\/p>\n

Our final itinerary outlined the relevant tours our class was scheduled to participate in, along with the specific day each student was assigned a \u201cWriter\/Editor\u201d role, yet neglected our unfashionable failure to coordinate outfits.<\/span><\/p>\n

Every morning, each student is tasked with editing a blog post submitted the previous night by one of their peers. Tonight was my night, this was my morning, and, assisted by Vanessa, Stary, and Deb, who followed shortly behind Stary to the breakfast table, I edited the works of my three fellow classmates.<\/span><\/p>\n

The carefully chosen words my peer produced, only comprehensible under the influence of the Caf\u00e9 Latte, were subject to our criticism for over an hour, while I thought to myself, \u201cWow, this is good,\u201d as I read his post. \u201cI want to be like this. I want to write <\/span>good<\/span><\/i> too.\u201d I want my linguistic gifts to be recognized and praised for their hyperspecificity, audacious yet cautionary, uncontested in my competition for greatness, with an unyielding aim for appreciation, revered by classmates whom I senior, awed by those who senior me, and produced effortlessly.<\/span><\/p>\n

But this would require effort on my part, demonstrating what separates uninspired writing from the kind produced only through vulnerability. Perhaps my vulnerability, still undecided about whether to be continued, wary of the sharp knife of criticism, and sheltered behind sardonic wordplay, will extend beyond this blog post. Perhaps I should welcome whatever inconvenience this course sees fit to subject me to.<\/span><\/p>\n

Perhaps I am trying too fucking hard in this effort, while not one joke I’ve written thus far has landed to the audience for whom they are written.<\/span><\/p>\n

Or perhaps I should pardon my ribaldry.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The room was far from quiet. The cacophony of drilling and hammering woke me in a daze. \u201cWhat the fuck?\u201d I exclaimed, still half-asleep, while my classmate sharing the adjacent bed snored just as loudly as the construction, though I was careful not to wake him while dressing myself in yesterday\u2019s unwashed clothes. I am<\/p>\n

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