The Cost of Inclusion: How Student Conformity Leads to Inequality on College Campuses 9780226704197

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The Cost of Inclusion

The Cost of Inclusion: How Student Conformity Leads to Inequality on College Campuses

Blake R. Silver The University of Chicago Press :: Chicago and London

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2020 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact the University of Chicago Press, 1427 E. 60th St., Chicago, IL 60637. Published 2020 Printed in the United States of America 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20

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isbn-13: 978-0-226-70386-2 (cloth) isbn-13: 978-0-226-70405-0 (paper) isbn-13: 978-0-226-70419-7 (e-book) doi: https://doi.org/10.7208/chicago/978-0-226-70419-7.001.0001 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Silver, Blake R., author. Title: The cost of inclusion : how student conformity leads to inequality on college campuses / Blake R. Silver. Description: Chicago : University of Chicago Press, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: lccn 2019050516 | isbn 9780226703862 (cloth) | isbn 9780226704050 (paperback) | isbn 9780226704197 (ebook) Subjects: lcsh: College integration—United States. | Social integration— United States. | College students—United States—Social conditions. | Equality—United States. | Educational equalization—United States. Classification: lcc lc205 .s55 2020 | ddc 378.1/98—dc23 lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019050516 This paper meets the requirements of ansi/niso z39.48–1992 (Permanence of Paper).

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In Search of Inclusion Part One: The Cookie-Cutter Self Caregivers and the Landscape of Need Managers, Educators, and the Dividends of Authority Entertainers, Associates, and the Struggle for Liminal Connections

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Part Two: The Physics of Social Inclusion Role Inertia Centrifugal Pressure and Centripetal Elevation Learning from the Exceptions

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Acknowledgments Appendix A: Study Participants Appendix B: A Note on Methods Notes References Index

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In Search of Inclusion After months of coordination and anticipation, the morning of August 29 arrived. On that day, the gears of East State University, which had clicked along at a steady pace throughout the summer months, began to grind with surprising force. The start of the fall semester coincided with the return of familiar faces—faculty, staff, administrators, sophomores, juniors, and seniors—as well as the arrival of several thousand new students. Walking across campus, I was greeted by the trappings of ESU’s Welcome Week. Multicolored flyers adorned bulletin boards lining the hallways of academic buildings and the campus student unions. Each one communicated an opportunity to become immersed in campus life. Large posters featuring smiling groups of young people instructed students to “get connected,” “be involved,” and “make some friends.”1 Faculty and staff stationed at kiosks around campus told students about residence hall cookouts and intramural sports registration. Even the sidewalk, peppered with chalk graffiti, invited students to participate in dozens of recreational events. Scheduled at frequent intervals, these events included music, games, food, free T-shirts, and inflatable bounce houses. As it turned out, Welcome Week was a bit of a misnomer. Nine days later, the festivities were still in full swing as the university kicked off its annual student

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organization fair. A hundred banner-adorned tables lined the campus quad and three adjoining sidewalks. There were stations for the debate team, sororities, an art club, and community service groups. Someone had even deposited a stationary rowing machine on a grassy square claimed for the Crew Club. Meanwhile, the university’s student activities office circulated a series of videos on social media encouraging new students to become socially engaged at East State. Clips set to music showed young people careening down a water slide, dancing in the campus quad, throwing Frisbees near the dormitories, and playing trumpets at a pep rally. These events and artifacts formed the backdrop for a university-sanctioned social landscape filled with new people and new opportunities. Throughout this protracted greeting, ESU underscored the importance of becoming socially involved in college. Students were assured that social experiences would “enrich you,” “make you a better person,” and “enhance your college experience and the rest of your life.”2 Many of these claims linked social involvement to ambiguously defined markers of success. A campus website featuring hundreds of student-led organizations noted vaguely that “campus engagement” would “help you succeed as a student.” An ESU instructor told her class that extracurricular groups were great places to belong away from home. While the exact formula for successful involvement was unclear, university personnel drew causal connections between social engagement, feelings of belonging, student retention, and self-actualization. Over the course of those first days of the fall semester, I met dozens of students. With few exceptions, the messages about the importance of social involvement resonated with them. They described searching for “a fit,” “a social niche,” or—perhaps most frequently—“connections” in a community of their peers. A student named Andre talked about looking for a “foundational group of friends,” while Chase proclaimed that social involvement was a way to gain “a sense of belonging, a sense of commonality.” These students responded enthusiastically to ESU’s call for involvement. Inclusion and its emotional byproduct, a sense of belonging, became deeply meaningful as they began to weave the fabric of their new social world. But as many soon realized, finding inclusion in this context would come at a significant cost. Though they were earnest in their pursuit of social involvement, these students were ill prepared for the challenges ahead. As this journey began, they found little guidance for navigating the trials of social engagement.

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The Elevation of Social Involvement In her ethnographic account of the first year of college, anthropologist Rebekah Nathan observes that sociability is the driving force in student culture.3 This was certainly the case at ESU. A casual visitor to the campus may have been surprised by the degree to which social life occupied the physical and cognitive energy of students. Such an emphasis is not entirely new in higher education, but evidence suggests that over the past century, the amount of time college students allocate to social engagement has increased substantially, eclipsing academic effort.4 In their book Academically Adrift, Richard Arum and Josipa Roksa find that college students devote a substantial portion of their time to social and recreational activities—more than three times as much as they spend in class and studying.5 Today, the majority of students perceive that their social lives are at least as important as their academic experiences, and in many cases more important.6 Notably, though, it’s not just students who emphasize extracurricular involvement in higher education. Postsecondary institutions themselves play a key role in framing college as a place to socialize.7 As federal and state funding of higher education declines, reliance on tuition—for public and private colleges alike—amplifies pressures to treat students as consumers.8 And institutions have become sensitive to the fact that their collegiate consumers expect to have a good time. Colleges thus provide a social context that caters to diversions with peers. Student activity centers and luxury athletic complexes, complete with climbing walls and lazy rivers, have become symbols of the “amenities arms race” engaged in by universities nationwide in their efforts to attract students.9 Likewise, higher education is home to myriad formal and informal extracurricular groups. Fraternities, sororities, intercollegiate athletics, and their corresponding party scenes are dominant forces in campus life.10 And yet, college involvement is not confined to Greek-letter organizations and game-day tailgating. Other extracurricular activities play an important role in generating opportunities for young people to engage socially. Student programs, interest-based organizations, intramural sports, and cultural events are just a few types of involvement that provide places to connect with peers. Although alcohol-fueled parties rarely receive explicit university endorsements, these other activities usually come with a clear stamp of approval from faculty, staff, and administrators.11 Student affairs scholars and practitioners were among the first to illuminate the importance of social involvement in college, elevating

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extracurricular pursuits alongside academic engagement.12 Sustained interest in students’ social experiences emerged in the early 1900s in response to high attrition rates and the difficulties many young people faced adjusting to college.13 Groups like the American College Personnel Association claimed that a focus on student experiences would both support retention and cultivate students who were prepared for the challenges of college and life more broadly.14 Eventually, a corresponding body of scholarly research and theory developed, demonstrating the benefits of extracurricular involvement in higher education.15 A key component of this work links social integration in college to quantitative measures of student success. It was sociologist Vincent Tinto who sparked the foundational research in this area. Tinto argued that just as academic integration was vital for student persistence in college, social integration was another key predictor of a student’s intention to remain enrolled.16 Expanding on his work, others have shown that young people who become socially integrated in college and perceive that they belong on campus tend to perform better academically and complete their degrees at higher rates. Conversely, students who struggle to adjust socially often become disengaged and are more likely to drop out before completing their studies.17 In line with this research, college students today are told that finding a place where they can connect with peers is crucial.18 Those who fit in with other students are expected to be retained, get good grades, and eventually complete their degrees. Extracurricular activity is also framed as an avenue toward personal growth.19 According to this perspective, while academic engagement holds the promise of supporting critical thinking, complex reasoning, and other kinds of intellectual development, the growth that happens in tandem with social involvement is more personal, relating to how students fashion and refine their identity or sense of self.20 Incoming students hear about the ways that being socially involved in college will provide outlets for their self-discovery and self-actualization.21 Phrases like “find your passion,” “become a leader,” and “be a team player” adorn college websites, bulletin boards, and brochures. These calls to action can often be found alongside pictures of students throwing a Frisbee or gathering on the campus quad. In short, colleges have drawn from theories of social integration and student development to craft a simple message for students: social involvement isn’t just fun—it’s a crucial part of college success. As students enter higher education, they are encouraged to set out on a quest to find a social home among peers.

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And yet, critical scholars have begun to problematize the simplicity of this wisdom. Many have critiqued the models articulated by Tinto and others, suggesting that they represent an assimilationist approach to inclusion that places the onus on individual students to conform in order to find belonging.22 Others have similarly noted that traditional models of student development fail to capture the complexity of identity or the diversity of contemporary college enrollments.23 In responding to these critiques, scholars of higher education have worked to resuscitate theories of social integration and student development over the past two decades.24 These scholars take classical theories and expand them to address more diverse student populations, incorporating the experiences of first-generation college students, women, racial/ethnic minorities, second-generation immigrants, and lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) students, to name a few. Some have advocated for reforming Tinto’s theory by “replacing the term integration with connection,” based on the premise that the term connection conveys the importance of inclusion without implying a need to assimilate or to dissociate from one’s family or cultural identity.25 These critiques and revisions underscore the need to pay closer attention to different models for, experiences with, and outcomes of social engagement on college campuses. Young people like Andre and Chase frequently seek out commonality in social groups, looking for others with shared hobbies or interests. However, according to student development theory, much of the developmental potential of extracurricular involvement comes not from bonding over similarities but instead from sustained engagement with difference. Encountering difference—in terms of race, gender, social class, sexual orientation, ability, nationality, religion, political affiliation, and a whole host of other sociodemographic characteristics—represents an opportunity to break out of one’s usual social script, disrupting the cultural autopilot that guides day-to-day interactions in more homogeneous circles.26 Accessible institutions enrolling students from a diverse range of backgrounds position themselves as providers of these kinds of experiences. Over those first days of the fall semester, as I watched a sea of new students converging at ESU, I wondered about the weeks and months that lay ahead of them. I couldn’t help but notice that among the flyers, videos, and information kiosks was no primer on how inclusion would happen. While colleges convey clearly that students should become socially involved, they often fail to discuss the strategies by which they might do so. How would these students navigate a new social

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landscape? Would all of them find friends and feel like they belonged? Would they grow and develop in the process, as theory suggests? Coming from a range of backgrounds, possessing a range of identities, how would these young people build communities together? And what might they have to give up along the way? Exploring the Social Landscape of College The contours of this book are shaped by the students of East State University.27 Many studies of higher education focus on a small fraction of the postsecondary educational landscape—highly selective and often elite institutions.28 ESU is a different kind of place. Its status as a relatively affordable public university, and its acceptance rate of approximately 80 percent, places it among a group of broadly accessible institutions whose mission is to promote social mobility and educational access. Additionally, nearly 60 percent of the university’s twenty thousand undergraduate students identify with a racial or ethnic minority group.29 In other words, unlike predominantly White institutions, ESU primarily serves racial/ethnic minority students. Some refer to colleges and universities with this type of profile as majority minority institutions. East State is similarly diverse in terms of socioeconomic status. Lowincome students comprise 30 percent of the student body, and 40 percent of the students are the first in their families to attend a four-year university.30 Additionally, 51 percent identify as female. As undergraduate study increasingly becomes the assumed next step for broader populations of high school graduates, these types of institutions—large public institutions, not Ivies and elite liberal arts schools—represent the future of higher education. Four-year public colleges and universities already make up the largest sector of the higher education landscape.31 And most of these institutions, like ESU, are relatively accessible. East State is situated in the suburbs of a large Mid-Atlantic city. The largest of the university’s three student union buildings, the ESU Student Center, sits at the heart of an expansive campus that is cut off from the surrounding town. Trees and student housing line the perimeter of State Circle, a one-and-a-half-mile loop that encloses most of the ninety campus buildings. In the ten years preceding my research, the university completed the construction of ten new luxury residence halls with capacity for nearly three thousand additional students, and added nineteen new dining options, including a Starbucks, a Panera, and a Steak ’n Shake. ESU also boasts four gymnasiums, three of which were built or

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renovated in recent years. These facilities offer an expansive landscape for students to socialize and have fun. The argument laid out in the pages that follow is drawn from the findings of a year-long ethnographic study involving 158 ESU students. In the fall of 2016, I became a participant-observer in three groups: (1) a Learning Community composed of students interested in social justice who lived together on a residence hall floor and shared a class each semester; (2) the Cardio Club, a group of students focused on physical fitness and intercollegiate competition; and (3) the Volunteer Collective, a student organization with a mission of providing service to children in Central America.32 These groups became my window on campus life as I chronicled the day-to-day interactions of their members. In some ways, I became a college student again—a fairly involved one, in fact. I immersed myself in the campus dining halls, library, gymnasiums, student unions, and dormitories. I took part in eight o’clock morning workouts, ten o’clock movie nights, bake sales, and study groups. And at the end of each day, I returned home to an apartment I rented just a half mile from campus in a building occupied mostly by third- and fourth-year ESU students. Situating myself within each of these groups, I watched intently as students sought to make connections with one another and develop a sense of belonging. Over the course of the year, I learned a great deal about how they drew from interactional strategies and cultural assumptions to create identities and connect with peers. My approach to understanding these elements of social life was facilitated in part by the work of Erving Goffman, who used metaphors of the theater to interpret face-to-face interaction. He imagined that the relationship of “performers” to their “audience” could be understood through the lens of social roles, which he described as “parts [that] may be presented by the performer on a series of occasions” that draw from “pre-established pattern[s] of action.”33 Social actors engage in a process of impression management, through which understandings of the perceptions of one’s audience are used to calibrate and recalibrate performance. In doing so, they take part in what Goffman called strategic interaction, whereby the back-and-forth of an encounter is carefully managed to present oneself in a positive light.34 Scholars studying youth and K–12 schools have drawn from Goffman’s work to shed light on the vast web of cultural meanings that are generated in social interaction.35 In this endeavor, they have often paired Goffman’s approach to examining face-to-face encounters with a social-psychological attentiveness to identity and meaning-making. Rather than focusing on interactions as their unit of

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analysis, these scholars examine the experiences youth have and the identity work they accomplish in social encounters.36 I expand on their work by using this theoretical approach to understand the production of identity and inequality in higher education. While firsthand observations were invaluable, it became clear that in addition to watching students interact with one another, I needed a way to understand their thoughts and perspectives. I needed to see what extracurricular groups looked like from their vantage points. I needed to hear how students described their behaviors and perceived those of others. I needed to understand what their friendships meant to them and how it felt to be in their shoes. So in the spring semester as I continued participant observation, I also began conducting interviews with first-year students.37 Eventually, I would speak with eighty of them. Approximately a quarter of these students were members of one of the three groups I observed, but the rest were new to the study. Involved in over 150 different formal and informal campus groups, they offered insights that extended beyond the Cardio Club, the Learning Community, and the Volunteer Collective. Their perspectives provided a glimpse into a much broader swath of campus life as they described what it was like to join new social groups, try to make friends, and manage how others would perceive them. They candidly shared the pain and the elation that were woven throughout their experiences along the way. Through the combination of participant observation and interviews, I came to interact with a diverse group of students (see appendix A), an unusual accomplishment for a study of this sort. Given its prevalent focus on elite institutions, existing qualitative research on higher education tends to rely on samples biased toward affluent students from upper-middle-class, often White families. Some of the studies that do explore class variation consider the experiences of women but not men.38 Heeding calls for intersectional research on student experiences, I aimed to include individuals who would help me parse the overlapping of various sociodemographic characteristics.39 Slightly more than half the participants identified as women. In terms of racial identity, 53 percent were racial/ethnic minorities (including 13 percent who identified as Asian, 21 percent as Black, 15 percent as Latino/a, and 4 percent as multiracial or as members of another ethnic minority group) and 47 percent were White.40 Finally, based on a confluence of parental education, occupation, and family structure, I classified 48 percent of the students as less socioeconomically advantaged and 52 percent as more socioeconomically advantaged. As sociologist Patricia Hill Collins notes, an intersectional lens al-

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lows us to understand how “particular forms of intersecting oppressions, for example, intersections of race and gender, or of sexuality and nation,” shape lived experiences.41 In other words, efforts to isolate a “race effect” or a “gender effect” miss how categories such as race and gender interact to shape experience in unique ways. After I entered social groups at ESU, it became clear to me that—just as theories of intersectionality would suggest—the distribution of power on campus, experiences of social involvement, and students’ construction of self were impacted by multiple “axes that work together and influence each other.”42 Specifically, the intersections of race and gender were highly influential in shaping students’ experiences in social groups. Having a diverse sample revealed how students’ approaches to social interaction were informed by intersectional meanings related to self-presentation. Notably, while I also explored the intersections of class with race and gender, it became apparent that once students found social groups, class was not central to shaping interaction and self-presentation.43 Appendix B offers a more thorough account of my methodological approach to this research. Inequality in Student Experiences The dataset I collected over the course of this ethnographic study provides unique insights. Historically, educational disparities were studied by looking at rates of access to and completion of various levels of education.44 More recently, scholars have begun to articulate a more complex relationship between education and inequality, focusing in particular on students’ experiences within institutions. This research highlights one of the most unsettling insights of social science: even when students from across racial/ethnic groups and class backgrounds attend the same schools, inequality persists. The goalposts of success move as another set of social forces stratify educational experiences within schools. Reflected in theories such as effectively maintained inequality, this phenomenon can be seen when educational disparities develop not just quantitatively (in terms of the numbers of years of education completed) but also qualitatively (in terms of differences in experiences at the same level of education and even within the same institutions).45 Theories of within-school differentiation and the mechanisms that foster it were first advanced in studies of K–12 education. The prevalence of tracking, whereby some students are funneled into more rigorous and higher-status classes (i.e., “honors” or “advanced”) while others are pushed toward remedial or developmental coursework, means

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that students in the same schools frequently have divergent educational experiences. Propped up by parental efforts to hoard opportunities for their own children as well as the practices of teachers and administrators, these within-school inequities negatively impact working-class and racial/ethnic minority students alike.46 Even in the very same classrooms, middle- and upper-middle-class children gain advantages by using cultural resources to monopolize the attention of teachers.47 Social environments in K–12 schools are also highly stratified. Exclusive youth subcultures offer some students access to high-status social cliques conferring power and dominance, while others are subjected to harassment and exclusion.48 With limited control over economic resources, students find meaning in behaviors, dress, speech patterns, and taste in popular culture in order to craft identity as part of distinct peer groups. In this way, they strategically build similarities and differences between themselves and others.49 Expectations of gendered, raced, and classed behaviors shape peer approval and access to desirable social networks.50 Gaining entry into a specific school thus does not end inequality. All too frequently, disparities simply move from existing between institutions to reemerging within them. Although the literature on inequality within K–12 schools is well developed, just ten years ago sociologist Mitchell Stevens and his colleagues lamented a lack of comparable research in higher education.51 Studies documented important factors influencing inequality in college outcomes, including students’ majors, GPAs, enrollment status (full versus part time), and pathways through college.52 And yet, students’ lived experiences on campus were often neglected.53 In recent years, however, sociologists of higher education have responded to the call for research on student experiences, moving beyond large quantitative studies of college entry and outcomes to talk with students directly.54 In the process, valuable insights have been uncovered about how inequality is reproduced in higher education.55 This expanding literature shows how notable disparities are generated as college students become part of the campus social scene. Sociologist Jenny Stuber illuminates the obstacles working-class students encounter in finding and joining extracurricular outlets. More affluent students enter college anticipating that they will be heavily involved in such outlets. Meanwhile, working-class students have less information about how to become involved and tend to focus on engagement in fewer groups, often devoting additional effort to maintaining friendship ties in their home communities.56 Elizabeth Armstrong and Laura Hamilton push this line of inquiry further, uncovering mechanisms that restrict

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students’ progress through college. They show how different pathways shape connections to campus social life and fraternity/sorority membership in particular. Class-based resources impact students’ abilities to gain entry into these extracurricular outlets and to balance social and academic commitments. Some students are embraced by the campus social scene, some struggle to keep up, and some are relegated to invisibility, cast out of the core of college life.57 Researchers have likewise uncovered racial and gender disparities in college social involvement. Sociologist Janice McCabe finds notable variation in the structure of social networks by race and gender. By unpacking the consequences of these differences, she shows that not all social experiences are equally helpful for college success. Rather, the types of friendship networks students have on campus—tight-knit groups or individual friends extending across multiple social circles, for instance—shape inequality in feelings of social support as well as in academic outcomes.58 Other survey- and interview-based studies have found significant disparities in perceptions of campus climate and feelings of belonging. In colleges around the country, female and racial/ ethnic minority students report encounters with negative stereotypes, microaggressions, and harassment.59 Racist attitudes and beliefs remain prevalent among White college students, and racial/ethnic minorities frequently feel isolated on campus.60 Additionally, female students describe confronting rigid standards around the performance of sexuality that constrain their experiences in the campus party and hookup scenes.61 Marginalized by race and/or gender, these young people frequently feel less agency over their identities and how they are perceived by others.62 Cumulatively, these insights underscore the need to take a closer look at students’ day-to-day experiences with extracurricular involvement, particularly their experiences within social groups. Such efforts have the potential to clarify how inequalities in college experiences are produced in interaction. To do this, I avoid the temptation to look in the obvious places. Several accounts of college life—some scholarly, some sensationalistic—focus on fraternities and sororities, organizations that have inequality written into their very existence.63 Others analyze exclusive college subcultures like Division I athletics or elite social clubs.64 In contrast, I look at broader segments of the college social scene, shining light on inequalities in students’ experiences across common activities, ranging from club sports to campus organizations and living-learning communities. How is inequality generated in a group of students who do community service? Are the most selfless members also the most valued? Who fits in with a Learning Community? Which members feel

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a sense of belonging? And who gets to be in charge? What about a Cardio Club? Does the fastest or the strongest take the lead? What if that student is a woman? Answering these questions took me into the heart of campus social life. The Cost of Inclusion When I arrived at ESU, I expected to find students who were socially engaged and having fun in group settings. I wasn’t disappointed. Heeding the messages conveyed by university personnel, the students sought inclusion and its emotive counterpart, a sense of belonging. In the process, they were living out their expectations of college involvement. Or so it seemed. However, it didn’t take long for me to realize that something was amiss. As I settled in, eager to observe how students interacted with one another, I noticed a pervasive and unsettling strategy. Students were presenting themselves in highly simplistic ways, as stereotypes rather than complex individuals. To fit in among new peers, they clung to raced and gendered meanings about behavior, becoming “the cool guy,” “the nice girl,” “the funny one,” “the leader,” “the intellectual,” or “the mom” of the group. In essence, they crafted and adhered to a cookiecutter self, one that was rigid, predictable, and two-dimensional. Examples of these simplistic identities could be found in the Learning Community, where I met Rhonda, Fred, and Emily. As these students worked to feel included, each adopted a version of the cookie-cutter self. Rhonda, a Black student, staked out an identity as a caregiver, offering support to those in need. Through the care she provided, she came to occupy a central place in the community. Students approached her for comfort, and at social gatherings she was embraced by appreciative peers. Yet maintaining this perpetually caring social style wasn’t always easy, and Rhonda described being vigilant to monitor her selfpresentation around peers. Whereas supporting others cultivated intimacy, she knew that their approval was contingent on her adherence to raced and gendered expectations for behavior. Rhonda avoided exercising authority or demonstrating intelligence. She contrasted “speaking up” and “telling [people] something” with being caring, conveying her impression that she was unable to do both. In introducing himself to the Learning Community, a White student named Fred described his interest in a variety of topics ranging from politics to gender inequality to literature. He knew a great deal about these subjects and many more. Like Rhonda, he became a central member of the group. However, he achieved this centrality by doing the

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very thing that Rhonda felt restricted from doing—namely, sharing his knowledge with others. In short, Fred presented himself as an educator. In social interactions, he was frequently the center of attention as other students looked to him for wisdom and insight. Fred gave public presentations, made instructional videos, and shared his creative writing with an audience of attentive peers. Their encouragement amplified his sense of being a valued member of the community. In contrast, a White student named Emily was marginal in the Learning Community. Like other students, she put forward a simplistic version of herself, occupying the passive role of an associate. Agreeable but unobtrusive, she could usually be found standing or sitting silently on the outer edge of the group. Emily described her quiet demeanor in social settings, noting, “Sometimes, if I have something I really want to say, then I say it. Otherwise, I just kind of like to listen to everyone else.” In actively listening to others, she distributed positive attention among her peers. But despite being a dedicated and reliable participant, she didn’t receive the expressions of gratitude that Rhonda and Fred did. Instead, Emily experienced social life from the periphery, where she often felt invisible. As the days and weeks went on, she struggled to develop a sense of belonging in the group. These three students took very different approaches to selfpresentation as they built identities in conversation with the expectations of peers. And they subsequently had very different kinds of experiences. This book delves into the roles students took on, paying close attention to the resulting inequality in the social landscape of college. It also highlights the interactional strategies that produce the cookiecutter self and the social forces that maintain it. In total, five distinct social roles were generated as students tried to construct these cookiecutter identities. Table 1.1 describes the contours of each. Notably, students did not choose roles freely from a menu of options. Instead, cultural meanings attached to self-presentation constrained their performance at the intersections of race and gender. For instance, caregiving and passivity were inextricably tied up with femininity, while leadership and wisdom were associated with White masculinity. Humor and coolness, on the other hand, were linked to the marginalized masculinity of racial/ethnic minority men. These observations were troublesome to say the least. But as a believer in the developmental promise of higher education, I settled in, ready to watch students chart a course toward personal growth and self-actualization. I waited. And I waited a bit more. My initial patience and optimism faded as I became increasingly alarmed by the durability

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Table 1.1 Versions of the cookie-cutter self Role

Self-presentation

Raced and gendered associations

Associates

Quiet presence, following instructions, existing on the periphery of groups

Femininity and marginalized masculinity

Two styles: female associates are read as passive and agreeable, while male racial/ethnic minority associates are read as cool or aloof Caregivers

Caring, kind, warm, thoughtful, supportive, nurturing

Femininity

Educators

Intelligent, smart, wise, sharing knowledge and insight, engaging in deep conversations

White masculinity

Entertainers

Fun, funny, joking, pulling pranks, telling stories, performing tricks

Marginalized masculinity

Managers

Confident, assertive, giving direction, planning and carrying out events

White masculinity

of these roles. As the year progressed, Fred and Emily held fast to their cookie-cutter identities. Rhonda occasionally shifted her social performance. Yet each of these changes provoked hostility from her peers, who apparently preferred her more simplistic self-presentation. For instance, during a tense discussion one afternoon, Rhonda momentarily shed her caregiver style to take on authority and lecture her peers. She was ostracized from the group after this interaction, and it took several weeks before she could regain the approval of her peers by returning to her usual caring demeanor. Students discovered that it was easy to become stuck with the twodimensional selves they had fashioned. Maintaining group membership was contingent on conforming to expectations. Worse yet, the cookiecutter selves they adopted proved highly consequential in creating patterned stratification in social groups. Gaping disparities showed up in students’ abilities to sustain feelings of belonging, reproducing racial and gender inequality. This inequality became mapped onto the social landscape, dictating who sat where, who could give orders, and who told jokes. It was expressed in a language of exuberant laughter and strategic silence, distance and closeness, value and invisibility, pranks and hugs. This was a subtle language with tremendous consequence. A brief smile could offer the hope that a durable connection had been made, but an eye roll could be a devastating blow to one’s sense of worth. In the process, some students found themselves at the center

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of the social universe, while for others, simply being included was an ongoing struggle. As the experiences of these young people show, the cost of inclusion has many facets. To be part of the campus social landscape, students worked diligently to be liked by others, gave up opportunities for selfactualization, and limited themselves and their peers to narrow stereotypes. Some traded a sense of personal integrity for feelings of belonging; other students made similar concessions, only to remain marginal members of their groups. Moreover, students across a range of social locations engaged in daily interactions that reproduced pervasive patterns of inequality. In short, to become socially involved and make connections in college, a great deal was sacrificed. The Educational and Historical Context The findings of this book are grounded within a particular educational context. As noted earlier, the congregation of a diverse student body is in part a product of ESU’s space as an accessible four-year public university within the landscape of higher education. It is specifically in their engagement with diverse groups of peers that I find students falling back on stereotypes to craft identities. Though focusing on one institution limits generalizability to other types of postsecondary education, diverse four-year public colleges and universities are the institutional homes of vast numbers of students.65 Insofar as they provide a microcosm of the gender, racial, and class diversity of the United States, the insights gleaned from these settings may speak to broader issues of navigating diversity and difference. Moreover, it is particularly distressing to observe these stark experiential disparities in a setting with notable racial and class diversity. If these contexts are inhospitable for many students, the degree of marginalization experienced by minority groups may be even greater at less diverse institutions. The cookie-cutter self also sits within a particular historical context. While many public four-year universities like ESU are now recognized for their accessibility and diversity, the history of these kinds of institutions is more complicated. Most four-year institutions, public and private, began by serving primarily—and sometimes exclusively—White men, many of whom were highly affluent.66 Although the higher education landscape in the United States expanded throughout the 1800s, scholars observe that “there is little evidence to suggest that today’s concerns about broadly extending educational opportunity and equity were ever part of most 19th-century contemporaries’ thinking.”67 Over time,

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growing numbers of institutions changed course, admitting women and racial/ethnic minorities. Yet exclusionary policies and practices reproduced homogeneity on many college campuses throughout much of the twentieth century. Today, the remnants of exclusion can still be seen in persistent gender and racial disparities in student experiences within four-year colleges and universities.68 Further, until the early twentieth century, the relationship between universities and students was characterized by a doctrine referred to as in loco parentis, or “in the place of a parent.” In other words, colleges and universities were perceived to have a moral authority and obligation to regulate student behavior in the absence of parents.69 They were responsible for clarifying the meaning and purpose of higher education for students and ensuring their moral development. And yet as time passed, changes in the legal system coupled with cultural shifts undermined colleges’ capacities to serve as surrogate parents. Institutions responded by giving students greater autonomy, less guidance, and more choices for diversion.70 The product was a campus environment with a plethora of options for social engagement that were decoupled from institutional oversight.71 In other words, as colleges and universities moved away from acting in loco parentis, they ceded the spaces beyond classrooms—dormitories, dining halls, campus quads—to students. Postsecondary institutions’ abdication of responsibility for the social realm of college manifests in prominent ways. Perhaps most noticeably for my research was the manner in which students struggled to engage equitably in diverse groups. I draw from the work of sociologist Ann Swidler to make sense of the challenges these young people encountered. She proposed that culture be thought of as a “tool kit,” made up of perceptions, assumptions, and strategies of action, “which people may use in varying configurations to solve different kinds of problems.”72 During unsettled times or moments of transition, when individuals have to come up with new ways of dealing with the world around them, they lean more heavily on their existing cultural tools.73 As students leave their home communities and enter the new social world of college, they are in the midst of just such a moment of change. Put bluntly, the challenges they face should have been easy to anticipate. And yet over the course of my research, it became clear that these young people had been let down by higher education. Students entered social spaces without the tools to engage with one another as equals and were given little in the way of support. Without the benefit of intentionally structured resources, they fell back on racist and sexist cultural assump-

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tions to interact with others and had vastly different experiences. In the process, inequality flourished, and the personal growth and development they hoped for remained elusive. This book illuminates the dynamics of college life as students look for their place—and frequently find themselves stuck—in a social landscape ruled by stereotypes and cookie-cutter identities. Outline of the Book Following the thread of the overall argument, this book is divided into two parts. Part I explores the nature of the cookie-cutter self and its relation to raced and gendered cultural meanings. I show how each of the five roles the ESU students took on had a unique relationship to expressions of appreciation and value, which could serve to amplify or undermine feelings of belonging. Chapter 2 is devoted to students who positioned themselves as caregivers within their groups, a role reserved primarily for women. I argue that the college environment offered an intricate landscape of need. Given the plentiful supply of students requiring support, those who were willing to provide care were highly valued by their peers. I show that feeling valued in this way amplified some caregivers’ sense of belonging. But caring also carried significant costs. Nurturing peers was an arduous and time-intensive task, and women who positioned themselves as caregivers could be called on at virtually any time for support. For some students, this detracted from their own well-being, academic engagement, and self-actualization. In chapter 3, I explore the social performances of a group of students who were endowed with authority in their groups. This authority took one of two forms: the authority to lead or the authority to speak. Some students took on identities as managers, giving direction and taking charge. They shaped the day-to-day activities of their peers and were regarded as valuable for the direction they provided. Others positioned themselves as educators, emphasizing their authority to speak and convey knowledge. The attentiveness of peers solidified their place as central members of social groups. I argue that raced and gendered associations limited access to these styles of self-presentation to White men and endowed them with a durable sense of belonging. For other students, feeling belonging was not so easy. Chapter 4 delves into this issue. Male racial/ethnic minority students frequently carved out space for themselves as group entertainers. They told jokes, played pranks, and put on theatrical performances. Unlike caregivers, managers, and educators, however, their contributions were rarely

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appreciated by peers. I show how jokes and pranks functioned as a risky social currency. While they sometimes induced laughter, an illtimed prank or an edgy jab could also bring the wrath of peers. A fifth and final group of students positioned themselves as quiet followers, or what I call associates. Like entertainers, their contributions to groups were usually overlooked. In fact, the vast majority of the time, associates were invisible. In this chapter, I claim that features of these raced and gendered identity strategies limited their capacity to produce and sustain feelings of belonging. Entertainers and associates alike remained marginal figures in their social groups. Part II draws from the language of physics to lay out a framework for understanding how the inequality produced by adherence to the cookie-cutter self was maintained over time. Chapter 5 raises the question, Can change in self-presentation occur? The college social scene is characterized as a place for students to grow and develop. Yet I show that for the clear majority of students, adopting a simplistic identity meant sticking with it over time, a phenomenon I refer to as role inertia. This chapter unearths the mechanisms supporting role inertia. Relying on a combination of positive reinforcement and behavioral policing, students demanded consistency from one another, sustaining the cookie-cutter self. In chapter 6, I show that in the rarer instances where change in students’ self-presentation occurred, it happened in patterned ways. These patterns were propelled by twin social forces that I dub centrifugal pressure and centripetal elevation. Female and racial/ethnic minority students who tried to craft identities as managers or educators were blocked from doing so through the application of centrifugal pressure. Pushed toward the margins of group life, they frequently became entertainers or docile associates. On the other hand, White male students who initially occupied less central places in groups benefited from centripetal elevation, whereby the deference, encouragement, and mentorship of peers drew them into central roles with greater authority. These forces further stratified student experiences and emotions in social groups. After exploring the intricacies of these phenomena, I discuss their broader impact on patterned inequalities in college social groups. Finally, in chapter 7 I conclude by bringing together the insights of the preceding chapters to reflect on the implications of this work. Here I situate my findings in an ongoing conversation about the nature of higher education as a site for the contestation or reproduction of social inequality. I claim that understanding student interactions within social groups provides insight into the ways inequality gets generated, even

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after challenges related to access have been overcome. Drawing from the experiences of a few exceptional students—those who resisted the pull of the cookie-cutter self and refused to comply with centrifugal pressure—I explore potential avenues for reform. Only by adopting a new approach to the college social scene can postsecondary institutions hope to address the inequalities that flourish on their campuses. Just as others have called for greater intentionality in promoting learning in the classroom, I make a case for intentionality in the extracurricular realm.

2

Caregivers and the Landscape of Need “Y’all know how much I love babies,” Jamie announced with a smile. They did. Everyone knew. It was a cool afternoon in November, and I sat in a circle with twenty firstyear students from the Learning Community. Inside the residence hall lounge, the floor-to-ceiling windows let in a muted natural light. Six long tables on wheels had been crammed against the back wall beside stacks of folding chairs, making the room feel partially vacant despite the crowd. In a rare moment of serious reflection, the students were taking part in an activity in which they shared their life goals with one another. Jamie, whose turn it was to speak, elaborated on her statement, telling the group about her aspirations for life after college. She wanted to become a kindergarten teacher. In the meantime, she was getting some hands-on experience serving as a classroom assistant for an after-school program. Perpetually cheerful with distinctly southern speech and mannerisms, Jamie stood out in the Learning Community. Her blond hair fell around her face in ringlets freshly set loose from curlers. Freckles were obscured under a layer of foundation. Her carefully made-up features contrasted with the faded green T-shirt and jeans she liked to wear. As she spoke, Jamie reached into her frayed pink handbag, pulling out what appeared to be three books.

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She passed the stack to Rhonda, who sat to her right, while explaining that two of these were picture books she read to children at the after-school program. The third was a photo album given to her by the teacher she assisted. Glossy white with stray scraps of paper poking out from its edges, the overstuffed album was filled with crayon-scrawled notes and drawings from the children. Students passed these artifacts around the circle, flipping through pages and occasionally reacting with a chuckle or an amused grin. Concluding her presentation, Jamie reached into her bag once more, this time removing a handful of partially used sticker sheets. Holding them up, she announced, “And I have stickers! I love to give [the children] these when they do a good job or for arts and crafts.” As she finished speaking, Jamie paused and inhaled slowly, as if feeling the warmth of the room. Met by approving smiles, coos of “aww,” and a congratulatory squeeze around the shoulders from Rhonda, she knew she had hit the right note with her presentation. In her trademark way, she smiled softly and lowered her gaze to the floor. Jamie’s performance had been a success—at least on a social level. Technically, however, she had failed to clear the bar of the class assignment. When Elizabeth, the Learning Community’s program coordinator, had introduced the activity—which she aptly dubbed Past, Present, and Future—she informed the group that while the presentations were meant to be brief, they should be “insightful.” All the members, Elizabeth advised, had a story to tell about how they came to have the goals and dreams they possessed today. Past, Present, and Future presentations could be “really powerful experiences when done right,” she added. This was especially the case when students had the opportunity to learn something new about one another. Jamie’s presentation was clearly well received by her peers. And yet they had learned nothing new about who she was or who she wanted to be. Instead, she conveyed a message with which they were already familiar. Jamie expressed a version of herself that was straightforward and simple: she was the sort of person who cared. She cared about children, education, her family, and her peers in the Learning Community. She frequently told stories about the volunteer work she did at the afterschool program and the care she provided at home for her four younger siblings. Bernie, Jamie’s boyfriend who lived in the neighboring building, provided additional opportunities for her to demonstrate care. Large and frequently intoxicated, Bernie was perpetually in need of support. Jamie appeared eager to provide it—whether by cleaning up his vomit

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or by massaging his sore muscles. At group meetings she would sometimes sit behind Bernie, rubbing his shoulders or squeezing his waist. Attentive, thoughtful, and kind, Jamie was someone other students could count on for love and support at any time. For her classmates who were tired or overwhelmed, she offered affection and a listening ear. For those who sought comfort, she might provide a hot meal or a shoulder rub. Her quest to be attentive to the needs of others meant that she went to great lengths to prepare for all types of problems. In the spring semester, I sat down with Jamie at the ESU library for an interview. During our conversation, she described her role within the Learning Community: I’m the mom of the group. I like to make people feel loved. That’s my thing. I’m a touchy-feely kind of person. I’ll hug you. I’ll tell you I love you. I’ll give you snacks. If you need BandAids, I have Band-Aids. I have an extra pair of shoes. I have everything. I’m like a pharmacy. I have Tylenol, Benadryl, whatever you need, I have it. It’s just because I have so many younger brothers and sisters. I’m used to it. I’m just pretty emotional too. I latch on. If they’re nervous, I feel it.

As she spoke, Jamie presented items to demonstrate the veracity of her claim to being the “mom of the group.” Opening her bag, she pulled out a box of Band-Aids, a bottle of Tylenol, a packet of Benadryl, and a pair of flats. Illness and injury—or the occasional loss of footwear—could strike unexpectedly, and if they did, Jamie was prepared to offer support to her friends whenever they might need it. : : : Jamie’s experiences illuminate a common strategy that female students used for finding inclusion among their peers. In the Learning Community, she took on a very specific role—namely, that of a caregiver. This version of the cookie-cutter self was characterized by a traditionally feminine, warm, and nurturing social performance. In this chapter, I examine how caregivers positioned themselves in the unique social landscape of college. Homing in on needs as they cropped up, caregivers were appreciated by peers in ways that enhanced their feelings of belonging. And yet I argue that although care was valued, it also placed great demands on those providing it. Caregiving represented a highly

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restricted way for women to feel valued by conforming to gendered stereotypes. Additionally, because of the ways nurturing peers could be an arduous and time-intensive task, caregiving put some students’ wellbeing, academic engagement, and self-actualization at risk. Caregivers: The “Mom” of the Group Today, female students enroll in college at higher rates than their male peers.1 This reflects a significant social change that was largely possible because of changes in sexist policies and beliefs.2 And yet some parents and postsecondary institutions are still complicit in perpetuating cultural logics of gender complementarity and norms of heterosexual femininity. Sociologist Laura Hamilton shows how university policies and practices that organize both curricular and extracurricular programming reward women for performing femininity in conventional ways.3 Hamilton likewise documents the pressure some parents—those she dubs “pink helicopters”—place on their daughters to prepare for gender-traditional heterosexual relationships as well as the ways they themselves model a gendered division of labor in supporting their children through the college years.4 Further, college students perpetuate inequality in the realms of sexuality and romance as women are held to rigid behavioral norms. Scholars document how standards and practices such as these reinforce the dominance of men on college campuses.5 Examining the experiences of college caregivers extends our understanding of the persistence of gender inequality in higher education by looking beyond sexuality and romance to consider everyday interactions in social groups. Jamie was not alone in her self-presentation as a caregiver. In fact, multiple students across each of the groups I observed portrayed themselves in this way. Characterized by a gentle, warm interactional style and behaviors that served to nurture others, caregivers were easy to recognize. They occupied a role that was built on a gendered meaning system linking women to the provision of care.6 As sociologists have demonstrated, these meanings rely on cultural associations related to the accomplishment of femininity. Despite their genesis in social construction, associations like these mean that certain behaviors come to be viewed as “natural” for women. In other words, in performing as caregivers, female students were also “doing” gender in safe and acceptable ways.7 Of the thirty caregivers I encountered in this study, all but one identified as female. The gendered nature of this role showed up most conspicuously in students’ colloquial descriptions of caregivers. Along with Jamie, mul-

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tiple other students dubbed caregivers “the mom[s] of the group,” with several describing themselves or their friends as group “moms.”8 After recounting how she helped her friends with their homework and offered transportation to and from campus, a student named Dara summed up her role, noting, “I’m the mom of my friends.” Similarly, Carol described her friend Alexis: Alexis, she has the car, she’s the mom. That’s just, like, all I can describe her as, she’s just, like, the mom of the group. She’s, like, “Okay, guys, we’re going to Target.” Or she’s like, “Oh, you need to talk to your roommate if you’re having a problem.” She’s just, like, the one guiding us through everything. If we’re stressed, she’s, like, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” I’m in Chemistry and she took Chemistry last semester, and she’s, like, “I can help you, it’s fine.” And she’s just, like, that support, that mom. She’s that constant person you know you can go to and she’s got you.

Carol’s description reinforces the depth of commitment required to be a group mom. To demonstrate their support, these students had to be prepared at all times. Like medics, they were constantly on call for friends, ready to come to the rescue should they have roommate conflicts, need help in class, or want a ride to the store. Additionally, in her description of Alexis as group mom, Carol conveyed the two-dimensionality of the caregiver role, claiming that “the mom of the group” appellation was “all I can describe her as.” Like Jamie’s self-presentation, this description emphasizes simplicity. Caregivers weren’t also characterized as wise or funny. They were consistently and exclusively caring, thoughtful, and supportive. Caregivers were proactive. Rather than waiting for a friend to ask for help, they worked at being vigilant, recognizing and even anticipating the needs of others. Mercedes, a Black student, quickly adopted the attentiveness of a caregiver. I had benefited from her keen ability to anticipate need during my first day with the Learning Community. After introducing myself during the community meeting, I made small talk with students as the gathering adjourned. Though many of them were reserved initially, Mercedes sought me out. Charting a path across the room, she approached me and shook my hand with a warm smile. Despite knowing only the basic parameters of my research, she quickly launched into an offer to help. She noted that I was welcome to join her and the other students for lunch at the dining hall. “Just come with me anytime!” she exclaimed.

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Mercedes also offered to take me to some of the Learning Community’s service projects. I had hoped to attend these events, but I hadn’t yet requested permission from any of the community members. During my first meeting with the group, it had seemed forward for me to ask to join in on meals or service projects. And yet Mercedes anticipated this need before I even asked. Upon hearing my interest in learning about student culture, she took the time to think about which venues would be most useful to me, making an offer that otherwise might not have come for several weeks. Her invitation was a clear effort to ensure that I felt comfortable in the community. While other students were similarly kind and open to inviting me into their lives, Mercedes seemed to sense my apprehension about entering this new space. She went out of her way to make my first weeks in the community easier, just as she went out of her way to monitor the comfort and well-being of other members of the Learning Community. Providing Emotional Care. Caregiving extended beyond providing physical care in the form of medication, shoes, volunteer hours, or rides from one place to another. Being a caregiver also demanded emotional investment. Jamie spoke to this component of her self-presentation when she pointed out, “I’m just pretty emotional too. I latch on. If they’re nervous, I feel it.” In short, it wasn’t enough to simply offer a Band-Aid; good caregivers also had to act as a source of empathy, recognizing and responding to the emotions of their peers. This type of emotional support was frequently visible when they sought to relieve stress. In the Learning Community, caregivers were on high alert as midterm and final exams approached. Stationing themselves in the floor common rooms and study lounge, they were on the lookout for students who might need a word of encouragement or a relaxing study break at the dining hall. Caregivers in the Cardio Club worked in comparable ways to tamp down anxiety and build confidence before difficult workouts and major competitions. An Asian student named Cara frequently provided encouragement to the more experienced members of the team. Before races, she built them up emotionally, offering reassurance to support their confidence. These students could rely on an ego boost from Cara as she emphasized how “fast” and “strong” they were. At the end of the day, regardless of how they performed, her praise was an emotional bulwark against insecurity. Alongside this work, caregivers were frequently responsible for the emotional labor of defusing tension and conflict in their communities. Alyssa, a White Cardio Club member, provided a clear example. Tall,

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thin, and fast, she was a formidable competitor. By most metrics, she was also the most successful club member, frequently finishing in the top five among hundreds of students at local and regional competitions. It seemed that this sort of record could easily have endowed her with an ability to exercise authority or dominance over others. And yet, among her peers, Alyssa presented clearly and consistently as a caregiver. Despite being one of the senior captains, her role in the club was mainly confined to monitoring the well-being of others. She frequently dealt with the emotional tension that arose among the predominantly male students in the fastest training group. As social scientists studying the gendered division of domestic labor have noted, this type of contribution extends gender inequality into the sphere of emotions, as emotional care is transferred from women to men.9 Alyssa’s ability to sense and defuse conflict was on display one afternoon at a cross-country race during the fall semester. Coming off three successful competitions in September and early October, the team was eager for another strong run. However, the day went differently than expected. After driving three hours to the neighboring flagship university’s race course, the team members sprinted through rain to a covered pavilion. There, struggling to stay dry and warm, they took stock of the course terrain. The sky was dark even in the early afternoon. Crammed with over two hundred students, the pavilion—built to accommodate just eight picnic tables—didn’t have room for the tarp and folding chairs the Cardio Club members brought with them. Instead, they huddled in a small circle, craning their necks to see a damp paper copy of the course map that someone had laid on a pile of coats and backpacks. Looking agitated, Adam paced nearby while his teammates discussed the contours of the trail they were about to run. Alyssa cornered James in conversation. While they spoke about their expectations for how the race would unfold, I knew Alyssa had another motive. When Adam was anxious, it was important that he be kept away from James, who seemed to have a knack for making him angry. Alyssa did what she could to buffer their interactions as much as possible during this high-stress moment. Before the team even left campus that morning, she offered to drive James to the race in her car, a strategy she later confessed was meant to give the two men some distance from each other. Yet James declined, riding with Adam instead. Traveling in another car, I didn’t witness their interactions on the road, but by the time they arrived at the race, tensions between the two had already become high. Eventually, Adam declared that the group should head over to the course to warm up. As we reached the spray-painted start line, the stu-

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dents’ anxiety was apparent. The usually energetic group huddled together quietly, faces creased with worry. Just a few paces from the start line was a steep fifty-meter incline that runners would have to mount during the first seconds of the race. The grass on the side of the hill was matted. Cascading rainwater had cut small streams into patches of exposed earth. Adam shook his head. Alyssa tried to lighten the mood. She reassured the others that they were ready for the competition, and she gave a few high-fives to lift their energy. About an hour later, the women’s race began first. Just as the students had suspected, the grueling course quickly shaped the competition. The rain let up, but the route was already muddy and slippery. Nonetheless, the ESU Cardio Club performed well. Alyssa finished among the top ten runners in a field of nearly 150. As was typical of caregivers, she didn’t take time to bask in her own success. Instead, she jogged back to the side of the course, still out of breath, to cheer for Alice, who was pushing through the final yards toward the finish line. After the race, she pulled Alice aside to offer congratulations, praising her best performance of the season so far. As the men’s race was about to begin, the rain picked up again along with a cool wind. The temperature seemed to drop quickly. Several of the male students complained that the course would be too muddy after the women’s race. As I waited a few yards behind the starting line, trying to take in the scenery, I was caught off guard as an alarm kicked off the race. Apparently, several of the runners were also startled; a few slipped in the mud as others jolted forward. There was a mad scramble to be among the first to make it to the base of the hill. The ESU men found themselves near the middle of the pack, struggling against gravity to make the climb. Their faces already registering defeat, they appeared to become smaller and smaller until they disappeared beyond the crest of the hill. After the runners were no longer visible, the rest of the Cardio Club made their way to another edge of the course. They waited there for the competitors to pass on their way back down the hill. Searching for signs of ESU orange in a blur of jerseys, the group was disappointed. Ten runners passed, then twenty. Before long, fifty students had gone by without a single ESU runner in sight. Eventually, a student named Leo came into view, followed closely by James. This was unusual. James typically finished near the back of the ESU club. It was clearly going to be a strong performance for him. And yet Alyssa looked worried. “Adam is going to be so mad,” she fretted. “James never beats Adam.” Eventually, we saw

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another ESU student named Neerij, followed by Adam and Joey a few paces behind.10 Focusing intently on the ground in front of them, they seemed oblivious to the spectators’ cheers. After another fifteen minutes, all the runners circled back to the same point. By this time, covered in mud, most seemed resigned simply to finish the race. As Adam approached, Alyssa and another student shouted his name. Without looking up, he raised an arm and extended his middle finger. Adam’s gesture stunned the group into silence—he was seething. Alyssa sighed, “It’s going to be a long ride home.” We made a slow, timid trek back to the finish line, meeting up with James and Leo on the way. Alyssa approached Adam first. I was unable to hear what was said, but by the time we arrived beside them, some of the tension had defused. Adam vented about the course, but there were no more obscene gestures. He spoke directly to Alyssa, complaining about the mud, his shoes, and that awful hill at the start line. Listening earnestly, Alyssa nodded along until Adam stopped talking. His mood brightened, and a few moments later he gathered the entire group for a team picture. I took a few photos with Alyssa’s smartphone. As I watched the students laughing together, it was hard to process the shift in tone. Monitoring emotions—especially Adam’s—throughout the day and supporting the students through the tension of their race, Alyssa successfully performed her role as group mom. She had built up their confidence, praised them for strong performances, and managed to defuse the tension between Adam and James in time to salvage the event. From my vantage point, this work was impressive, but it also looked exhausting. Avoiding Authority. Just as the descriptor “mom” was clearly gendered, expectations about what a “group mom” should say or do were constrained by stereotypes. In particular, it was important for caregivers to be perceived as helpful, but not authoritative. This balance was reflected in the way students spoke about and behaved as caregivers. A White Learning Community student named Jenna told me about the day-today support she received from Jamie: Jamie in the morning is, like, “Jenna, I have sweet tea.” She’ll bring home donuts for me. . . . Jamie’s done a lot of stuff for me, that’s been really nice . . . Jamie is such a mom. She wants to parent me, but in a nice way. She’s not one of those, “Oh, you shouldn’t be doing that.” She’s, like, “Are you okay?” . . . Also, she cooks and cleans as a stress reliever.

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These remarks highlight the parameters placed on the caregiver role. Whereas students who self-presented in this way were expected to be nurturing, they took care to avoid being perceived as bossy or judgmental. Rather than telling others what to do, they were supposed to offer care without demands. Similarly, caregivers took care to avoid seeming overly confident or knowledgeable. A White student named Janice described her friends from a Bible study group who took on the caregiver role: “They’re really good about being, like, ‘What do you need?’ and not trying to act like they know what to do, but just being, like, ‘How can I help you? What do you need from me?’” In short, caregivers were expected to be attentive to helping others without coming off as know-it-alls. The apparent prohibition on caregivers exercising authority reflects gendered inequalities—exemplified by restrictions on women’s self-presentation—that have been documented in a range of social contexts.11 Notably, though, ESU was not just any social context. Scholars describe higher education as an opportunity for young people to grow and develop. In college, students are told that through social engagement they should “find their own voice,” experience personal growth, and cultivate more complex identities.12 In other words, college involvement is supposed to promote self-actualization. However, in the time I spent with students, I found that not all of them experienced personal development in the same way. Caregivers are particularly illustrative here. They were reliable friends, but their dedication did not give them the capacity to exercise authority. Even when caregivers occupied formal leadership positions, they did not give orders or convey knowledge to their peers. Though technically endowed with authority, they avoided using it. A White student named Beth offered a clear example of this apparent contradiction. Despite serving as president of the Volunteer Collective, the top formal leadership position for the group, she took care not to present as authoritative. Instead, she displayed great faculty in monitoring relationships and inviting others to engage in conversation. In her role as president, Beth often acted as the facilitator of group discussions. Rather than giving commands or making demands of group members, she would ask others about what they wanted and needed. When she stepped into conversations, it was often to praise students for their hard work. In summary, caregivers, colloquially known as the “moms” of their groups, took on a labor-intensive task. Not only did they commit to a kind and supportive style of self-presentation, but they were also proactive. Ready to anticipate and respond to needs, they were pre-

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pared and vigilant. Relinquishing claims to authority, they inquired about needs, offered praise, and sought to provide physical and emotional comfort to their peers. These kinds of contributions required that caregivers demonstrate their kindness by putting others’ needs before their own. The Landscape of Need Although they gave much to others, caregivers also received something in return. Rather than being mere members of their groups, they felt valued. On the college campus, caregivers existed within an intricate social context, a landscape of need where care became a valuable resource. In fact, the vast amount of need at ESU often outstripped the availability of care. As students arrived on campus, many had left their home communities for the first time. They entered a new social landscape where new challenges awaited them. In this setting, crises could arise without warning. A case of homesickness or mononucleosis could catch a first-year student unprepared. For some, even accomplishing routine tasks like homework or laundry could be monumental without the helping hands of parents. In these instances, away from the support of the friends and family on whom they usually relied, students looked toward new sources of care. It was in part because of this vast amount of need that student groups could sustain the presence of multiple caregivers. The Learning Community alone had ten, and there were an additional seven in the Volunteer Collective. Because of the way need could arise unexpectedly, having multiple caregivers in the same group often proved useful. Jamie, described in the opening of the chapter, provided a great deal of care to others in the Learning Community. But there were also times when Jamie found herself in need of help. Coming from a small rural town, she arrived at ESU and initially felt overwhelmed. At times when she was stressed, Jamie looked to Rhonda for support. One such event occurred during a Learning Community excursion to a nearby city. After parking on the outskirts of the suburbs and setting out on the subway toward downtown, the students made a brief stop to change trains. Standing on a busy train platform nearly one hundred feet belowground, Jamie found herself in a bustling crowd of strangers. “We don’t have subways where I went to [high] school. We have cows! We had cows right across from our school—and tractors!” she explained, trying to convey how out of place she felt. As the next train slowed to a stop and its doors sprung open, Rhonda, Nina, Becky,

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and several other students lunged into the nearest car, pressing through the crowd to find seats. Jamie, caught off guard by the mass of people blocking the doorway, paused to check on an older man who was having difficulty boarding. Letting him enter the car first, Jamie stepped back to make room. As she did, the doors snapped shut. In a moment of panic, she made eye contact with Nina, who exclaimed to the others, “Oh, no! We’ve lost Jamie!” It was too late to change course. The train began to pull away from the station as the students gestured frantically to Jamie out the platformside window, signaling for her to call one of their mobile phones. But there was a problem: Jamie didn’t have a phone with her. She later recounted to me how she came to ask a man in the station to borrow his phone and dialed the only number she had memorized: Nina’s. From her perspective, it felt like hours before she could reunite with the group. But once they found each other, the other students enveloped Jamie in a hug, creating a protective cocoon and carefully escorting her through the city. Jamie noted, “We laugh about it now. They went and bought me ice cream, so it was okay. The whole day, Rhonda was holding my hand, and she was pulling me along like I was a child.” Expressions of Mattering. Caregivers were recognized by other students as full members of their groups, and were frequently rewarded by peers with expressions of their worth. The night Jenna ended up at the emergency room was one that many in the Learning Community remembered well. Unfortunately for Jenna, it was also a night that she would prefer was forgotten. I didn’t witness the incident myself, but several students—Jenna included—would eventually recount the story. After coming back to the residence hall highly intoxicated from drinking at a fraternity party, Jenna was combative. The heavy security presence in the dormitories meant that being loud and drunk could lead to disciplinary sanctions from the housing staff or campus law enforcement. Well aware of the potential consequences for Jenna, her roommates ushered her out of the main hallway to the shelter of their dormitory suite. Offering her water and snacks, they hoped she would start to sober up. Yet despite their efforts, they couldn’t persuade Jenna to quiet down. When Zara, one of the resident advisors, tried to calm her, Jenna became agitated. A wrestling match ensued, but quickly ended when Zara’s nose ring got pulled out. Jamie later admitted she was anxious about how things would turn out as she tried to intervene in the altercation. Nonetheless, she was prepared. Not one to drink alcohol, she was a bit more clearheaded

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than her floormates. Using her gentle style and a soothing tone, Jamie coaxed Jenna out of the dormitory, into a car, and eventually through the doors of the local emergency room, where she was treated for alcohol intoxication. After this episode, Jenna was mortified, and she was ostracized on her floor. Jamie seemed to be one of the few who could move past the incident and provide support. She was firm in her commitment to caring for Jenna, even when others would not. Jamie told me, “You help your friends out. You have to take care of your family—you don’t leave them. I don’t care if you want to say mean things to me. That’s fine. It’ll hurt, but it hurts more to see someone else crying or feeling lonely—because people weren’t talking to Jenna. It breaks my heart still to think about it.” As other students continued to shun Jenna, Jamie became even more attentive, sitting beside her at class meetings and group hangouts to ensure she wouldn’t be alone. Meanwhile, Jenna wanted to demonstrate her appreciation for Jamie’s steadfast care. After arriving at the Learning Community’s class meeting one afternoon, I heard a gasp from across the room. I turned to see Jamie opening a small cardboard box, beaming as she took stock of its contents. Reaching into it, she plucked out a clear plastic water bottle with a pastel green lid. A pink ribbon had been fastened in a bow around the top. As she spun the bottle around in her hands, I made out an inscription in white letters: Jamie Kelly, East State 2020. Cradling the gift in her arms, Jamie turned to face Jenna. “Oh, my gosh! I love it!” she exclaimed, leaning in for a hug. In such moments when appreciation was clearly articulated by peers, caregivers felt like valued members of their groups. Recognition of their worth could be signaled by words of thanks, a smile, or sometimes a tangible expression of gratitude. Jamie told me about a time when she was recognized by her friends for the care she provided: There was one night—and it’s happened a couple times, but this time I remember in particular—where [some friends] went out and they were doing drugs. They were drinking. People were throwing up. No one wanted to take care of them. But I went, and I sat everyone down in Bernie’s room. They all had their water, and we made sure they had some crackers. . . . I remember that Bernie’s roommate was having a really hard time, and I’m actually really close with him, because I’m there a lot obviously. But he cried and was, like, “You’re my Momma, I love you. Thank you for taking care of me.” And it just made me . . . I felt

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very sad, but I felt very happy at the same time that he appreciated what I was doing and it wasn’t for nothing. Then people on the floor actually wrote me a letter, a little thank-you card, like, “Thank you for not letting us die.” I was, like, “I got you, anytime.”

In this instance, Jamie received both verbal and written expressions of appreciation from the students she cared for. The thank-you card joined the other accessories she had collected—pictures, messages, and handwritten notes from the children in the after-school program she assisted in—as badges attesting to the lengths she went to in looking out for others. Students’ expressions of appreciation provided an important source of external validation for caregivers. These were clear signals that they were important to peers. When reflecting on her place within the Learning Community, Jamie noted, I definitely feel like the people that I’ve met value me. . . . I feel like friendships [with other students in the Learning Community] are one of the most important things to me, because I see them as my family, and there are times when they are, like, “Thank you. I love you. You’re awesome,” and those make me definitely feel like I belong and I have a place.

Through the care she provided, Jamie came to see herself as a central member of the community—a group she perceived to be like family. The appreciation her peers articulated served to enhance her sense of belonging in the group. In other words, for Jamie this external validation of mattering amplified the feelings of belonging she had begun to develop through shared interests with her peers. Other caregivers described the positive emotions that came from being appreciated for the contributions they made. Patricia, a White student, spoke of feeling valued for her work with a religious group where she helped by preparing food and setting up for meetings. Similarly, a multiracial student named Becky recalled the Learning Community’s fall retreat. At the event, she had taken part in an activity in which a few students would stand in a line and close their eyes as the facilitator read from a list of positive qualities. Then other students would tap the shoulder of someone to whom they believed the descriptor applied. When the instructor said, “Touch somebody on their arm if you think

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they’re kind,” several students walked up and patted Becky’s shoulders. Months later, Becky told me that this moment stood out in her mind as a time when she felt that people were grateful for her support. Need without Care. The value of caregivers was sometimes equally apparent in their absence. It was an unseasonable sixty-degree afternoon in February when I set off with the fastest members of the Cardio Club on a six-mile run around a nearby lake. The usual members were present, with one exception: Alyssa, who didn’t attend Wednesday practices during the spring semester. The run proceeded pleasantly enough, and we settled into a steady rhythm that was slightly slower than usual. With each stride, the students seemed to take an extra moment to soak up the afternoon sun. The lakeside trail was quiet. But something shifted as we approached the final stretch heading back toward campus. On a winding path through the woods, Drew, the club president, began to gradually accelerate the group’s pace. The change was almost imperceptible at first. And yet I soon realized I was out of breath. Ace, usually the first to fall behind when the group picked up speed, was growing visibly uncomfortable. His smooth gait of just a few moments earlier was lost to an uneven stomping. Then a student running a few yards ahead jumped aside unexpectedly. Ace skipped to the right as well, revealing a small tree stump on the edge of the path. I quickly followed his lead, shifting course behind him. Just as we moved, I heard from behind the scuff of a running shoe followed by a thud. Turning back, Ace and I spotted James, who had fallen facedown, arms outstretched. He was scraping across the dirt and rocks with all the force but none of the grace of a baseball player sliding into home plate. Skidding to a stop, James gave a sharp yelp that was heard by the rest of the group. Drew and two other students at the front of the pack circled back on the trail. They stopped a few feet in front of James, who after several seconds began to push himself up off the ground. As he brushed his hands together, dirt fell away to reveal bloody palms. James’s knees had multiple abrasions as well, but he focused on his hands, holding them outstretched as if he were in shock. His grimace gave away his struggle to avoid tears. For what seemed like far too long, no one moved. Drew, the only student aside from James who was first aid certified, was supposed to have alcohol pads, gauze, and bandages with him on all training runs. The other students knew he didn’t carry any such supplies; they seemed to have collectively agreed that running with the first aid kit was uncool,

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cumbersome, or both. But more unsettling than the absence of medical supplies was the pronounced silence. Someone needed to say something. Someone needed to comfort James. What was clear to me in that moment—and I imagine to most of the students as well—was that this was Alyssa’s role. She would have embraced James, examined his hands and knees. With or without bandages, she would have helped clean him up and asked whether he was okay. In her absence, no one stepped forward to provide that care. “You good?” Drew finally asked. His words were so clearly insufficient. They fell flat, sounding more like a suggestion than a genuine inquiry. Wordlessly, James attempted to take a step forward, limping a bit. He took another, smoother step, and nodded. “Man . . .” he groaned, pressing his lips together and exhaling as he winced again. Still, the rest of the students remained motionless. Drew looked on as the others averted their gaze, and Ace shuffled awkwardly nearby. Their resignation was painful to witness, and the lack of a caregiver in that moment stood out. Like a field where vegetation dries up in the absence of rain, theirs was momentarily a social landscape devoid of care. While Drew was a reliable leader, giving direction was no substitute for caring. Similarly, the other students—always ready participants—weren’t prepared to step in to comfort James. The strain that this event put on the team dynamic was palpable. Just as the group’s level of discomfort had reached an almost unbearable crescendo, two women pushing strollers approached from a nearby offshoot of the path. Seeing James’s bleeding hands, one of them reached into the back of her stroller, pulling out a pack of baby wipes. Offering the package to James, she asked whether he was okay. He took several wipes and scrubbed the dirt from his palms and knees. He quickly assured the women that he would be fine. With the dirt removed, it was apparent that James’s left hand was the culprit for most of the blood. Taking two additional wipes, he wrapped the hand tightly, clenching his fist. The quasi-miraculous arrival of these women at just the right moment cut through the awkward standstill of a few seconds earlier. As the group jogged home, it was clear that James would be all right. But the preceding moments had brought the value of caregivers like Alyssa into sharp relief. Stepping in quickly to address difficult situations with love and support wasn’t something all students were willing to do. Caregivers, with their capacity to fill such voids, were a crucial part of the college social landscape. I knew that the next time the group saw Alyssa, they would have a story to tell. And in telling that story, a subtext would

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be evident—one that communicated Alyssa’s worth and the value of the care she provided. The Limits of Caregiving While caregivers were generally valued by their peers, occupying this role wasn’t always perceived as desirable. It was true that providing care evoked validation from others, which could amplify students’ sense of belonging. But there was a significant degree of complexity here. Caregiving frequently carried personal costs, and the emotional dividends weren’t always consistent. Becky’s experience illustrated how drawing a sense of worth from the provision of care could have downsides. Shortly after telling me about the community retreat where students had expressed gratitude for her kindness, she also confided that there were times when providing care without recognition was difficult: I feel occasionally like I’m being taken advantage of. I feel like people take advantage—even some of my close friends. Sometimes, that’s just a little frustrating. They’ll be, like, “Do you have any snacks? Do you have anything? Can I get some of this or some medicine?” I’m always, like, “Yeah, sure. Don’t worry about it.” [They ask,] “Can you do this for me? Can you do that for me?” I don’t like saying no.

As this description makes apparent, caregiving placed college women in the center of their peer groups—students regularly approached them with a variety of needs. However, being a reliable source of care could sometimes feel draining, and the appreciation for such contributions didn’t always seem to match the arduous work of providing constant love and support. In these instances, caregivers like Becky wondered whether they were being taken advantage of for their kindness. Further, even when feeling overworked, caregivers were limited in how they could respond. Their style of self-presentation didn’t equip them with a vocabulary for declining requests. Becky couldn’t offer to share her snacks on Monday and withhold them on Tuesday. In this way, some caregivers came to experience feelings of ambivalence, which scholars have shown are often connected to caregiving responsibilities.13 While providing care may offer a sought-after sense of identity and meaning, it can also make the giver feel underappreciated. Additionally, the constant provision of support is frequently both physically and emotionally draining. Occupying the caregiver role in a group

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meant that less time was available for attending to one’s own physical, social, and emotional needs. When fellow students sought help, caregivers were expected to drop what they were doing to prioritize the well-being of others. In the Learning Community, Jamie sacrificed time and sleep to care for her peers when they were upset or inebriated—as when she took Jenna to the emergency room and watched over Bernie’s roommate.14 Other caregivers made similarly taxing contributions. In fact, Jenna, who also presented as a caregiver, found herself in situations where she sacrificed her own time and even her education to care for others. She told me about an instance when she had been called out of class to offer care. With a chuckle, she recalled, Tyler Kavalier, this man [in the Learning Community], got so sick. He got the stomach flu for three days. He’s a junior. He’s a junior, and he’s the biggest bitch ever when he’s sick. I remember he called me . . . Tyler called me out of my three o’clock econ class and was, like, “I need you to come home.” He was that sick. I went to [the dining hall], I brought him bananas and bread and apple juice. I was literally babying him.

Leaving her economics class, Jenna was quick to provide the care Tyler requested. Notably, he hadn’t asked for help from his resident advisors, his roommate, or one of the staff or graduate assistants who worked with the Learning Community. Instead, he made this request of Jenna despite the inconvenience it caused her. Being called out of class to provide care is a more extreme example of the detrimental impact that round-the-clock caregiving could have in the college setting. Yet the time-sensitive demands caregivers experienced often required them to put the good of others above their own learning and well-being. They described losing valuable hours of study time and sleep when called on to care for sick, stressed, or intoxicated peers. Some of this care was not only inconvenient but also potentially dangerous, as when students gave support to peers who were under the influence of illicit substances. Those who cared for the intoxicated also risked being caught by authority figures in the presence of drugs and alcohol, an infraction that could result in severe disciplinary consequences at ESU. Caregiving could likewise be a barrier to the achievement of nonacademic personal goals or aspirations in college. Such an insight resonates

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with the claims of sociologists like Ann Oakley, who has demonstrated the ways care and domestic work can limit opportunities for selfactualization.15 Cara, whom I described earlier to illustrate the demands of emotional care, also provided an example of how caregiving could block one’s path toward personal goals. Because of their capacity to comfort and encourage, caregivers were often responsible for supporting new members in a group. By adopting a nurturing, maternal style of self-presentation, Cara provided reliable support to the less experienced Cardio Club members. Training with the slowest group each day at practice allowed her to look out for newer members, ensuring they weren’t left behind or demoralized. And yet it also meant that Cara was unable to take part in the more rigorous training sessions that could have helped her meet her own training goals. With this less intensive training regimen, she couldn’t make measurable improvements. Over the course of the year, her performance at competitions only held steady and sometimes even declined. The broad potential for caregiving to have a detrimental impact on one’s academic achievement, well-being, and self-actualization should not come as a complete surprise in light of the robust social science literature documenting similar phenomena in the domestic sphere. The experiences of college caregivers illustrate the broad applicability of a paradox whereby those who offer care can feel valued for providing support while simultaneously perceiving that they’re being taken advantage of by those who rely on them.16 Scholars studying care work and other forms of household labor have found evidence indicating that the unequal distribution of such labor—which falls in large part to women—can have a negative impact on happiness, relationship satisfaction, success in the labor market, and general well-being.17 College caregivers faced similar strains. Students like Becky became frustrated with the demands of caregiving, and yet they also claimed that the provision of care was core to their identities. Likewise, students like Jenna and Cara experienced the tension between care and self-actualization. : : : The subject of this chapter, caregiving, is at its core about the demands of group life that were coded as feminine. By leveraging gendered understandings of support and kindness, some college women could stake out a central place for themselves in their peer groups. In entering these college social spaces, I was startled by one simple but

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surprising finding: the only women who consistently occupied central places in their groups were those who cared—physically, emotionally, and socially—for their peers. The cultural script of caregiving was so pervasive that female students in very different types of organizations— ranging from the athletic Cardio Club to the service-based Volunteer Collective—took on this same role to position themselves as central, valued members of their social groups. A growing body of research demonstrates that the increased representation of women on college and university campuses has not eradicated gender-based inequality.18 While the experiences of women in the extracurricular sphere of college may have changed over time, some stereotypes remain entrenched.19 The experiences of caregivers at ESU break new ground in this arena, showing how gender-based inequality extends beyond the romantic and sexual marketplace of college to everyday interactions. These women had to contend with gendered constraints placed on their self-presentation in a range of contexts that were ostensibly removed from sexuality and romance. At athletic events and community service projects alike, the caregivers I observed seemed to understand and respond to stereotypes drawn from broader social contexts as they worked within assumptions about care and the value of women. Caregivers found a central place in the college social scene, not despite their gender, but specifically because of their acquiescence to feminine behavioral norms. Yet this centrality also required sacrifice. Sociologists often think of care work and emotional labor as tasks performed within the domestic sphere or for pay in the labor market.20 The experience of student caregivers expands this scope and offers new directions for theorizing care work. While their friends may have conceived of them as “group moms,” these women were offering unpaid care to peers, not kin. This care represented a contribution that their friends acknowledged not with financial rewards but with expressions of gratitude. Caregivers provided support, and in return they came to feel like valued members of their peer groups. However, these findings also underscore the limits of caregiving, which could be physically and emotionally draining and, at times, constrain women’s opportunities. These patterns were pervasive in the college setting, as students substituted caregivers in their dormitories, student organizations, and sports teams for family and friends from their home communities. While central to their groups, caregivers represented just one of five common roles that East State University students came to occupy. The ambivalence these women felt about their contributions offers a sharp contrast to the experiences of their peers who built identities as

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managers or educators. Where caregivers went to great lengths to prioritize the well-being of others, managers and educators were valued for contributions that carried a smaller physical and emotional toll. For them, feeling a sense of belonging in college required fewer sacrifices. The next chapter considers their experiences.

3

Managers, Educators, and the Dividends of Authority

Andrew Lawrence, whose friends called him Drew, was clearly in charge. On the gray stone patio in front of the ESU Fitness Center, a dozen students huddled around him. It was nearly time for the Cardio Club’s Tuesday evening practice to begin. As usual, Drew, the club president, was offering his opening announcements: “Make sure you fill out the club sports waiver and get your [sports] physical soon. And don’t forget, bring your fifty-dollar dues if you’re gonna be racing this fall. It’s just twenty-five [dollars] if you already have a uniform from last year.” I found a spot along the outer edge of the group. The club members, many clad in neon running shorts and sneakers, were quietly stretching. Some sat on the ground, arms extended in pursuit of toes. Others stood with legs spread apart, shifting their weight from side to side. But stretching occupied only part of their cognitive energy. Necks craned upward and sideways as the students focused their gaze and attention on Drew. Intently, they took in his words, as if mentally checking off each instruction. “So this week, we’ll be running mostly around campus to help our visibility [among the student body],” Drew announced, after emphasizing the importance of recruiting new members. The Cardio Club would need to form a full team so that it could succeed in competitions. In this vein, he told the students about Cardio Crush

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Week. Drew explained that the name of this series of events was meant to be a play on the so-called Rush Week hosted each semester by fraternities and sororities as part of their recruitment efforts. He and the other Cardio Club captains had mapped out five days of “fun challenges” that would start the following Monday. “There’s gonna be stuff like capture the flag, scavenger hunts, and things to get to know each other. More details to come on that. We’ll also be putting up flyers Friday at noon . . .” Two minutes later, the series of announcements concluded. Stepping off the patio and heading toward the sidewalk, Drew raised his arm. The other students stopped stretching and stood at attention. “I’ll take a group here doing five or six miles at eight-minute-pace. If you go with Sarah, you’ll do four or five [miles] at 9:30 [pace]; and Cara will take the last group.” With that, the students quickly sorted themselves into one of the three training clusters. Drew was the first to head out for the run, leading off toward the north end of campus with four students in tow. The other two groups waited a moment before starting in the same direction. Each would take a slightly different path, covering shorter or longer distances based on skill level. Drew had mapped out these routes ahead of time and set the pace for a “tempo day.” The students knew they were supposed to choose a group where they would be exerting themselves without becoming winded. It was meant to be a brisk run, not an extended sprint. Drew was an awkward student but a graceful runner. His unevenly chopped hair, thin frame, and unbelievably long legs gave him a cartoonish physical appearance. And yet as soon as he started running, things seemed to change. His stride was smooth. His pacing was steady. Without losing his breath, Drew could circle the four hundred meters of the ESU track in less than a minute. In taking charge of the fastest group during practice, he set a rigorous pace and covered the miles with ease. On group runs, he became the engine for a train of runners. Other students fell in behind him, carefully attentive to changes in his body language. When Drew picked up the pace, they tried to hang on. When pausing at crossroads, he would raise his fist, and they stopped with a jolt. The slant of his shoulders could signal an upcoming turn. And when he leaned into a hill, the students in his wake knew to dig in and redouble their effort. Drew’s posture and pacing became a language of their own, but he wasn’t short on words either. In a deep, booming voice, he barked orders to structure club practices. “Hill sprints today!” he shouted at the beginning of a workout. He would then elaborate on the specifics: “Let’s get four by one hundred meters up [the hill], jogging down. Repeat three times, with a 10 k pace mile between each set.” On another

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day, Drew instructed, “Eight repeats up the hill, alternating mile and two-mile pace!” Whatever he dictated, the team accepted. There was never discussion or debate about his workouts. In many ways, Drew was a stereotypical leader. He was loud and confident, frequently giving orders, and he spoke more than he listened. While such qualities might be read as abrasive or even obnoxious, he never seemed to be perceived negatively. In fact, the other students appeared to adore him. Like the caregivers described in the previous chapter, Drew found that the contribution he offered—namely, a sense of direction—was appreciated by his peers. They thanked him for his time and praised the success of events he organized. When he was present, the members didn’t have to think about when to lift weights, where to eat dinner, or how to structure the day’s track workout. Drew took care of those things. In short, Drew’s social role in the Cardio Club was about exercising authority, the signature element of some students’ self-presentation. In my observations, I encountered two types of authority that manifested in two distinct roles. Some students performed as intellectuals, exercising authority to speak and convey knowledge. I refer to them as educators. Others, like Drew, relied on executive authority to give direction and shape action as group managers. In this chapter, I delve into the ways these students—almost all of them White males—interacted within their social groups, exploring their self-presentation alongside its consequences for their sense of belonging. I argue that like caregivers, both managers and educators were valued by their peers for making contributions to their groups. Similarly, just as caregivers clung to the simplicity of their roles, so did managers and educators. They took care to perform in consistent and circumscribed ways. Educators offered wisdom. Managers offered direction. And yet, compared with caregiving, the emotional dividends of direction and wisdom were more consistent and positive, sustaining feelings of belonging over time. Managers: Taking Charge A White male student named Ollie sketched the contours of the manager role. In describing his interactions with friends and how he went about structuring and executing group activities, he said, I do the planning. . . . [I] get things done and happening. I’ll be, like, “Oh, let’s all go to [the dining hall].” . . . Everyone turns

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[and agrees]: “Let’s go.” I just do it—just like, “Oh, hey, why don’t we . . .” For example, there was one time, it was around Thanksgiving—it was around midterms also, so it was the time in between the two. I could just sense that everyone was feeling a little glum and sluggish and I was, like, “Oh, this isn’t cool. We’ve got to do something,” I was, like, “Hey, let’s get Chinese takeout and watch Friends or something.” I don’t know why, but that just seemed like the appropriate thing to do, not, like, “Oh, let’s go to [the city] and have fun or . . .” just something really simple, and that was exactly what was needed.

Most groups had at least one member like Ollie who occupied the manager role. Larger groups often had several. Using an authoritative style of self-presentation, they gave commands to structure the activities of those around them. In addition to setting the agenda, Ollie was confident in his ability to lead others. In this quote, he noted that his plan was “exactly what was needed” for the situation. This kind of confidence regarding the activities and action they facilitated was common among managers, and they frequently gave instructions about what should be done at what time and in what order. Managers were selfassured, and it was rare to observe them soliciting input from their peers on proposed activities. Several students referred to managers as the planners or the leaders of their groups. When I asked a Latino student named Ruben to tell me about his friend group, he began by stating, “We have one person who is the planner. . . . He’s very well disciplined. He usually puts some consideration in before he suggests a time or how a plan will be followed through.” In other words, managers were seen as organized and deliberate. The plans they laid out were ostensibly understood to be legitimate and useful, in part because of their intentionality. In addition to developing plans, managers took charge of their adoption and implementation, providing specific instructions regarding process. Ollie led his friends using phrases like “let’s go to . . .” or “why don’t we  .  .  .” Others gave commands in a firmer way. I often heard Drew take charge of the Cardio Club with phrases like “we’re going to . . .” and “make sure you . . .” When I interviewed a White student named Aaron, he told me about a debate that arose while planning an activity with his friend group. When others couldn’t agree on the best approach, Aaron stepped in. He recounted: “I just said, ‘Everyone shut up and do it,’ and so we did, and it was fantastic.” Managers’

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unique role was characterized in part by their ability to use this type of firm rhetoric without incurring their peers’ disapproval. Of course, they weren’t always so blunt in their declarations. And yet the acquiescence of other students when managers were curt often surprised me. Those in the manager role seemed to have a free pass to bark orders without social niceties. Whereas the caregivers described in chapter 2 took great pains to avoid being perceived as demanding or bossy, managers were free of such constraints. The manager role was both gendered and raced. With a few exceptions, these students were White and male. In fact, twenty of the twentyfour students self-presenting as managers of social groups at ESU fit this description. Just three White female students and one Asian male student occupied this role.1 The overrepresentation of male students taking on this style of self-presentation resonates with research documenting gender-biased understandings of leadership. Social scientists find durable associations between masculinity and qualities such as authority, perceived competence, and assertiveness.2 Additionally, scholars document racialized associations of Whiteness with perceptions of capacity for leadership.3 When these raced and gendered meanings come together, they have a powerful influence on how authority is viewed as well as who can take charge of social situations. For example, sociologists studying the workplace show how these meanings advantage White men in their pursuit of authority and leadership.4 Likewise, access to the manager role at ESU was shaped by a variety of cultural associations that linked White masculinity to the ability to give direction and stimulate group action. Shaping Group Life. Managers molded group action across all kinds of settings. Their influence shaped the most mundane activities as well as exciting, emotionally charged events. Daily rituals and special occasions alike fell under their purview. One of the first managers I encountered in the Learning Community was a White student named Will. Energetic and self-confident, Will seemed to capture the attention of his peers with little effort. I took note of the scope of his influence while observing a series of challenge-based games being played on the community’s residence hall floor. The students made up team names for these challenges, and a poster mounted in the hallway functioned as a leaderboard. Each week, the community resident advisors updated the board to reflect the current standing of the top five teams. Though he rarely won a challenge, Will took up space in these competitions, where he was one of

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the most vocal students. Shouting directions and demanding control, he couldn’t be overlooked. On a Saturday afternoon in early December, I joined the students in their residence hall common room for one of these challenges—dubbed the Floor Olympics. The group was quiet until Will entered. “We’re going to knock the Dolphins off the board!” he crowed, referring to the current fifth-place team. The Dolphins’ spot on the leaderboard was precarious. Just a few points separated them from the sixth-, seventh-, and eighth-place teams. If Will and his teammate Cecilia performed well in that day’s events, they could move from their current sixth-place spot onto the leaderboard. With mock gravity, the resident advisors announced the “official opening of the Floor Olympic Games.” Each event was brief, introduced and carried out within a few minutes. After a slow start, Will and Cecilia won the second event, a timed challenge involving stacking plastic cups into a pyramid and taking them down again. “High five!” Will exclaimed as their upraised hands collided. He continued to celebrate loudly. In the next event, the students fastened tissue boxes filled with Ping-Pong balls around their waists and attempted to shake the balls from the box by jumping up and down. As Will shouted commands from across the room, Cecilia worked diligently to follow them. Even the students who weren’t on Will’s team looked to him for guidance on how to perform. His voice, easily filling the small space, shaped the flow of kinetic energy. When Will threw some of the plastic cups to playfully sabotage another team, chaos momentarily broke out as others followed suit. His voice and movement evoked predictable reactions from peers. As the conclusion of the Floor Olympics approached, the resident advisors explained the rules for the final event. Half the students would cover their faces with shaving cream. Standing behind a masking-tape line five feet away, their teammates were tasked with throwing cheesepuff snacks to lodge in the cream. Puffs that fell to the floor would not count for points. Whichever team accumulated the most cheese puffs would win. Will was quick to inform Cecilia that she would be the one to wear the shaving cream. “I’m not putting that on my face!” he exclaimed, laughing. Once all teams were ready, with each pair of teammates standing at regulation distance on opposite sides of the line, one of the resident advisors called, “Get ready . . . go!” Each of the students holding a bowl of cheese puffs began to methodically toss them—underhanded and one at a time—across the line

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toward the scrunched face of their shaving-cream-covered teammate. The recipients held their breath, trying to remain perfectly still. Triumphant cries rang out as one cheese puff and then another stuck to a face. Minutes passed as the throwers continued working methodically, but most of the puffs ended up on the ground. It became clear that their measured strategy wasn’t very efficient. As time began to run out, a resident advisor called, “One minute!” then “Thirty seconds!” With his bowl still mostly full of cheese puffs, Will began throwing large handfuls with greater force. Half a dozen cheese puffs hit Cecilia’s face at once, with several sticking. She yelled with surprise, closed her eyes tighter, and laughed. Other students followed suit. The final fifteen seconds of the challenge became a wild spectacle. The restrained, strategic care of a few moments earlier was replaced by an all-out food fight. The throwers shouted as their teammates ducked for cover, flinging gobs of shaving cream onto the carpet. When the resident advisors called “Time!” the room was a mess. As the students cleaned up the floor, I looked around, still reeling from the way Will had set and then repeatedly shifted the tone of the event. In moments like this, the authority of managers was apparent. Where others waited for direction, managers instigated group activity and actively shaped social environments. As the students monitored and responded to Will’s voice and movement, I was struck by how quickly their behaviors could change. Creating and Motivating. In other instances, managers created and led events of their own, setting both the tone and the structure of these gatherings. Near the end of the spring semester, Will organized a workshop on public speaking and invited his friends to attend. Similarly, Caleb, Jerry, and Aldo—three other managers in the community—invited their peers to events that they organized on and off campus.5 During the first weeks of the fall semester, Caleb assembled a group of students to volunteer at voter registration events on campus, entreating them to “get involved in politics.” In addition, it was usually one of these four managers who selected when and where the community would gather for meals. When managers designed an activity, others were usually eager to take part. And when an event needed buy-in from students, managers could motivate participation. Aldo frequently showed up to Learning Community meetings wearing a button-down shirt, tie, and blazer. He was lauded by peers for the effective motivational speeches he gave. During the second week of the semester, as the students were preparing to select service projects for the academic year, Aldo raised his hand

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and asked if he could say something. The instructor agreed, and he launched into what was clearly a rehearsed speech. Standing up from his chair, Aldo tugged on his navy tie, loosening it a bit. Clearing his throat, he began: I just want to say that you can get involved in any of these groups. If you get involved with [a low-income housing organization], you’ll make a great impact; if you work with Ms. Shelby at [a local middle school], you’ll get a lot out of it; if you volunteer with Sean and Alec at the [food] pantry, or Caleb registering voters, you’ll have a great experience. . . . It really doesn’t matter which one you do. The important thing is that you’re making a difference.

A few students clapped as he concluded, and Aldo grinned, apparently pleased with how his words had been received. The instructor affirmed, “That’s why I always love Aldo’s motivational speeches!” Through these speeches, Aldo persuaded other students to take action in specific ways—in this case by getting involved in community service. Early in the spring semester, he and Jerry took a similar approach when they organized a group of students to attend and present at a local social justice conference. Standing in front of roughly a dozen first-year students, they pitched the trip as a “really unique opportunity” to attend an academic conference. The students listened attentively, and several eagerly volunteered as Aldo and Jerry finished speaking. The ways managers shaped day-to-day group activity even extended to the structure of rules as their voices and authority became woven into the textual fabric of their communities. Each of the groups I observed had some version of written guidelines or bylaws, which were often composed and modified by managers. Early in the fall semester, I took note of Jerry’s role as one of the only students to contribute during a discussion about the residence hall rules. One of the Learning Community teaching assistants pulled up a list of fifteen community guidelines on the classroom projector, asking the students for their input. Jerry spoke up quickly: “Let’s highlight ‘Be clear, don’t beat around the bush’—on number four [of the list].” There were nods and murmurs of agreement around the room. With the help of an illustrative anecdote provided by Matthew, Jerry explained that group members would need to be direct with one another. Being direct meant that conflicts would not bubble over, he assured them. While in this particular instance the rules Jerry emphasized were

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literal and codified, managers more often generated implicit norms through their own actions. In the Cardio Club, for instance, managers determined the boundaries of the pack as students ran together. They would sometimes rebuke others who fell behind or ran too far ahead. “Hey, it’s supposed to be a leisure run!” a manager named Kenny called out one afternoon when two students picked up the pace, pulling away from the group. Through these efforts to monitor pace, norms concerning running group formation took shape. This type of contribution extended the managers’ role beyond giving routine instructions. When group norms were developed and clarified, managers took a prominent seat at the metaphorical table. Leading in New Territory. Managers were not only confident in their ability to structure and manage their groups’ day-to-day activities. They were also quick to take charge in contexts with which they were relatively unfamiliar. Examples could be observed when students were faced with surprises or crises. Sometimes, they encountered events that were simply unusual. In these moments, it became clear that changes in context did not provoke corresponding changes in students’ social styles.6 The ability to lead was perceived to be transferable across settings, and students deferred to managers regardless of whether they had a relevant skill set. This was true even when others were better equipped to facilitate an activity or deal with a challenge. An illustrative case occurred when the Cardio Club hosted its annual spring track meet. I arrived at the East State University track on a bright Saturday morning. The sun and mild weather made it easy to forget that it was only mid-February. Club members were already at work, preparing for the chaos that was about to ensue. Nearly a hundred runners from five local universities were in the process of arriving in the adjacent parking lot. The first figure I recognized was Kenny, a White student who had a knack for being at the center of the action. Clad in black tights and the ESU Cardio Club’s orange jersey, he had three stopwatches hanging around his neck as he clutched a plastic clipboard to his chest. Kenny often had a look of deep concentration. Today was no exception. As he stood in the first lane of the red rubber track, it was clear that he was taking stock of the situation. Turning 360 degrees, he surveyed the track. Students moved around him in all directions. They carried hurdles out of the way, placed starting blocks, and unpacked boxes of registration supplies. Kenny appeared to be counting something as he silently mouthed, “four, five, six, seven.”

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Spotting me, he smiled for just a moment before removing one of his stopwatches. “I need you to be a timer.” “Sure,” I replied, wondering whether I should confess that I wasn’t quite sure how to use the device. Watching Kenny’s gaze travel around the perimeter of the track while he was deep in thought, I decided against it. Instead I asked, “How are things going?” “Fine,” Kenny replied, and began to tell me about one of the teams that was caught in traffic. Like an executive unloading his thoughts into a Dictaphone, he speculated aloud about whether any of the races would have to be delayed. The even tone and steady pace of his speech made it apparent that he didn’t expect a response from me. I just listened. His voice trailed off as he gazed toward the bleachers beside the track, as if to conduct a final check on whether the missing team had arrived. Though he didn’t say so, I could tell Kenny was in over his head. In his first year with the Cardio Club, he had never seen a collegiate track meet in person, let alone hosted one. Nonetheless, when the team decided to put on the Metro-Area Relays for the fifth year in a row, Kenny had stepped up alongside another new student member named Carter. Drew warned the team that he wouldn’t be present for the event, so it would be up to Kenny and Carter to ensure that things ran smoothly. As I fiddled with the stopwatch in my hands, trying to figure out why such a gadget needed four buttons, several of the other Cardio Club members approached. Among them was Cara. Having been a member of the club for three years, she was familiar with the challenges of hosting a track meet. I wondered whether she might step in to offer some helpful pointers for Kenny. But this wasn’t Cara’s style. Holding fast to her self-presentation as a caregiver, she simply asked, “So what do you need?” Kenny, who didn’t require an invitation to give orders, doled out stopwatches. He took a few more from around his neck and two more out of a pile at his feet. Within fifteen minutes, he roped several students into taking their positions on the outer edge of the track, ready to serve as timers. The first few events went off smoothly. Though lengthy, the 10kilometer race—requiring twenty-five laps around the track—was easy enough to coordinate. Less than a dozen men and women ran, and none of them finished close enough for timing discrepancies to be an issue. There were no debates over finish order or milliseconds. The 800-meter relay was equally uneventful. Afterward, Carter took charge of monitoring the starting line for the 100 m dash as Kenny managed the timers

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at the finish. Each heat included just four or five runners. Again, things went smoothly. Then came the event that the group was dreading: the 1,600 m run. At about a mile in length, this was the most popular event; nearly thirty students had signed up to compete in the men’s race alone. Too long to justify multiple heats as in the 100 m dash, with too many runners to make timing manageable, this race clearly would be a logistical challenge. I wondered how the group had handled this situation at previous meets. It seemed that Kenny was unsure as well, although he didn’t admit this directly. Over the course of five minutes, he changed his mind several times. At first, he suggested that each timer keep tabs on five runners, but quickly realized that this would cause confusion. Next, he suggested that the other Cardio Club members locate four more volunteers, so they could time just three runners each. When additional help couldn’t be found, he settled on another method. Each volunteer would record the runners’ entry numbers and finish times on a rotation as they completed the race. “Joe, you get the first finisher. Rich, you get the second. Alice gets third; Blake gets fourth; Carter gets fifth. Then rotate in that order. So Joe, you’ll take six, Rich seven, Alice eight, Blake nine, and Carter ten. Call your times out, and Cara will write them down.” Kenny seemed satisfied with this plan as he passed his clipboard and pen to Cara. Just two minutes later, Kenny and Carter started the men’s race with a clipped “Mark. Set. Go!” The runners darted forward, jostling shoulders as they fought for space. The track suddenly looked small. By the third lap, it was clear that this would be a tight race. No single runner had broken away from the pack, and only a few had fallen behind. They held close at 1,200 meters and closer still at 1,400. I could feel the timers beside me tense up. Rich grimaced as he gripped his stopwatch. Coming into the final stretch, two runners pulled forward, followed closely by a third. As they crossed the line, I heard the almost simultaneous clicks coming from Joe’s, Rich’s, and Alice’s stopwatches as they each called out times to Cara: “4:40.64.” “4:40.80.” “4:41.67.” I stood at the outer edge of the finish line, watching closely to see who would come in fourth. In a blur, another dozen runners crossed the line. Watches clicked, times were shouted, and a few profanities were uttered. In moments the race was over. Cara was on the verge of tears. “What was that last one? 5:50? Who got number 7?” As the competitors caught their breath, some circled back to ask about their finish times. “We’ll have them in just a minute,” Cara promised, scribbling frantically on the clipboard. Looking over

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her shoulder and pointing at a name on the roster, Joe noted, “That guy finished before number 14.” Chaos ensued. Each of the volunteers— including me—worked anxiously to sort out the order and times of the runners. Finally, the cacophony stopped. Bending down, Cara sat on the track, taking stock of her work. “We’re still missing [times for] 7 and 12,” she announced hesitantly. “Give him 4:45 and that one 4:52,” Kenny dictated, gesturing to the empty spaces by the names of the seventh- and twelfth-place runners. Cara began to compose herself but remained visibly upset. She looked around the group cautiously, as if fearing rebuke. And yet, if someone were to blame for this incident, it was most certainly Kenny. In forming the botched plan, he had spoken quickly and with conviction. He didn’t solicit the input of others, nor did he leave them room to offer an alternative idea. Regardless, he did not apologize. With the same confidence that he had offered his previous plan, Kenny sketched a new one. Two volunteers would take turns recording times while two others recorded the order that each runner finished. At the end of the race, the two lists would be paired up, matching each finishing runner with a time. This new strategy was more effective, and the women’s 1,600 m race was executed without incident. As I later found out, this was the same method the Cardio Club had used at the previous year’s track meet. Had the students sought guidance from Cara or James, who were both present at prior Metro-Area Relays, they likely could have provided it. Instead, in the characteristic style of a manager, Kenny stepped in, took charge, and dictated his own strategy. The rest of the meet continued without incident, but as the day concluded I wondered whether there would be repercussions for Kenny’s mistake. Would the students hold a grudge? Would they critique his abilities as a leader? Would they ostracize him? I found answers the following week. At practice on Monday, none of the students mentioned the mishap with the men’s 1,600  m race, nor did it come up on Tuesday or Wednesday. To the contrary, Kenny and Carter were both praised for running a successful meet. Drew congratulated them on great work. Even Cara, who had seen the blunder firsthand, took the time to tell other students about how well Kenny had done. Far from being criticized or shunned, he was praised. Moving beyond Structural Authority. Notably, the manager role did not require the structural authority of a group officer, such as president, treasurer, resident advisor, or team captain.7 In fact, over three-quarters of the students who occupied the manager role did not hold formal leader-

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ship positions. While Drew was the president and captain of the Cardio Club, Jerry, Aldo, Caleb, and Will held no formal leadership positions in the Learning Community. Likewise, Ollie and Aaron were members of informal friend groups. Kenny was eventually elected as an officer of the Cardio Club but had occupied the manager role well beforehand. Conversely, students who held elected or appointed leadership positions within organizations did not always perform as managers. Beth and Whitney, the president and vice-president of the Volunteer Collective, both took on roles as caregivers. Others constructed identities around intellect, like the educators depicted in the latter portion of this chapter. And some officers were simply associates—reliable participants who followed the direction of others—despite the authority they technically could have accessed within their groups. I was also surprised to find that the duration of a student’s commitment to a group had relatively little to do with being a manager. By the end of September, it seemed that the dynamics of each group were becoming clear. There had been some membership turnover. Inevitably, a few of the students who had showed up during the first week or two of the semester to take part in organizations like the Cardio Club and the Volunteer Collective eventually stopped attending.8 Students assured me that this sort of attrition was common. But as October approached, the membership of each group began to crystallize, and students’ positions within their social circles were becoming clear. At this point in the semester, it seemed as if the most central places were already taken, occupied by caregivers, educators, and managers alike. And yet the addition of new members could alter group dynamics. For one thing, I found that new students could enter a group and immediately step into the manager role. An illustrative example occurred in the first week of October, when a White student named George became part of the Volunteer Collective. Despite joining the collective over a month into the semester, he immediately took on the manager role. When he first walked into the room and up to the sign-in table, his presence was conspicuous. It struck me that up to that point I hadn’t seen a White male student in the group outside the initial welcome meetings for new members.9 After typing his name and email address into the spreadsheet on Beth’s laptop, George walked past the cluster of chairs closest to him, finding a seat in the center of the room. The students who sat nearby took time to introduce themselves. Though I couldn’t hear most of their conversation from my seat, eagerness was written in their facial expressions. It was apparent that George was receiving an enthusiastic greeting from the others.

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After Beth opened the meeting by welcoming the members, she requested fund-raising ideas for the organization. A group discussion followed, and the students began raising their hands one at a time. As Beth and the other officers called on them, each offered a suggestion or question. For a moment, the discussion progressed in typical fashion. Students considered hosting movie nights, doing a raffle, and even charging entry fees to play in a soccer tournament. But then, in response to a student’s suggestion that the Volunteer Collective host a volleyball event, George spoke up. Without raising his hand, he announced to the group, “Yeah, and that will be better than soccer, because we can have the tournament indoors since it will be cold out[doors].” Beth acknowledged that this was a good idea, and many of the students nodded in affirmation. With the members seemingly in agreement, Beth noted that they would also need to determine how to raise money at the event. Would they charge for tickets? As she was asking the students whether they would like to continue the discussion in smaller groups, George raised his hand. Beth paused to call on him. “You guys should sell water and Gatorade at the event,” he interjected. Approving remarks reverberated around the meeting room. A few minutes later, during a discussion about hosting an event with the Salsa Club, George asked, “Does [the Salsa Club president] plan to charge for admission this time?” Before Beth could respond, he continued, “You need to ask him that.” I noticed that this was the second time George had given an explicit command to the group, which stood out, because it was highly unusual. Typically, the Volunteer Collective was more egalitarian in its group discussions, and orders were rare. Even students beyond their first year of study and those like Beth in officer positions took care to avoid telling their peers what to do. Nonetheless, Beth and the other students again listened attentively and thanked George for his contribution. Other students continued to brainstorm food and beverage options for the proposed volleyball tournament. There was some discussion about whether it would be more appropriate to offer free cups of water than to charge fifty cents for water bottles. During this conversation, George raised his hand. When Beth called on him, he said, “So if we are trying to make money off the event, are we going to have an entry fee for the tournament too? If you’re going to do that, then you need to have the sign-up for teams on the website before you put [flyers and posters] up. Otherwise, we’ll be handing out flyers, and people won’t know how to sign up for the tournament.” Even at his first meeting, George spoke more freely and comfort-

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ably than members who had been in the group for several weeks. He gave the kind of direction that might have been expected from someone with significantly more experience in the organization. Throughout the evening, I watched apprehensively, wondering whether someone would take offense to his behavior. Would it be Beth or Whitney? Or perhaps one of the returning members? Surely, I imagined, someone would view his style as impertinent. Someone would step in to explain the norms of group discussion. Someone would confront George. But no one did. That meeting concluded, and more followed over subsequent weeks. Although he lacked the structural authority that comes with being a president, treasurer, or team captain, George settled into a routine within the Volunteer Collective, becoming a consistent source of direction. He took charge of even the most mundane activities. During a team-building exercise at one of the group’s gatherings, he shepherded his peers as they attempted to solve a riddle. The students split into two groups, and then were tasked with identifying a word that “starts and ends with t and has t in it.”10 While one of the groups considered the riddle in silence for several seconds, George quickly began guiding the other group toward a solution. Even as I sat several yards away, his voice was easy to hear. He was the first to speak and the loudest. George told his peers that he didn’t know the answer, but that they should create a list of words that start and end with t. This instruction was followed by suggestions from other students, who began to offer words fitting his description: that, treat, tart, and so on. With each suggestion, George pointed out that those words did not “have t in them,” so they couldn’t be the correct answer. Throughout the semester, the Volunteer Collective members continued to accept and affirm George’s interactional style. Structurally, he had had no authority to enter the group and take charge so suddenly. And yet others responded in a very positive and encouraging way. Rather than being met with irritation, his instructions were factored into the plans the group made for fund-raising as well as the strategy by which his team solved the riddle. From his very first moments with the collective, George carved out a space for himself in the center of the group. The other members were welcoming despite his late arrival, and responded to his authoritarian style with eager compliance. Life on Center Stage Managers enjoyed being in the spotlight, the recipients of frequent attention from their peers. In other words, they took center stage in their

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groups. In the Cardio Club and the Learning Community, when managers arrived at practice or walked into a room, members often shouted their name in welcome. In these moments, faces turned toward them, smiles beaming their way. This positive attention had a centering effect, positioning managers at the heart of student groups. Their control over the behavior of their peers meant that managers also frequently became synonymous with the groups in which they took up membership. I heard students refer to “Drew’s club,” “George’s team,” and “Caleb’s volunteers.” In short, managers were encouraged to feel important by the attention others directed their way. When George joined the Volunteer Collective, the response of existing members was illustrative of how managers were quickly integrated into groups. Far from being unwelcome, the leadership he offered placed him at the core of the organization. Other students focused their attention on George, listening attentively when he spoke. They also included him in their friendly conversations before and after meetings. Similarly, a few new members of the Cardio Club joined Drew in presenting as managers. In multiple field notes, I remarked on the way several White male students took charge of training runs in their first few weeks on the team. One of them led a group run on his very first day with the Cardio Club. These students, like George, were treated as important members from their first moments with the club. The centering effect of attention was clear in a variety of scenarios. Because of their literal and metaphorical positions at the heart of social circles, action radiated from managers. In my observations of student groups, it was easy to see and even feel this phenomenon. Each day during training, members of the Cardio Club homed in on managers, feeling the physical effects of their leaders’ changes in speed, posture, and cadence. In running alongside managers, I felt their whims firsthand. When Drew sped up, my steps became uneven, and the pavement wore on my feet. When he pushed harder into a headwind, my core tensed, and my chest ached as I struggled to breathe. In following Kenny as he darted through a crosswalk on a dimly lit road, my heart raced. And when he paused to tie his shoe, I was silently grateful for the momentary respite. The rhythm set by managers could be felt in other settings as well. The Volunteer Collective began its meetings with brief icebreaker activities meant to build group cohesion. One evening, the students formed two teams to compete in untangling the “human knot.” The familiar activity—a favorite on many college campuses—needed little explanation. Counting off by twos, the students divided up on opposite sides of the room. Each team had ten members; I found myself on Team 2.

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After each team formed a circle with one another, each of its members reached both arms into the center and clasped hands. Once everyone was linked to two other teammates, the “knot” was complete. Seconds later, the race began to see which team could untangle itself first without its members letting go of one another’s hands, producing a complete, uninterrupted circle. Pausing briefly to take stock of our configuration, several students on Team 2 giggled. It was unclear where to begin. But George, as always, was ready. Pointing with his elbow and calling out commands, kinetic energy began to ripple through the group. With each movement, it was possible to feel the students responding to him. Holding hands with Linda, whose other hand clasped George’s, I could feel the tension produced as he lifted his arm, pulling hers upward. George called to another student to “go under” the tunnel that opened between them. Two students moved through, releasing part of our “human knot.” From that point, things began to move faster. George’s instructions, pushes, and pulls pulsed through the group like waves. Students craned their necks from different angles, looking up, down, and sideways to anticipate his action. “John, raise your arm and turn around . . . Tori, wait . . . Okay, step over.” With each small victory, students cheered, and a few congratulated or thanked George directly. Within five minutes, the facilitator declared Team 2 the winner. Even as the activity ended, George remained the center of attention, fielding high-fives from his teammates. Sociologist Charles Derber describes attention as a “unique social resource,” which is given like a “gift,” making social life possible.11 If this is true, managers received the gift of attention far more frequently than many of their peers, and the attention they were given was consistent over time. In focusing on managers, students implicitly (and sometimes explicitly) validated their contributions. The fact that others paid attention—listening and responding to their direction—signaled to managers that their presence was valued. With peers looking to them for guidance and responding to their impulses, it was easy for these students to view themselves as a worthwhile part of a group. Managers most often reported feeling valued when others complied with their instructions. For instance, when I asked Ollie to describe a time when he felt valued or appreciated, he responded, “The times that I brought my friends together and we’ve done things because I set it up; that makes me feel valued.” Harvey, a White student, told me he frequently felt good when others attended the activities and events he had planned: “I plan things, like I want to do something or go somewhere, and I’ll see if anyone else wants to go with me. . . . It makes me happy that people would want

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to hang out with me.” Similarly, an Asian student named Joel occupied the manager role for his intramural soccer team, where he described himself as the unofficial “coach,” telling the other members what to do during games and practices. In recalling a time when he felt appreciated, he noted, “I would probably have to go with the soccer [team], the whole soccer group  .  .  . to have people look up to you.” Other managers recalled feeling valued when they “played a key role” in their groups or when their contributions to shaping group action were seen as important. Having acquiescent peers look to them for direction gave managers a sense of mattering that amplified their feelings of belonging. In turn, these students described consistently feeling that they belonged throughout their extracurricular involvement. Appreciation for managers showed up across many settings and manifested in a variety of forms. Their peers sometimes offered words of congratulations or thanks. At other moments, value was expressed in smiles, applause, or positive attention more generally. This could be observed when Aldo’s classmates in the Learning Community clapped after his motivational speech, or when George’s peers thanked him for his leadership during various activities. I also observed multiple instances in the Cardio Club, where students expressed gratitude for the role managers played in organizing and executing group events. This gratitude extended beyond official club-sanctioned activities. One day at practice, I listened as a group of Cardio Club students commended Drew for putting on a “rager,” as they colloquially referred to a large party involving alcohol consumption, at the off-campus Cardio Club house. As with caregivers, the appreciation other students felt for managers was also clearly on display when they were absent. My field notes recorded the awkward start to a Tuesday evening Cardio Club practice when Drew was running late. Given class schedules and other commitments, he was the only one of the club’s six managers who could consistently attend practice on Tuesdays. But on that day, five minutes after the 6:00 p.m. start time, there was no sign of Drew. Seven students clustered on the ESU Fitness Center patio. A few began stretching, but most waited attentively. Joey glanced frequently at his watch. Alice pulled out her phone, focusing her attention on its screen, and Ace simply stared into the distance. For a while, the group was completely silent. Finally, Joey tentatively asked, “Should we get started?” For several uncomfortable seconds, no one responded. Alice, still focused intently on her phone, finally found what she had been looking for—a note in the group messenger. “He just got out of class. He’s on his way.” She didn’t need to say who “he” was. The students all seemed to be waiting

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for the moment Drew would arrive to break the silence and imbue the group with a sense of direction. Never mind that everyone present knew how the practice would go: they would stretch, talk about the upcoming race, and begin their usual Tuesday evening long run. But for all that to happen, Drew had to arrive to set things in motion. Educators: Sharing Wisdom Some students gravitated toward another central, highly valued role by taking on the social performance of an educator. Like managers, educators were characterized by the authority they wielded. But rather than giving direction, these students positioned themselves as intellectuals with the authority to speak and convey knowledge. Charlie was a perfect example. A thin White student with wire-framed glasses and a wispy patch of unkempt blond hair, Charlie joined me for an interview in the East State University library, where he spent large chunks of the day reading. In describing his interactions with a group of friends in the residence halls, he captured several of the key characteristics of educators. Ch arlie: I think I’m more of a . . . I guess on some level I’m a second opinion on various things. So like personal things [my friends ask], like, “What do you think, Charlie?” because I’ll actually give an opinion. . . . And then there’ll be people who will be, like, “Well, I know what John will say, but what do you say for this?” And now I have to actually sit down and think about it. BRS : Because they know if they come to you, you’re going to give them a straight answer, or you’re going to have an opinion? Ch arlie: Not just so much a straight answer. I’d be, like, well . . . I’ll give them several answers from different perspectives. Like, “Well, if your goal is for this, then it might be for that; if your goal is for this, it might be for that; and, if I would do it, I would get the hell out of Dodge.” BRS : So it’s sort of like multiple options—kind of laying out what the options are, what the perspectives are? Ch arlie: I like to think I never have an opinion, so it’s easy to think about things from other people’s opinions.

The perspectives Charlie offered were a trademark of educators. Portraying themselves as smart, analytical, and slightly aloof, students

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occupying this role were ready to engage with their peers by offering wisdom. Educators were confident in their intellect. As Charlie’s words make clear, performing this role meant that one typically avoided telling others what to do (as managers so often did). Instead, educators were known for the range of perspectives or ideas they could provide. Fred, a White student in the Learning Community, settled into the educator role almost immediately upon joining the group. One of my first field notes about him described a speech he gave on a day when the students were discussing the topic of leadership. When Jerry claimed that a leader should have charisma, Fred launched into an impassioned critique of this claim. He argued that charisma was “just something made up” by people who sought to give preference to behaviors that were “typically male.” While Fred’s ideas could very well have been informed by an introductory sociology textbook, they were novel to his peers. As he spoke, others in the group listened attentively. A few weeks later, during a conversation about the kinds of topics the Learning Community course should cover in the spring semester, Fred made a similar contribution. The course instructor asked the group to generate a list of topics they found interesting. Fred quickly raised his hand. When called on, he offered the following insight: “It would be interesting to have a class on how language is used in negative ways to oppress people, like, based on gender, for example, and for African Americans. Like, language gets used a lot in ways we don’t even realize to put other people down, even like when we say ‘you guys,’ because we’re saying ‘guys,’ which has a gender.” This comment was clearly not a mere suggestion. In describing the oppressive potential of language, Fred seized the chance to educate others about this issue with a mini-lecture. In occupying the educator role, students like Fred took advantage of opportunities to expose others to new information. They sought to transfer insight and knowledge from their own intellectual repertoires to others in their social groups. With their scholarly style of self-presentation, individuals in this role were sometimes colloquially described as “teachers” or “intellectuals.” Fred was one of four students in the Learning Community who occupied the educator role. Another example came from a White student named Tyler. Rotund with a bushy blond beard, Tyler usually wore loose-fitting pastel T-shirts with intricate designs. A few of his favorites were tie-dyed. His physical appearance and attire—rounded out with a large pendant necklace and a gold hoop earring in one ear—made him look as if he had stepped out of a 60’s counterculture gathering to arrive at ESU.

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Tyler was the sort of person other students went to for stimulating conversation. His friends viewed him as a source of insight on topics ranging from music to politics to religion, and many of them looked to him for help in making sense of their own lives. Packed with potted plants and always dimly lit, his room became a forum for discussion and discernment; students would gather there to soak up Tyler’s wisdom. During such occasions, he often made extensive use of a whiteboard he kept beside his desk. Jenna described a conversation the two of them had one evening about her struggles to make friends on campus: Tyler taught me a lot about [making friends]. He was, like, “You don’t have to be friends with everyone.” He’s, like, “There’s nothing wrong with not talking to people.” I was, like, “What do you mean?” . . . He’ll take out his whiteboard; I remember this distinctly. He has this huge whiteboard in his room; he was drawing circles and he’s, like, “This is your circle. This circle is everyone else.” He was, like, “You could pick where these two collide.” I was, like, “Tyler, thanks for this diagram.”  .  .  . It’s so lit. I’ll watch him be doing something, I’m, like, “Yeah, you make so much sense, Tyler.”

In this example, with his whiteboard and dry-erase markers in hand, Tyler occupied the educator role in its most literal sense, adopting the distinctive posture and demeanor of a teacher. As the examples of Charlie, Fred, and Tyler show, educators offered perspective to their social groups in a variety of ways; however, this perspective served a function different from the commands given by managers. Rather than telling their friends what to do, educators might suggest actions that could be taken or ways in which a situation could be viewed. They offered context, history, or possibilities rather than plans. Educators framed themselves as unbiased intellectuals, of the sort venerated within academic institutions. While managers often needed to prioritize or select a single viewpoint—in order to direct their peers toward one activity or away from another—educators presented themselves as fountains of unsullied knowledge. They were sages, able to access a variety of interesting viewpoints. It is worth emphasizing that educators found places for themselves in a diverse range of contexts, not just within residence halls, classrooms, and the library. In the Cardio Club, a White student named Derek possessed an extensive mental catalogue of running routes and workouts. He took care to avoid telling the group where to run or which work-

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out to do, instead presenting an array of possibilities to other members. Derek also had an archive of knowledge about the club and ESU’s athletics bureaucracy, which he shared with new members. I benefitted from his knowledge firsthand on one of my first runs with the team. The clamor of the campus was starting to wind down on a warm September evening when, midway through a run, Derek brought up my research. Over the course of the next two miles, he took time to recount the history of the Cardio Club. Painting a picture of the organization, its culture, and how it had changed over time, he filled the gaps in my knowledge. Later in the conversation, he speculated on a few theories about the club’s growth in recent years and its current efforts to recruit new members: I don’t know if this would be useful for your study, but one thing we realized last year about recruiting [new members] was that when we advertised it as a group for beginners, even those who didn’t want to compete, we had no luck retaining new people. The only ones who stuck around were the athletes who were serious about it and wanted to compete. So now we’ve got a lot of new races that we do, and we advertise it as a way to keep being a competitive athlete in college.12

It was clear that Derek understood—at least in a general way—that my purpose with the group was to understand social involvement, and he sought to offer valuable information in support of that endeavor. As we returned to the campus gym, he continued to elucidate his observations about how the group had expanded over the years, offering additional hypotheses about the causes of this growth. Notably, he shared these observations completely unprompted, offering several possible factors of interest. As he conveyed ideas to me, it was obvious that Derek was used to others looking to him for insight, and he was confident that his perspective had value. As with managers, not all students could easily take on the educator role. Performing as an educator required that other students recognize one’s authority to convey knowledge. As social science research has demonstrated, knowledge, intelligence, and wisdom are often coded as both White and masculine.13 A long history of racist and sexist discourse has framed women and minority groups as intellectually inferior to White men.14 Remnants of these associations persist within colleges and universities. Research on stereotype threat documents how gender-biased and racially biased assumptions regarding intelligence shape the experi-

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ences of female and racial/ethnic minority students.15 Fear of confirming negative stereotypes can constrain students’ performance inside and outside the classroom and limit their opportunities. Members of these frequently disparaged groups—who have historically been restricted from entry into many educational institutions—sometimes struggle to identify with academic pursuits. It may therefore be unsurprising that with just one exception, the students occupying the educator role were White men. The Value of Knowledge While narratives about college as a place to have fun abound, there is a parallel emphasis on college as a place to be exposed to interesting people and ideas.16 These narratives are not in direct conflict. As I interviewed students, many told stories about staying up late after parties or social events, listening to the philosophizing of “smart” peers. Like Fitzgerald’s Princetonian men who spent long nights listening to Burne Holiday’s musings about economics, politics, religion, and poetry in This Side of Paradise, these students sought out intellectual stimulation. Educators were the perfect partners for such activities. Students in the Learning Community talked fondly about late-night trips to the dining hall, where they would have “deep conversations” with Fred, Tyler, and other educators. These discussions became an enjoyable foray through the intellectual stratosphere of college life. Given the role educators played in exposing others to knowledge, they received much appreciation from their peers. As with managers and caregivers, they became valued members of social groups, where they were frequently touted by others for their impressive intellects. At the end of the academic year, during a culminating activity with the Learning Community, the students each wrote their name on a blank sheet of paper and began passing them around the room. They were tasked with writing “something nice” about the person whose name was on the paper. Glancing at the sheets as they made their way across my desk, I saw positive descriptors like “smart” and “wise” written about the educators in the group—one even received a short note thanking him for “always sharing your opinion.” Educators never had to think long to remember instances in which they felt valued or appreciated by peers. Each of them could identify moments when their intellectual contributions were highlighted. During our interview, Fred recalled when Jamie read some of his writing and “couldn’t stop talking about” her positive reaction to it. Another

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day, four of his friends attended a public presentation he gave, holding a poster-board sign expressing their support. Perhaps the most memorable of these experiences occurred at the end of the school year in conjunction with the Learning Community students’ shared course. The final assignment for the class was focused on reflection. Some students wrote boilerplate final journal entries, while others made paintings, organized music playlists, or took photographs. The form the project could take was open ended to say the least. For his project, Fred gave a poetry reading. Standing in front of the room, he announced, “Most of you know I’m a writer. I’ll be reading two poems I wrote this year. They’re about social change.” As Fred finished reading the second poem a few minutes later, the group broke into vigorous applause. Several students praised his writing. These expressions of appreciation for his intellect enhanced Fred’s sense of himself as a valued member of the community. He described the feelings associated with these experiences as “moments where I feel little bursts of inclusion that I really appreciate.” In short, perceiving that his perspective mattered to others amplified his feelings of belonging in the Learning Community. It was not only during public displays of intellectual prowess that educators felt appreciated. They were also recognized as valuable friends when they were able to teach others a new skill or convey new information. In such moments, groups proudly claimed educators as their own. For example, when I asked a White student named Grant about a time when he felt valued or appreciated, he responded enthusiastically: Yeah, definitely! Last semester, Campus Ministry actually had a poker night, and my goal was just to go there and hang out, to help teach people who didn’t know how to play Texas Hold’em.  .  .  . The Campus Ministry president was talking to [one of the other officers], and the president’s just, like, “Yeah, even though Grant is [a new inductee], we still count him as part of our [senior members], even though he’s not.” When I heard him say that, it just blew my mind.

It was in the process of sharing his knowledge with other members— teaching them how to play poker—that Grant recalled feeling like a valued part of Campus Ministry. The president recognized him as comparable to one of the senior members, even though he was technically a relatively new addition to the ministry. Similarly, Charlie recalled feeling valued among his friend group at the end of a long intellectual discus-

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sion. As the students were about to part ways, he recalled that one of his friends smiled and said, “I’m really glad I met you.” Reading the meaning of this statement, Charlie perceived that she was impressed by “the way I present my ideas.” Like managers, educators were the beneficiaries of deference and positive attention, which became a strong signal of their worth. Becky noted, “You have people who it’s very clear that everybody on the floor respects them, or at least, they’re willing to shut up for a while while they talk—they’ll listen to what they have to say.” She gave the example of a White student named Matthew. In describing his place in the community, Becky said, “Everybody respects [him]. They’re just more willing to listen.” My own observations confirmed her claim. Matthew received much attention and admiration from his peers. It was not uncommon to hear students talk glowingly about the “wisdom” Matthew had shared with them. They described him as “deep” and “woke.”17 In the fall semester, Matthew began hosting a show on the campus radio station. The topics he covered ranged from prescription drug abuse to music to media addictions, and his friends tuned in to learn. In one of the Learning Community classes, Matthew and Kyle, another White male educator, engaged in a discussion about whether violence was a necessary part of social movements. In a large group of forty students, it was rare to be granted a moment of silent attentiveness from one’s peers. And yet as Matthew and Kyle spoke, others listened quietly. Kyle later described the value he felt in occupying the educator role, highlighting moments when his friends in the community listened with interest to what he was saying: “Most people, I think they want to think more; they want to hear more. They want to hear different sides, and things like that. . . . They’re interested in hearing it.” In reading other students as being attentive to and interested in his efforts to convey knowledge, Kyle was secure in his sense of mattering to the community. He perceived that his place in the group was appreciated by peers who “want[ed] to hear more” of what he had to say. The attention given to educators by their dedicated audiences became even more meaningful when juxtaposed to how others were treated. This disparity was visible in the divergent experiences of Becky and Fred. On a Saturday evening, I joined the Learning Community students in their floor common room for an Earth Day activity that one of the resident advisors had organized. The activity made use of an online program where students could enter details about their lifestyles to learn about their carbon footprint. The gathering was less interactive than most, given that students’ attention was directed toward their lap-

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tops. Yet there were a few moments when everyone came together for a group discussion. Several of these discussions occurred in response to points raised by Fred. As the carbon footprint activity was winding down, he showed his friends another web-based tool that could be used to measure environmental impact. As he explained the website and relevant concepts, the students paused their conversations and looked up from their laptops, focusing on Fred. When he finished speaking, Becky tried to add a related point, but others began talking over her almost immediately. The room hummed with the flow of a dozen conversations, and she gave up. The students returned to their focused state only when Fred began speaking again a few minutes later. While he enjoyed their attention, Becky was invisible in the same setting. : : : It is primarily the experiences of White men that form the contours of this chapter. Typically performing as either managers or educators, these students occupied comparable social spaces at the center of their groups. Both roles relied on the exercise of authority, and both offered feelings of mattering that amplified one’s sense of belonging. The existence of these roles and their exclusivity to White male students derive in part from broad social inequalities that imbue Whiteness and masculinity with authority that has historically been denied to women and racial/ethnic minorities.18 But universities cannot abdicate blame for the perpetuation of this inequality, chalking it up to the problems of life outside the ivory tower. The ability of White male students to stake a claim to authority on college campuses also sits within a deep history of racist and sexist exclusion in higher education. For much of its existence, higher education in the United States has been the territory of the male children of affluent White families.19 The history of American slavery and colonialism is inextricably woven into the founding of the nation’s hallmark colleges and universities.20 In his book The Chosen, sociologist Jerome Karabel illuminates patterns of exclusion by gender, race, and ethnicity in higher education. Through much of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, women and racial/ ethnic minorities were barred from admission to many of the oldest and most prestigious universities in the country. Meanwhile, these institutions provided country club–like atmospheres for wealthy White men to feel at home.21 Postsecondary institutions also played a central role in institutionalizing racism, contributing to stereotypes of racial and eth-

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nic minorities as intellectually inferior.22 Comparable biases constrained the opportunities of women. Even as female students began to enroll in greater numbers in colleges and universities, cultural assumptions framed women’s education as being about “domesticity” rather than intellect.23 Though times have changed, inequality is durable. Contemporary studies of campus climate find that racial and ethnic minority students continue to feel unwelcome in many institutions of higher education.24 Black, Latino, and female students alike encounter stressors in college, where they perceive that peers and instructors hold negative stereotypes about their academic abilities.25 Other harmful stereotypes shape the social experiences of broad swaths of racial and ethnic minority students, including Asian students.26 In this context, is it any wonder that White male students experience comparable ease as they seek out social inclusion and craft identities as leaders and intellectuals? The findings of this chapter illuminate how White men, by taking on roles that leverage authority, come to occupy central places in their social circles. They are the beneficiaries of cultural assumptions and stereotypes that shape the meanings attached to leadership and intellect. In acquiring roles as managers and educators while at college, they could count on a ready group of followers and an attentive audience. Over time, the consistent attention and encouragement they received payed dividends. These students were confident and comfortable. They were able to find inclusion and move through their social landscapes with relative ease. If while at ESU I had observed and talked with only White male students, it would have been easy to come away with the impression that college life is a breeze.27 It would have been easy to imagine that college students are developing in positive ways as they prepare to become leaders and active voices in their communities.28 It would have been easy to assume that appreciation is doled out generously, and that a place to belong isn’t hard to find. In short, it would have been easy to feel good about the experiences young people are having on college campuses. But these weren’t the only students I encountered. The caregivers, explored in the previous chapter, add complexity to these observations. They provided support to others at significant personal cost. Their kindness was received by peers who were generally appreciative but sometimes seemed to take them for granted. The next chapter further complicates the picture. In it, I explore the experiences of students who existed on the margins of group life—those who sometimes felt invisible. Despite being present in the same groups as managers and educators, their liminal existence constituted a very different college experience.

4

Entertainers, Associates, and the Struggle for Liminal Connections It was a dreary Wednesday afternoon during midterm week when I met Tom, a Latino student, at the East State University library for our interview. Arriving early, I walked past rows of students hunched over desks and laptops. They thumbed through notebooks and textbooks with palpable intensity. The air was thick with the smell of damp newsprint that always seemed to permeate the library on rainy days, and the entire third floor was silent. After finding the meeting room, I took off my coat and settled into a chair at a small table. Hearing a knock, I looked up to see Tom, grinning in the doorway. “Hey!” he exclaimed, breaking the silence. His greeting reverberated through the silent stacks. “Oh, I should probably close the door,” he announced, seeming to realize his voice was carrying. Before even sitting down, Tom launched into a description of his day so far. He spoke quickly and energetically, feigning exasperation about the weather and poking fun at the bad food in the campus dining hall. “And on top of that, the pasta is crap! I mean, come on!” he exclaimed. We both laughed. Tom’s humor broke through the midsemester gloom. Taking off his glasses, he continued, “I’ve been reading so much I have to use my glasses again!” Making light of the homework he was putting off, he confessed, “I should be studying, but I mean, come on!” There it was

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again—“I mean, come on!” This catchphrase seemed to be Tom’s trademark cue for laughter. Moments later, he said it a third time. With each iteration, his eyes grew wide as he stretched out his arms, palms to the ceiling. Listening to his monologue was like being in the presence of a comedian. For a few minutes, I forgot about the interview. Tom was entertaining. He was funny. He seemed to stand outside the angst-ridden library. He was the kind of guy who could evoke laughter, even in the middle of a cold, rainy midterm week. As we continued our conversation, it was clear that this was a role Tom was used to playing. When describing interactions with his group of friends on campus, he didn’t hesitate to label himself “the loud one.” Tom elaborated, “I’m really loud . . . I’m uncontrolled and uncensored. And I’ll say anything that comes out of my mouth. [My friends] just enjoy that.” In day-to-day interactions, entertaining his friends was Tom’s central goal. He told several stories about times when he provoked surprise and laughter. Sometimes, it was with a startling outburst: “Like, I start to scream, and everyone is just looking at me, like, what happened?” In other moments, he would play a prank on an unsuspecting peer. I refer to the role Tom occupied among his friends as the entertainer. Students in this role sought to inject humor into their groups. They communicated in a language of jokes and pranks. In providing humor, we might suspect that entertainers would shine within their groups, like comedians on a stage. After all, caregivers were appreciated for offering support, managers for providing direction, and educators for sharing wisdom. It seems possible that humor could act as a valuable form of social currency as well. But joking carried a certain amount of risk. Tom recognized this danger, and took great care to monitor how others perceived him. He noted, [Sometimes,] I can’t act so loudly and everything . . . I don’t want to come off as annoying. You don’t want to fall into that. One thing I’ve learned is that everyone is very connected. You have to keep yourself a bit quiet sometimes, otherwise you might say something wrong and someone will say something, and it comes back to you. . . . It can cause drama, and that’s like wildfire.

In other words, humor could bring laughter, but it could also disrupt rapport. Tom seemed to occupy a tentative place within his friend group. In fact, near the end of our interview he admitted, “I’ve never had that feeling of, like, I belong in this group . . . I don’t have a sense of home.” It was at this point that his easygoing façade fell away. For a

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moment, Tom was serious, vulnerable, perhaps even frustrated. I wondered whether he might feel cheated. After all, he seemed to put much time and energy into sharing his humor. What would it be like to work so diligently to be funny and amusing, only to remain distant from one’s peers? Quickly assuring me that he did in fact enjoy his social life, Tom emphasized that he could “have fun” in college despite having only a tepid connection with his friend group. But, mingled with the pain in his voice, his words weren’t convincing. On the day of the Past, Present, and Future presentations in the Learning Community, a Black student named Andre sat across the circle from Jamie and Rhonda, two of the caregivers of the group. In many ways, he provided an illustrative foil for the two of them. Where Jamie and Rhonda worked proactively to show the group how much they cared about others, Andre demonstrated to his peers that he was unenthused and steady, going with the general flow of the group. When sharing his life experiences and goals during the presentation, he spoke for less than a minute. He said that he wanted to work in physical fitness, perhaps become a personal trainer. But even as he described fitness as a “passion,” Andre spoke in a quiet, even tone. He could just as easily have been talking about taxes or laundry. He was calm and collected, a consistent but quiet presence in the group. Although individuals exhibiting such behavior are often thought of as shy or introverted, Andre, like Jamie and Rhonda, was in fact putting forward an intentional style of self-presentation.1 In describing himself to me later in the year, he said, “I’m really cool. You won’t catch me going out of the box. I stay cool, give a cool answer, give a cool response to whatever you say. I don’t give too much most of the time.” In short, Andre performed the role of an associate, taking part in group activities, going with the flow, and exuding a calm, quiet presence. Whereas caregivers, managers, and educators crafted identities that placed them in central, valued social locations within their groups, the same could not be said for associates. Like entertainers, they existed on the periphery. Despite Andre’s consistent participation and willingness to follow the direction of others, his peers in the Learning Community did not express appreciation for him. Moreover, his relaxed, quiet social performance meant that he was rarely the center of attention. Andre’s membership in the group allowed him to share a limited sense of commonality with others, but he remained marginal among his peers. Near the end of the spring semester, Andre confessed that “sometimes, I don’t feel like I belong [in the Learning Community], like it’s not my group of people.” However, he had trouble identifying the source

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of this feeling, given that in his words, “they’re not mean people, and nothing [bad] really happened.” He noted that he “didn’t really get that far” in getting to know others, and he could recall only one person articulating appreciation for his presence in the group. It was not another student but rather the Learning Community course instructor. Tom and Andre showed up in their groups in very different ways. Tom was funny and outgoing. Andre was cool and reserved. Where Tom sought to be “uncontrolled and uncensored,” Andre declared, “You won’t catch me going out of the box.” But despite their differences, the two of them had something in common: they both felt distant from others in their social circles. In this chapter, I argue that certain raced and gendered identity strategies lacked the capacity to produce and sustain feelings of belonging. Students who presented as entertainers used humor to amuse their peers. They worked to be funny and unpredictable; yet humor was a risky social currency that had potential to create conflict and emotional distance. Associates, on the other hand, were quiet. Some, like Andre, sought to be perceived as cool and laid-back, while others presented as passive and polite. Put simply, associates were followers; when others gave instructions, they complied. Entertainers and associates both did what they could to be consistent and reliable friends. But despite their contributions to social groups, they remained liminal figures. This chapter offers a glimpse of their experiences as they searched for belonging and frequently came up empty-handed. Entertainers: Provoking Laughter In the Learning Community, two names often came up simultaneously when students reminisced about jokes and pranks: Alec and Paulo. They both provided comic relief for the community. Alec, a Black student, stood out during a performance in the Learning Community’s Wednesday afternoon class. After welcoming the students and succeeding in quieting them down, Elizabeth, the course instructor, presented a PowerPoint slide featuring the text of a short story. Then she asked for two volunteers. Hands shot up, and Elizabeth pointed to Alec and another student named Jerry. Leaving their chairs and coming to the center of the room, the pair stood in front of the projector. Elizabeth started to read the story aloud while Alec and Jerry were tasked with acting it out. The narrative began by describing a riverbank on which two men were standing. From this vantage point, they had spotted an infant in the water. “Seeing the helpless baby, they go to rescue it,” Elizabeth explained, “and they pull the baby out of the water, but just then they see

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another one floating by.” As the narrative continued, the class learned that the two men rescued the second baby as well before noticing that more babies were coming downstream. During the middle of her story, Elizabeth pulled a bulging plastic trash bag from behind her podium. Reaching inside, she procured half a dozen small stuffed animals—evidently meant to serve as metaphorical infants—and began throwing them into the center of the room for Alec and Jerry to retrieve. Jerry casually scooped up the first two, placing them on the closest table. But within a few moments, Elizabeth began tossing the stuffed animals faster. Like a coach at batting practice, she threw one fistful after another. Sailing through the air and bouncing across the floor, the toys began to accumulate. With exaggerated gestures, Alec grabbed at them, frantically scooping them up and launching them out of “the river” toward the set of tables Elizabeth had dubbed “the shore.” Teddy bears and beanbag puppies pelted the students sitting behind the tables. The class broke into raucous laughter. With her bag nearly empty, Elizabeth narrated, “One of the men stops picking up the babies and begins to head upstream.” Pointing to the back of the room, she directed Alec to walk up the center aisle between the tables. Pulling the legs of his jeans up to his knees and lunging forward, he pretended to wade. “Upstream,” his character found a “baby factory” that was dumping infants into the river. Alec’s pantomimed shock, punctuated by him slapping his forehead, elicited more laughter from the group. Moments later, Elizabeth concluded her story, noting that the men would now be able to “stop the problem at its source.” She had apparently hoped this activity would illustrate the difference between tackling social issues through “charity” (saving babies from the river) versus “systemic change” (dealing with the problem of the baby factory). And yet, absorbed in Alec’s performance, the students seemed to have missed this deeper meaning. Most of them struggled to interpret the story during the group discussion that followed. These types of comedic performances were common occurrences in the dormitory as well. One evening, Paulo, a Latino student, arrived thirty minutes late to a Jeopardy!-themed event hosted by a resident advisor named Sean. Quietly entering the room, he tiptoed to a table filled with candy, stickers, ESU T-shirts, and other ESU-branded apparel. These items were intended to be prizes for the Jeopardy! winners. As Sean focused on the group, reading a six-hundred-dollar question, Paulo snatched a pair of neon sunglasses from the table. With a flourish, he placed them on top of his head. A few students, now distracted from the game, looked tentatively in his direction. Paulo began to strut back

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and forth across the room, outside Sean’s line of sight. His ability to do this without Sean noticing provoked stifled giggles around the room. Students who crafted identities as entertainers did so in conversation with gendered and raced meanings. Although there were a few females and one White male in the entertainer role, it was predominantly occupied by male racial and ethnic minority students. Despite comprising just 25 percent of the study participants, these men made up 75 percent of the entertainers. Their overrepresentation within the entertainer role might be explained by the prevalence of what sociologist Patricia Hill Collins calls controlling images.2 These images draw from stereotypes to perpetuate negative assumptions about marginalized groups—racial/ethnic minority men in this case. Individuals who are targeted by controlling images often encounter pressure to debunk them. Previous research has documented the efforts made by Black male students to distance themselves from the controlling image of the “angry Black man.”3 One way to accomplish this goal is to situate oneself as “funny,” based on the perception that humor is incompatible with anger. For instance, sociologist Amy Wilkins illustrates how Black men in the college setting are encouraged to present as “fun” and “unconcerned with goals.”4 It’s possible that comparable pressures were at work in situating male racial and ethnic minority students within the entertainer role. Though Asian, Latino, and multiracial men encounter different sets of controlling images from those encountered by their Black peers, male racial/ethnic minority students as a group deal with constraining cultural assumptions and expectations. These images diverge in notable ways, yet common themes often run through them. For instance, while Black and Latino men confront controlling images of themselves as angry or dangerous, Asian men report that others perceive them to be “intense,” “boring,” or “too serious.” Despite their unique manifestations, both sets of stereotypes may be rebuffed through displays of humor.5 A conglomeration of cultural assumptions and controlling images attached to marginalized masculinity can narrow the range of identity strategies available to male racial/ethnic minority students. For these young men, performing as “the funny guy” may seem like the only comfortable or safe option. Leveraging the Element of Surprise. Students who performed as entertain-

ers were described by others as being “fun” or “funny.” Entertainers themselves clearly recognized and acknowledged their role. A Black student named Rick told me about his interactions with peers: “They say

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I’m the most outgoing. . . . In my friend group, I’m the funny one. You can ask them—they agree. There’s two people in our group—me and someone else—we go back and forth with each other.” He recounted numerous occasions where he supplied humor in group settings. In these moments, his friends’ reactions were typically positive: “They just laugh. I’m always funny.” Being an entertainer was partly about having a good sense of humor, but delivery was just as important. Entertainers and their friends highlighted being “unpredictable” and “uncensored” as important facets of their role. In my interview with him, an Asian student named Turner described his style of self-presentation among friends. He noted, “They describe me as a fun-loving guy and just outgoing. I do things that people don’t do usually. I don’t follow the rules, so I’m that kind of guy.” As Turner indicated, not “follow[ing] the rules” was important for entertainers. Breaking with convention—doing the kinds of things that “people don’t do usually”—allowed them to catch their peers off guard with an edgy joke or a surprising prank. In this way, entertainers stood out. They wanted to be unrestrained, even when that meant bending institutional rules and social norms. This interactional style offered a sharp contrast with other roles. Caregivers worked to be dependable, providing consistent support to their friends. Likewise, managers and educators could be counted on for reliable direction and wisdom. Entertainers, however, sought to be predictably unpredictable. While eliciting surprise sometimes required being loud—like when Tom would unexpectedly scream to startle his friends—not all entertainers were quite so exuberant. A few leveraged humor in more furtive ways. Luis, a Latino entertainer in the Volunteer Collective, was illustrative of this difference. Usually arriving to meetings a few minutes late, he would take a seat in the corner of the room. I often couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying, but his role as an entertainer was clear nonetheless.  Talking under his breath to those sitting nearby, Luis evoked amused chuckles or wide-eyed shock. He engaged in subtle teasing, directed at those who happened to be in his vicinity. One evening, the collective’s president asked the students for a volunteer to teach the group a few words in Spanish. Reaching to the side, Luis grabbed Anthony, a quiet student who was sitting beside him. Clutching his wrist, Luis raised Anthony’s arm high in the air despite his attempts to pull away. The other students cackled as the president called on Anthony to lead the exercise. Regardless of whether they were boisterous comedians or subtle mischief makers, entertainers dedicated time and thought to their per-

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formances. An Asian student named Lynn recalled a time when she recreated a prank from her favorite TV show. She spent several hours embedding her friend’s coffee mug in a block of Jell-O. Once the mixture congealed, she placed it on a plate, leaving the blob in the student’s doorway. In entertainers’ focus on others’ emotions—seeking to induce laughter and surprise—their behaviors were sometimes comparable to those of caregivers. And yet the self-presentation characterizing these two roles was distinct in important ways. While caregivers were read as compassionate and thoughtful, entertainers worked to give off an air of lightheartedness and fun. A caregiver would look out for the well-being of others, but an entertainer offered diversion, even if it was occasionally dangerous (like performing an unsafe prank) or potentially hurtful (perhaps the by-product of frequent teasing). When there was a lull in a conversation or a boring stretch in a meeting, entertainers would crack a joke, tell a story, or do something amusing to pass the time. Their efforts focused on ensuring that their peers enjoyed themselves. Embodying Entertainment. Entertainers often expended significant mental

and physical effort on behalf of their peers. As Paulo’s theatrical routine with the sunglasses in the dormitory and Alec’s in the Learning Community classroom illustrated, this role was not just about telling jokes. It was also about embodied humor. Entertainment was conveyed as much through corporeal performance as it was through knowing how to land a punch line. Victor, a White student, was another one of the Learning Community’s entertainers. A gymnast, he often performed acrobatics for the enjoyment of his classmates. He would also jokingly draw attention to his own musculature, including his self-described “gym booty,” procuring giggles from his peers. The community members were also amused by his theatrical style. During a role-play activity one morning in the spring semester, Victor portrayed a television newscaster. Sitting upright behind an elevated desk, he delivered “breaking news” with an exaggerated booming voice, to the delight of others present. Nowhere was the embodiment of humor easier to observe than in the club sports setting. While training with the Cardio Club, I saw a range of manifestations of physical humor, and quickly realized how exhausting this kind of routine could be. A Latino student named Nick provided a clear example. During the third week of the fall semester, one of his performances during a training run stood out. The sun was beating down on an eighty-degree afternoon as we jogged around State Circle. Ready for a cooler path, the students made their way toward a side road, lined with eclectic homes and shaded by a canopy of oaks.

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The cut-through from campus dropped us in the center of the road, which seemed safe enough without any cars in sight. Though the group had been quiet and focused on the first segment of the run, Nick took advantage of the change in scenery to draw a few laughs from the other students. He began by jumping to grab tree branches along the edge of the road. Clutching a fistful of leaves after his third or fourth leap, he elicited an impressed “whoa!” from a student named James. The rest of the group laughed. As a car approached from behind, another student named Joey called for everyone to move over. The group shifted to the right, heading for the sidewalk. Nick, however, disregarded the command and continued straight ahead. He gradually began running faster but stayed in the middle of the road, directly in front of the car. The driver slowed down, unable to pass. Again, a few of the students laughed. Joey seemed less amused. “Come on!” he called, as Nick finally moved out of the way. The car sped by as James chuckled. For the remainder of the workout, Nick made jokes and entertained the Cardio Club members with stories of his adventures racing cross-country in high school. Over the course of the workout, he shifted genres with ease. Like most entertainers, he was highly effective at blending oral storytelling and jokes with physical feats to offer diversion to his peers. Perhaps the most impressive part of Nick’s performance was that he did all this while running. Keeping up with the group was enough of a struggle for most students on this warm day, but he also managed to jump, dodge cars, and keep up a steady monologue throughout the workout. A Risky Social Currency Many students contributed to their groups in ways that allowed them to feel valuable. Caregivers, managers, and educators alike accrued a sense of mattering through their interactions with peers. Entertainers experienced something different. Telling a joke or pulling a prank could momentarily garner attention, and the ensuing laughter offered a taste of affirmation. However, being an entertainer could also limit one’s opportunities to feel a sense of belonging. Social scientists have documented the ways that jokes are open to a broad range of interpretations.6 A Latino student named Ruben described how he liked to send his friends memes (electronic text or images typically meant to be humorous). His expression was gleeful as he recalled a series of memes about Charles Darwin that he sent to friends from his anthropology class. Their reactions were positive. However, after sending these memes to another

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group of students on his dormitory floor, Ruben determined that they considered these messages off-limits. Struggling to explain the situation, he confessed, “Sometimes, we don’t all understand the memes.” Having offended some of his friends with an image they did not find humorous, Ruben wanted to avoid making a similar mistake again. Like Ruben, many entertainers acknowledged the risk in making jokes that could “cross the line.” Though it wasn’t always possible to predict which jokes would offend, humor directed at others in the form of teasing or ridicule was especially risky. Rick, who described himself as “the funny one” in his group, also disclosed that there were times when his jokes were perceived to have “gone too far.” When I asked for an example, he recalled, “One time—I forget what we were talking about . . . I was making fun of [a friend], and they were literally crying at the end. . . . I’m, like, okay, let me stop.” Likewise, a Latino student named Marcus portrayed himself as a typical entertainer. He noted that his friends would describe him as a funny and energetic jokester, but he was quick to note that some of them would also use a less flattering adjective: annoying. Marcus initially claimed that friends always laughed at his jokes, but then he seemed to reconsider. “Well, not always the person I’m joking on,” he confessed. As Rick and Marcus highlight, attempts to elicit laughter at the expense of others could easily be misread as mean-spirited and backfire. Entertainers had to be on the lookout for moments when their jokes stopped being funny and became offensive or hurtful. Even when the positive intentions behind jokes were clear, they weren’t always welcome. In certain social settings, joking was perceived to be disruptive. My field notes recorded an incident during a Volunteer Collective meeting when Beth, the group’s president, was facilitating a discussion about its upcoming charity volleyball tournament. While students were debating the cost of admission, two entertainers began a quiet side conversation. When Luis whispered something to a Latino student named Cesar, they and a few students sitting nearby broke into laughter. Seconds later, Cesar landed a punch line of his own, and the students erupted again. Beth pivoted in their direction. “You guys are joking a lot,” she noted. “Do you have an idea or something?” Although Beth smiled as she spoke, the rebuke was clear. Luis and Cesar spent the rest of the meeting in silence. Coupled with the potential for misunderstanding, jokes had a tolerance threshold, so entertainers had to tread lightly. Engaged in a constant balancing act, they occupied a tentative space in social groups, where it was easy for laughter to turn into frustration.

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The ever-present possibility of upsetting one’s peers was usually dealt with by being ready for a quick retreat and temporarily maintaining distance. This meant that for many entertainers, social life was more manageable from the periphery of their groups. From this vantage point, they could act as emotional seismographers, paying close attention to subtle changes in the reception of their humor, and retreating from focus when rapport was disrupted. In effect, entertainers’ reliance on jokes as social currency often functioned to physically distance them from the center of their groups. Moreover, sociologists have highlighted how even well-received jokes and pranks can produce emotional distance.7 In this way, entertainers’ role contrasted with that of caregivers, whose efforts to look out for the well-being of others usually cultivated intimacy with peers.8 Helping a sick friend drew students closer together, but frequent teasing could impede intimacy. It is perhaps unsurprising, then, that when students recounted lists of friends or members of their groups, “the funny guy” (or, less commonly, “the funny girl”) was often mentioned last, sometimes as an afterthought. Despite being among the most consistent attendees at meetings, events, and practices, James from the Cardio Club, Max from the Learning Community, and Luis from the Volunteer Collective were rarely mentioned by their peers as members of their groups. In this context of tentative acceptance and marginality, entertainers described having less durable feelings of mattering than their peers featured in the two previous chapters. Moments when their humor was ill received linked directly to their perception that they were unappreciated. A student named Peter, who described his ethnic identity as Moroccan, recalled an experience in which he went too far in making jokes about a friend. BRS : Have you had any experiences where you felt unappreciated or undervalued? Peter: Yeah, there was this one time. My friends were just hanging around and I have one friend who’s kind of heavy. I made a fat joke. It was really late at night. He texts me personally. He was, like, “Cut that shit out. These jokes are starting to get on my nerves.” And I was, like, “I never meant to offend.” . . . It was just one too much. BRS : How did you feel when you got the text? What were you thinking at the time? Peter: I read it and flinched . . . I was, like, I didn’t have the intention to offend, just get people to laugh.

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Many students in the entertainer role couldn’t recall a single time when they felt valued or appreciated in their social groups. My interview with Lynn, the student who had entombed her friend’s coffee mug in Jell-O, was illustrative. When I asked whether she could recall a time when she felt this way in any of her friend groups, Lynn responded succinctly, “Not any that come up into my mind.” She wasn’t alone. When they couldn’t recall instances of their peers expressing appreciation for them, some entertainers pivoted to claim that they could see value in themselves beyond the social realm of college. Turner reframed questions about peer appreciation to highlight his own academic and career preparation in college. He noted, “I found my value in where I stand academically and where I stand in the job market.” Evading my efforts to shift the discussion back to his social involvement, he told me about some of the progress he had made in preparing for his future career. Concluding, he declared, “That was the point where I valued myself.” In a similar response to my inquiry about feeling valued, Peter seemed uneasy and a bit defensive. “Well, I’ve had personal achievements. I’m doing generally well in my classes,” he offered. Other students reported feeling valuable for being part of philanthropic or service projects within their extracurricular groups. An Asian student named Max explained, “Just being able to do some things, volunteering—that’s something we all have to do on the [residence hall] floor, part of the requirement to live [in the Learning Community]. So being able to volunteer and know I’m doing something to better a community is very nice.” As their responses demonstrate, some entertainers felt valued because of their personal achievements or contributions made outside their social roles. In other words, when entertainers felt a sense of mattering, these feelings typically had nothing to do with their place in social groups. This observation offers a direct contrast to the other versions of the cookie-cutter self outlined in prior chapters. Caregivers, managers, and educators felt a sense of mattering for role-specific contributions they made. These perceptions were important, because feeling valued in relation to one’s social role tended to amplify feelings of belonging. Entertainers, on the other hand, more often came up empty-handed in their quest for belonging, as Tom illustrated when he noted, “I’ve never had that feeling of, like, I belong in this group . . . I don’t have a sense of home.” While entertainers themselves rarely reported feeling valued or appreciated, there were a small number of students who expressed appreciation for peers who performed as entertainers. For instance, Carol

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described her friend Amira: “There’s one girl, Amira, she is the most out-there person I have ever met; it’s so fun to be around her. She’s just always saying things that are just funny. She’s really quirky and stuff, and she’s just, like, a really fun person to be around.” Yet in expressing appreciation for her friend’s role as an entertainer, Carol was the exception rather than the rule. And perhaps the same could be said of Amira. While Carol claimed that her friend was “always saying things that are just funny,” most entertainers could not always provide diversion. Jokes, tricks, or pranks required thought and effort, and keeping up a steady stream of entertainment without being perceived as “annoying” likely required a great deal of skill.9 In my ethnographic observations, I did not find students who could entertain so consistently without negative repercussions. Further, I found no instances in which humor was valued to the same degree as other contributions, such as caregiving or direction. Even Carol described Amira with comparable brevity after talking about her friend Alexis, a caregiver, in extensive detail. Associates: Reliable Followers A White female student attended more Cardio Club practices than any other member. Beginning on the first day of the fall semester, she made a commitment to show up consistently. And over the course of the year, she stuck to that commitment. At 4:50 p.m. nearly every weekday afternoon, she arrived wearing a tank top, neon shorts, and a solid black smartwatch. On cold days she added a windbreaker. No matter the day or the weather, her hair was always fastened in a single long braid. Aside from her punctuality, there seemed to be nothing remarkable about this student. She was focused and reserved, and she followed instructions without question. In fact, it took nearly three weeks before I learned her name. Initially, my field notes referenced “Smartwatch” (she was the only student who wore one), and then “Sarah”—the name I heard two of the other students call her at one of the practices (she hadn’t corrected them). One afternoon, the students needed to confirm the participants in the first race of the year. Alyssa read aloud from a list of the students who had signed up to compete: “Drew, Adam, James . . . Kenny, Cara, Joey  .  .  .” Eventually, she got to a name I hadn’t heard before: Alice. Several members looked around until they located the student with her hand raised. It was Smartwatch/Sarah. Entertainers weren’t the only students who experienced social life in a liminal state. Another group existed alongside them on the margins. Because of the ancillary role they played, I refer to these students as asso-

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ciates. Associates were characterized by their quiet presence; they usually followed instructions, taking part in group activities without drawing attention to themselves. Andre, introduced in the opening of this chapter, offered a clear depiction of the associate role. So did Alice. At Cardio Club practices, she adopted a consistent routine. After arriving at the Fitness Center ten minutes early, she’d check her phone, put away her drawstring bag, and begin stretching. Even in small groups of three or four students, she spoke only when someone asked her a question. And inevitably, Alice’s responses were brief—usually just a few words. This is not to say that Alice was aloof or rude. Her interactions were always polite. When Joey asked about her major, she smiled, telling him it was “biology, because I want to go to med school.” This reply seemed to suffice—it was brief enough to circumvent further conversation but sufficiently detailed to avoid sounding rude. She always seemed willing to comply with requests from other members. When Drew asked if she would compete at the first cross-country meet at a university four hours away, Alice hesitated for a moment. “I’m not sure . . . I have an exam on Monday.” But after he suggested she study on the ride there and back, she agreed, saying, “Okay, why not.” In short, she was quiet but agreeable. Alice’s predictability—in terms of attendance, appearance, and interpersonal style—meant that she often faded into the background. Even after I learned her name, she frequently escaped my attention. As I worked to be an effective ethnographer, I was sometimes disappointed with my ability to keep track of associates’ behaviors. I also noticed that I wasn’t the only one guilty of such oversights. When talking with smaller groups of students, I often asked for interpretations of various situations—those I had been present for as well as those I had not. In these instances, students would recount how a situation unfolded. It was very common for the associates who were involved in these situations to be left out of such recollections as if they hadn’t been present. In group interactions, it sometimes became evident that others—even the officers of these groups—had yet to connect with or learn the names of many associates. On several occasions, I had conversations with Drew, Adam, Alyssa, and James about Cardio Club events. As they rattled off lists of participants and described the action that ensued, they highlighted the activities of managers, educators, and caregivers. Associates like Alice were overlooked. The Gendered and Raced Nature of the Associate Role. Associates tended

to make up a plurality in any group of more than a handful of mem-

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bers. Of the students I observed firsthand, nearly 40 percent took on the associate role. A prominent vein of scholarly literature focuses on individuals who are quiet and reserved, sometimes referring to them as introverts.10 Over time, these ideas have seeped into popular discourse. The widespread use of psychological explanations for the behaviors of those who are quiet makes it easy to miss the fact that associates’ performances are about more than personality.11 At East State University, these individuals spoke about themselves and were described by others in ways that highlighted how becoming an associate involved taking on an identity that aligned with cultural assumptions. As I spent time trying to understand the versions of themselves that students had crafted in conversation with peer expectations, I realized that while associates were similar in many ways (as quiet and reserved followers), there were also important differences between them. Specifically, two main variations on the associate role were prevalent. Raced and gendered meanings animated these differences. Women in the associate role responded to assumptions about female passivity to perform as polite and agreeable. Racial/ethnic minority men, on the other hand, presented as calm and laid-back, conforming to tropes of marginalized masculinity.12 Alice and Andre were a clear case in point. Alice gave off an air of polite amicability as she quietly participated in the day-to-day activities of the Cardio Club. She was acquiescent, going with the general flow of group life, and when spoken to she always gave a friendly reply. She embodied a brand of stereotypically feminine behavior that was comfortable for many of her peers. Andre, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned and aloof. As he took part in group activity, he did so with a slow, carefree poise. He participated with calm in the most exciting community events, and observed emotionally fraught conversations with steady detachment. Andre may have explained it best when he noted, “I’m really cool. You won’t catch me going out of the box. I stay cool, give a cool answer, give a cool response to whatever you say. I don’t give too much most of the time.” Sociologists have a phrase to describe the style of self-presentation associates like Andre relied on: “a cool pose.”13 Drawing from research focused on Black males in particular, social scientists characterize the cool pose as an identity strategy that works as a protective “mask.” This metaphorical mask is worn to cope with racial oppression by affecting indifference in social situations. In taking on a form of self-presentation that resembled a cool pose, male associates sought to be perceived as calm and generally unconcerned. Other students used words like chill, cool, steady, and laid-back to describe them. This style of self-

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presentation offered a safe identity for racial/ethnic minority men in other ways as well. Like entertainers, by performing as cool and collected, male associates could distance themselves from a range of controlling images associated with marginalized masculinity.14 For instance, being laid-back or reserved offered a way for Asian men to adhere to peer demands that they not be “too intense” or “emotional.”15 In comparison, the performance of female associates differed in style and existed in relation to a separate collection of cultural assumptions and stereotypes.16 Perhaps the most notable difference between the two had to do with the performance of interest or engagement. Whereas male associates portrayed themselves as cool and detached, female associates took care to ensure that their reserved style would not be misinterpreted as “uncaring.” As Nina, a White student from the Learning Community, put it, “People have said so many times that I’m a very go-with-the-flow person, which I am. I really am, like, ‘all right, let’s do it.’ . . . but I go with the flow.” She emphasized that although others might view her passive self-presentation as evidence that she didn’t care, this wasn’t in fact the case. She clarified, “But I do care, I care a lot.” Rather, as a “go-with-the-flow person,” Nina tended to let her peers take the initiative for dictating group activities and making decisions. She wanted others to understand that despite her reticence, she was still interested in what was happening around her. In demonstrating that they were engaged but would “go with the flow” of others’ preferences, female associates performed as amicable and docile. This social performance reflects pressures to conform to what scholars have dubbed emphasized femininity, a style of feminine self-presentation characterized by acceptance of subordination.17 The essence of emphasized femininity showed up in female associates’ descriptions of themselves and in how they were characterized by others. For instance, a White student named Ivonne used the words agreeable and pleasant to describe her self-presentation. Others emphasized that female associates were “passive,” “shy,” or “sweet.”18 These characteristics represent the sort of idealized femininity that scholars have shown reinforces disparities between men and women.19 In short, the social performances female associates took on were coded as traditionally feminine in ways that conformed to expectations regarding the subordination of women. But regardless of whether they presented as passive and agreeable or cool and aloof, male and female associates were functionally similar most of the time. They were reserved but responsive. When instructions came, these students were ready to comply. For racial/ethnic minority

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men, being a steady follower connected to their performed lack of interest in shaping activity. Being cool meant being willing to go along with peers’ direction. For women in the associate role, working to be perceived as agreeable had a similar effect—when others instigated action, they tried to follow orders. Moreover, for men and women alike, performing as an associate demanded what Arlie Hochschild has called “emotion work.” Associates were expected to manage and suppress their emotions as part of their presentation of self.20 Though these emotions differed in relation to the intersections of race and gender—showing up as stoicism versus polite interest, for example—all associates were responsible for shaping their emotional displays in relation to cultural assumptions.21 They avoided overt displays of emotions like anger, frustration, and even excitement. Maintaining a calm, easy-going demeanor allowed women to adhere to emphasized femininity and gave racial/ ethnic minority men a way to rebuff controlling images.22 Yet in the process of conforming to some stereotypes and resisting others, these students struggled to navigate group life. Participating on the Periphery. Associates’ nondescript interactional styles

made it possible to overlook their presence. But given the nature of my study, I began to purposefully seek these students out. By my fourth week at ESU, I became more intentional in trying to interact with associates as much as I did with students occupying other roles. As I learned more about the patterns of their interactional styles and demeanor, other elements of the role became visible as well. One of the first things I noticed was that associates’ social performances weren’t just about what they said or did but also about how they were physically situated within their groups. Students in the associate role existed quietly on the periphery. In a meeting or casual hangout, they could usually be found alongside entertainers, concentrated near the corners or back of the room. And at Cardio Club practices, associates stationed themselves on the outer edges of the circles that formed during warmups and cooldowns. At a Volunteer Collective meeting one evening, I noted the spatial relationships between associates and their peers. I was sitting at a large, round table conversing with Beth, the group’s president, when another student entered the room and took a seat beside her. Moments later a few more arrived, including John and Amber, two Black students who performed as associates. Unlike the others, the pair sat at a table behind the one Beth occupied, even though there were still three seats available at the first table. They didn’t talk to each other, but instead turned to

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listen to Beth, whose back was to them. This arrangement was typical for associates—in effect, they were close enough to hear and respond when needed, but not spatially central in the group. Moreover, many associates were able to move through physical space unnoticed. Like undercover agents, they could come and go, keeping up with the day-to-day activities of their groups without being illuminated by the spotlight of attention that so often tracked the movement of managers and educators. Associates themselves recognized this liminality. For instance, a Black student named Grace said, “When we’re all hanging out, I’ll just kind of stand to the side and listen. . . . I’ll probably just listen and watch because there’s a lot going on, or I’ll probably leave.” As a quiet observer, Grace could take in group activity and at times even slip out unnoticed. Given their reserved demeanor, it would be easy to underestimate the degree to which associates were socially involved at ESU. Yet these students were no less active on campus and in their communities than students occupying other roles. First and foremost, associates were reliable participants. They recognized that communities need members who actively listen, take in information, and participate in the day-today life of the group. A Black student named Paige described her selfpresentation as an associate, saying, “I’m not a person to do a lot of talking. Really, I just listen, I just really keep to myself. If I have something to say, I put in my input and then that’s it. I’m just the one that’s always engaged, so I really don’t talk. I just listen. I absorb information.” While Paige acknowledged that she would speak if she had “something to say,” for the most part associates spoke infrequently, instead acting as attentive listeners. Additionally, in terms of time dedicated to extracurricular pursuits and membership among multiple groups, associates had similar levels of involvement to those of their peers in other roles.23 Emily, a White student, was a member of both the Learning Community and the Volunteer Collective. In fact, she was the only student involved in more than one of the groups I observed. Like most female associates, Emily displayed a quiet positivity, often smiling but rarely speaking. She attended nearly every class, meeting, and event for the two groups. Although we saw each other at gatherings for both organizations, we didn’t discuss her dual involvement until much later in the year. However, I heard Emily mention her membership in the Volunteer Collective to some of her Learning Community friends during a small group discussion one afternoon. The students had been instructed to have a conversation with their peers about how “active” they were in community service or pro-

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moting social justice. The six students in Emily’s group went around their circle, each offering some input, with most detailing how they contributed to various causes. When it was time for Emily to speak, she told the group that she cared about “hunger” and “education.” She described volunteering at the local food kitchen, and noted that she was “also in the Volunteer Collective—it’s a really good group.” Emily’s tone was positive, and her expression earnest as she made this statement. It was apparent that she valued her membership in the Volunteer Collective and had a sense of connection with its mission. As I came to know Emily better, I learned that in addition to her involvement with the Volunteer Collective and the Learning Community, she was a frequent participant in the Ballroom Dance Club and a member of the Varsity Crew Team. In short, for Emily and other associates, reticence did not signal a lack of involvement or interest in social life. These individuals may have been quiet, but like most students they invested significant amounts of time in the college social scene.24 Finally, it became apparent to me that associates played an important role in the allocation of attention within their social groups. Like Paige, Emily noted, “Sometimes, if I have something I really want to say, then I say it. Otherwise, I just kind of like to listen to everyone else.” In “listen[ing] to everyone else,” she distributed the positive attention that made other students—most commonly managers, educators, and caregivers—feel central and important in their groups. Associates signaled that they noticed and appreciated others by listening, nodding, and sometimes even applauding or snapping in support when their peers spoke. In the theatrical world of social interaction, they were the audience for a cadre of performers.25 Unacknowledged and Invisible While associates were instrumental in distributing attention among the most central members of their groups, they were rarely the recipients of such attention. In fact, associates often felt invisible, perceiving themselves to be marginal members in the groups they joined. A White student named Gwen described her experience as a member of the campus student tour guide group: So with [ESU Tour Guides] I don’t talk a lot, because I kind of stay in the background in that sense. I just kind of don’t want to be brought into attention. . . . I’m not part of any of the larger

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known cliques, so I don’t fit in. I tried to become friends with [one of the cliques]. One of them I was pretty good friends with at the beginning, but it just didn’t work. It was like I was always an afterthought for them.

Although Gwen perceived that she had made a concerted effort to become closer with some of the members of ESU Tour Guides, her sense that she was “always an afterthought for them” called into question whether she mattered to her peers. She even noted that there were moments during the second semester when she still felt like “[the other members] didn’t really recognize who I was,” despite the fact that she had been part of the group for over six months. Benjamin, an Asian student, described himself as a follower among his friends in the Student Media Association. When I asked him whether he could recall a time when he felt appreciated or valued, he paused for a moment. “I don’t really feel needed . . . [I’m] just an extra hand, really,” he noted, before offering an example of his typical interactions in the group: “I try to help out the creator [students who take charge of a project] by thinking about what they want to do . . . then once it’s done, it’s done; I just kind of move on to what I should do for the next one.” Despite being a diligent member of the group, Benjamin came to feel like “an extra hand” rather than a valued member. Like entertainers, when asked about feeling valued or appreciated, associates were often at a loss. A Latina associate named Wendy said, “I don’t know if there is anything specific,” and a White student named Shanna looked sullen as she confessed, “Hmm . . . um . . . yeah, I don’t know.” Just as entertainers pivoted to talk about other (nonsocial) avenues whereby they could feel valuable, several associates were eventually able to point to moments when they felt valued in the classroom setting or by a faculty or staff member. And yet experiencing similar feelings in social groups was rare. Exceptions were found in moments when professional and paraprofessional staff (i.e., resident advisors) entered social spaces, helping associates perceive that they were noticed by others. For example, asked about times when she felt valued or appreciated among peers, a White student named Quinn responded, “I don’t know, really. I can’t really say. Maybe when we have floor meetings, and they take the time to ask everyone how they’re doing, if there’s anything that they need. But for the most part, I don’t think there’s been any particular experience that’s made me feel [valued or appreciated].” Members of Quinn’s informal friend group all lived on her residence hall floor, and they were in frequent contact. And yet she couldn’t recall

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a single time when they made her feel valued. The closest she came to feeling appreciated was during floor meetings, where everyone present was given a structured opportunity to express how they were doing and “if there [was] anything that they need[ed].” While her friends were present during these meetings because of their co-residence on the same floor, it’s worth emphasizing that this structured opportunity to feel appreciated came from her resident advisor, who led the floor meetings, not one of the students in her informal friend group.26 The quotes presented here illustrate associates’ struggles to feel valued by their peers. Given the expressive responses of students in other roles—like managers, educators, and caregivers—who had vivid memories of times when others expressed appreciation for them, we might wonder whether associates were simply less willing to disclose such feelings. And yet my own observations led me to suspect otherwise. Put bluntly, associates did in fact seem less valued. Because of their unobtrusive style of self-presentation, they often went unnoticed, or at least unremarked, by others in their groups. In the rarer cases when associates were mentioned by peers—occasionally, because I had asked about them directly—descriptors like “just there” and “hanging around” minimized their contributions. Associates sometimes used this language to describe themselves as well, with phrases like “just a member” and “just participating” conveying their feelings of marginality in groups. They frequently interpreted their invisibility as evidence of not mattering to others. As Gwen noted, being an associate meant that it was easy to feel like “an afterthought” to one’s peers. For students in more central roles, feeling valued was important because of how it could amplify their sense of fitting in and belonging. Associates had the opposite experience. Though they usually took pride in their involvement, these students recognized that they were rarely seen as important members of their groups, and a lack of appreciation undermined their connections with peers. This awareness showed up clearly when associates discussed feelings of belonging (or a lack thereof). When I asked Benjamin whether he had felt a sense of belonging at ESU, he replied, “Not in a group setting, no.” Similarly, a Black associate named Eddie responded, “Not yet, no; I haven’t really found one solid place yet.” Eddie sometimes journeyed to the top of the ESU parking deck to watch the sunset. He told me it was his favorite place on campus. All alone, he thought about his social world. He thought about his friends from high school, whom he missed. He thought about the fencing team where he had tried to form close friendships. He thought about the

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video gamers he hung out with each week, who still somehow felt distant. And he thought about his desire to make deep connections. Shortly after we spoke, I made a trip to the parking deck to see the view for myself. Walking half a mile to the outskirts of campus and climbing five flights of stairs, I reached the concrete plateau at the top. On a Friday evening, it was nearly empty with just a few unattended cars parked to one side. From the southern edge, I could see buildings, sidewalks, and open fields stretching beyond the horizon. Like the social landscape associates occupied, it occurred to me that I was seeing East State University from the margins. The campus suddenly felt massive as I remembered Eddie’s words: “I would really like to have one solid place where I really belong.” For these students, feeling like an extra hand, a supporting role, or an afterthought undermined their ability to hold on to feelings of social connection. Eddie described longing for a place to belong; but as an associate, his prospects of success in this endeavor were slim. : : : Despite showing up in different ways—as quiet or loud, serious or funny, calm or wild—associates and entertainers had much in common. Students in either role were dedicated contributors to their groups. As associates worked to be consistent, reliable participants, entertainers went to great lengths to provide amusement. But students in these roles discovered that despite their efforts to be engaged community members, peers often took them for granted. Sociologist Randall Collins claims that the attention that “make[s] some individuals more impressive, more attractive or dominant” also “puts other persons in their shadow.”27 On the college campus, associates and entertainers spent the vast majority of their time in these metaphorical shadows. Collins explains that life in the spotlight or on the margins can shape day-to-day lived experiences. Emotions are molded over time as people move through situations. Someone who has just won a race is energized by the experience, carrying her positive emotions into subsequent interactions. But the winner of a race is a momentary victor. Broader emotional trajectories can also take shape through patterned inequality. For example, members of the upper class in a community are often treated with greater deference and respect, while lower-class denizens are looked down on. Such experiences intensify or drain emotional energy in predictable ways.28 The ESU students I observed experienced similar disparities in perceptions and emotions. Whereas caregivers, managers, and educators (described in chapters 2 and 3) usually acquired a durable sense of

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belonging, associates and entertainers did not. Occupants of the latter two roles were positioned as marginal figures in relation to cultural assumptions about race, gender, and self-presentation. Though adopting culturally recognizable identity strategies allowed them to become part of peer groups, being an associate or an entertainer offered only a liminal social existence. From the margins, these students experienced ambivalent feelings. On the one hand, many were proud to be socially involved in college. And yet these roles offered few opportunities to feel valued or appreciated. Without being able to see oneself as an integral member of a group, it was difficult to acquire a durable sense of belonging. These findings contribute to our understanding of the experiences of racial/ethnic minority men in the extracurricular realm of college. Research shows that minority men are frequently among the most marginalized groups in higher education, graduating at lower rates than their White and female peers and reporting more negative perceptions of the campus climate.29 This chapter sheds light on some of the mechanisms that contribute to these disparities. Social scientists have documented the ways racial and ethnic minority males are constrained by the perceptions of others regarding how they should perform masculinity. Throughout their experiences in K–12 educational institutions, Black and Latino boys are held to rigid behavioral standards that are not applied to their White peers.30 Male Asian students confront another set of stereotypes that limit possibilities for self-presentation.31 In the college setting, these patterns persist. As they entered social groups, racial/ethnic minority men at ESU were presented with two options around which they could build identity: humor or coolness. With these limited identity strategies, minority men became disproportionately concentrated in the two roles described in this chapter. Notably, though, even as they worked to be perceived as “funny” or “cool”—two strategies conforming to expectations of marginalized masculinity—they remained liminal figures within their groups. Likewise, female students were presented with two main options for self-presentation. I explored the first of these choices, the caregiver role, in chapter 2. Women who did not take on the maternal style of a caregiver usually became associates, responding to stereotypes of female passivity and amicability to act as quiet followers.32 While caregivers typically accrued a relatively durable sense of belonging by adopting social styles that aligned with an idealized version of femininity, female associates did not.33 Though they relied on a separate set of cultural assumptions, the cookie-cutter identities that female students crafted in the associate role were functionally similar to those of male associates.

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In becoming quiet, agreeable, and docile, these women faded into the background. The stark disparities in social and emotional experiences highlighted in part I of this book raise important questions about inequality in college. We have seen that inclusion does not imply egalitarian social relations. As students seek to connect in groups, they respond to stereotypes to craft cookie-cutter selves, and subsequently have very different experiences. But how are these disparate experiences maintained? What happens when students try to change their lot? Can they escape stereotypes? In part II, I explore the mechanisms that constrain and sustain self-presentation and, by proxy, inequalities in belonging. Students could not choose their roles freely from a menu of options or modify their social performance to become more complex without serious repercussions. Racist and sexist cultural assumptions had incredible sway in shaping how students got stuck in their roles or forcibly moved from one role to another.

5

Role Inertia

On the morning of November 9, 2016, East State University felt different. Making my way toward Public Hall for the Learning Community’s weekly class meeting, I tried to take in the scenery. The overcast sky seemed to match the somber mood that had infiltrated the campus. In place of the usual chatter, shouted greetings, and laughter in the central plaza, the sound of intermittent footsteps on concrete was all that I could hear. Then a rolling briefcase emitted staccato clicks as its owner trudged toward the student union, stopping for a moment as if lost. The students I encountered looked dismayed, and a few had clearly been crying. I walked past a group of four young women huddled together, speaking in hushed tones. The energetic bustle of the previous evening was gone. Upon arriving at Public Hall, I entered the classroom to find more of the same. Although several students were already seated around the tables in the center of the room, the space was silent. More jarring than walking across the gloomy campus was seeing this group—usually animated and upbeat—appearing completely defeated. Paula’s and Jenna’s eyes were red and puffy. Rhonda’s hands covered her face, and her head drooped toward the table. Raphael looked worried as he fiddled with the zipper on his backpack. Sitting down nearby, I decided to forgo my usual greetings. On a typical day, I would have said hello and

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asked a few questions. While the students were always patient with my inquiries, I sensed that this was not a time to pry. After all, I already knew what was wrong. Early that morning, the students—along with the rest of the country—had learned that Donald Trump would be the next president of the United States. This was difficult news for many of the students at ESU, but for this community of young people who were passionate about social justice, it was a devastating setback. Over the next ten minutes, the room filled. Watching each student enter and take a seat was like watching a television on mute. Finally, the instructor left her chair in the corner of the room. Looking out over the  tables like a pastor fearing for the souls of her congregants, she spoke with a soothing voice, asking the class whether they would like to talk about how they were feeling. “I see lots of us look beat down today, and I know I’m feeling it as well. We can talk about it if people would like that.” After seeing a few hesitant nods, the instructor said that the conversation should focus on emotions, not politics. “Let’s stick to how we feel,” she explained. A White student named Fred raised his hand first. After being called on, he shared, “I’m feeling so frustrated right now, but I try to remember three things. First, he’ll only be president for four years, and presidents can really only get things done in their first two years—the midterm elections are coming up in 2018. Think about all of the trouble Obama has had getting things done. It’s going to be the same way for Trump. And second . . .” Fred proceeded to give the class a brief civics lesson. The group listened intently as he offered his insights. Although the instructor had set clear parameters restricting the discussion to sharing emotions, he lectured uninterrupted. In this moment, presenting in typical fashion for an educator, Fred was granted the attention and deference of his peers. And yet it soon became apparent that this same courtesy wasn’t going to be extended to everyone. The respect Fred had received contrasted sharply with the group’s treatment of Jenna, a White student who attempted to speak just a few minutes later. After being acknowledged by the instructor, Jenna tried to explain to the group that there was a more positive perspective on the situation. She reminded the students, “When [the election results were announced,] people were taking to the streets and protesting— young people who haven’t been before—because people are going to respond to this by getting involved; this is not going to make people stop. It’s going to make us fight even harder.” As Jenna continued, recounting her observations from the recent news coverage, the other students became irritated. Her message was

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similar to Fred’s—hopeful but explanatory. And yet, rather than speaking to an attentive audience, she was greeted with eye rolling and agitated whispering. Several students audibly grumbled as she tried to express her thoughts. It seemed that while her peers were willing to listen and learn from Fred, the educator, they weren’t inclined to do the same for Jenna, who usually performed the role of a caregiver. The instructor continued to call on students around the room. After a few made additional expressions of concern and dismay, a Black student named Maura raised her hand. She acknowledged that the group was feeling frustrated, but then said, “I just have hope that it’s going to be okay, and that we can be positive and get through this together. It’s really hard, but I try my best to be positive.” In many respects, her comments were like those given by Fred and Jenna. But instead of explaining to the group why things were going to be okay, Maura expressed care for her friends, who could “get through this together.” Performing as a classic caregiver, she offered emotional support and reassurance, without telling her peers why or how things would improve. Rather than grumbling or dismissive eye rolls, Maura received affirmative echoes of “mmm-hmm” along with finger snapping, signaling the support of her peers. She expressed care, and in return her friends embraced her. Self-presentation was rarely a neutral act. The roles students assumed existed in relation to an audience of their peers—an audience with demands for consistency. Sociologist Erving Goffman offers a framework for thinking about how the self-presentation individuals adopt is sustained over time. He claims that in social interactions, people seek to convey a positive self-image—what he calls face. Face can be maintained “when the line [a social actor] effectively takes presents an image of him that is internally consistent, that is supported by judgments and evidence conveyed by other participants.”1 In other words, Goffman links the consistency of one’s presentation of self to the evaluative judgments of others. When people take an interactional style that differs from what their peers expect, they are said to be “out of face.” In a social situation, loss of face can be a real problem. Disrupting expectations has the potential to incur the displeasure of one’s peers. Therefore, Goffman suggests that social performance can become highly durable. He notes, The line taken by each participant is usually allowed to prevail, and each participant is allowed to carry off the role he appears to have chosen for himself. . . . The mutual acceptance of lines has an important conservative effect upon encounters. Once the

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person initially presents a line, he and others tend to build their later responses upon it, and in a sense become stuck with it.2

Following Goffman, other scholars claim that social performances and their associated roles take similar forms across interactions within groups of individuals who regularly share one another’s company.3 In short, individuals often demand predictable behaviors from members of their peer groups. But could these behavioral constraints show up in the college setting as well? Common narratives frame social engagement in higher education as a catalyst for students’ growth and development.4 It makes sense, then, to raise questions about the degree to which students’ selfpresentation can shift or change over time. We might ask, Which forces shape self-presentation in the college social landscape? And what happens when students alter their self-presentation? Can simplistic social roles evolve to become more complex over time? While the answers to these questions are nuanced, the overarching pattern in students’ interactions is one of continuity over time and strict adherence to peer expectations. Simplicity and stereotypes prevailed over development or personal transformation. This chapter examines how social groups monitored the self-presentation of their members. Like the social actors described by Goffman who became “stuck with” specific lines, college students were vulnerable to becoming locked into the performance of a cookie-cutter self. With limited options for adding complexity to their interactions, students tended to maintain a singular, two-dimensional performance over time. I refer to this phenomenon as role inertia. Scholars demonstrate the prevalence of inertia in a range of aspects of higher education. When students select majors, involvement opportunities, and approaches to learning, they often lock into pathways that will persist throughout their college career.5 These pathways, which are rarely reflected on or reconsidered, then become highly durable and predictable. A similar phenomenon could be seen in how students locked into roles in social groups.6 Role inertia was the byproduct of two behaviors that worked in tandem: positive reinforcement and behavioral policing. When students adopted simplistic roles and performed in predictable ways, their self-presentation was usually reinforced through encouragement and positive attention. But when they deviated from expected social performances, there were repercussions. Attempting to be more versatile in one’s self-presentation or “slipping up” and presenting differently in

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a heated moment prompted discipline from peers, who preferred more clear-cut performances. This discipline relied on policing mechanisms ranging from subtle nudges to more blatant mistreatment. By unpacking the mechanisms that produce role inertia, this chapter begins to illuminate the production and maintenance of the inequalities uncovered in part I. Positive Reinforcement: Encouraging the Cookie-Cutter Self For students occupying the role of manager, caregiver, or educator, simplistic social performances usually elicited positive attention and benevolent gestures from peers. The vignette presented in the opening of this chapter offers two examples—one involving Fred and another involving Maura. Fred tended to explain things to his peers, providing insight and perspective. In taking on the role of an educator, he accrued a sense of mattering in the Learning Community. While his speech that day strayed from the topic at hand (how students were feeling after the elections) to share insights about governance, other students listened with deference. Fred thrived on the encouragement he received from peers for performing in ways that highlighted his intelligence and wisdom. In this same discussion, Maura, who occupied the caregiver role, presented herself in a conventional manner. And, like Fred, her contributions were encouraged. Her words were interpreted positively by other students in the Learning Community, who later described her input as “kind” and “supportive.” Importantly, she avoided exercising authority. Instead of telling her peers what to do or think, Maura offered care. Her expressions of concern were situated in compassion and intertwined with a desire to support the community. Her peers reinforced her selfpresentation by snapping their fingers and nodding in agreement as she spoke. Like Fred, the treatment Maura received during this emotionally fraught discussion functioned as positive reinforcement, affirming the cookie-cutter self she presented. The signals of approval that managers, educators, and caregivers received from their peers could take a range of forms. While Fred and Maura were acknowledged with attention, deference, and snaps of approval, affirmation could also be gleaned from a range of other gestures. Positive reinforcement was sometimes read through subtle cues. At a Volunteer Collective meeting, Beth was greeted by warm smiles while describing a game of soccer she had played with children at an orphanage in Central America. At the end of a Cardio Club practice,

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James affectionately thumped Kenny on the shoulder after he led the fastest students on a six-mile run. At other times, students’ behavior was reinforced with tangible expressions of approval. Examples could be found in encouraging notes, like the one Kyle received from friends who were grateful for his insight, or the thank-you card Jamie acquired after taking care of her intoxicated friends. Positive reinforcement also could be clear and explicit, as when Becky’s peers publicly recognized her for being kind during the Learning Community retreat. Alternatively, there were times when affirmation was interpreted from vague gestures. For instance, Charlie remembered a conversation with a friend who simply expressed that she was “really glad” to have met him. Having branded himself as an educator in his peer groups, he attributed this positive attention to “the way I present my ideas.” While they could take a range of forms, these expressions of encouragement came together in a powerful way. They became the sounds of an ongoing symphony. Like musical notes, each expression had a unique character. Some were subtle, others loud. Some were fleeting, while a few reverberated to one’s core. They rose and fell, pierced and echoed, manipulating emotions along the way. Some coalesced to produce a quaint melody to be enjoyed for a moment, while others formed a catchy tune that lodged in one’s mind for weeks. As these gestures built one upon the other, reinforcing a simplistic pattern of behavior, their influence was profound. Students who portrayed themselves in the clearest ways as either caring, intellectual, or in charge could bask in the harmonious affirmation they received—it became music to their ears. While managers, caregivers, and educators were the most frequent recipients of positive reinforcement, entertainers occasionally enjoyed similar kinds of attention. When they performed in simplistic, recognizable ways, their behavior was sometimes encouraged—most frequently through their peers’ laughter or surprised looks. Illustrative examples could be observed in the entertainers’ experiences described in the previous chapter. Nick elicited gleeful exclamations from his peers as he jumped to grab tree branches during a run with the Cardio Club. Similarly, Alec’s performance of the entertainer role was reinforced when the Learning Community broke into uproarious laughter as he acted out one of the course instructor’s allegories. But unlike those in more central roles, entertainers could not count on positive reinforcement to show up consistently. As chapter 4 illustrated, jokes were sometimes interpreted negatively, and pranks sometimes went awry. Laughter could be encouraging, but it was not always attainable.

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Policing: Maintaining the Boundaries of the Cookie-Cutter Self In contrast to the experiences of students like Fred and Maura, whose consistent social performances were reinforced, those who momentarily stepped outside accepted roles incurred their peers’ displeasure. In such instances, students encountered disrespect, rebukes, or outright dismissal that served to redirect them toward their usual version of the cookie-cutter self. On the day after the presidential election, the policing of self-presentation could be seen clearly in students’ treatment of Jenna. A White student who occupied the caregiver role, Jenna typically avoided displaying intelligence or explaining things to her peers. When she spoke about the election results, however, her self-presentation was similar to Fred’s as she momentarily attempted to convey knowledge to the group. But in contrast to Fred, who had an attentive audience, Jenna’s claims were met with scorn. In another group discussion, about corporations on college campuses, students made fun of Jenna after she claimed, “The [fast food restaurant] on our campus is in the top three highest-profit [locations] in the whole company.” Again, the point she made echoed other claims staked out previously by two students in the educator role. And yet her own attempts to convey information elicited derision from other students. A few of her classmates snickered, and one quietly mocked her, whispering to those nearby in a caricatural high-pitched voice, “Ooh— it’s the top three highest profit!” Several students laughed. Consistently maintaining a cookie-cutter self was especially challenging in the Learning Community, a group that lived, socialized, and studied together virtually 24-7. Near the end of the tense conversation about the presidential election, a Black student named Rhonda, who typically performed as a caregiver, raised her hand. Taking a deep breath, she explained that she was tired of others telling her how to think. She didn’t feel hopeful, and was “sick of hearing from people that [she] should be positive and fight harder.” Rhonda looked down at the table as she appeared to conclude her statement. But before anyone else could speak, she seemed to reconsider. Looking back up, she elaborated, “White people just don’t understand what it’s like to be afraid to go back home, afraid that someone is going to hurt you or kill you just because of the color of your skin.” Looking around the room, she was met with silence. Rhonda’s statements during class that day temporarily altered how she was viewed by the rest of the Learning Community students. Her momentary “loss of face”—to employ Goffman’s phrase—disrupted

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their perceptions of her.7 In the following days, I heard several students offer negative evaluations of her character, describing her as “overbearing” and “loud.”8 In contrast to the modal presentation of caregivers as kind and nurturing, Rhonda had exercised the sort of authority reserved for managers and educators. It wasn’t that she had crossed a line by discussing racial prejudice, certainly a difficult topic for many young people.9 As a group focused on social justice, Learning Community members were in general agreement about the prevalence and dangers of racism. Instead, Rhonda had erred in stepping out of her kind and caring interactional style. After lecturing her peers, she was ostracized by the group. Others avoided her at community gatherings and no longer spoke to her in class. This form of temporary exclusion functioned as a more extreme form of policing that conveyed her peers’ disapproval through their unwillingness to communicate with her. Policing was usually a highly effective method of enforcing role inertia. Most students responded to it by returning to their usual interactional styles. During the weeks after the election, Rhonda worked hard to regain her place within the Learning Community, capitalizing on every opportunity to demonstrate that she was a caring person. The very next week, I watched as she did what she could to convey this message in a very explicit way. During an activity in which the students discussed influential life experiences, Rhonda recalled what she described as an “unhealthy relationship” with one of her high school boyfriends. She noted that it took some time for her to acknowledge that the relationship was having a negative impact on her life. But once she came to this realization, she became passionate about helping others develop and maintain healthy relationships. Rhonda explained that this was why she spent so much time asking her friends about themselves and their relationships. Wrapping up, she noted, “I love taking care of people; it just makes me feel good.” Over the subsequent days and weeks, Rhonda made strides in repairing her image within the Learning Community. Once again, she convincingly occupied the caregiver role, and the events on the day after the election seemed to have been forgotten. But although she regained her place in the community, Rhonda clearly didn’t forget this experience. She remained reflexive about the way her actions and words would be perceived by others. Several months later, a group of Learning Community students was discussing the impact of stereotypes when Rhonda candidly described concerns about how others might perceive her: “I’m educated, but I’m scared to speak up because I’m caring, but I know when I talk to people—when I tell them something—they see me as an

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angry Black woman. I don’t want them to see me that way, so a lot of the time I try not to say anything. I’m still struggling with that. I struggle with it every day.” Notably, Rhonda was aware of how race and gender influenced her self-presentation as a caregiver as well as how others might respond if she altered her social performance. She was explicit in contrasting being assertive or “tell[ing] them something” with being caring, illuminating the rigidity of this role and the pressure she felt to conceal her education. Having experienced policing firsthand, she sensed that in the minds of others, care and authority were incompatible. As the preceding chapters illustrate, stereotypes shaped the roles students occupied. Some of these stereotypes—for instance, the associations of intellect and leadership with White men—functioned to endow certain groups of students with the confidence to speak and convey knowledge or to take charge and give commands. Other stereotypes and controlling images limited the ability of female and racial/ethnic minority students to access similar kinds of authority.10 For instance, the tropes of the “queen bee” and the “bossy woman” were used to police women of various races and ethnicities. Other controlling images, like the “angry Black woman” that Rhonda described, targeted specific intersectional groups. The proliferation of stereotypical demands for the performance of femininity and marginalized masculinity meant that women and racial/ethnic minority men had to worry about the ways being outspoken, authoritative, or knowledgeable would be received by their peers. Most students weren’t as reflexive as Rhonda was about stereotypes, but their power became evident in the boundaries along which students’ behaviors were policed. As the cookie-cutter self was molded, its edges became rigid in relation to racist and sexist cultural assumptions. Both Jenna’s and Rhonda’s experiences illustrate how policing served as a direct contrast to the encouragement students received when performing in their typical roles. If positive reinforcement was the metaphorical carrot, policing was the stick. While appreciative gestures encouraged students who performed in expected ways, negative sanctions were leveraged against those who moved beyond the confines of their usual narrow self-presentation. Notably, the form that policing took varied in relation to a student’s original role. Caregivers, entertainers, and associates were each constrained by the unique contours of their cookie-cutter identities.11 Fakeness Discourse: Policing Caregivers. As it turned out, the caregiver role

was especially difficult to maintain, and breaking with it, even momen-

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tarily, could garner someone the designation of being “fake.” In contrast to Jenna and Rhonda, Jamie was rebuked by her peers not because of a momentary change in expression, but due to a gradual shift in her interactional style. As described in chapter 2, Jamie began the year occupying the caregiver role. She exuded warmth and compassion. On the first day of the Learning Community’s shared class, she told the entire group that she loved working with children and wanted to become a teacher. As the semester went on, however, Jamie started to take on a more authoritative style of self-presentation. Among her roommates and their close friends, she began giving commands and working to structure community activities. This behavior was received poorly by her peers, who engaged in concerted efforts to sanction her behavior. When I arrived at the dormitories for a Learning Community movie night, I found approximately fifteen students already present. Several small groups hummed with conversation. But within a few minutes, the room grew quieter as others pivoted to hear a discussion between Cecilia and Sherry. Cecilia, who had just asked whether Jamie was coming to watch the movie, provoked the following conversation. S h erry: No, I think she’s ignoring us now. She’s still mad that we called her out. Cecilia: Well, I feel kind of bad for getting in the situation, but she shouldn’t have been acting that way. S h erry: I mean, you guys have seen how she’s been. Cecilia: Yeah. May: I mean, I haven’t seen her lately. S h erry: That’s because she’s staying in her room. She’s not even speaking to me. I asked her yesterday if she wanted to go out to Walmart, and she didn’t even respond. She just gave me the side-eye. I told my mom about it because she’s coming to visit this weekend, and I said, “Mom, just to give you a heads-up, my roommate might not speak to us.” And she asked me why, because I had told her [Jamie] was really nice. I mean, I used to think she was the nicest person on the floor, but she’s just so fake. Cecilia: She is really fake. S h erry: Yeah, but I really thought she was, like, the sweetest person. I guess that should have been a sign. She’s so fake!

This very public conversation about Jamie happened in her absence. As other students listened in, it seemed that Sherry and Cecilia weren’t

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having this conversation solely for their own benefit. Positioning themselves as the injured parties, their dialogue functioned to punish Jamie for becoming too authoritative by letting others know about her pariah status. Despite not being present to hear their words firsthand, Jamie was eventually brought up to speed. Critical comments shared in one’s absence often found their target through a grapevine of gossip. Notably, Sherry and Cecilia weren’t the only students I heard label someone as “fake.” Similar to the way sociologist C. J. Pascoe describes high school students policing masculinity by weaponizing homophobic and misogynistic slurs, these students monitored caregivers with a discourse about inauthenticity or fakeness.12 Framing assertiveness as directly opposed to support and kindness meant that caregivers were blocked from presenting with authority. The threat of being marked as “fake” served to restrict the self-presentation of women who might otherwise have stepped outside this role. After she was “called out” for being too controlling, Jamie retreated to the solitude of her room for several days to reflect on her relationships and recalibrate her interactions. Soon she began actively working to repair her image. Jamie’s reappearance in front of the larger group didn’t occur until the community’s next mandatory class meeting. She entered the room cautiously. Pausing in the doorway, she moved her gaze across the open seats. I wondered whether she was looking for a safe place to sit, sheltered from conflict. Perhaps she was hoping that someone would break through the chill that had settled over her relationships and welcome her to class. But no one seemed to notice Jamie, and a moment later she settled for the seat closest to the door. Training her gaze on the floor, she looked despondent throughout the ensuing group discussion. As far as I could tell, her presence went unacknowledged by any of her peers. An hour later, as the students wrapped up a conversation about course logistics, some time remained before the end of class. The instructor told the group to form a circle in the courtyard outside the classroom. As they stood outdoors in the warm afternoon sun, the students were directed to share accomplishments from the past week. Matthew went first, saying that he had received a good grade on his chemistry exam. Many others followed suit—in fact, about half the students mentioned a grade they had received on a recent assignment. Some highlighted As, while others celebrated Bs. A few talked about finishing a long paper or meeting a fitness goal. One student drew laughs by announcing, “I got out of bed this morning.” Regardless of the accomplishment, everyone received applause. When it was Jamie’s turn to speak, she didn’t boast about earning a

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good grade or achieving a personal goal. Instead, she said, “I got to go home for the first time in ten weeks, and I took my little cousin trick-ortreating.” The comment drew several exclamations of “aww” from the group and Jamie gave a warm smile, looking down after she spoke. By highlighting the time she had spent taking her cousin trick-or-treating, she signified her intent to return to the contours of the caregiver role. But for several weeks afterward, Jamie’s place in the Learning Community remained tentative. In the moments when she most clearly embodied the caregiver role, she seemed to be granted a lukewarm acceptance. But it was clear that she had to work harder to be perceived once more as kind and caring. Other caregivers similarly tried to distance themselves from the “fake” label. For instance, Becky described the importance of avoiding being fake through honesty: “I take integrity very seriously, and that’s something that I try to hold myself to. Particularly, stuff like honesty .  .  . I’ve been told I’m honest. I try not to be fake to people. I don’t really have a whole lot worth hiding, so I’m not going to bother to hide it.” Avoiding the “fake” label required presenting an honest, authentically caring self. The integrity Becky described was closely linked to consistency. Even a momentary faux pas could saddle a student with the “fake” epithet. The irony here was that while fakeness denoted a lack of authenticity, in order to avoid being seen as fake, students in the caregiver role had to conceal aspects of themselves—knowledge, expertise, preferences, and qualities that signified leadership. In short, to safeguard themselves from being marked as fake, students had to hide other elements of their feelings and experiences. Being perceived as “real” or authentic required suppressing complexity. Trapped by Humor: Policing Entertainers. Policing tactics were used in com-

parable ways to coerce students back into the confines of the entertainer role. James, a Black student in his third year with the Cardio Club, seemed to have settled into the entertainer role long before I arrived. His friends could all attest to the fact that he was funny. As James walked up to the Fitness Center for practice each afternoon, he greeted the other students with an animated hello. An exclamation about the weather usually followed—“Boy, it’s a hot one today!” or “Whew! This wind sucks!” These greetings were always theatrical as he belted out each syllable, his facial muscles contorting into a dozen different goofy expressions. It was hard to remain composed in his presence. Most entertainers were occasionally able to access a sense of connec-

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tion with peers through their humorous social performances. Laughter was a momentary gateway to feeling included. But James’s structural position as the club treasurer and a practice captain—responsible for handling finances and facilitating two practices each week—meant that he was sometimes placed in situations where he was technically in charge of the club’s activities. In these instances, he was always cautious. He avoided giving direction and instead deferred to the decisions and preferences of others, even brand-new members. But as one of just a few CPR-certified students in the Cardio Club, James’s presence and formal leadership position were necessary for several of the practices to be held each week. When he was successful— which was most of the time—he could encourage others to make decisions about where to work out, how fast to run, whether there would be weightlifting, or how long practice would last. And yet there were also times where the formal position James held required him to be more authoritative. This could be seen most clearly during practices where students broke club rules, creating situations that James was obligated to address. The first of these instances happened when a student unexpectedly disappeared during practice one afternoon. We had returned to the Fitness Center after completing a long and arduous training run; the students were doubled over trying to catch their breath. A few collapsed onto the pavement. Wiping the sweat pooled under his eyes, James turned to the group and began to count out loud. After he did a quick double-take, I saw a frown cross his face. “We’re missing someone . . . where’s Johnny?” he asked. Carter explained that Johnny had fallen behind the group during the last stretch of the run, but that “he said he was ok . . . he seemed like he didn’t need any help.” James was clearly frustrated. “Yeah, but that’s for me to decide,” he responded curtly. Carter’s mouth hung open. He was visibly taken aback. At an apparent loss for words, he looked away without saying anything. It was highly unusual for James to reproach someone in this way. The group was silent for a moment until Alice suddenly raised her arm and pointed down the road. The students turned to see Johnny, slogging toward the group. Slowing his pace to a jog, then a walk, Johnny approached the Fitness Center apprehensively. Looking at James, he said, “Sorry, I got hit by some really bad cramps all the sudden.” He clutched his left side as if to emphasize the point. James seemed a bit relieved, but his voice was still firm as he replied, “I understand, man. I know what that’s like, but

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you’ve got to tell me next time. When you guys are running, we’re liable for you.” He didn’t elaborate on the issue of liability, but I recalled Drew mentioning that CPR-trained members had been told by the club sports administrators at the university that they couldn’t leave any students behind during training runs. Their risk-management protocol dictated that the members stay together in the presence of a student trained in CPR and first aid. I wasn’t sure whether the other students understood the point James was making without this context, though perhaps some of them remembered Drew’s explanation as well. Instead of apologizing, the others were silent and eventually disbanded, heading off in different directions to the library, dining hall, and dormitories. As the students walked away without saying goodbye, their rebuke of James was clear. They were implicitly denying his ability to exercise control over the Cardio Club and indicating their displeasure with his momentary use of a more authoritative interactional style. Because of the tension between James’s social role as an entertainer and his structural authority as an officer, his place within the group often seemed tentative. He was usually “the funny guy,” but strained interactions like this one had power to strip away the temporary acceptance he received when performing as an entertainer. The perceived tension between humor and authority offered an avenue through which students could police entertainers who occasionally tried to take charge of group activity. The Cardio Club members were prepared to snub James in his efforts to ensure they followed the rules. Likewise, other students used his humorous self-presentation to disqualify him from taking on additional formal authority. Drew and three of the group’s other officers were graduating seniors. As they prepared to finish their undergraduate studies, it seemed obvious that as a thirdyear student, James would be a strong candidate to become president of the club the following year. Yet Drew made it clear that this wouldn’t be the case. After one of the club’s first practices of the fall semester, several students were cooling down in the Fitness Center lobby. When discussion turned to who would lead the team after the seniors graduated, Drew noted a lack of apparent successors for his role as president and for several of the other officer positions. Given that there were so many seniors and few juniors, he claimed to be unsure about who would take charge of the group after the current officers graduated. In response, another student asked the question that had been on my mind: “What about James?” Drew laughed, catching me off guard. After composing himself, he

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explained, “I don’t think that will work with James. I mean, I like him a lot and he’s cool, but I’m not sure that I trust him to make four correct decisions in a row [laughing]. I mean, we’re usually happy if he can get one thing right, and more than that is a stretch.” This statement seemed questionable. In fact, James had gotten the practice started just that day when Drew was running late. Hypothetically, he could have taken on a greater role in leading the group without help or oversight. But it was clear from the way Drew and other students spoke about James that they saw him as strictly an entertainer. The only descriptor Alyssa could think of to characterize him was “funny,” and when asked about James, Cara recounted a series of jokes he had made at team dinners. Over the course of the semester, I heard Drew make additional statements that seemed calculated to limit James’s access to authority. He frequently repeated the remark about not being able to “trust James to make decisions.” In doing so, it became apparent that this was not just a one-time observation but a concerted effort to monitor James’s self-presentation. Newer members quickly learned to join in the banter, making similar statements to emphasize that James couldn’t be taken seriously. These claims were never presented in such a pointed way in front of James himself. Instead, the message was conveyed through innuendo and subtler barbs about his irresponsibility. Students would tease him about an error at practice or getting lost on a run after taking a wrong turn.13 It became apparent that James understood the constraints placed on his role in the club. During an afternoon workout in late October, I heard Kenny ask him whether he would be running for president the next year. Kenny had confided in me that he wanted the presidency for himself, despite being a new member. He was worried, however, that James might leverage his seniority to take the position. But James quickly confirmed that he planned to serve as treasurer again, leaving the president and vice president positions uncontested. Then, by making a self-deprecating joke, he minimized his role in the group. The door was open for Kenny to take on more authority and eventually run for president, with such possibilities rhetorically closed off for James. Students became locked into the entertainer role in predictable ways. After branding oneself as “funny,” it was difficult to suddenly access authority. With a track record of impulsiveness and volatility, how could they become reliable leaders? And when they traded in an economy of crude humor, how could they come to be seen as intellectuals? In short, being an entertainer meant losing access to authority, and polic-

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ing entertainers was as easy as reminding them (and their peers) of past behaviors. Friends were always ready to recount the jokes they told, the pranks they pulled, and the rules they broke in the process. Interrogation and Embarrassment: Policing Associates. The behavior of associates was tightly controlled as well. The discourse of fakeness, with its focus on restricting caregivers’ behavior, was not usually leveraged against these students, and their typical reticence meant that they couldn’t be held accountable for jokes or pranks as entertainers were. And yet other policing tactics proved equally effective. These most frequently included pointed questioning, teasing, and ridicule. For students who had previously been labeled as “shy” or “quiet,” this negative attention was a powerful deterrent.14 One illustrative example comes from Alice, the Cardio Club member introduced in chapter 4. A White student, Alice began the year clearly performing as an associate. During the first few weeks of the semester, she consistently showed up to practices with the Cardio Club but rarely said much, often hanging out on the margins of the group. However, as the semester progressed, she attempted to take on greater authority. As one of the most consistent attendees at the Cardio Club practices, Alice came to know the structure of workouts and the intricacies of various running routes better than the other new members. And because she frequently read the social media and group messenger feeds before practice, she was sometimes the only one with information about what the group’s workout would entail or whether one of the captains would be arriving late. But when Alice tried to convey instructions to others, she was rebuffed. I observed an early example during the third week of practice in the middle of an off-campus tempo run. As we crossed over a busy road onto a wooded lakeside trail, the group ran single file. Kenny and Ron took turns at the front of the pack, followed by Alice, Ace, and David. Minutes passed without anyone talking. Occasionally, someone would make a noise after colliding with a low-hanging tree branch or losing their footing on a rock or root. For the most part, though, the group settled into a steady silence. As we approached a fork in the trail, Ace, who was a stand-in captain for the practice (in Drew’s absence), shouted, “Left!” His voice shook the students out of their hypnotic rhythm, as they veered left. Ace did his best to continue directing from behind, calling out “left!” or “right!” at places where the trail split. With his guidance, Kenny and Ron could stay on course or correct from a wrong turn when necessary. But the orders became strained and eventually inaudible as Ace grew

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winded. Shortly after the students turned around to head back to campus, David dropped off from the main group. Ace followed shortly after. Kenny, Ron, Alice, and I were left to navigate on our own. Without Ace, the four of us occasionally had to stop running to reorient ourselves. The trail had several abrupt turns and more than a few places where the path split in two or three directions. Although Alice and I had run this route before, we were both a few paces behind. Reaching a fork in the trail, Ron and Kenny paused and began jogging in place. Alice slipped past them to continue ahead, bearing onto the path leading north. “Is that the right way?” Kenny called after her. Alice stopped and looked back toward the rest of us. No one spoke, so after a moment I said, “I think so.”15 “This is it,” Alice stated confidently, turning and picking up the pace again. We began to follow her, but Kenny seemed hesitant. After a few strides, he started to slow down again. “This doesn’t look right,” he said. “No, it is,” responded Alice. Seconds later, Kenny reiterated his skepticism, “I don’t remember that house . . .” “This is definitely it,” Alice confirmed again. The conversation began to feel strained. This was Kenny’s first day running with the group. I had imagined that a new member would defer to someone like Alice who had run the trail before, but her more extensive experience didn’t stop him from raising objections that implicitly questioned her ability to lead. Alice’s facial expressions offered little insight into her reaction to being interrogated, but I couldn’t help wondering how she felt in this moment. Whether he intended to or not, Kenny’s words clearly tugged at the threads of her emerging authority and credibility, working to unravel both. We eventually reached the end of the trail and crossed back onto the road again. With this clear signal that we were in fact on the right path, I wondered what Kenny might say. Would he acknowledge that Alice had been correct? Would he express remorse for doubting her direction? Would he apologize? I was sure he’d at least say something to break the tension. But as we ran back to campus, Kenny did none of those things. He continued to lead, seeming to possess the same ease and confidence as before, and Alice’s role in keeping the group on track went unacknowledged. As it turned out, Kenny wasn’t the only student to undermine Alice’s attempts to lead. Just a few days later, her self-presentation was policed through another exchange involving dismissive questions. That

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afternoon, James started practice as usual by asking the students where they wanted to run. There was a brief period of silence before Alice replied, “Not the North Loop!” Though she laughed, it was clear that she was serious about preferring an alternative. She and the other students had mentioned before that they were tired of running this same route so frequently. But as she expressed her objection to the North Loop, Carter turned to her and asked, “Why not? What’s wrong with North Loop?” His inquiry felt pointed, like a rebuke of Alice’s comment, and she appeared startled by the reply. Looking at her watch and fiddling with its screen, she didn’t respond. The blockade of questions that students like Kenny and Carter left hanging in the air cut off Alice’s access to the manager role. In addition to associates being policed through the explicit questioning of their authority or knowledge, ridicule was sometimes used to discipline them. In subsequent weeks, I observed moments when Alice would take a position of leadership, running at the front of her pace group. Near the end of a run, as the endurance of other students faded, she would press ahead. This action provoked efforts by others to police her self-presentation with public embarrassment. During a workout one evening in late September, I was running with a group that included Alice and five male students. As we left one of the off-campus trails and returned to the roadway, Alice was running at the front of the group. Carter tried to keep pace to her left, with Johnny and Drew a few steps behind on the right. Ace and I trailed the four of them, several strides back. In this formation, Johnny looked to his left at the rest of the group until his gaze focused on Alice for a moment. Then he laughed unexpectedly. “It looks like she’s got an escort!” he exclaimed, cackling again. “What?” Drew asked, apparently not following his point. “It looks like we’re her escorts,” Johnny clarified, jerking his head toward Alice. “Like her bodyguards.” This elicited laughter from Drew and Ace. But Alice continued running, staring forward without comment. Once again, as she attempted to lead the group, she was rhetorically undermined. Instead of acknowledging her speed and stamina, Johnny focused on her gender as an object for ridicule, framing Alice as a woman in need of an escort of male “bodyguards.” His message, though not as explicit as other forms of policing, was clear nonetheless: while others who presented as managers were apparently welcome— and expected—to be frontrunners in the group, Alice was not. Like other students who encountered restrictive stereotypes, Alice bumped up against demands for feminine passivity as she tried to become more versatile in her self-presentation. Frequent questioning and

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teasing increased pressure on her to return to her initial performance as a quiet follower within the associate role. Notably, other women became part of the Cardio Club without being undermined or ridiculed. For instance, Cara, Sasha, Valerie, Sarah, and Sydney all successfully joined the group without having their styles of self-presentation policed in this way. But these women differed from Alice in that they didn’t attempt to exercise authority. They each took on and consistently embodied the caregiver or associate role, conforming to cookie-cutter selves that were accepted by other club members. Before the first semester was over, Alice had returned to performing within the boundaries of her initial role. She no longer ran in front of the group or took charge of club activities. And as other members of the Cardio Club appeared to grow closer, having more frequent conversations and reinforcing one another’s sense of mattering, Alice again joined the ranks of the associates as a quiet, marginal presence. The tactics used to police her self-presentation were highly effective. Students who had previously been reserved in group settings often seemed caught off guard by pointed questions and teasing. This public embarrassment communicated a demand that they reaffirm their commitment to the associate role, fading back to a liminal social existence. : : : As Erving Goffman explains, the adoption of a line and its associated role carries the risk of its actor’s becoming “stuck with” a performance.16 Once social actors begin to portray themselves in a certain way, their audience expects this performance to continue—at least through the duration of their interaction. Unexpected change can be unsettling or disruptive. But even Goffman might have been surprised by the durability of students’ performances across time and situations. Within their social groups, ESU students held fast to a single, highly simplistic style of self-presentation. This phenomenon, which I have referred to as role inertia, was achieved in part through positive reinforcement from peers who encouraged adherence to roles over time. Using positive attention and appreciation, students affirmed those who successfully performed as caregivers, educators, and managers. Sometimes, they did the same for entertainers, although the encouragement those students received was less consistent. It wasn’t just positive reinforcement that propped up role inertia, though. Students also policed the self-presentation of their peers by focusing negative attention on behaviors that didn’t align with expecta-

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tions. Bearing in mind how the caregiver, entertainer, and associate roles limited expressions of authority in the form of directing one’s peers or conveying knowledge, it’s perhaps unsurprising that students occasionally tried to step outside their rigid parameters. Perhaps some even felt inclined to move away from these roles altogether. But when change provoked skepticism and complexity meant being humiliated or labeled as fake, it was often safer to remain within the confines of simple, twodimensional stereotypes. Policing was highly effective in part because of its nature as a group practice. While it sometimes occurred in one-on-one interactions, it was more frequently conducted in a very public manner. This meant that students were held accountable with an audience of their peers in ways that could be socially damaging. When Cecilia and Sherry saddled Jamie with the “fake” label in front of a dozen Learning Community members, those students were invited to join in the policing. Similarly, when Drew used James’s humor to disqualify him from accessing authority, others in the Cardio Club took note. New members learned to rhetorically position James as an entertainer, incapable of leadership. Further, as a public event, policing communicated the importance of consistent selfpresentation beyond those who were directly targeted. By watching the negative sanctions placed on others, larger groups of students learned about demands for simplistic, culturally recognizable performances. Bolstered by positive reinforcement as well as policing, role inertia came to shape the social landscapes of college students. After adopting distinct roles upon entering groups, these young people discovered that fitting in had a more sinister side. Maintaining the cookie-cutter identities they fashioned became a condition of continued engagement. As they worked diligently to connect with peers, to be valued, and to feel a sense of belonging, these students became locked in a game of chess. Their objective was inclusion, but success, it seemed, could be achieved only by following the rules of the game—rules that demanded strict compliance to the constraints of their roles. Like rooks, bishops, knights, and pawns, students were confined to a limited set of moves. These findings help clarify the mechanisms at work in shaping and restricting students’ identities in the context of higher education. It has long been apparent that the college experience influences identity.17 Recently, however, researchers have begun to document feelings of constraint and perceptions of limited possibility in the experiences of historically marginalized groups on college campuses as they work to fashion identity.18 Exploring the ways positive reinforcement and

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behavioral policing are strategically applied helps illuminate the processes by which these experiences are generated. In this chapter, I have added to our understanding of the myriad ways that inertia shapes students’ experiences in higher education. Like majors, activities, and orientations toward academic effort, social performance can easily become habitual, with subsequent options for selfpresentation restricted and possibilities for more substantive change increasingly difficult to access.19 In adopting a cookie-cutter self as they enter groups, many students commit to a version of self-presentation that will be hard to escape. Sociologist Lee Cuba and his colleagues have shown how the friendship circles students form in their first year of college become highly durable, frequently solidifying by sophomore year.20 That so many students remain entrenched within the same groups throughout college likely plays a significant role in constraining efforts to change their social performance. In the end, most ESU students were willing to adhere to expectations for rigid consistency in order to sustain their connections with peers—however limited or tenuous those connections may have been. Notably, though, not all students locked into a socially accepted role immediately upon entering a group. There were rarer cases in which students joined groups with styles of self-presentation that conflicted with gendered and raced stereotypes. In the next chapter, I explore the related social forces that shaped their experiences.

6

Centrifugal Pressure and Centripetal Elevation

The previous chapter explored the regressive social forces that worked to constrain students’ behaviors within groups. We saw how most students maintained a consistent, two-dimensional social role over the course of the academic year. Those who attempted to add nuance were quickly rebuked, and thus most students became stuck with cookie-cutter identities. Yet while role inertia was powerful, it wasn’t the only force at work here. A few students did in fact change their interactional styles in significant ways. In the groups I observed, approximately 10 percent of students had different styles of self-presentation in my last encounters with them than they did in the first weeks of the semester.1 An optimistic observer might have equated this change with personal growth and development, but such a portrayal would be incomplete. A closer look reveals that for students whose self-presentation changed over time, patterned social forces were at work. This change was generated in predictable ways and functioned to reproduce traditional forms of inequality. Over the course of the academic year, I took note of this small group of students who shifted from performing one version of the cookie-cutter self to another. Given the inequalities wrapped up in these roles, such a shift usually implied a corresponding change in students’ places within their social groups. For instance, students who

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left the associate role to become managers accrued an amplified sense of mattering and belonging with their friends. Conversely, those who shifted from presenting as managers to entertainers or associates often settled into a marginal place in their groups. In effect, a change in selfpresentation meant that some students were brought closer to the center of group life, while others were forced to the periphery. This chapter explores the twin forces responsible for these changes—forces I dub centrifugal pressure and centripetal elevation. Centrifugal Pressure I met a Latino student named Carl at a meeting of the Volunteer Collective in early September. Carl was short—probably just about five feet tall—and sported a goatee and a New York Mets baseball cap. He looked excited to be at the meeting, with his enthusiasm clearly written in his body language. Arriving early, Carl sat near the front of the room and began looking around. He proactively introduced himself to the students who took seats nearby. He had a deep, steady voice that projected, making it easy to hear him from across the room. Throughout the next several meetings, Carl focused on demonstrating his value as a member by proposing ways the organization could raise money. The Volunteer Collective officers typically set aside time at each gathering for input regarding activities and fundraisers that could bring in resources for the group’s charitable work. Carl used these discussions to outline plans for events that he claimed would raise substantial funds. In short, he attempted to become a manager. By laying out several viable plans during each discussion, he was clearly making a sustained effort to offer direction. But although he was eager to lead the group, the other members actively resisted his authoritative self-presentation. At one of Carl’s first meetings with the Volunteer Collective, the students dismissed several of his plans. In the middle of a brainstorming session, he recommended hosting a movie night on campus: “We can sell tickets for just a dollar, and you’ll raise a lot of money.” The other students seemed unimpressed, remaining silent after he spoke. Beth, the president, was the only one to respond directly, and rather than encouraging his plan—potentially allowing him to save face—she noted that the venue ESU used for film screenings was closing that semester. Then she pointedly remarked that requests for donations garnered more money than set-price tickets or goods. Beth reminded the students about the group’s bake sale strategy of asking patrons to “donate whatever

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you can,” which usually brought in more money than pricing items at fifty cents or one dollar. She recounted times when donors would give five or ten dollars for a single cupcake. The others nodded. While benign on the surface, these comments—delivered immediately after Carl’s idea—clearly suggested that the plan he contributed wasn’t useful. Carl seemed to take a step back to process this interaction, which had clearly embarrassed him. His body language suddenly changed. Though he had eagerly leaned forward over the table when first describing his idea, he now slouched back in his seat following Beth’s response. Folding his arms across his torso and tilting his head downward so the baseball cap partially obscured his face, he articulated a half-hearted defense of his plan: “Well, we did that in my high school, and it worked really well. Lots of people came and, you know, you can get your friends—you can be, like, ‘Hey man, come to the movie, it’s just a dollar.’” The others seemed uninterested in Carl’s explanation and moved on with the discussion. The degree to which Volunteer Collective members were dismissive of Carl’s plans was surprising. While an authoritative interactional style could certainly be read as abrasive, the members often took direction from George, the White student whose experiences were discussed in chapter 3. Despite his having joined the group several weeks into the semester, other students responded positively to George’s displays of authority. He frequently gave edicts to the group, sketching plans that were very similar to Carl’s. And yet while Carl was rebuffed, the other students commended George on his input. In fact, they almost always followed through in carrying out his plans. Meanwhile, as far as I could tell, not one of Carl’s plans was implemented. Despite the negative response from his peers, Carl didn’t give up immediately. Over the course of several meetings, he presented in the typical style of a manager, ignoring the resistance of his peers. But the more he worked to contribute plans and give direction, the more other members distanced themselves from him. My field notes recorded several meetings in which Carl was snubbed by his peers. He continued to arrive early, but others avoided sitting near him. These moments for unstructured conversations were usually when students would make plans to get together after meetings, so being left out of these conversations meant not being invited to group dinners or study sessions. As the Volunteer Collective members pushed Carl aside, they communicated the parameters placed on group membership. To be included, he would have to change. Although Carl was determined, enthusiastic, and hardworking, over

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time this treatment seemed to have an effect on him. As the weeks wore on, he slowly altered his style of self-presentation. To what degree this was an active decision on his part versus an involuntary response to group pressure was unclear. During the final meeting of the fall semester, the full scale of Carl’s transformation was evident. After arriving, he sat down at one of the round tables with four other students. Unlike the first weeks of the semester, when their hostility toward him was on full display, the others occasionally shared a laugh with Carl as he told a joke. Kelly and Linda chuckled with amusement as he described his weekend trip to the mall, where he sneaked into a movie theater. Instead of offering instructions or plans, Carl became someone who told funny stories and jokes. He made others laugh. Though he remained marginal in the group—typically going unacknowledged, except when he told jokes—his style of self-presentation no longer elicited displeasure from his peers. The removal of negative sanctions seemed to cement his performance within the entertainer role. I refer to the type of treatment Carl received as centrifugal pressure. The previous chapter described how behavioral policing could be leveraged from time to time—like an occasional “tune-up” of someone’s social performance—in order to lock students into their initial style of self-presentation. Yet for students like Carl, who attempted to enter a group in the “wrong” role (one their peers were unwilling to accept), consistent policing created pressure to alter their initial selfpresentation, pushing them into more marginal positions. Centrifugal pressure was typically applied when students’ social performance carried cultural meanings that didn’t align with the intersections of their race and gender. As a Latino student, Carl was prevented from accessing the authoritative manager role, which was associated with White masculinity. While White men were frequently encouraged to exercise authority, negative sanctions were applied to women and racial/ethnic minority men who did the same. Typically, this meant that the latter two groups were blocked from the manager or educator roles and pushed to perform as an associate or entertainer.2 The Power of Subtle Gestures. Centrifugal pressure was sometimes highly

visible and explicit, as it was for Carl. It wasn’t difficult to spot the negative treatment that led him to alter his social performance. But in other instances, centrifugal pressure was applied in discreet ways. Though perhaps less visible to a casual observer, these subtle pressures were no less effective. In the Learning Community, an Asian student named Max was channeled into the entertainer role without much fanfare. His

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transition was sudden, occurring in a seemingly benign way early in the semester. In fact, the change would have been easy to miss. Max’s initial social performance fit clearly within the manager role. In early interactions, he was confident and authoritative. But like Carl, he experienced external pressures that decisively reshaped his self-presentation. The first time I noticed Max experiencing centrifugal pressure was in the Learning Community’s initial classroom meeting. After a brief welcome from the course instructor and graduate teaching assistants, the students were told to introduce themselves. When it was Max’s turn to speak, he began confidently, “I’m Max Nguyen . . .”; but before he could offer more than his name, a shout came from across the room. “That’s my roommate!” Jerry exclaimed. The two of them pointed at each other and Max echoed, “That’s my roommate!” The whole class laughed. Paula, who was sitting beside Max, gave a loud “aww” before exclaiming, “Max, you’re adorable!” She squeezed his shoulders in a partial hug. Max smiled and looked down at the table, quickly blurting out the rest of his introduction: “It’s my freshman year, and I’ll be majoring in international affairs.” He was clearly flustered. I could tell that the group felt positively about this interaction. There was polite laughter and smiles around the room. However, it was also apparent to me that Max’s interactional style was being recalibrated. Jerry’s interjection, coupled with Paula’s description of him as “adorable,” seemed to situate Max as a form of entertainment for the group. After several students had just introduced themselves and talked about their goals as scholars and leaders (of clubs and groups on campus, for instance), their treatment of Max seemed inappropriate. Instead of giving him the chance to express similar goals or ambitions, the rest of the group cut off the substance of his introduction. The students’ repositioning of Max as an entertainer illustrated the subtle ways in which centrifugal pressure could be applied. There were a few instances in which others confronted him more directly about being too assertive, but most of the pressure was inconspicuous. Through requests for jokes and gentle teasing, Max’s peers situated him as a form of amusement. By reframing an instruction as “funny” or a serious comment as “adorable,” they gently rebuffed his authority. Max seemed willing to fulfill the expectations of this new role as a “funny guy.” His recalibrated performance was implemented early enough in the year that it didn’t seem to register with many of his peers as a departure from his previous interactional style. But during our interview later in the spring, it became apparent that this change was a meaningful one for Max himself. In response to a question about

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his interactions in social groups, Max described how he had learned to adjust his self-presentation around other students: “[I used to be] more of ‘Get going, let’s just get this done with,’ sometimes in a crude, abrasive manner, but my intention was to get the job done, let’s just do it now. . . . I guess my approach was a little too abrasive for [other students]. . . . I guess that kind of direct confrontation can be a little intimidating for some people.” While listening to this account, I was stunned that Max read his previous behavior as potentially crude and intimidating. When I probed for examples, he hesitated for a moment before recalling a Learning Community study group from early in the fall semester. Max had taken charge of a group project, outlining the contours of the product his peers would generate. Although he got the impression that his manner had been “too abrasive,” his initial self-presentation as a manager was indistinguishable from several of the White male students in the community. Nonetheless, when others signaled their skepticism, he decided to make adjustments to fit in with the group. Becoming an entertainer meant that Max was not looked to for insight as educators were or for direction as managers were. Even as he began performing in this new way, there were moments when it was apparent that he was dissatisfied with the simplicity of his role. I observed one such instance during an event in the residence halls in which the Learning Community watched a motivational video about avoiding procrastination. Shortly after I arrived, Max sat on a neighboring couch and we said hello. Paula took a seat on the floor nearby a few moments later. Small talk ensued. After Paula brought up exams, Max made a joke about avoiding schoolwork by watching a video about procrastination. “I’m learning about procrastinating while I’m procrastinating!” he exclaimed. Paula and another student sitting nearby laughed. Students continued to arrive, slowly filling the small room. With a larger audience that included about eight additional students, Max raised the topic of procrastination again. But this time, rather than framing his point as a joke, he presented it as an observation. He smiled and spoke knowingly, as if proud to have made the connection. At this point, Paula looked at him with a mixture of incredulity and exasperation. “You’ve said that three times!” she exclaimed. She laughed after her comment, but her tone conveyed frustration. Seeming to pick up on the implied rebuke, Max subsequently became quiet. I hadn’t heard him make the comment a third time (though perhaps he said it before arriving at the event); rather, the issue seemed to stem from his rhetorical style. Other students were apparently content to laugh along when

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the comment was framed as a joke; but when it was presented as a thoughtful observation, Paula publicly embarrassed Max by calling out the repetition of his statement. From watching Max and other students, it became apparent to me that subtle cues were often read with great clarity. Moreover, their effects were anything but subtle; students were incredibly sensitive to messages from their peers. The previous chapter illustrated how role inertia could be enforced even with seemingly inconsequential gestures such as rolling one’s eyes or responding with pointed silence. While it may be unsurprising that inertia could be facilitated in a fairly inconspicuous way, it was striking to see full transformations from one role to another happen through a buildup of similarly small gestures. Centrifugal pressure could be slow, subtle, and cloaked in laughter, but it was effective nonetheless.3 The Culprits. As the year progressed at ESU, I became more attuned to

the systematic application of centrifugal pressure. In monitoring its intricacies, I looked for patterns in how students were pushed to the margins of their groups. While it was apparent that centrifugal pressure usually targeted female and racial/ethnic minority students, the source of this pressure was less clear. I wondered, In such a diverse institution, how did this force persist? Who was to blame for the policing and mistreatment that perpetuated stereotypes? Were there specific culprits who could be identified? As it turned out, centrifugal pressure came from all directions. While Jerry (a White male student) initially worked to position Max as an entertainer, it was Paula (a White female student) who expanded on his efforts. And students with a diverse range of sociodemographic characteristics policed Carl. Moreover, individuals occupying each of the five versions of the cookie-cutter self leveraged centrifugal pressure against peers. Educators, entertainers, managers, caregivers, and even associates engaged in policing to redirect peers from one role to another. In short, the line between villains and victims wasn’t clearly demarcated. It became even murkier as I realized that some of the sources of centrifugal pressure were also sometimes its targets. While Paula played a visible part in applying pressure to transform Max’s self-presentation, she was also the recipient of such treatment herself. Often outspoken, Paula—like educators such as Fred, Matthew, and Tyler—seemed excited to share her knowledge and perspective with peers. But although her White male classmates’ behavior was reinforced with encouraging comments and positive attention, she was treated dif-

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ferently. When she shared her ideas with the Learning Community, they were frequently greeted with scorn. During the first semester, Paula had displayed her knowledge of topics including politics, poverty, veganism, and LGBT activism. An avid reader, she was clearly very knowledgeable about these subjects, and she always seemed to be well informed on current events. Given the Learning Community’s focus on social justice, many others were also passionate about these topics. Initially, it seemed that having a shared interest of this sort would go a long way in facilitating sustained connections. Yet Paula’s willingness to display her knowledge to others often provoked biting retorts rather than appreciation. When she spoke, the Learning Community students would frequently interrupt, laugh, or undermine the points she had made. Paula, however, did not give up easily. Where Max quickly responded to centrifugal pressure by shifting his social performance, Paula continued doing what she could to present as an educator for the first three months of the academic year. It was not until early December that I began to notice a sustained shift in her self-presentation. Over the course of several weeks, she had moved from performing as an educator to settle into a new, more passive role as an associate. One of the last times I heard Paula speak with confidence in front of the group was at a community retreat in January. Midway through the day, there had been a discussion about US politics. Fred brought up recent examples of activism, and began explaining the social movements behind some of the ongoing protests in Washington, DC. As he finished speaking, Paula attempted to contribute her own insight. After describing the actions of government agency workers who were resisting administration policies, she suggested that this might be a new form of activism. She went on to describe the National Park Service’s use of social media as a form of protest after the presidential inauguration. Paula’s ideas were interesting, and she conveyed them with clarity and detailed explanations. But as she was speaking, the atmosphere in the room changed. Several students who had listened attentively to Fred began to talk again. Ellen and Danae pointedly dismissed Paula’s contribution to the conversation. The two of them broke into laughter after Ellen whispered, “What is she talking about?” Paula’s face became red and she abruptly stopped speaking. She spent most of the remainder of the retreat—nearly four hours—silently focused on her cell phone. Less than a week later, she candidly acknowledged that fears of “being misunderstood” and having other students “talk about me behind my back” led her to avoid speaking in groups. Her new, more reserved

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performance as an associate continued through to the end of the spring semester. While Paula became very reflexive about her own experiences as a target of centrifugal pressure, she never acknowledged her part in policing the behavior of other community members, such as Max. Yet there were some students who candidly described participating in the application of centrifugal pressure. For instance, Janice told me about how she and a few of her friends responded to women who took on more vocal, authoritative roles in their student organization. Janice: Shannon, she’s very extroverted and outgoing, and sometimes she’s a little over the top. And sometimes she doesn’t realize that that’s the way that she’s being. She’ll be really . . . I don’t know. It’ll come off as kind of passive aggressive, but she won’t mean it to be that way. Some people will take it that way. It gets kind of awkward. If we go off track, it bothers her. She has her questions. She wants to stick to her questions. She’s, like, “No, that’s not answering the question.” But we want to explore something different. It kind of bothers her. . . . We [also] have a couple of girls that are a little bit know-it-alls sometimes. BRS : How do people respond to that? Janice: Most people are just kind of, like, . . . [rolls eyes]. Most of the time with stuff like that, we’re just kind of, like, “Okay, whatever you say” [sarcastic tone]. Then we just move on.

Janice’s description shows how similar behaviors could be interpreted very differently in relation to roles that had gendered and raced associations. White male students frequently took on the manager and educator roles, receiving positive reinforcement from their peers. And yet she described Shannon and other authoritative women as “over the top” and as “know-it-alls.” In response, Janice and other members of the group would roll their eyes and offer a dismissive “Okay, whatever you say.” Similarly, a Black student named Nicole described taking part in a collective effort to ostracize Kailee, one of the students in her peer group who tended to take charge of activities. After referring to her as the “queen bee,” Nicole confessed that she and her roommate had temporarily shunned Kailee in hopes that she would become “less bossy.” I was caught off guard by how Janice, Nicole, and other students openly

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acknowledged their role in applying centrifugal pressure. They shared these stories without guilt or shame. In fact, students seemed to feel justified in doling out negative sanctions against others whom they perceived had broken implicit norms of self-presentation. It apparently didn’t register that these rules of engagement were being applied unevenly based on racist and sexist assumptions. Centripetal Elevation So far, I have explored the ways that some women and racial/ethnic minority men were pushed toward the margins of group life. But there were also times when students were pulled into the center of their groups. White men who initially took on the associate role as quiet followers were frequently encouraged to present in ways that conferred a greater sense of mattering by becoming managers and educators. I refer to this pattern of targeted cultivation into more central and highly valued roles as centripetal elevation. This phenomenon could be observed when students encouraged White men to take on a more authoritative role that had associations with White masculinity. Their movement into a new style of self-presentation was facilitated by the support and deference of peers.4 Answering the Call for Direction: Becoming a Manager. Although Carter had begun attending Cardio Club practices during the first few days of the fall semester, it took several weeks before I learned much about him. The first mentions of him in my field notes failed to even capture his name. As a Thursday evening workout concluded and the students began cooling down, I took note that “one of the runners, a White male student whose name I didn’t catch, seemed to be new to the group.” I hadn’t noticed Carter with the club before, and as far as I could recall, he hadn’t spoken at the beginning of the practice. In fact, it would be Drew, the club’s president, who brought him to my attention. I overheard Drew telling Carter about the group’s competition schedule for the fall, entreating him to take part in some of the cross-country races. Carter, who was thin with a small frame, stood awkwardly at the top of a short flight of stairs with his hands on his hips, elbows jutting out to the side, listening to Drew. He spoke only when asked a direct question, usually replying with a brief, affirmative “yeah.” As I reflected on my observations after practice, it occurred to me that this may not even have been Carter’s first day with the club. It was possible that he had attended previous practices at which I failed to notice him.

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Even after I had become aware of his presence, Carter often seemed to escape my attention. His ability to blend into the background was apparent at a practice later that same month, when some of the fastest students took part in a six-mile run around a local park. The sky was dark, as if a storm would strike at any moment. Midway through the run, the students began boasting about difficult workouts or races they had participated in outdoors in inclement weather. After a few minutes, I realized that Carter and I were the only nonparticipants in the rhetorical contest. While he didn’t give an example of his own, he appeared to be paying attention to the other students’ stories, occasionally contributing an encouraging “wow” or “oh, man!” This was my only observation about Carter that day; the remainder of my field notes from the practice read as if he weren’t there. As with other associates, I found that it was easy to overlook him. And yet, while I was frequently guilty of neglecting Carter in my own observations, others were not. In fact, the Cardio Club members began to focus a great deal of attention on him. After Drew talked with Carter about the competition schedule, he continued to encourage him to compete with the club at the fall events. Drew and Adam were both opposed to James, the Black student introduced in the previous chapter, becoming club president. Yet they began actively encouraging Carter and two other new White male students to take on greater authority in the group and run for officer positions in the fall elections. It wasn’t long before I noticed a change in Carter’s self-presentation. He responded to his peers’ encouragement to take on the manager role. The first signs of this change were evident during a few practices in October and early November at which Carter took charge of situations both physically and rhetorically. He began exercising this authority at the practices James facilitated on Monday and Wednesday evenings. I suspected that his choice of these venues wasn’t coincidental. Given that James performed as an entertainer and deferred to others on even the most routine decisions, Carter may have sensed a leadership vacuum within which he could test out a more authoritative style. During two practices in early October, I made note of the way Carter pushed past James toward the front of the group on long runs. In both instances, he pressed ahead early in the run, conspicuously taking the lead. Simultaneously, he started to challenge other new members during practices— sometimes subtly and at other times more blatantly—by staking out his space and authority within the team. His style of cutting around others or racing them to the finish line seemed aggressive. As he swung his

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elbows to carve out space near the front of the group, Carter made it clear that he was serious. The other students responded positively to Carter’s newfound authority. Even James didn’t appear offended by his displays of dominance, although they often stepped on his positional authority as a team captain. Not only did he accept Carter’s new self-presentation, but he also actively contributed to making Carter feel like a central part of the group. One day at practice, I was running with James and Valerie when our conversation turned to the topic of the club’s membership. James noted a few new students who had become important parts of the group. He singled out Carter among a handful of others: I mean, we’ve had a decent group [of students] stick with [the club] this year too, like Kenny and Carter . . . , so it’s a pretty good group of new people along with the old group [of returning members]. . . . I mean, Kenny is good, and Carter is awesome; like the other day when I got to practice, he asked if we were going to be doing “Old Faithful.” I didn’t even know what he was saying at first, but then I got it—he calls North Loop Old Faithful because we run it so much.

Many of James’s gestures ensured that Carter felt embraced. After arriving at practice one afternoon in early November, James reported, “So it’s going to be an easy run today, we’ve got nationals on Saturday.” After a brief pause to see how others would respond, he asked, “How about ‘Old Faithful’ today?” “Yeah, let’s do Old Faithful!” Carter shouted. Together they explained the reference to another student who was confused. Referring to the trail in this way functioned as a shared language—a secret handshake of sorts—that offered Carter a symbol of his newfound centrality in the group. In this moment, he could clearly see his own impact on the group culture as the “Old Faithful” moniker was adopted by others. His grin was expansive as he soaked up the affirmation. James wasn’t the only student to facilitate Carter’s more authoritative social performance; other officers and returning members did the same. Their attention had an impressive impact. Later in the year, Carter specifically singled out several “mentors” in the Cardio Club who had helped him acquire a sense of belonging during his first year at ESU. The emotional experience of warmth and centrality played out in animated facial expressions as he recalled how it felt to be encouraged in this way.

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By November, Carter’s transformation was almost complete. When he wanted to give input on the format of practices, he would speak up, suggesting workouts for the club or insisting on a longer or shorter run. His whims became highly influential in the day-to-day activities of the group. It didn’t seem to matter to Carter that these decisions were usually made by the club captains; he was confident in his own. One illustrative conversation occurred on a Wednesday afternoon as the students were struggling to choose the day’s workout. When I arrived at the gym, I saw that James, Ace, Carter, and Joey were already there. We talked for a few moments until James asked the others where they wanted to run. For a moment, the students neglected to respond. As usual, however, James was careful not to appear authoritarian, instead seeking input from the group: “Should we do North Loop up to the hill?” he asked. After seeming to consider the possibilities for another moment, Carter recommended that the group do a shorter run. Ace had a different suggestion, however. “We could go back onto the trail [in Grove Park for a longer run],” he offered. With these contrasting possibilities on the table, James seemed uncertain about what to say next. Again, he avoided making a decision. Placing a hand behind his back, he said, “Okay, pick a number: one or two.” This attempt to have others select a route failed as the group continued to hesitate. Following an awkward back-and-forth, it was eventually Carter who broke through the standstill. “Okay, we’re doing the hill!” he stated firmly. And with that, the group was decided. We would run the shorter route. James seemed pleased that someone had made the decision, and Carter, in a notable change from the start of the semester, appeared surprisingly comfortable giving commands to the group. This interaction was just one in a series of increasingly frequent examples of Carter’s newfound authority as he transitioned to occupy the manager role. Eventually, his place in the group became formalized. During one of the final practices of the fall semester, Drew and Adam discussed the recent selection of new officers. As we pushed along the highway into a headwind, Drew recounted the results of the elections, in which both nominations and voting had taken place online. He described the process candidly as “not so much elections as we sort of appointed people.” Adam chimed in, noting that “we almost had one position contested for president, but when Kenny said he wanted to do it, Jack said he would take VP.” One of these “appointments” went to Carter, whom the group selected for the position of secretary. The social forces acting on Carter’s style of self-presentation offer a stark alternative to centrifugal pressure. Carter described himself as

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having been the beneficiary of “mentorship.” Correspondingly, Drew and other club captains thought of themselves as supportive mentors for some of the new members. On several occasions, they described the intentionality with which they had targeted Carter and other White male students like Kenny and Joey for developmental opportunities. They congratulated themselves on cultivating future leaders. But framing the treatment Carter had received as “mentorship” obscured the systematic inequality that privileged him over others. Students like him were the beneficiaries of “hidden advantages” comparable to those documented in the workplace, where White men are fast-tracked for promotion to positions of authority.5 Similar opportunities weren’t equally available to all Cardio Club participants. In fact, as the previous chapter illustrated, Alice and James were actively discouraged from taking on authority or leadership positions. Moreover, the same cultural assumptions that allowed White men to exercise authority meant that when others looked at White male students who were passive, they still saw opportunities to develop leaders. The impact of centripetal elevation became written into the shape of social groups. Whereas women and racial/ethnic minority men who didn’t live up to stereotypes were pushed toward the margins of social life, White men were pulled inward, toward the center. Responding to “Interested” Peers: Becoming an Educator. Students like Carter were encouraged to take charge of groups as their peers looked to them for direction and gave them opportunities to exercise authority. Several other White male students had similar experiences with centripetal elevation, yet not all of them became managers. Some came to feel that others were interested in hearing their perspectives. Rather than taking charge of their groups and giving direction, they became educators. Kyle, the White Learning Community member introduced in chapter 3, began the academic year employing a social performance that was much like Carter’s. He was quiet and serious. During the first few weeks of the semester, Kyle’s presence would have been easy to miss. He tended to go with the flow of group activity, acting within the predictable contours of the associate role. Squinting out from behind bushy eyebrows and thick curls, he often had a look of focused intensity. He seemed most at home in the background of the group, craned over a phone or laptop. But toward the middle of the fourth week, I noticed that Kyle was beginning to speak more frequently. Sometimes, he interjected to make a point or raise a question. In other moments, he shared ideas in response to the deference of his peers. For instance, during one of the Learning Community’s class meet-

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ings, the instructor, Elizabeth, introduced a new activity. On the wall she projected a PowerPoint slide listing ten statements. After reading them aloud, she asked the group to write down whether they (1) strongly agreed, (2) agreed, (3) disagreed, or (4) strongly disagreed with each statement. As the students quickly scribbled their responses on scraps of paper, Elizabeth posted signs in the four corners of the room, with each displaying a different level of agreement/disagreement. In explaining the subsequent steps, she informed the students that they would move to the corner that matched how they felt about each statement, then discuss their position with others who had selected the same response. Afterward, a spokesperson from each cluster would report to the class, summarizing the conversation. The second part of the activity began as Elizabeth read the first statement from the list: “It’s okay to take drinks from [the campus cafeteria] or the [fast food chain] on campus without paying for them.” The students then set out to place themselves beside the sign that best expressed their feelings of agreement or disagreement. Once settled in their respective corners, the groups began to discuss the merits of each position. I listened in on the conversation of the “disagree” group, huddled nearby. A few students attributed their choice to morality and their family upbringing. The majority, however, said they weren’t sure why they felt the way they did, that it was just a “gut feeling.” As the discussion slowed, Elizabeth reminded the groups that they needed to select a spokesperson. I glanced around the “disagree” group. Several of the female students had placed their index fingers on the tip of their noses, indicating their preference not to speak. There was awkward laughter as no one came forward. From this vacuum it was eventually Kyle who spoke up. He casually volunteered, and it was agreed that he would be the spokesman. It was in part through moments like this, when other students deferred opportunities to offer their perspectives or looked to others for insight, that White male students experienced centripetal elevation. As his peers declined to speak, Kyle stepped in to become an educator. The transformation from a reserved associate to an outspoken educator happened quickly for Kyle. Just a few weeks later, while watching television in the Learning Community lounge, I observed additional evidence of his evolving self-presentation. As a group of students entered the room, Kyle sat down in a cushioned blue chair near the TV. Following on his heels, three students seated themselves cross-legged on the floor around the chair, talking with him and listening attentively as he spoke. Like an elementary schoolteacher surrounded by a bevy of

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eager children, Kyle spoke at length as the others gazed up at him. The students seemed genuinely interested in hearing whatever he had to say. As the year progressed, Kyle became surprisingly comfortable in the educator role, displaying the ease of someone used to being the center of attention. At the beginning of the spring semester, during a discussion about social movements, he shared his ideas with the Learning Community members. Addressing the topic of violence in social movements, he explained the difference between movements that “needed to break the law” and those that did not. Using the example of the American Revolution, he explained, “If the change you are trying to make means that you have to change the whole system, then sometimes violence is okay. I mean, like, with the American Revolution, they had to have violence. They wanted to get out from under British control, and the only way they could do that was by fighting.” Kyle elaborated, contrasting the example of the American Revolution with more recent social movements that sought to change specific laws or attitudes. Those types of movements could use nonviolent tactics, he claimed. As he held forth, his classmates listened silently. Like Carter, Kyle was cognizant of the shift in his social performance. During our one-on-one interview later in the year, he told me that at the beginning of the fall semester, “I was present, I was just observing.” But over time, he came to feel that it was important to offer additional perspectives for the group. In particular, he believed that the objective, fact-based knowledge he possessed was valuable to his peers. Summing up his perceptions, he claimed, A bunch of people have the same mindset. [They] are looking at a problem, and coming up with the same solution, and no one’s really questioning it, so I try to throw curveballs in there sometimes. I’ll raise my hand, and be, like, “Hey, what about this?” And it’s not always because necessarily this is the way I feel. . . . I think a lot of times, [other students] all interpret a problem the same, and people just jump on that bandwagon; but I try to look at a problem objectively and differently. . . . My worldview is more of a factual standpoint. . . . I try to look at it from a more emotionless standpoint. Most people, I think they want to think more; they want to hear more. They want to hear different sides, and things like that. . . . They’re interested in hearing it.

As Kyle’s explanation illustrates, in addition to feeling that it was valuable for him to offer multiple “objective” perspectives on an issue, he

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felt that others were interested in what he had to say. Even in occasionally disagreeing with other students, he perceived that his contribution as an educator was appreciated. By taking on this new role, Kyle became one of the most central members of the Learning Community. Reluctantly Elevated. Not all White men who experienced centripetal elevation were enthusiastic about changing roles. At the first Volunteer Collective meeting in September, a White student named Jacob had been mostly silent. Yet when I spoke with him in the later part of the spring semester, his self-presentation was very different. Commanding and confident, he described how he was training to be an orientation leader and had taken a more authoritative role among his peers. One informal friend group that Jacob was involved with seemed to have molded his style of self-presentation into the recognizable form of the manager role, despite his initial resistance. Jaco b: I hate planning things. The problem is, we’re a group of indecisive people that never makes decisions, resulting in me getting infuriated. I’m, like, “Let’s just go to [the dining hall].” And we all finally decide to go to [the dining hall]. . . . I can make decisions, but I would rather not do it all the time. BRS : So when they are indecisive, they look to you because they know you will solve it for them? Jaco b: Yeah. They definitely [do]. After a whole semester of it, they got to the point, like, “Where are we going to eat, Jacob?” I don’t care for it, but I’m getting more used to it now. So it’s growing on me, I guess, a little bit. BRS : You sort of adapt over time? Jaco b: It’s at the point that if I don’t decide, then nothing— everyone goes all by themselves, which has happened before.

While Jacob claimed not to be thrilled with taking on this new role, he also acknowledged that “it’s growing on me . . . a little bit.” In the void of authoritative decision-making, Jacob was invited to become a manager. Through this process, he moved into a more central place in his friend group as he accrued the authority and attention that came with taking charge. In contrast to Jacob, a few White men declined to take on authority, despite the encouragement of peers. At the same time that Carter and

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Kenny were being cultivated to become managers in the Cardio Club, another White male student named Joey was singled out for centripetal elevation. Just like Carter, he was given multiple opportunities to have a say in the group’s activities, and more senior members even suggested that he run for an officer position. Joey, however, seemed uninterested in changing his self-presentation. There were a few interactions in which he appeared to test out the authority offered to him, but these were isolated moments. As the year went on, he remained a quiet and steady presence in the club. Joey was not alone. In total, 19 percent of the White male students in the study persisted in less central roles as associates or entertainers. It was difficult to identify the combination of factors that led these men to rebuff centripetal elevation. Perhaps they perceived that the demanding nature of structuring group activities was more trouble than it was worth. Being central and valued as a manager or educator had perks (a greater sense of mattering and durable feelings of belonging, for instance), but it may also have seemed undesirable in other ways. Amplified Inequality Centrifugal pressure and centripetal elevation combined with role inertia to produce starkly unequal student experiences. As I argued in part I, pervasive stereotypes shaped the ways students crafted cookiecutter selves. While some students initially contested racist and sexist assumptions, centrifugal pressure and centripetal elevation worked in tandem to reallocate them into socially accepted roles. In the end, the vast majority of students adhered to a version of the cookie-cutter self that aligned with raced and gendered expectations for behavior. Table  6.1 depicts the overall distribution of students among the five roles at the intersections of gender and race. For those who shifted their self-presentation as a result of centrifugal pressure or centripetal elevation, I have categorized them based on the role they transitioned to occupy. In nearly all instances in which change occurred, it was within the first few weeks or months of the semester, meaning that these students spent most of the year in the second role. In previous chapters, I showed how each role had a unique relationship with feelings of mattering as certain kinds of contributions garnered expressions of value and appreciation, while others went unacknowledged. Having peers articulate appreciation was important because of the way it informed and sustained one’s sense of belonging. Given this connection between roles, perceived value, and belonging, the

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operation of centrifugal pressure and centripetal elevation contributed to the stratification of social and emotional experiences. The caregiver, manager, and educator roles were highly valued, producing a sense of mattering that amplified feelings of belonging. Conversely, the associate and entertainer roles were valued less. These students were relegated to marginal places in their groups where they felt disconnected or invisible. By examining the uneven distribution of value across roles alongside the patterned distribution of students in these roles, we see notable disparities in the allocation of value by race and gender (see table 6.2). Contrasting the associate and entertainer roles (perceived to have less value) with the caregiver, manager, and educator roles (perceived to have greater value) reveals stark associations between race, gender, and opportunities to develop feelings of mattering and belonging. A large

Table 6.1 Distribution of students in roles by race and gender

Role

Minority females (%)

Minority males (%)

White females (%)

White males (%)

Associate Caregiver Educator Entertainer Manager Other

48 (n = 21) 36 (n = 16) 0 (n = 0) 7 (n = 3) 0 (n = 0) 9 (n = 4)

46 (n = 18) 3 (n = 1) 0 (n = 0) 46 (n = 18) 3 (n = 1) 3 (n = 1)

37 (n = 14) 34 (n = 13) 3 (n = 1) 5 (n = 2) 8 (n = 3) 13 (n = 5)

16 (n = 6) 0 (n = 0) 22 (n = 8) 3 (n = 1) 54 (n = 20) 5 (n = 2)

37 (n = 59) 19 (n = 30) 6 (n = 9) 15 (n = 24) 15 (n = 24) 8 (n = 12)

44

39

38

37

N = 158

Total

Total (%)

Note: The Other category includes students who fell into one of two groups. First, there were six students who adopted unusually complex styles of self-presentation. I address their experiences in more detail in chapter 7. There were six additional students whom I met only during interviews, whose roles proved difficult to ascertain. While these twelve students accounted for only a small portion (just 8%) of the total, I include them here in their own category for clarity.

Table 6.2 Allocation of value by race and gender

Role value

Minority females (%)

Minority males (%)

White females (%)

White males (%)

Lower value Higher value Other

55 (n = 24) 36 (n = 16) 9 (n = 4)

92 (n = 36) 5 (n = 2) 3 (n = 1)

42 (n = 16) 45 (n = 17) 13 (n = 5)

19 (n = 7) 76 (n = 28) 5 (n = 2)

53 (n = 83) 40 (n = 63) 8 (n = 12)

44

39

38

37

N = 158

Total

Total (%)

Note: As in table 6.1, I depict the six students who adopted complex styles of self-presentation and the six students whose roles were unclear in the Other category. They do not fit clearly in the higher value or lower value categories. I discuss the nuanced experiences of some of these students in chapter 7.

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majority of White males could stake out identities that were highly valued, with 76 percent occupying the manager or educator roles. Between one-third and one-half of racial/ethnic minority female and White female students occupied roles conferring greater value (36 and 45 percent respectively; this was mainly due to their representation as caregivers). And just 5 percent of male racial/ethnic minority students occupied higher-value roles. In other words, while more than three in four White men took on identities that offered greater opportunity for them to feel valued, less than half the women and very few racial/ethnic minority men did.6 Recent work on parties, sexuality, and hookups on college campuses has attributed racial and gender inequality in part to structural disparities in resources and ownership of social settings. For instance, Elizabeth Armstrong and her colleagues show how gender inequalities are reinforced when the residential spaces used to host parties are controlled by fraternities. They note that the male students in charge of fraternities “control every aspect of parties at their houses: themes, music, transportation, admission, access to alcohol, and movement of guests.”7 Other scholars have highlighted how racial inequalities are generated when these venues are controlled primarily by White students.8 While disparities in material resources and venue ownership are clearly influential, it is worth emphasizing that the inequalities I document here are showing up in spaces controlled by the university, where women and racial/ ethnic minority students are represented in positional leadership. By looking outside the party scene to examine student organizations, club sports, and residence halls, the significant impact of cultural meanings in shaping inequality is thrown into sharp relief. These findings suggest that for those seeking to address disparities in student experiences on college campuses, efforts must extend beyond the reallocation of material resources to address the social psychology of group experiences as students interact in a broad range of social venues. Interaction ritual theorists like Erving Goffman and Randall Collins have observed that inequality is a common by-product of many forms of face-to-face interaction. Their work has highlighted the ways individuals establish dominance, display deference, navigate conflict, or maintain distance. For a social actor to occupy center stage, an audience is necessary. For a coach to take charge, players must be willing to follow.9 In short, we wouldn’t expect all students to receive equal attention, encouragement, or appreciation at all moments. And yet the unequal distribution of social resources within the groups I observed

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shouldn’t be interpreted as a necessary or an inevitable feature of group life. These inequalities were stark and durable, and they took predictable forms consistent with long histories of racism and sexism. Though not all students can be at the center of their social circles at every moment, we could certainly imagine settings in which more egalitarian relations exist. Groups in which students interact in more complex ways and distribute attention and appreciation more evenly are a promising and feasible alternative. I address this possibility in greater detail in the next chapter. : : : The story of students’ self-presentation within social groups is one of stability coupled with rare but patterned change. Although role inertia was prevalent, there were sometimes instances in which students modified their self-presentation over time due to the influence of peers. In this chapter, I have illuminated the mechanisms producing this change— twin social forces, which I refer to as centrifugal pressure and centripetal elevation. Taken together, these forces illuminate how the cookie-cutter self was the product of strategic efforts to craft, monitor, and sometimes alter self-presentation. The language of personality psychology is dominant in shaping understandings of human interaction.10 And yet I argue that cultural meanings—not personality traits—are the driving force in shaping students’ experiences within social groups. Just as the previous chapter showed that cookie-cutter selves were intentionally sustained, they could also be strategically transformed. Centrifugal pressure and centripetal elevation did not act at random. Instead, they functioned in patterned ways to exacerbate inequality. Scholars and practitioners talk about the promise and potential of higher education to facilitate growth and development. In their book How College Works, Daniel Chambliss and Christopher Takacs describe a series of fundamental college processes. Ideals related to social involvement mingle with language about growth. In particular, they link relationships with peers and group membership to the potential to “grow ethically” and “establish identities.”11 Sociologist Susan Chase likewise claims that the college extracurricular environment plays an important role in helping students find their voice as they “learn to speak and listen.”12 Moreover, an extensive cohort of developmental psychologists and scholars of higher education have laid out theories about how social involvement in college shapes students’ moral, intellectual, civic, and identity development.13 A common theme runs through

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such claims, framing extracurricular groups as outlets for growth and development broadly construed. At its best, we hope college will offer a place for young people to learn about themselves and others in ways that will increase their potential as contributing members of society. But when institutions of higher education describe social involvement as a path to growth and development, students, parents, faculty, and staff should ask additional questions about the form, function, and accessibility of this so-called development. What kinds of development will occur? How exactly will it happen? And who will get to grow and develop? Based on my observations, role inertia and centrifugal pressure blocked many female and racial/ethnic minority students from achieving the type of selfactualization commonly framed as personal development. For instance, postsecondary faculty and staff describe the college environment as a place to learn leadership skills.14 However, the findings of this study make it clear that equal access to these opportunities is not a given. At the same time that some students were offered space to practice managing or educating their peers, others were restricted from doing the same. The White men who benefited from centripetal elevation may have come closest to experiencing personal growth and development, at least as it is traditionally conceived. They acquired greater voice, confidence, and comfort among their peer groups as they became central figures in various communities. And yet even these men maintained a cookiecutter version of themselves. They didn’t learn to be caring or become more attuned to the feelings of their peers. Managers didn’t learn to ask questions or solicit the input of others. And educators didn’t learn to make decisions or take charge. In the end, some of these students changed, but they continued to cling to two-dimensional identities. It would be naïve to look at such change and call it growth. Progress is needed to help students engage with one another and craft identities in equitable ways. But this progress will require a departure from traditional practice at many universities. In the final chapter, I synthesize the findings of this research and draw from the experiences of a few exceptional students to discuss possibilities for combating inequality in the social landscape of college.

7

Learning from the Exceptions

As May arrived and the students of East State University went their separate ways for the summer, I took time to reflect on my observations over the course of the academic year. Looking for glimmers of hope among stacks of field notes or in the lines of interview transcripts, I was disappointed. Instead of evidence of the promise and potential of higher education, I found cause for concern. Students were building communities and learning from their social experiences, but the lessons they acquired were problematic, to say the least. I watched as Jamie learned that she was valuable insofar as she could provide care for others. I observed Carl as he realized that telling jokes was safer than sharing his ideas. I saw Alice come to the conclusion that leadership was reserved for a select few. And I listened as Tom acknowledged that a sense of belonging was beyond his grasp. These students discovered that inclusion came at a cost. Their connections with others hinged on making a series of undesirable tradeoffs. Sometimes, the tradeoffs they made were rewarded with a durable sense of belonging, but in many cases, sacrifices were made only to maintain a tepid sense of connection with their peers. This book offers a glimpse of the price young people pay to be included in college. When they arrive on campus, students’ social worlds are altered in meaning-

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ful ways. Among new people and new opportunities to socialize outside their home communities, the pursuit of inclusion and its emotive counterpart—in students’ words, finding a sense of “belonging” or “connection”—takes center stage. Colleges and universities themselves elevate the importance of social involvement by claiming that students will grow and develop in the process. And yet these institutions do little to structure and support this involvement. As they enter social groups, students are unprepared to interact with others and build community in equitable ways. This final chapter brings together the insights of those preceding it, exploring how culture reproduces inequality in the college setting. I begin with an overview of the conceptual contributions of this research before shifting to examine themes that arose following my observations of a few exceptional students. I draw from their unusual experiences to suggest approaches that colleges and universities might take to address the inequalities that flourish on their campuses. The possibilities I identify challenge the status quo in higher education. They require trading a hands-off approach to the college social realm for greater structure and intentionality. While such changes won’t be easy, I argue that public higher education can’t live up to its potential without them. Reproducing Inequality My observations of students’ experiences in social groups illuminated mechanisms that reproduce inequality in college life. After students adopted cookie-cutter selves, disparities were generated as they became stuck with forms of self-presentation that restricted their contributions in groups (either to care, direction, wisdom, humor, or passive participation). These contributions in turn were linked to different levels of appreciation from peers. Being able to present oneself to others as a valuable member of a social group required various forms of racial and gender privilege. By taking on roles as managers and educators, students who have been traditionally advantaged in higher education (specifically, White male students) came to experience a sense of being valued that amplified their feelings of belonging. Conversely, the contributions of students who have been disadvantaged historically in higher education (female and racial/ethnic minority students) more commonly went unacknowledged, leaving these students in marginal positions within their groups. I suggest the use of three concepts for understanding the maintenance and exacerbation of this inequality. First, role inertia—whereby

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self-presentation was reinforced and policed in order to confine students to the roles they initially took on—counteracted attempts to build more complex identities. It was all too easy to become stuck with a simplistic and limiting version of oneself. Further, twin social forces worked alongside role inertia to stratify groups. Centrifugal pressure blocked female and racial/ethnic minority students from entering central, highly valued roles and pushed them to marginal ones. Meanwhile, centripetal elevation encouraged some White males to move toward styles of self-presentation that were associated with greater feelings of value and belonging. These findings speak to one of the great debates surrounding higher education—namely, its role in reproducing or contesting inequality. Studies of postsecondary outcomes highlight the potential of college to facilitate equality. Across social class backgrounds, young people who complete a four-year college degree have similar employment outcomes, and graduates are more likely to rebuff prejudicial attitudes and intolerance.1 And yet other scholars have uncovered evidence that postsecondary institutions are complicit in stratifying society.2 Elizabeth Armstrong and Laura Hamilton show that by promoting a “party pathway” through college and undermining an anemic mobility pathway, some universities cater to the desires of affluent students, while leaving their working-class peers in dire straits.3 Likewise, in their respective studies of elite colleges and universities, Mitchell Stevens and Natasha Warikoo show how institutional practices encourage young people to justify inequality as the “natural” outcome of meritocracy.4 The contributions of my research further problematize rosy views of the egalitarian function of higher education. I show how powerful social forces stratify the college experience by reproducing inequality at the intersections of race and gender. This book underscores the need for attention to how culture is used to reproduce inequality in educational settings in general and within higher education in particular. Research confirms that cultural resources play a crucial role in perpetuating social class inequality through disparities in access to institutions, groups, and opportunities.5 The Cost of Inclusion moves beyond issues of access, taking us into the day-to-day interactions that characterize student life. Here we see that culture is equally effective at maintaining traditional forms of racial and gender inequality, even among those who gain entry into an institution and subsequent social groups. This book builds on studies of peer group inequality in K–12 education, which show that the marginalization of racial/ethnic minority

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students is supported in part by the prevalence of negative stereotypes and the narrow identity strategies available to young people.6 Yet one challenge present in existing literature is a divide between those studying identity strategies and those who examine processes of inclusion or integration. Failure to examine identity and inclusion alongside each other has left questions regarding how disparities are generated as individuals work to feel a sense of belonging. The research of sociologist Simone Ispa-Landa offers an important step in that direction, illuminating the ways African American students’ identity strategies shape inclusion in a predominantly White suburban high school.7 Two central contributions of this book have been to extend similar consideration to the realm of higher education as well as to diverse educational settings in order to develop relational theories of inequality. When scholars examine one racial, ethnic, and/or gender group, it is often difficult to understand how the simultaneous identity projects of others are bolstering inequality. At East State University, it became apparent that the narrow identity strategies of students across sociodemographic groups fostered an environment where the self-presentation of White men was rewarded with attention and appreciation. In contrast, women and racial/ethnic minority students more commonly felt neglected, despite their sustained efforts to perform in socially accepted ways. The disparities observed in this study stemmed from cultural meanings related to the overlapping of race and gender, underscoring the value of an intersectional lens.8 Examining only a singular social location or category of experience (i.e., race, or gender, or class background) would render much of this complexity invisible. However, given what we know about intersectionality, readers may have been surprised to find that social class background did not intersect with race and gender to play a greater role in shaping students’ approaches to interacting within social groups. I want to emphasize that these findings do not imply that social class is somehow less significant than gender and race. Like other social scientists, in my own research I have found clear and convincing evidence that class background matters a great deal in influencing students’ capacities to locate and take advantage of various involvement opportunities.9 And yet, once ESU students entered groups, social class difference did not play a visible role in shaping their interactions.10 I should reiterate that these findings are couched in the institutional context of a broadly accessible, four-year public institution.11 Although this type of institution serves the largest portion of contemporary college students, there are of course other institutional contexts with very dif-

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ferent sociodemographic compositions and campus cultures. Sociologist Elizabeth Lee shows that in an elite liberal arts college, working-class students reported significant barriers to integrating with their highly affluent peers; likewise, Irenee Beattie observes that similar patterns exist for first-generation college students in elite institutions. In these contexts, markers of socioeconomic difference could become much more salient in everyday interactions.12 Moreover, it seems fair to hypothesize that certain institutional contexts might elevate the salience of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender identities, religious affiliation, ability, or immigration status, leaving some students to contend with additional barriers to social inclusion.13 Further comparative research could parse out how identity strategies and interactional styles might vary across different types of institutions. It is easy to read this book as yet another testament to the intractability of inequality. Such an interpretation is certainly fair. As social scientists well know, inequality is highly durable and difficult to interrupt.14 The disparities generated among ESU students in social inclusion and feelings of belonging mirror the structures of inequality that exist in broader society. In line with Ann Swidler’s claims about culture in action, during this moment of transition, college students drew heavily from existing cultural assumptions, styles, and strategies.15 The results look familiar. White men seem to be the winners, occupying center stage in the college social scene, while female and racial/ethnic minority students struggle to feel included. In another sense, though, all these students are losing out. Having been told that they will grow and develop through social engagement, their outcomes are disappointing. Crafting two-dimensional cookie-cutter selves does little to prepare them for the challenges that await in the future—challenges that will require compassion alongside levity; cooperation in tandem with direction; and acknowledging the value in multiple perspectives rather than listening to a single voice. Given these findings, do we admit defeat in the face of entrenched racism and sexism? Do we chalk this up to the poor choices of students? Do we wait and hope for a change in the cultural baggage young people bring with them to the college setting? I suggest a different approach. Rather than laying the blame for failed identity strategies and the reproduction of inequality at the feet of college students, it is more productive to consider what colleges could do to address these challenges. In closing this book, my final notes are for educators who want to equip their students with the tools for engaging productively in extracurricular settings; for concerned administrators who want to build postsecondary

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institutions where young people from a variety of backgrounds can find inclusion; and for students and parents who want to demand more from their universities. What Can Universities Do? Insights from Exceptional Students One of the inescapable insights of social science research is that there are always exceptions. Though we search for patterns, trends, and general explanations, there will always be cases that do not fit. Sometimes, these exceptions are attributed to random variation. When using statistics to understand the social world, we often exclude so-called outliers. And yet there are times when even the outliers offer valuable insight. Of the 158 students involved in this project, six were clearly identifiable as exceptions to the patterns described in previous chapters. While they represent just a small fraction of the study participants, their experiences can shed light on possible ways to combat the power of stereotypes, the production of cookie-cutter selves, and corresponding forms of inequality. These six exceptional students did not conform to one of the simplistic roles described in part I of the book. Rather, they were versatile in their interactions, showing up as complex and three-dimensional individuals. They could shift with ease from telling a joke to giving direction to offering care, without the sense of discomfort that Erving Goffman describes as the by-product of failing to sustain a line or script within a group.16 But although their interactional styles were unique, they were not completely exempt from the broader social forces that shaped extracurricular life at ESU. In failing to conform to stereotypes, most of these students encountered mistreatment in the form of centrifugal pressure. Yet over time, they seemed to be granted a tepid—or, in some cases, whole-hearted—acceptance. Intermittent efforts at policing their selfpresentation became less effective, in part because they had not committed to a cookie-cutter style in the first place, precluding the operation of role inertia. These students were exceptional, not because their peers gave them a free pass, but because they had resources, strategies, and conceptual frameworks that helped them resist the cookie-cutter self and centrifugal pressure as they entered the college social landscape.17 Identity-Based Groups: Social Support and a Forum for Reflection. In my research, I chose to focus on groups centered on shared activities and broad interests rather than those that were identity based. As I noted in chapter 1, this approach allowed me to examine how students inter-

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acted with others who were different from them on a range of sociodemographic characteristics. But some of the students I interviewed were part of identity-based organizations alongside their involvement in general interest-based groups. In some cases, this type of involvement seemed to make a real difference in their experiences finding inclusion in a broad range of social settings at the university. During our interview, a Black student named Karen surprised me when she announced, “I’m pretty straightforward, really funny; I care about everyone, even if you’ve done me wrong. I’m the life of the party when we go out . . . [but] I can be very serious at times. Sometimes I’m, like, ‘All right, y’all, we’ve got to settle down.’ . . . I like to get things done.” In describing her interactions, Karen highlighted the ways she combined elements of authority with care and humor. Tamyra, another Black student, was similar. In the Volunteer Collective, where we first met, Tamyra presented in complex ways. She could move gracefully from telling a joke or expressing concern to conveying information to others. She even presented brief lectures at meetings, a project of her own initiative that she called “little lessons” on culture and language. Sometimes she led the group, and at other times she listened attentively. Karen and Tamyra stood out among the sea of two-dimensional selves constructed by East State students. But how did they come to have such success in connecting with peers without resorting to stereotypes? Part of the answer for both lay in their involvement with identitybased groups that offered a forum for open conversations about race, gender, stereotypes, and the challenges of managing self-presentation in more diverse settings. Karen recounted an impactful experience in Ambition, a group focused on empowering Black women. She had become engaged with this group immediately upon arriving at ESU, and she spoke glowingly of how it helped her adjust to higher education. One of her most memorable activities with Ambition happened during its first group meeting when the students each shared three negative perceptions of themselves. Afterward, the group worked to reframe these negative traits as positive ones. Similarly, Tamyra was involved in an identitybased group called Black Excellence, which focused on exploring issues Black students faced in college. As part of this group, Tamyra had frequent conversations about stereotypes and how respond to them. Karen and Tamyra both seemed to draw inspiration from these experiences. As they began their college career, they spent time thinking about their own identities and the challenges of how others from different backgrounds might perceive them. While beneficial, these conversations could not completely inoculate

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Karen and Tamyra against negative social sanctions. Both of them, like other women and racial/ethnic minority students, encountered centrifugal pressure. For instance, in one of Karen’s more diverse friend groups, some students resisted her attempts to take charge of group activities. She noted that at times when she told others to do something, “some people are, like, ‘Where did that come from?’ [raising one eyebrow skeptically].” But Karen had the confidence to rebuff these attempts to restrict her interactional style. Her mantra, informed by the encouragement of her peers in Ambition, was “I’m gonna be me.” It gave her the ability to resist policing and establish expectations about how others would interact with her as a Black woman. When she encountered negative treatment from peers, Karen had the self-assurance to fend off controlling images.18 She noted that over time, her friends came to learn that “I have different ways. I just do me, and they figure it out.” The confidence and comfort Karen and Tamyra possessed seemed to come in part from the exploration they could engage in through Ambition and Black Excellence. In addition to providing a forum to discuss stereotypes and identity, both groups offered an important space to explore challenges, reflect, and have honest conversations about their goals for involvement as well as how to balance the quest for inclusion with a sense of personal integrity. When difficulties arose, both communities included a built-in support network of peers who had encountered similar challenges. In the end, being involved with these organizations as they were also integrating with more diverse groups gave Karen and Tamyra the confidence to build identities as complex, multidimensional individuals and resist pressures to conform to stereotypes. The potential benefits of involvement in identity-based groups should not come as a surprise. A robust literature documents the importance of the communities these groups provide.19 However, it is worth noting that two distinct factors about Karen’s and Tamyra’s experiences with Ambition and Black Excellence stood out as particularly useful. First, while identity-based groups can feature a range of activities, missions, and functions, both Ambition and Black Excellence facilitated explicit conversations about stereotypes and the expectations of others as well as how to deal with these expectations. The Society of Women in STEM (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics), the Latino Student Alliance, the Black Student Association, the Asian American Coalition, sororities, and other ESU groups worked to provide important support networks for female and racial/ethnic minority students. Yet Ambition and Black Excellence were the only groups I heard about that structured intentional conversations about stereotypes and self-presentation.

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Second, Karen and Tamyra joined these groups early in the year—in fact, they connected with them at summer orientation. Their involvement with Ambition and Black Excellence began alongside their entrance into more diverse groups. Over the course of this research, I found that significant numbers of students became involved in organizations centered on race, gender, first-generation status, religion, sexual orientation, and a host of other categories of experience. However, many students found these groups several weeks, months, or even years after arriving at college. Given how early role inertia activated, by the time most students connected with identity-based groups, they had already committed to a cookie-cutter self in other social settings. Based on the possibilities unearthed in Karen’s and Tamyra’s experiences, universities may want to consider doing more to encourage involvement with identity-based groups early on in college. Many postsecondary institutions have ambivalent relationships with these organizations. After all, on the surface, their existence does not seem to align with rhetoric about engagement with diversity and difference. Nonetheless, these groups have the potential to generate forums for conversations about how to deal with the challenges posed by engagement across sociodemographic difference. Although it is well known that identity-based organizations are important sources of support for underrepresented student communities, the experiences of Karen and Tamyra suggest that these groups may also be valuable for helping female and racial/ethnic minority students find inclusion in more diverse social settings. Parents and Professors: Providing Frameworks for Navigating Interaction and Identity. Another factor that seemed to enable students to take on more

complex styles of self-presentation was the support of unique conceptual frameworks for navigating interaction and identity in group settings. Natalie, a White student, was similar to Karen and Tamyra in crafting a complex identity and interactional style. A member of the Volunteer Collective and a few other organizations, Natalie took a versatile approach to social interaction. There were times when she offered ideas to the group, times when she provided care and support, times when she listened, and times when she took charge. In the spring semester, I sat down with Natalie for an interview about her first-year experiences. During this conversation, it became clear that her parents were a driving force in her approach to interaction in the Volunteer Collective. Though none of my questions related

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to parental input and few students raised the subject, Natalie described how her parents’ guidance was woven throughout her experience. She recounted conversations with them at crucial moments over the course of her first year of college. Her parents offered a conceptual framework that influenced her approach to social involvement. Specifically, they communicated that in entering social groups, it was important to position oneself as a leader. Natalie noted, “I mean, growing up I was always told, like, ‘If you have the opportunity for a leadership position, take it.’ Because my dad always told me when I was little, ‘You were born a leader.’ So I took that to heart. Whenever I get involved, I try not to just be a member. I really do strive for those leadership roles.” While her parents encouraged her to be a leader, especially through the acquisition of leadership positions, their input also gave Natalie ways to understand how leadership related to identity, self-presentation, and experiences. She noted that her effort to take on authority in social groups was driven in part by a curiosity to “get to see more of the inside of how [a group] works.” Her parents were a constant presence for her, discussing involvement in social groups and how she could shape her interactions in each of them. In the process, she did not accept the simplistic caregiver role adopted by other women who were central members of the Volunteer Collective; nor did she attempt to take on the two-dimensional manager role occupied by many White male students. The vision of leadership that Natalie’s parents encouraged was more complex. Consequently, she mixed elements of humor, care, and intellectual curiosity in her attempts to lead. Despite her best efforts to be strategic about self-presentation, there were times when Natalie encountered centrifugal pressure. She reflected on some of the moments when peers responded negatively to her attempts to take charge or convey information and ideas. However, with the support of her parents, she was able to reframe these difficulties. Where other students saw policing as a clear indication that certain behaviors were unwelcome and should be avoided, Natalie determined that she needed to get better at public speaking. Early in the fall semester, she ran for an officer position in the Volunteer Collective. After she gave a thoughtful speech about her ideas for improving the organization, the members voted for another student, who presented as a caregiver and talked about working to “help” and “support” the collective. But Natalie was undeterred. In the spring semester, she got a second chance when the officer positions for the following year opened. This time she was successful in her run for treasurer. By that point, others

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seemed to have adjusted to her unique style. Policing became less frequent, and Natalie’s persistence appeared to bring her and her peers to a sort of respectful truce. At first glance, it might seem that Natalie’s experience would be difficult to replicate. After all, universities can only do so much to shape the behaviors of parents. And in general, parental involvement tends to perpetuate inequality in higher education. Although Natalie’s parents’ engagement supported their daughter in combatting gender inequality in the college social scene, Laura Hamilton has shown how university reliance on parents’ participation can widen disparities between middle/upper-middle-class youth and their working-class peers while also perpetuating sexist expectations for gender complementarity in educational trajectories.20 Yet there were indications that comparable frameworks for resisting stereotypes and cookie-cutter identities could be offered to broader groups of students without outsourcing this responsibility to parents. Tamyra’s experience showed that similar outcomes were possible when curricular frameworks were connected to the extracurricular realm. Specifically, in addition to having an identity-based group to support her involvement in campus life, Tamyra benefited from a sociology course she took at ESU. After discussing her involvement with Black Excellence, Tamyra told me about how she joined the Volunteer Collective in conjunction with a project assigned by her sociology professor. This assignment required students to take part in and reflect on what the professor called a cultural immersion experience. Having grown up in a homogeneous neighborhood, Tamyra recognized her inexperience with racially diverse groups. With this in mind, she decided to join the Volunteer Collective, and drew from the concepts learned in class to approach social involvement with academic rigor. This sociological framework allowed her to account for how peers from a variety of backgrounds might interact with her. Tamyra noted that while her interactional style might stay the same across groups, other students would interpret her behaviors differently. For instance, she described thinking about how White women, especially those she referred to as “sorority girls,” might view her. Tamyra described her tendency to code switch (she had learned this term in the sociology class), so that “the way I speak and the way I communicate is different” in different groups. But she insisted that situational changes in her communication style did not alter the integrity of her identity. She noted that at the end of the day, “it’s my personality, so it’s going to

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be the same. I can just go and talk to any type of group or any type of person and just be the same.” While this might sound contradictory— flying in the face of her claims about code switching—the framework Tamyra brought to the Volunteer Collective allowed her to separate core aspects of her identity that she wanted to maintain (being smart, funny, assertive, and caring) from what she considered to be more superficial elements of communication style (tone of voice, body language, or eye contact, for instance) that she was comfortable shifting based on her audience. As the semester went on, Tamyra had a prolonged opportunity to explore her engagement with the Volunteer Collective, supported by a sociological framework from her cultural immersion assignment. Unlike most of her peers, who drew a line between their curricular and extracurricular involvement, Tamyra saw connections between the way her identity was perceived in diverse social groups and the concepts she was learning in the classroom. It is worth noting here that these experiences should not be conflated with generic faculty engagement in extracurricular activities.21 If this were the case, then the Learning Community, which had its own program instructor and graduate teaching assistants, would likely have been more effective at facilitating students’ social engagement with one another. However, these Learning Community personnel focused their time and attention on encouraging students’ academic interests in topics such as poverty, homelessness, and democratic governance. While they likely helped students understand social justice more comprehensively, they did little to give students tools for engaging with one another.22 Despite thinking a great deal about social inequality, most Learning Community students did not learn to turn this scrutiny on their own interactions. By contrast, Tamyra’s sociology assignment represented a subtle intrusion into the extracurricular realm. Her professor did much to shape her experience without ever physically entering the Volunteer Collective. The course concepts and assignment provided unique ways of thinking about social engagement. This experience gave Tamyra additional opportunities (alongside the support provided by Black Excellence) to anticipate how peers would interact with her, how she would respond to them, and how to be comfortable navigating difference while maintaining a sense of personal integrity. In short, Natalie’s parents and Tamyra’s sociology class offered useful conceptual frameworks to support engagement in extracurricular outlets. Both women leveraged these frameworks to resist the cookie-cutter self and efforts by their peers to exert

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centrifugal pressure. While institutions cannot shape the input of every parent, they can do more to develop and expand curricular opportunities that inform students’ extracurricular experiences. Peer Leadership and Training: Strategies for Negotiating Self-Presentation.

The other students who rebuffed stereotypes and conformity had something in common. They each occupied a formal peer leadership position in a social group. Black students Sean and Zara were the two resident advisors for the Learning Community.23 Their self-presentation involved a complex range of the characteristics attributed to managers, caregivers, entertainers, and educators. They frequently planned and organized events for the floor and spent time educating other students about the university. They were also providers of care, offering reassurance or sometimes just a listening ear. And both were sources of humor. Frequently theatrical, they used a combination of character voices and comical facial expressions to elicit laughter from peers. At the Learning Community’s spring retreat, Zara won a contest, beating out Sean for the top spot. Afterward, they put on an entertaining performance for the group. After breaking into an exaggerated celebration dance, Zara approached Sean for a conciliatory hug. As she opened her arms, he contorted his face and shouted, “No!” The students watching this exchange began to laugh. Sean smiled for just a moment before resuming his feigned anger and shrieking, “I am still so mad at you!” Crossing his arms and pretending to pout, he caused an uproar as the students cackled with laughter. Through the lens of their roles as resident advisors, Sean and Zara were on the lookout for times when laughter, direction, insight, care, or participation were needed. Their roles required this sort of flexibility.24 But it was not just their attention to the requirements of peer leadership that shaped their approaches to social interaction. They also drew strategies from the extensive training that resident advisors received for their position. Sean reported that he took part in over one hundred hours of training before becoming a resident advisor.25 This training focused on a range of issues one might encounter in the process of building community in diverse groups, including challenges related to racism, sexism, communication, and conflict. Student affairs personnel educated resident advisors about these issues and how they might manifest on their residence hall floors. Following the initial training, these administrators held biweekly one-on-one meetings with resident advisors to address additional issues as they arose, often revisiting relevant components of the peer leadership curriculum.

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The resident advisor training proved especially helpful in dealing with the centrifugal pressure that Sean and Zara sometimes encountered. Most students seemed to give them leeway in self-presentation, perhaps because their behaviors were understood in the context of their peer leadership positions, not as deviations from stereotypes. But like other female and racial/ethnic minority students who attempted to take on authority, they were occasionally the targets of mistreatment. Near the beginning of the semester, three of the students accused Sean of being “mean” following a meeting in which he lectured the group about the risks of consuming alcohol on the floor. However, where others may have succumbed to pressure, abdicating authority and fading to a more marginal place in the group, Sean was resolute. “That’s what happens in a community—sometimes people get upset,” he told me, adding, “I can’t fix racism in a semester, and it’s not my job to. You have to acknowledge problems when people disrespect you, but you can’t fix everything.” His training allowed him to dismiss this mistreatment as a normal challenge of community life. He was likewise equipped with an ability to identify the racist assumptions about behavior that shaped other students’ interactions with him (especially their responses to his authority) as well as strategies for dealing with those assumptions. Drawing from these tools, Sean created an emotional buffer, effectively protecting his own sense of self and belonging. From his perspective, he did not need to change; others around him would have to accept his complex role and self-presentation. Sean’s and Zara’s success in crafting versatile interactional styles raises questions about the degree to which their experiences could transfer to broader groups of students. A few potential strategies emerge here.  First, it may be possible to target additional students with opportunities for peer leadership roles. Promoting group structures that allow for rotation in responsibilities and contributions could also be advantageous. These efforts could involve challenge-based activities— perhaps at orientation or during Welcome Week—that encourage students to try out different types of roles. Additionally, even apart from structural leadership positions, it may be possible to equip students with educational opportunities comparable to the training resident advisors received. Interventions that feature strategies for negotiating interactions and identity in the social realm of college could be broadly beneficial. As students experiment with different approaches to interaction and self-presentation, communities might develop in which attention and centrality are shared rather than dominated by a small number of individuals.

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Equipping Students with Tool Kits for Resistance The possibilities offered here come from just a few cases, and additional research will be needed to clarify what types of institutional interventions might help young people find social inclusion in college. However, the experiences of these six “exceptional” students offer clues about the ways higher education could combat stereotypes, cookie-cutter identities, and the resulting inequality in student experiences. There appear to be benefits that can be derived from early engagement with identitybased groups; forums for discussing stereotypes and self-presentation; conceptual frameworks to help navigate the social landscape of college; and peer leadership positions with supplemental training. The handful of students who benefited from these resources and opportunities were more successful in accomplishing two tasks that were a struggle for most of their peers. First, students who resisted the cookie-cutter self drew from unique experiences to become comfortable presenting in complex ways. They gained confidence to resist centrifugal pressure. Recall, for instance, Karen’s motto, “I’m gonna be me,” and Sean’s casual claim, “That’s what happens in a community.” In short, these students rebuffed messages about likeability and conformity. Such an orientation is rare on the contemporary college campus.26 In his book The Lonely Crowd, sociologist David Riesman claimed that in the mid-twentieth century, American society made a transition from being inner-directed (confident and unconcerned with norms) to become other-directed. According to Riesman, other-directed individuals seek to gain approval and “be loved, rather than esteemed.”27 He posited that other-direction represented a significant barrier to self-knowledge. Nearly seventy years later, Riesman’s words still resonate. Desires to be likeable seem to be magnified—or at the very least, highlighted in a troubling way—by social media platforms. Facebook’s ubiquitous “like” buttons are symptomatic of this ethos, corresponding to the creation of what some scholars refer to as a “like economy.”28 Unfortunately, universities themselves sometimes reinforce this culture. College orientations and new-student welcome events are couched in an imperative to “get along” and “make friends,” leaving other frameworks for community membership comparatively unexplored.29 Programming that encourages students to become socially engaged has proliferated on campus.30 But by prioritizing fit above all else, these efforts may contribute to the pressure students feel to compromise for social acceptance. As universities turn up the volume on messages about the impor-

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tance of fitting in and making friends, they give little guidance on what success will look like. In his classic account of adolescence, sociologist James Coleman showed how the desire to be popular can encourage young people to conform to stereotypes.31 If the possession of friends becomes the sole metric for social success, then conformity is incentivized. Implicit in the messages young people receive and convey to one another is the supremacy of being liked and being able to meet the expectations of others. But what about other goals of social engagement? What about authenticity, understanding, personal development, and self-confidence? Could we give more students tools—like the ones Tamyra, Natalie, and Sean possessed—for finding inclusion while resisting the mandate for likeability? Answering these questions will require postsecondary institutions to think more broadly about the goals of the collegiate extracurricular experience and how those goals are communicated to students. Second, the exceptional students described in the previous section found tools for engaging across dimensions of difference in productive ways. Drawing from unique experiences, they gained a baseline understanding of the confluence of perspectives and cultural meaning that came together to shape their sense of self and their interactions with others.32 Their peers, however. were ill equipped to do the same. While most students entered social groups in search of commonality (shared hobbies and interests to bond over), they frequently ended up in the midst of real difference in diverse social spaces. These settings were usually unlike their home communities. Social scientists have shown that most young people today grow up in families, neighborhoods, and schools that are incredibly homogeneous. Interracial and cross-class marriages remain rare, and residential and K–12 school segregation persists.33 For students who attend diverse colleges like East State University, higher education may well be their first experience encountering such a range of meaningful social differences. Student engagement with diversity is valued by faculty, administrators, and policy makers alike.34 Rhetoric about the value of interaction across differences—in terms of race, class, gender, sexual orientation, nationality, religion, political affiliation, and so on—infuses conversations about the mission of higher education. Stakeholders emphasize the necessity of cultivating citizens who are prepared to engage with difference productively in a diverse democratic society.35 Even decisions about where new students will live are increasingly made with exposure to difference in mind. A growing list of postsecondary institutions are moving away from allowing first-year students to preselect room-

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mates, opting instead to promote heterogeneity with random housing assignments.36 Research confirms that when experiences with difference go well, they can have a significant impact in supporting cross-cultural understanding, civic engagement, and social and cognitive development.37 But recently, scholars have begun documenting some of the challenges of promoting positive engagement across sociodemographic difference. For instance, on many college campuses racial and ethnic minority students report experiencing hostility and discriminatory behavior in interactions with others.38 Similarly, female students describe encountering sexist stereotypes and gender norms that create an environment in which women are held to rigid expectations regarding the performance of gender and sexual behavior, while the dominance of men is reinforced.39 Similar challenges have been documented in the experiences of working-class, first-generation, and LGBT students.40 Over time, negative experiences with difference can produce barriers to cognitive focus, academic performance, and skill development. Social psychologist Claude Steele documented the impact of stereotype threat, whereby female and racial/ethnic minority students’ anxieties about the negative judgments of others regarding their abilities create hurdles to academic success. This shows up most clearly in diminished performance on standardized tests.41 Likewise, Josipa Roksa and her colleagues find that racial inequality in collegiate learning is explained in part by the greater likelihood of racial and ethnic minority students having negative experiences with difference on campus.42 By recruiting and admitting a diverse student body, accessible public colleges like ESU offer the demographic context in which engagement with difference is possible. Unfortunately, they stop short of giving students a primer on accomplishing this goal. Young people are told that they should engage with difference, but not how. This represents a significant problem, given that the cultural tool kits of most contemporary students were forged in highly unequal social settings throughout childhood and adolescence.43 The experiences of ESU students confirm that entering social groups with others from a variety of sociodemographic backgrounds can present challenges. Having a diverse club, team, or community does not mean that all students involved receive equal shares of social resources like attention, authority, appreciation, and feelings of belonging. Rather, groups that include students from a range of backgrounds may promote interaction across dimensions of difference, yet simultaneously maintain traditional patterns of inequality. It is apparent that to succeed in higher education and beyond, young people

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will need strategies for engaging with one another in more productive ways. As educational institutions with missions of cultivating graduates who are prepared to engage in a democratic society, it is incumbent upon public colleges and universities to do more to provide these tools. A Mandate for Intentionality The findings presented in this book call for reconsidering the degree to which colleges and universities have ceded the social realm of higher education to students. While student affairs divisions are ostensibly in charge of social engagement and associated extracurricular outlets, in most postsecondary institutions a variety of forces work against their mission. As institutions increase enrollment and tuition to keep up with declining governmental support, student affairs personnel are stretched thin. Parents, administrators, and policy makers alike apply pressure to ensure student satisfaction. In this context, it should come as no surprise that student affairs divisions have trouble linking extracurricular programming to broader developmental goals.44 In a collaborative effort to articulate a vision for student affairs, the National Association of Student Personnel Administrators and the American College Personnel Association have acknowledged that “on many campuses, students may perceive little coherence in the student affairs curriculum, and individual episodes of acquiring knowledge fragments (such as resume writing, developing group living agreements, or alcohol education) or developmental experiences like leadership in student organizations or volunteer service simply orbit the student’s world with little sense of their relationship one to another or to academic courses.”45 Even when programs are developed to support students in navigating the social landscape of college, they are frequently offered as optional—a way to deal with limited resources while simultaneously adhering to the contemporary university’s orientation toward students as consumers.46 However, as scholars have clearly documented, optional services often go unused, leaving inequalities among students unchecked.47 Despite the efforts of some to promote innovative models of student affairs practice, bureaucratic demands and customer-service orientations frequently win out.48 If there is hope for combating the inequality that currently thrives in the college social landscape, institutions will need to be more intentional in their efforts. In making this claim, I follow others who have pressed for greater structure and intentionality in the academic sphere of higher education.49 As universities work to ensure that learning occurs in the classroom, parallel efforts will be needed to give students

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opportunities to succeed in their extracurricular involvement. The suggestions I have presented in this chapter offer some preliminary steps for combating experiential disparities by equipping students with tools to resist stereotypes, conformity, and corresponding patterns of inequality. In this vein, countering an emphasis on likeability and popularity can be useful. Likewise, more structure is needed to help students engage equitably within diverse communities. Research shows that when students are given the tools to engage with one another in productive ways, encounters with difference can have more positive impacts.50 Although the persistence of inequality may be disheartening, this research should not be taken as a sign of defeat for those who seek to make higher education more welcoming for students from a range of backgrounds. Rather, I am optimistic that with a clearer understanding of the social realm of higher education, the scholars who study college life and the practitioners who work to support students will be able to mitigate some of the obstacles encountered in the quest for inclusion. It would be naïve to imagine that we can fully inoculate students against broader social problems when they step onto campus. Nonetheless, postsecondary faculty and staff can help them navigate their surroundings in more productive ways. When successful, it may be possible to equip young people with the capacity to interact across vectors of difference and find belonging without resorting to stereotypes or simplistic versions of themselves. This kind of work requires pairing knowledge about how inequality is produced with greater structure and intentionality in supporting students. I hope this book is a step in that direction.

Acknowledgments This book and the research that informs its findings came to fruition because of the generosity of many people. I want to thank a few of them here. First, this work would not have been possible without the ongoing support of my mentor, Josipa Roksa. It was Josipa’s research that reinvigorated my curiosity about higher education and drew me to the University of Virginia for doctoral study. Over the past seven years, she has been an incredible source of guidance, always willing to share her time and insight. I am especially thankful for Elizabeth Branch Dyson and her team at the University of Chicago Press. Elizabeth shaped and encouraged this project early on, and has been an amazing guide in the process of bringing it to print. Moreover, a book like this one is possible in large part because of the work she has done to expand the sociology of higher education over recent years. Much of the literature I engage with here found its way to my bookshelf because of the efforts of Elizabeth and UCP. Ruth Goring, Sandy Hazel, Mollie McFee, Lauren Salas, and the other members of the editorial, production, and promotions teams provided fantastic guidance. I also want to thank the reviewers who dedicated time and attention to this project; their critiques and recommendations were invaluable. The early phases of this book benefited from the intel-

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lectual community provided by the faculty and graduate students at UVA. Allison Pugh and Sarah Corse taught me how to use ethnographic research to understand culture. Additionally, Paul Kingston, Jeff Olick, Sabrina Pendergrass, Simone Polillo, Adam Slez, Sophie Trawalter, Milton Vickerman, Candace Miller, Denise Deutschlander, and Mike Ed Fowler shared valuable feedback and encouragement. For their generous financial support of this research, I would also like to thank the Jefferson Scholars Foundation at UVA. At George Mason University, I have been fortunate to join an inspiring group of scholars in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology as well as in the Honors College. I want to thank Zofia Burr, who taught my first research methods course and has been a dedicated mentor ever since. I am grateful to Amy Best, Shannon Davis, Andy Hoefer, and John Woolsey for their steadfast support of my research, their guidance, and their insightful critiques. This book also benefited greatly from the expertise and encouragement of Jan Allbeck, LaNitra Berger, John Dale, Rutledge Dennis, Nancy Hanrahan, Mark Jacobs, Dae Young Kim, Christopher Morris, Tyler Myroniuk, Manjusha Nair, Amaka Okechukwu, Claudia Rector, Courtney Hughes Rinker, Rashmi Sadana, Anne Schiller, Joseph Scimecca, Kareema Smith, Richard Stafford, Elizangela Storelli, Kevin Stoy, Susan Trencher, and James Witte. In that same spirit, I would like to thank the scholars from outside my departments who have shared their wisdom. Ivy Ken introduced me to social theory and taught me to think with an intersectional lens. Leslie Booren, Donna Fox, Laura Hamilton, Rick Jakeman, Jaime Lester, Jonathan May, Janice McCabe, Julie Owen, and Todd Rose informed the ways I approached this research and presented my findings. I am grateful for their time and feedback on ideas and chapters. The experience they bring to understanding college students is always illuminating. A special thank-you is owed to the students of East State University, who shared their lives with me over the course of this project. They were generous and patient, and welcomed me within their social groups. Alongside their own quests for inclusion, as they navigated social terrain that was frequently difficult and sometimes overwhelming, they made time to share their experiences with me. Finally, this book and its author are the products of a loving family. Thank you to Laurie, Wayne, Brett, Blair, and Judy for their constant encouragement. They gave me many gifts, not least among them a great education. But decades of learning and working in schools have not given me words that could do justice to express how grateful I am for my husband, Nader. Thankfully, he knows.

Appendix A: Study Participants

Table A.1 Learning Community members Name

Role

Year

Race

Gender

Social Class

Sean (resident advisor) Zara (resident advisor) Aldo Alec Ali Amy Andre Annie Becky Caleb Cecilia Char Colin Danae Ellen Emily Fred Jamie Jenna Jerry Karina Kayley Kyle Lila Matthew Maura Max May Mercedes Nina Paige Paula Paulo Raphael Rhonda Sherry Terrie Tyler Victor Will

Complex Complex Manager Entertainer Manager Entertainer Associate Caregiver Caregiver Manager Associate Associate Entertainer Caregiver Caregiver Associate Educator Caregiver Caregiver Manager Associate Caregiver Educator Associate Educator Caregiver Entertainer Associate Caregiver Associate Associate Associate Entertainer Associate Caregiver Associate Associate Educator Entertainer Manager

Second Second Third Second Third Second First Third First Third First First Second Third Fourth+ First First First First Second First Second First First Third First First First First First First First Third First First Second First Second Third Third

Black Black White Black White White Black White Multiracial White Latina Black Multiracial Black Black White White White White White Asian White White Black White Black Asian Asian Black White Black White Latino Latino Black White White White White White

Male Female Male Male Female Female Male Female Female Male Female Female Male Female Female Female Male Female Female Male Female Female Male Female Male Female Male Female Female Female Female Female Male Male Female Female Female Male Male Male

Less advantaged More advantaged Unknown Unknown More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged Unknown Unknown Unknown More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Unknown More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged Unknown Unknown Less advantaged Less advantaged Unknown Less advantaged Less advantaged Unknown Less advantaged

Table A.2 Cardio Club members Name

Role

Year

Race

Gender

Social Class

Drew (president/capt.) Adam (practice capt.) Alyssa (practice capt.) Derek (secretary) Jack (capt./v.p.-elect) James (treasurer) Kenny (president-elect) Carter (secretary-elect) Ace Alice Barry a Cara Daniel a David a Eva b Francisco a Gabe a Jared b Jessa a Joey Johnny Leo a Mindy a Nick a Ron Sarah Sasha a Sydney a Valerie a

Manager Complex Caregiver Educator Associate Entertainer Manager Manager Associate Associate Manager Caregiver Associate Associate Associate Associate Manager Associate Associate Associate Manager Entertainer Associate Entertainer Associate Caregiver Associate Caregiver Caregiver

Fourth+ Fourth+ Fourth+ Fourth+ Third Third Third First Fourth+ First First Fourth+ First Third Second Third First First Second First First Grad First First First Fourth+ Second First Second

White White White White White Black White White White White White Asian Black White Black Latino White White Latina White White Latino Latina Latino Asian White Black White Black

Male Male Female Male Male Male Male Male Male Female Male Female Male Male Female Male Male Male Female Male Male Male Female Male Male Female Female Female Female

More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Unknown Unknown More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Unknown More advantaged Less advantaged Unknown More advantaged Less advantaged Unknown Unknown Unknown More advantaged More advantaged Unknown More advantaged Unknown

Note: Students included in this table attended multiple practices and/or events. There were additional students who attended only one practice. Given their limited involvement in the group, I have not included them in my analysis. a These students attended multiple practices but left the group before the end of the first semester. b These students joined the group during the second semester.

Table A.3 Volunteer Collective members Name

Role

Year

Race

Gender

Social Class

Beth (president) Whitney (vice president) Samira (prev. treasurer)a Victoria (new treasurer) Daniella (secretary) Amber Anthony a Carl Cesar a Devon a Emily Fiona a Genevieve a George Henry a Isabella a Jacob a John Kelly Leland a Linda Luis a Natalie Olivia Penny a Rachael a Raj a Tamyra Wren a

Caregiver Caregiver Associate Caregiver Caregiver Associate Associate Entertainer Entertainer Associate Associate Entertainer Caregiver Manager Associate Caregiver Manager Associate Entertainer Associate Associate Entertainer Complex Associate Associate Associate Entertainer Complex Caregiver

Second Fourth+ Fourth+ Second Fourth+ First Third Third First Third First First Third Second Third First First First First Second First Third First First Second Second Third First First

White White Latina White Asian Black Latino Latino Latino Black White Latina Black White Black Latina White Black White Black White Latino White White Latina White Asian Black Black

Female Female Female Female Female Female Male Male Male Male Female Female Female Male Male Female Male Male Female Male Female Male Female Female Female Female Male Female Female

More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged Unknown Less advantaged Unknown Unknown More advantaged Unknown Unknown Unknown Unknown Unknown Less advantaged More advantaged More advantaged Unknown Less advantaged Unknown More advantaged Less advantaged Unknown Unknown Unknown Less advantaged Unknown

Note: Students included in this table attended multiple meetings and/or events. There were additional students who attended just one of the initial welcome meetings but did not continue their involvement with the group. I have not included them in my analysis. a These students attended multiple meetings but left the group before the end of the first semester.

Table A.4 Interview participants Name

Role

Year

Race

Gender

Social Class

Aaron Andre a Annette Ava Becky a Benjamin Beverly Brita Carina Carmen Carol Carter a Charlie Chase Clara Crystal Dara Darin Dylan Eddie Edward Elliot Emily a Fern Fred a Gavin Grace Grant Gwen Harvey Heather Helen Holly Ines Ivonne Ivy Jacob a Jamie a Janice Jenna a Joan Jodie Joel Joey a Karen Kelly a Kent Kyle a Lila a Lucas Lynn Marcus Maura a

Manager Associate Manager Caregiver Caregiver Associate Caregiver Caregiver Caregiver Associate Unclear Manager Educator Associate Unclear Unclear Caregiver Entertainer Associate Associate Manager Associate Associate Associate Educator Manager Associate Educator Associate Manager Associate Caregiver Educator Associate Associate Unclear Manager Caregiver Associate Caregiver Associate Associate Manager Associate Complex Entertainer Caregiver Educator Associate Associate Entertainer Entertainer Caregiver

First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First

White Black White Black Multiracial Asian Asian White Asian Latina White White White Asian White Asian Multiracial Asian Latino Black White Asian White Latina White White Black White White White Multiracial White White Asian White White White White White White Black Asian Asian White Black White Asian White Black Multiracial Asian Latino Black

Male Male Female Female Female Male Female Female Female Female Female Male Male Male Female Female Female Male Male Male Male Male Female Female Male Male Female Male Female Male Female Female Female Female Female Female Male Female Female Female Female Female Male Male Female Female Male Male Female Male Female Male Female

More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged (continued)

Table A.4 (continued) Name

Role

Year

Race

Gender

Social Class

Max a Mercedes a Michelle Mick Natalie a Nicole Nina a Ollie Orson Paige a Parker Patricia Paul Peter Quinn Rick Robbie Ruben Shanna Spencer Susie Tamyra a Terrence Tom Turner Wendy Zach

Entertainer Caregiver Manager Educator Complex Entertainer Associate Manager Associate Associate Associate Caregiver Associate Entertainer Associate Entertainer Manager Entertainer Associate Unclear Unclear Complex Manager Entertainer Entertainer Associate Manager

First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First First

Asian Black White White White Black White White Multiracial Black White White Black Other White Black White Latino White White White Black White Latino Asian Latina White

Male Female Female Male Female Female Female Male Male Female Male Female Male Male Female Male Male Male Female Male Female Female Male Male Male Female Male

More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged More advantaged Less advantaged Less advantaged

a Indicates students who were also involved in one of the three groups in the participant observation component of this study.

Appendix B: A Note on Methods Finding an opportunity to view higher education with fresh eyes wasn’t easy. It can often be difficult to ask critical questions about an environment that feels like home. Over the past nine years, I have worked in academic units at four different universities. On campus, my day-to-day life revolves around research, teaching, advising, assessment, and a host of other tasks focused on facilitating learning. For those of us familiar with this world, it’s easy to forget that the activities that consume our time don’t always match those that take center stage in student life. Scholars who study the college experience find that extracurricular activities dominate the attention of contemporary students.1 As I noted in chapter 1, universities have ceded much of the social realm of higher education to students themselves. And while scholars have uncovered evidence of disparities in student experiences, we know little about how this inequality gets generated and reproduced on the ground.2 So I decided to leave the comfort of my office and the companionship of my academic colleagues to immerse myself in the social landscape of higher education. In short, I became an undergraduate student again. Setting out from the University of Virginia, where I was a doctoral candidate at the time, I arrived at East State University, a large public postsecondary institution in the Mid-Atlantic region. In the first chapter, I describe

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ESU’s student body, campus, and accessibility. I am aware, however, that some readers may also be curious about other organizational elements of the university. In particular, given the role of the student affairs profession in articulating the importance of social involvement, it’s worth saying a few words about ESU’s student affairs division. East State, like many comparable institutions, has a sprawling student affairs enterprise, including professionals who offer a range of services.3 A variety of models exist for organizing this work, including some that emphasize distributing resources with a customer-service orientation and others that focus on student learning, growth, and development.4 The approach to student affairs at ESU could best be characterized as reflective of an administration-centered model. Although an impressive range of services were available, individual student affairs offices were structured in a way that failed to produce much integration with one another or with the academic units at the university.5 After arriving at ESU, I moved into an apartment less than a mile from campus and began a process that many undergraduates are familiar with—the quest to find and become part of social groups. On the East State Student Activities website, I scrutinized a list of over 350 student organizations, and began identifying groups that might allow me to observe students in different kinds of social settings. I prioritized such variation in part because of the insights of interaction ritual theorists, who claim that situational variation influences interaction and emotional experiences in social groups.6 Further, given the narratives I discuss in chapters 1 and 7 about higher education as a place where students should grow through encounters with difference, I worked to select groups that were diverse—in terms of race, class, and gender— and not framed by specific sociodemographic identities.7 Each organization had an online point of contact, and I proceeded to email several. In these emails, I introduced myself and my goal of studying college life as an ethnographer (although I did not use that word). I quickly discovered what many college students already know: finding a social niche can be difficult.8 Several of the groups I hoped to join never responded to my message. Others listed contact information for someone who had graduated or otherwise left the university. And a few were understandably skeptical of my role as a researcher.9 The Three Groups In the end, I was lucky. Three groups welcomed me into their midst. The Learning Community, the Cardio Club, and the Volunteer Col-

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169

lective offered spaces for me to engage with college students as they worked to forge friendships, build communities, and feel a sense of belonging. These groups represent the broadly accessible universityendorsed forms of social involvement now common on contemporary college campuses.10 Unlike fraternities, sororities, varsity sports teams, or elite social clubs, these groups did not have student-run tryouts or selection processes.11 In addition, they did not represent exclusive campus subcultures with associated disparities in social status of the type commonly found in secondary schools.12 The ways in which students across campus spoke about these communities made it clear that apart from Greek-letter organizations and a few varsity sports teams, commonly accepted status distinctions were not derived from belonging to particular groups.13 The communities I observed—like hundreds of others at ESU—were ostensibly open to and welcoming of students from across a range of social locations, regardless of gender, race, ethnicity, social class, sexuality, religion, and so on. Further, their boundaries were porous. Students joined and left groups with relative ease, and it was common to be involved in three, four, five, or more formal and informal groups on campus.14 In short, the three groups I focused on represent the kinds of environments in which we might expect that inclusion would be relatively easy to find. Yet despite their commonalities as accessible outlets for student involvement, there were also noteworthy differences in each of these organizations, offering valuable situational variation for the study. The Learning Community was composed of forty students—twentyone of whom were in their first year of college—who shared a floor in one of the university’s residence halls. Its brightly adorned hallway, complete with multiple bulletin boards, pictures, and decorative wall collages, was flanked by two large lounges where students could meet in groups or watch TV. These lounges provided the central social spaces for the group. In addition to living together, the students studied, ate meals, and engaged in community service together. They also shared a year-long course linked to the social justice theme of the community. The class, taught by a staff program coordinator, was also facilitated by two graduate teaching assistants. The Cardio Club was made up of a smaller group of students who took part in team-based intercollegiate fitness competitions. Each weekday, the members met in front of the campus Fitness Center at 5:00 or 6:00 p.m., with additional practices at 8:00 a.m. on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. When the weather was passable, they usually ran outdoors, and if enough members were present the students would break

APPENDIX B

170

into two or three smaller groups based on speed or endurance. While all runs began on campus, the relatively small State Circle loop was not challenging enough for the more experienced members, so many of the club’s training routes involved running several miles away from campus along wooded trails and less trafficked roadways. At least once a week, the team had a strength workout—either hill sprints or laps on the ESU track. I mostly interacted with members of the Cardio Club at practices and team competitions, with occasional time spent around campus eating or socializing. However, I chose not to attend events at the Cardio Club House owing to the alcohol consumption that often occurred there. Though students sometimes invited me to their parties, I always politely declined. Nonetheless, I acquired secondhand accounts of these events.15 Finally, the Volunteer Collective was a student organization focused on service to children in Central America. The membership of this group fluctuated over time, starting out with about sixty students before dropping to slightly less than half that amount after the first week. The collective held meetings each Monday in the Campus Student Activities building, where members planned events, discussed relevant topics, and took part in icebreaker activities to get to know one another. In addition to its weekly meetings, the Volunteer Collective typically held at least two events each week. These included recruitment programs to share information about the group with prospective members, on- and offcampus fundraisers, and even a table at ESU’s Fall Festival, at which the group hosted a carnival game and gave out free doughnuts. Besides offering insight into student interactions across a range of settings, these three groups reflected the diversity of the university’s student body. Each included a mixture of men and women (with the representation of female students ranging from 34 percent in the Cardio Club to 62 percent in the Volunteer Collective), racial/ethnic minority and White students (with minority student representation ranging from 41 percent in the Cardio Club to 62 percent in the Volunteer Collective), and students from a range of socioeconomic backgrounds. The first three tables in appendix A capture the sociodemographic makeup of each group. Though I relied on students’ self-identification of race and gender, understanding the class background of participants was more complex. As many scholars have noted, social class in the United States tends to be a fuzzy concept, and regardless of socioeconomic variation, most individuals identify as middle class.16 Following others, I drew from a combination of information about parental education, occupa-

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A NOTE ON METHODS

Table A.5 Parameters for defining social class background Social class

Parental education

Examples of parents’ occupations

Less socioeconomically advantaged

High school and/or some college but not a four-year degree

Administrative assistant, bus driver, firefighter, home care, maintenance, custodian

More socioeconomically advantaged

At least one parent with a bachelor’s or graduate degree

Architect, engineer, government employee, teacher, information technology, manager, lawyer

Note: I classified a small number of students as less socioeconomically advantaged if one of their parents earned a bachelor’s degree but was unemployed or did not live with the student growing up.

tion, and family structure to situate students among two broad socialclass groupings, illustrated in table A.5.17 The racial, gender, and class diversity of each of these groups is important for several reasons. Principally, these are the kinds of groups that college and university personnel encourage students to take part in, with opportunities for growth and development emerging from exposure to diversity and difference.18 These groups—and East State University as a broader research site—differ from the elite, predominantly White educational settings where much existing research on disparities in experiences with social inclusion and exclusion takes place.19 Likewise, these are not gender-segregated organizations like fraternities or sororities. White students, male students, and more socioeconomically advantaged students constituted majorities in only one group: the Cardio Club, and even that group was far from homogeneous. On the one hand, given how open and diverse these three extracurricular outlets appear on paper, the findings presented in this book may be surprising. Notably, however, it is in sociodemographically heterogeneous settings that social scientists find heightened salience of difference, increasing the likelihood that female, racial/ethnic minority, and/or working-class students may encounter mistreatment, microaggressions, or harassment.20 For instance, sociologist Cecilia Ridgeway notes that stereotypes about gender are more likely to impact behavior in mixed-gender, not single-gender, contexts.21 In short, diverse social groups like the ones explored in this book represent complex settings, characterized by a mixture of opportunities and challenges. This complexity helps situate my findings. I offer a brief note of contrast with students’ involvement in identity-based groups in the concluding chapter.

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Participant Observation Over the course of the 2016–17 academic year, I immersed myself in the daily activities of these student groups as a participant-observer.22 In this capacity, I took part in meetings, events, competitions, classes, and casual hangouts as I chronicled the day-to-day lives of ninety-seven college students. They provided insight into student life, offering the opportunity to examine culture at a communicative level as they interacted with one another in group settings. I drew from a symbolic interactionist perspective, which considers how social interaction facilitates the negotiation of meaning, including understandings of value, belonging, and other desirable social resources.23 As I note in chapter 1, the theoretical framework offered by Erving Goffman was especially helpful here.24 Arriving on ESU’s campus, I set about documenting my initial observations of the settings, individuals, and groups involved, with particular focus on the ways students navigated community membership. Kristin Luker has compared the process of entering a field site to “deciding where to sit in the lunchroom on your first day in a new school.”25 I found this analogy particularly fitting, and given that I was studying college students, it sometimes applied quite literally. Although I entered each group with the permission of gatekeepers (group officers and the Learning Community staff), upon arrival I sought to spend time with a broad range of members. I would often work out with one training group at Cardio Club practice on Monday and another on Tuesday. In classes and meetings with the Learning Community and the Volunteer Collective, I took care never to sit in the same seat twice in a row. Moving among the students within each group helped me learn their “power structure” and avoid aligning myself too closely with any one individual or set of members.26 As I came to know students better, I also sought to understand their own interpretations of various events and interactions as well as their emotional responses to them. Throughout my ethnographic observations, I made use of “jottings” while on campus.27 I found that these brief shorthand notes allowed me to capture important clips of dialogue as well as keywords and key phrases that I could use to jog my memory later. While some settings proved unsuitable for writing, the nature of my research on a college campus meant that in many ways taking notes in the field was easier than in other settings.28 When I was in the classroom with the Learning Community or in meetings with the Volunteer Collective, it was not uncommon for students to be taking notes on paper or electronic devices, so I was able to record jottings inconspicuously. Moreover, the ubiquity

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of smartphones meant that even when it might have been disruptive to write on paper, it was usually possible to take notes on my phone. Writing subsequent field notes gave me the opportunity to expand on these jottings, developing fuller accounts of each day’s events. To accomplish this task, at the end of the day I translated recollections and jottings into detailed accounts of my observations. Following the recommendations of Robert Emerson and his colleagues, I sought to produce notes that focused on a variety of potential interpretations of events. As they point out, this process involves creating “inscriptions of social life and social discourse . . . [that] reduce the welter and confusion of the social world to written words that can be reviewed, studied, and thought about time and time again.”29 Over the course of the year, the product was more than one thousand typed and handwritten pages of thick description, capturing and contextualizing the behaviors and meanings that comprised daily life in these groups.30 Interviews In addition to understanding culture at a communicative level, I worked to interrogate the social-psychological components of inclusion by examining how students perceived community membership, identity, and belonging. Scholars pursuing such goals often rely on in-depth interviews that attempt to understand participants’ perceptions, experiences, and rhetorical work, as well as the tangles of meaning that exist in their minds.31 Therefore, in tandem with participant observation, I interviewed 80 first-year students during their second semester in college. Although my interests extended to undergraduates broadly, I chose to focus on first-year students in this portion of the study in order to have conversations with individuals who recently experienced or were currently in the process of becoming part of social groups.32 These interviews began in the spring of 2017, when I interviewed 60 students alongside ongoing participant observation. The following spring, I conducted an additional 20 interviews to help clarify the nature of certain versions of the cookie-cutter self for which data saturation had not yet been achieved. For instance, at the end of the first year of the study, I sensed subtle variation in meaning-making about associates’ performances. However, it was not until I encountered additional associates in the final 20 interviews that I came to better understand how stereotypes at the intersections of race and gender were shaping this role. The interviews lasted approximately 70 minutes on average (with a range of 45 minutes to two hours) and included questions related to stu-

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Table A.6 Interview participant demographics by gender Female (%)

Male (%)

Total (%)

Race Asian Black/African American Latino/a White Multiracial/Other

43 (n = 6) 71 (n = 10) 43 (n = 3) 54 (n = 21) 50 (n = 3)

57 (n = 8) 29 (n = 4) 57 (n = 4) 46 (n = 18) 50 (n = 3)

18 (n = 14) 18 (n = 14) 9 (n = 7) 49 (n = 39) 8 (n = 6)

Social class Less advantaged More advantaged

58 (n = 21) 50 (n = 22)

42 (n = 15) 50 (n = 22)

45 (n = 36) 55 (n = 44)

Total

54 (n = 43)

46 (n = 37)

N = 80

dents’ approaches to social involvement, the friendships they developed, and their sense of mattering and belonging within various groups at the university. Given the goals of this study, I was intentional about balancing the interview sample at the intersections of race, gender, and class. Table A.6 offers an overview of the participant demographics. Further, the interviews involved a mixture of individuals within and outside the groups I observed firsthand. I was able to interview approximately forty percent the first-year students (n = 19) in the three groups in order to gain additional insight into their perceptions and experiences, triangulating my own observations. But I also wanted to ensure that the sample could speak to the experiences of students beyond the Cardio Club, the Volunteer Collective, and the Learning Community. With that in mind, I worked to include participants who would allow me to learn about experiences in other communities with varying degrees of formality.33 Of the 80 students interviewed, 61 were not involved in any of the three main groups. Following each interview, I wrote analytic memos to capture details of the encounter that would not show up in the text of an interview transcript.34 For example, I made note of the interviewee’s body language, tone, and other nonverbal cues. I reflected on my rapport with participants, their level of comfort with the interview, and any dialogue that occurred after I had turned off the audio recorder. Finally, these memos aimed to connect each interview to others (and to participant observation) that had occurred previously as well as to the theories and literature I engaged with for the project. In this way, I could synchronize data collection and preliminary analysis, allowing these processes to inform one another.

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Data Analysis Once the data-collection phase of the research was complete, I engaged in a similar process for analyzing my ethnographic field notes, analytic memos, and interview transcripts. I first reviewed all the data, listening to audio recordings (sometimes a second or third time) and reading through memos, field notes, and transcripts. Second, I conducted open coding of these documents. This portion of the analysis allowed me to identify and clarify themes that emerged from the data. Third, I followed open coding with subsequent rounds of closed coding, homing in on important themes identified in the previous stage.35 As themes began to emerge in both phases of coding, I developed additional analytic memos, exploring preliminary findings in greater depth. Finally, these steps were followed by an iterative process of using codes and memos to expand on emerging themes, placing them in conversation with my research questions. Each stage of data analysis—beginning with writing notes and memos in the field and extending through the identification of themes— helped illuminate my findings. The first part of this book lays out a typology of the identity strategies students used within social groups. While I did not set out to develop a typology, within a few weeks in the field, stark differences among students became apparent. In defining the contours of the five cookie-cutter identities, I employed approaches similar to others who have documented typologies in youth culture. These scholars recommend attention to differences in how students behave and interact with one another. They suggest listening to the stories young people tell about who they are and how they fit (or contrast) with others. Moreover, they encourage attentiveness to the meanings that develop around identity, community, and social interactions. For instance, Allison Hurst explores a typology of working-class college students that emerged from the ways these students talked about their families and socioeconomic mobility.36 Paul Willis and Helen Horowitz distinguish among students based on behaviors, activities, and interactions with authority figures.37 And the research of Amy Wilkins and Murray Milner considers how young people rely on personal style, consumer culture, and moral boundaries to craft identity within distinctive subcultures.38 As I worked to understand differences in the identities and experiences of East State University students, I relied on similar strategies to clarify the nature of the cookie-cutter self. Yet there were also ways in which my efforts to understand this typology diverged from prior research. Existing typologies of youth culture focus primarily on distin-

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guishing among student subcultures that map onto social boundaries, showing up in physical divisions or co-presence. For instance, Milner paid attention to which students sat together in the cafeteria; Wilkins found wannabes in clubs and Unity Christians at Bible study meetings; and Horowitz documented the feats of college men on the athletic fields and the work of rebels in campus media organizations.39 Given that all the students involved in my study spent time together in the same groups (and were not part of distinctive subcultures), I paid attention to differences that emerged within shared social spaces. A model for this kind of work comes from Patricia and Peter Adler, who wrote about distinctions among men on the same college basketball team. In doing so, they were attentive to behavioral differences, but also to the flow of dialogue—who talked to whom and how.40 Similarly, I found that attention to conversational patterns and interactional style was useful for understanding the experiences of ESU students. For instance, I noticed that when the students I eventually identified as managers and educators spoke, others listened attentively. I noticed that the speech of entertainers was intermittent and tended to produce laughter. And I noticed that caregivers engaged in dialogue primarily to bolster the physical and emotional well-being of peers. Likewise, I learned to pay attention to differences in how various members of a community shared physical space. Within the same meeting rooms and training groups, distance and closeness were meaningful for understanding students’ experiences. Associates and entertainers tended to hang out on the margins of a group, in contrast to the educators, managers, and caregivers, who were more central. Comparable disparities were visible as students entered and left gatherings. Some were greeted with boisterous cries of welcome, while others could come and go unnoticed. In summary, while I was able to draw valuable insights from existing research on youth culture and student typologies, fully understanding the cookie-cutter self also required modifying tested strategies to examine differences among students within the same groups.41 Ethnography and the Problem of Interpretation It is worth saying a word here about the task of interpretation in ethnographic research. Ethnographers have grappled with a variety of questions about how to move from participant observation to making knowledge claims.42 In writing about their methods, many scholars de-

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scribe the need for attention to detail and thick description.43 Of course, in producing a book like this one, it is also important to be relatively concise and write in a readable style. In her reflection on “common problems in fieldwork,” Annette Lareau notes that ethnographic accounts of social life have to find a middle ground between dragging readers through excessive detail and presenting “sweeping generalizations” without systematic analysis.44 In an attempt to strike this balance, I have worked to offer clear but concise accounts of events. In the chapters of this book, I present examples of interactions and quotes that capture key findings. These excerpts are illustrative snapshots of larger passages from field notes and transcripts. In any attempt to study human interaction, a singular vantage point can be limiting. Relying on a combination of observations, firsthand participation, informal conversations, and in-depth interviews gave me the opportunity to triangulate my perspective with the perspectives of others. Opportunities to talk with students before, during, and after various events made it possible to situate my observations alongside their own thoughts and feelings. Throughout the book, I use these insights to incorporate information about the meaning-making that happened in specific interactions. However, the rigor of triangulation may not always be visible in the text. At times I include direct quotes from students, while in other places I sketch details in the voice of a narrator for the sake of brevity. For instance, when I mention that a student liked, knew, remembered, or felt something in the midst of an observation, I am drawing from informal discussions or in-depth interviews with those involved. Though I avoid interrupting description with long excerpts of dialogue or jumping temporally between conversations, these claims are each informed by thoughts and perceptions that participants shared at various points throughout the year. Informed Consent and Research Ethics Drawing from the work of Elizabeth Armstrong and Laura Hamilton, I took care to anticipate unique issues related to confidentiality in longitudinal ethnographic research. I have tried to ensure the anonymity of participants wherever possible while maintaining clarity and precision in presenting my findings.45 Early on in the research, I gave the university, various student groups, and each individual a pseudonym. Similarly, I made minor changes to obscure other highly specific identifying information in cases in which its disclosure could make a group or

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participant easily identifiable to others at the university—for instance, unique group objectives or themes and students’ titles, majors, or hometowns, which I describe in more generic ways. Despite these efforts, it is likely that some participants will be able to recognize themselves—or potentially some of their peers—in these pages. Given this possibility, I sought to ensure that informed consent would be ongoing, rather than occurring once and potentially being forgotten.46 In this spirit, I took opportunities to remind the students I interacted with about my role as a researcher, giving several formal and informal presentations about my work to each group. I also made sure to emphasize that if students wished to be excluded from my analysis or have specific conversations/interactions omitted, all they had to do was ask. Nonetheless, understanding the ways our own behaviors play a part in the generation and reproduction of inequality can be uncomfortable, to say the least.47 Sensitive to this fact, I have worked to avoid painting any of these individuals as heroes or villains—I see little value in either as a concept for understanding the social world. These young people were doing the best they could to navigate difficult social terrain with the cultural resources available to them. Allowing me into their lives required much openness and trust on their part. I am grateful for both.

Notes Chapter One 1. These types of messages have become common at colleges and universities across the country (see, for instance, McCabe 2016; Nathan 2005; Stuber 2011). 2. This is just a brief sampling of phrases that appeared on posters, in videos, and in social media posts disseminated by ESU personnel. 3. Nathan 2005. 4. Babcock and Marks 2011; Horowitz 1987; Karabel 2006. 5. Arum and Roksa 2011. These findings are supported by other studies as well (see, for instance, Brint and Cantwell 2010; Charles et al. 2009). 6. Grigsby 2009; Kuh 1995. 7. Likewise, many parents reinforce this emphasis, offering personal testimonies that college will be “the time of your life” and a place to “make friends that will last a lifetime” (see, for instance, Hamilton 2016, 28–30). 8. For insight into how college students have been positioned as consumers in higher education, see Bok (2003); Geiger (2004); Labaree (1997, 2017); Saunders (2014); Slaughter and Rhoades (2004). 9. Scholars show how colleges and universities frame themselves as “attractive places in which to live, consume services, and play” (Slaughter and Rhoades 2004, 298). In that spirit, institutions aim to provide amenities capable of attracting student consumers, especially those with the monetary resources to pay full tuition (Jacob, McCall, and Stange 2018). The news

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media have documented the opening shots fired in the subsequent “amenities arms race” (see, for instance, Carlson 2013; Newlon 2014). 10. Armstrong and Hamilton (2013) show that the party scene in higher education can possess a magnetic pull, making it hard for young people to avoid. Even for students who are not active in Greek life, research documents high rates of participation in other off-campus parties (see, for instance, Jakeman, Silver, and Molasso 2014; Jakeman, Silver, and McClure 2015). On many campuses, Division I sporting events function in similar ways. Savvy admissions personnel foreground the college party scene and intercollegiate athletics in their recruitment materials—offering an implicit promise of fun in exchange for a steady flow of tuition-paying students (Sperber 2000). 11. Although, for a compelling discussion of the ways Greek life and associated parties also get de facto endorsements from university administrators, see Armstrong and Hamilton (2013). 12. Arum et al. 2018; Roksa and Robinson 2016. 13. Loss 2012. 14. Loss 2012. 15. See, for instance, Tinto (1975, 1988) and Astin (1984, 1993) for foundational work in this area. For reviews of the student integration, involvement, and development literatures, see Cooper, Healy, and Simpson (1994); Davidson and Wilson (2013); Evans et al. (2009); Wolf-Wendel, Ward, and Kinzie (2009). 16. Tinto 1987; 1988. 17. Walton and Cohen (2007) document the link between a sense of social fit or belonging and academic achievement in college. For additional scholarly insights regarding the relationship between social integration, belonging, and retention/degree completion, see Bean (2005); Berger (1997); Deil-Amen (2011); Hausmann, Schofield, and Woods (2007). Tinto’s (1987, 1988) theory of student departure predicts that failure to socially integrate leads to student attrition. His theory has been supported by subsequent research (Braxton, Shaw Sullivan, and Johnson 1997; Rhee 2008). 18. In addition to the evidence of this kind of messaging that was prevalent at ESU, the training of student affairs professionals emphasizes communicating the importance of social involvement to students (see, for instance, Felten et al. 2016; Folsom, Yoder, and Joslin 2015; Harper and Quaye 2009; Schuh, Jones, and Harper 2011). With this training, academic advisors, student activities professionals, admissions officers, and student support personnel across colleges and universities take similar approaches to encourage social engagement in higher education. 19. See, for instance, Astin (1984, 1993); Evans et al. (2009); Harper and Quaye (2009); Baxter Magolda and King (2004). Emphasizing the developmental potential of higher education is not a new phenomenon. Scholars have documented how educational institutions have a long history of focusing on the inculcation of character, personality, and moral values (see, for instance, Durkheim 1925; Mattingly 2017; Riesman 1961). 20. Baxter Magolda 1999, 2008; Chickering 1969; Chickering and Reisser 1993; Cross 1991; Fassinger 1998; Josselson 1973; McCarn and Fassinger

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1996. In general, this literature has been dominated by the voices of psychologists (Torres, Jones, and Renn 2009). However, sociologists have likewise shown that part of the impact higher education has on students relates to how young people socially construct identities within college contexts in conversation with peers, faculty/staff, and even organizations more broadly (Kaufman and Feldman 2004; Anthony and McCabe 2015). Sarah Willie (2003), for example, shows that differences in the social experience of college at a predominantly White institution and a historically Black university shape the ways African American students come to perceive their racial identity and what it means to “act White” or “act Black.” Similarly, Binder and Wood (2013) show how being socially involved in college cultivates the political identities of conservatives on campuses. Others show how racial, gender, class, sexual, religious, and/or political identities develop in tandem with one another. For instance, Reyes (2015, 2018) offers insight into how postsecondary institutions shape students’ racial and political identities simultaneously. 21. For a more developed discussion of college as a place for self-discovery and personal exploration, see Arnett (2004). 22. Hurtado and Carter 1997; Tierney 1999; Wolf-Wendel, Ward, and Kinzie 2009. 23. Chickering and Reisser 1993; Evans et al. 2009; Gilligan 1982; Goodman and Mueller 2009; McEwen 2003; Reisser 1995. 24. Abes, Jones, and McEwen 2007; Deil-Amen 2011; Guiffrida 2006; Hurtado and Carter 1997. Many of these revised theories acknowledge the importance of maintaining connections with families and friends from one’s home community in order to provide support for navigating difficult experiences with hostile campus climates (see, for instance, González 2000; Guiffrida 2005; Palmer, Davis, and Maramba 2011; Rosas and Hamrick 2002). Additionally, scholars continue to work toward developing new theories of student development that center the perspectives and experiences of more diverse student populations (see, for instance, Chan 2017; Jones and Stewart 2016; Kim 2012; McGuire et al. 2014; Mitchell and Means 2014; Porter and Dean 2015; Robbins and McGowan 2016; Tillapaugh 2015; Torres and Baxter Magolda 2004). 25. Guiffrida 2006, 457. 26. Scholars have shown that new or different social experiences, especially those that challenge current understandings (inducing a state of what Jean Piaget referred to as “disequilibrium”), promote changes in patterns of thinking (see, for instance, Piaget 1971, 1975; Ruble 1994). According to these scholars, experiences that are novel or offer an encounter with multiple perspectives provide the opportunity for cognitive growth as individuals look for new information to make sense of them. Building on this work, researchers have examined the benefits of encounters with difference for educational outcomes related to personal growth in a literature on “diversity experiences” in higher education (see, for instance, Antonio 2001; Bowman 2010; Bowman et al. 2011; Chang, Astin, and Kim 2004; Gurin 2004). Gurin and colleagues (2002, 334) note that these encounters with difference are “especially important during the college years because students are at a critical developmental

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stage, which takes place in institutions explicitly constituted to promote late adolescent development.” 27. “East State University” is a pseudonym, used here to shield the identity of the institution and maintain the confidentiality of my research participants. Additionally, I use pseudonyms for people, organizations, streets, buildings, and other places to add another layer of confidentiality. 28. See, for instance, Aries (2008); Espenshade and Radford (2009); Karabel (2006); Lee (2016); Massey et al. (2003); Stevens (2007); Warikoo (2016). For a few notable exceptions, see Armstrong and Hamilton (2013) and McCabe (2016), who study more selective four-year public universities, and McMillan Cottom (2017), who investigates the for-profit educational sector. 29. Approximately 20 percent identify as Asian, 10 percent as Black, 15 percent as Latino/a, 40 percent as White, and 10 percent as other or multiracial. In addition, the student body includes international students (5 percent). 30. Following other research in the sociology of education, I define low income based on students’ eligibility for federal Pell Grants. 31. Public colleges and universities constitute approximately two-thirds of four-year college enrollment (68 percent; author calculations based on total undergraduate fall enrollments, as reported in NCES 2017). In the fall of 2016, when I began this research, four-year public colleges and universities had a combined enrollment of 7.3 million total students, compared with 5.8 million in public two-year colleges; 2.8 million in private, nonprofit four-year colleges; and less than 1 million in the for-profit sector (NCES 2017). 32. As a participant-observer, my interactions in each of these groups went beyond clinical, naturalistic observation, as I took part in day-to-day activities like community service, workouts, and group discussions. While I tried to have minimal impact on shaping group life, like other ethnographers I found that the most feasible way to understand these students, their experiences, and the meaning they made of those experiences was by participating in their social world. Such an approach can be traced through a long history of anthropological and sociological research (Lareau and Shultz 1996). I elaborate on my approach as a participant-observer in appendix B. 33. Goffman 1959, 16. 34. Goffman 1970. 35. See, for instance, Best (2006); Pugh (2009, 2011); Thornberg (2015); Wilkins (2008). 36. For a discussion of the theoretical tools Goffman offers as well as their limitations in studying identity work, see Pugh (2009, 52–53). 37. While I was not exclusively interested in first-year students, their experiences arriving on campus and searching for communities were most recent— and ongoing, in fact—and hence easiest to recount in an interview. However, in my ethnographic observations, I also saw students who were further along in their studies join new groups and strategically manage their self-presentation in similar ways. 38. Hamilton (2016) calls attention to the limitations posed by focusing on samples that are predominantly White. Likewise, McCabe (2016) critiques

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qualitative studies of the college social scene for focusing on just one gender (usually women). 39. In their recent review of the literature on college student experiences, Arum and colleagues (2018) highlight the tendency to compartmentalize empirical studies of higher education by focusing exclusively on race, class, or gender. They issue a call for additional research that employs an intersectional lens. 40. Scholars studying higher education often disagree about which groups to include within the designation “racial/ethnic minority.” While some focus only on students who identify with racial/ethnic groups that are underrepresented in higher education (specifically, Black and Latino/a students), others include Asian and/or multiracial students as well. Here, I use the phrase with its broader definition. While scholarship debates the extent to which Asian and multiracial students are marginalized in the academic realm of higher education (Lee and Zhou 2015), evidence indicates that these students nonetheless experience prejudice and racism in college more broadly (Museus and Park 2015; Museus, Sariñana, and Ryan 2015; Ngo 2006; Ngo and Lee 2007). Because of this study’s focus on the social realm of college, a more inclusive definition of racial/ethnic minority is useful. 41. Collins 2009, 21. Ken (2008, 153–54) uses sugar as a productive metaphor for making explicit the ways that “race, class, and gender are produced, used, experienced, and processed” in human bodies and social institutions. 42. Collins and Bilge 2016, 2. 43. Sociologists may be surprised that class background did not play a notable role in shaping social performances within student groups. I found that class was highly influential in shaping access to social groups as well as the kinds of group configurations students developed (see Silver 2019). However, once students joined groups, it was meanings about race and gender that impacted their self-presentation with peers. There are several possible explanations for this finding. As an accessible and socioeconomically diverse university, ESU is not the type of class-homogeneous institution that has been studied in much existing research. It is possible that meanings about social class difference were not salient without a critical mass of elites to shape these meanings. Indeed, Armstrong and Hamilton (2013) suggest that schools like ESU may be more successful at integrating working-class students. Additionally, Ridgeway (2011) has argued that in the United States, race, gender, and age (but not class) are the primary categories that shape self-presentation in social interactions (see also Kingston 2000). It is worth emphasizing, however, that these findings do not diminish the importance of class in influencing experiences in higher education more broadly. A robust body of literature demonstrates that social class plays a key role in experiences navigating the university, accessing social groups, maintaining relationships with family and friends from home, and using institutional resources (Armstrong and Hamilton 2013; Beattie and Thiele 2016; Collier and Morgan 2008; Hamilton 2016; Jack 2016; Lee 2016; Lee and Kramer 2013; Lehmann 2007, 2014; Roksa and Silver 2019; Stuber 2011).

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44. Scholars working in this tradition examined educational access and years of education completed in order to understand the role of educational trajectories in status attainment (Blau and Duncan 1967; Jencks 1972; Mare 1980). 45. Breen and Jonsson 2000; Lucas 2001. 46. Gamoran 2010; Hallinan 1994; Klugman 2013; Lareau and Horvat 1999; Lewis and Diamond 2015; Tyson 2011. 47. Calarco 2011; Streib 2011. 48. Adler, Kless, and Adler 1992; Eder 1985; Milner 2004. 49. Bettie 2003; Carter 2006; McRobbie 1991; Wilkins 2008. 50. Adler, Kless, and Adler 1992; Best 2006; Eder, Evans, and Parker 1995; Pascoe 2007; Wilkins 2008. 51. Stevens, Armstrong, and Arum 2008. 52. Charles and Bradley 2002; Goldrick-Rab 2006; Roksa 2005. These inequalities are described as elements of what scholars refer to as horizontal stratification in higher education (Gerber and Cheung 2008). 53. Stevens, Armstrong, and Arum 2008. Rather, the majority of research on inequality in higher education examined issues related to college access, documenting disparities by race and class (Dumais 2002; Griffin et al. 2012; McDonough 1997; Nora 2004; Perna and Titus 2005; Perna 2007; Stevens 2007). Research on college access was paired with consideration of college outcomes, documenting comparable disparities by race and class in major selection, learning, skill development, and degree completion (Arum and Roksa 2011; Bowen, Chingos, and McPherson 2009; Davies and Guppy 1997; Gerber and Cheung 2008; Roksa and Arum 2015). 54. Arum et al. 2018. In addition to students themselves, a small group of scholars have begun to talk with the parents of college students, illuminating how parenting strategies draw from class-based resources to bring effectively maintained inequality to college (see Hamilton 2016; Hamilton, Roksa, and Nielsen 2018). 55. This literature highlights the production of inequality in both curricular and extracurricular engagement (Armstrong and Hamilton 2013; Collier and Morgan 2008; Jack 2016; McCabe and Jackson 2016; Roksa and Silver 2019; Stuber 2009). 56. Over time, these orientations coupled with resource constraints produce inequality in students’ levels and types of involvement on campus (Stuber 2009, 2011). Additional empirical support for findings regarding differences in the types of activities students pursue by class background can be found in the work of Aries and Seider (2005) as well as Salisbury et al. (2009); but see McCabe (2016), who finds that approaches to friendship and socialization in college tend to be more similar than different across class backgrounds. 57. Armstrong and Hamilton 2013. 58. McCabe 2016. 59. Biasco, Goodwin, and Vitale 2001; Byrd 2017; Chou, Lee, and Ho 2015; Harper and Hurtado 2007; Hurtado and Carter 1997; Hurtado et al.

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1998; Johnson et al. 2007; Lester, Yamanaka, and Struthers 2016; Morales 2014; Rankin 2005; Rankin and Reason 2005; Reason and Rankin 2006; Reid and Radhakrishnan 2003; Solórzano, Ceja, and Yosso 2000; Spell 2017; Whitt et al. 1999; Willie 2003; Worthington et al. 2008; Yosso et al. 2009. While the prevalence of these stereotypes and microaggressions was initially identified in academic settings (Massey and Fischer 2005; Quinn and Spencer 2001; Solórzano 1998; Spencer, Steele, and Quinn 1999; Steele 1997; Sue and Constantine 2007), recently scholars have documented their prominence in extracurricular settings as well (Abes, Jones, and McEwen 2007; Harwood et al. 2012; McCabe 2009; Morales 2014; Smith et al. 2016; Wilkins 2012, 2014). 60. Barajas and Pierce 2001; Cabrera 2019; Bonilla-Silva and Forman 2000; Smith, Allen, and Danley 2007; Warikoo 2016; Wilkins 2014. 61. Armstrong, England, and Fogarty 2012; Armstrong et al.2014; Hamilton and Armstrong 2009. 62. Clayton 2019; Ray and Rosow 2010, 2012; Torres and Charles 2004; Wilkins 2012, 2014; Winkle-Wagner 2009. 63. See, for instance, Brown, Parks, and Philips (2005); Hughey (2008, 2010); Ray (2013); Ray and Rosow (2012); Robbins (2011); Seaman (2005). 64. Adler and Adler 1991; Karabel 2006; Ross and Shinew 2008. 65. NCES 2017. 66. Bowen, Kurzweil, and Tobin 2005; Horowitz 1987. 67. Bowen, Kurzweil, and Tobin 2005, 13. 68. Armstrong, Hamilton, and Sweeney 2006; Cabrera et al. 1999; González 2000; Guiffrida 2005; Harper and Hurtado 2007; Rankin 2005; Torres and Charles 2004; Yosso et al. 2009. 69. Hoekema 1994. 70. Delbanco 2012; Jencks and Riesman 1968. 71. Roksa and Robinson 2016. 72. Swidler 1986, 273. 73. Swidler 1986, 2001. The cultural tool kits of these students, like many in the contemporary United States, were informed by experiences growing up in highly unequal and segregated neighborhoods and schools (Iceland and Wilkes 2006; Lopez 2003; Orfield and Lee 2006; Reardon and Owens 2014; Tilly 1998). Chapter Two 1. Buchmann and DiPrete 2006; DiPrete and Buchmann 2013. 2. DiPrete and Buchmann 2013. 3. Hamilton 2014. 4. Hamilton 2016. 5. Armstrong, England, and Fogarty 2012; Armstrong et al. 2014; Fleming and Davis 2018; Hamilton and Armstrong 2009; Ronen 2010. 6. Cultural associations of women with care work are well documented in sociological literature (see, for instance, Erickson 2005; Pfeffer 2010; Pugh 2015). 7. For discussions of how the everyday social construction, performance,

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and/or “doing” of gender produces a sense that certain traits and behaviors are “natural” for women or men, see Butler (1990, 1993); West and Zimmerman (1987). 8. McCabe (2016) also documents students’ descriptions of “friend moms” who provided valuable academic support for peers, offering encouragement to attend class, consoling peers who performed poorly on exams, and sharing reminders about assignments. 9. Scholars document a range of ways in which the care work conducted by women is frequently directed toward the social and emotional support of men (see, for instance, Duncombe and Marsden 1993; Hochschild 1979; Lyons 2009; Ussher and Sandoval 2008). Although not all caregivers provided emotional support in settings where men were the majority (as Alyssa did in the Cardio Club’s fastest training group), the fact that even in more gender-diverse contexts care was provided almost exclusively by women meant that men were more often the beneficiaries of emotional care than its providers. 10. Neerij was a graduate student who attended several races with the Cardio Club but did not train or socialize with the other members. Given his limited involvement with the group, I did not count Neerij as one of the regular members, and he is not included in the list of students in appendix A. 11. Social science research consistently finds that women are pressured to avoid exercising authority or being assertive in a variety of settings (see, for instance, Bosak and Sczesny 2008, 2011; Eagly and Sczesny 2009; Ispa-Landa 2013; Koenig et al. 2011; Smith 2002). 12. Chase 2010; Chickering 1969; Chickering and Reisser 1993; Evans et al. 2009. 13. The emotional ambivalence that corresponds to caregiving practices and responsibilities has been documented by scholars such as Chodorow (1999); Connidis and McMullin (2002); Mignon, Armenia, and Stacey (2015); Pugh (2015); Stacey (2005); and Willson and colleagues (2003, 2006). 14. Caregivers like Jamie described offering what Vander Ven (2011) calls “drunk support,” protecting and nurturing inebriated friends at parties or upon their return to residence halls. Research demonstrates that “people getting sick” is reported by most students as a likely outcome of college parties (see Jakeman, Silver, and Molasso 2014), and that women are more likely than men to offer help in these situations (Silver and Jakeman 2016). As inebriated students return to their residence halls, caregivers are positioned as the default providers of drunk support. 15. Oakley 1974a, 1974b. See also Winkle-Wagner (2009) for a discussion of the ways cultural expectations about Black women’s behavior constrain opportunities for achievement on college campuses. 16. See Connidis and McMullin (2002); Olson and Connor (2015); Wharton (2009). 17. Budig and England 2001; Coltrane 2000; Shelton and John 1996. 18. Armstrong, England, and Fogarty 2012; Fleming and Davis 2018; Hamilton 2014, 2016; Ronen 2010. 19. Notably, some of these stereotypes show up in the academic realm of college as well (see, for instance, Massey and Fischer 2005; McGee and Martin

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2011; Spencer, Steele, and Quinn 1999; Steele 1997). I discuss connections between academic stereotypes and the cultural assumptions that shape social interaction in greater detail in chapters 3 and 7. 20. See England (2005) for a detailed review of this literature. Chapter Three 1. Notably, they did not occupy the manager role with the same ease that White male students did. Female and racial/ethnic minority students who attempted to take on the manager role faced resistance from their peers. I explore this phenomenon in chapter 6. 2. Eagly and Carli 2007; Ridgeway 2001; Rudman and Glick 2001; Schilt 2010. 3. Rosette, Leonardelli, and Phillips 2008; Sanchez-Hucles and Davis 2010. 4. Williams 1992; Wingfield 2009; Woodhams, Lupton, and Cowling 2015. 5. Even when a group member took on the manager role, as Will did in the Learning Community, this did not prevent others, like Jerry, Aldo, and Caleb, from also presenting as managers. Managers were authoritative and direct, but they did not insist on having full control over their peers. Like caregivers, multiple managers could exist comfortably within the same social group. 6. Due to the claims of interaction ritual theorists, I was open to the possibility that authority would shift across different social contexts. Goffman (1959, 1967, 1981) shows that situational variation influences interactional styles, and Collins (2004) claims that situational differences can alter the roles individuals occupy in a group (i.e., a leader in one setting might become a follower in another). Upon entering the field, I worked to be alert to potential contextual changes in students’ interactional styles. However, there was remarkable consistency in the ways they presented across a range of settings. I discuss this finding in more detail in chapter 5. 7. While these formal officer positions were not a proxy for manager roles, they were occasionally designations through which roles were negotiated. An illustrative example could be seen in the experiences of James and Carter in the Cardio Club, explored in chapters 5 and 6. 8. As I interviewed students, I discovered that the most commonly cited reason for leaving groups was a mismatch in expectations about the group and its actual activities. Students showed up to join an organization, only to discover that its focus did not quite align with their interests. Other students left groups after feeling mistreated by their peers. A few realized that their academic workload would not allow them to remain in all the groups (sometimes four, five, six, or more) that they had tried out during the first weeks of the semester. Finally, some made a choice to home in on the groups they found most enjoyable. For more information on students’ trajectories through various forms of social involvement, see Silver (2019). 9. Both of these meetings had included a large and diverse group of students. In fact, the first involved approximately 60 attendees (less than half of these students continued participating after the first week of the fall semester). Jacob, the only other White male member of the Volunteer Collective, attended just these first two meetings.

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10. The answer was teapot, which starts and ends with the letter t and contains “t” (tea). 11. Derber 1979, 38–39. 12. This is not a verbatim quote, but my best recollection of his comments from the field note I wrote after practice. While I was sometimes able to capture verbatim quotes in my jottings on paper or in my phone, long runs weren’t conducive to taking notes in the moment. 13. See, for instance, Aronson, Fried, and Good (2002); Harding (1998, 2016); Walton and Cohen (2003). 14. Bobo and Johnson 2000; Charles 2000; Georgiou, Stavrinides, and Kalavana 2007; McGee and Martin 2011; Tucker 2002. 15. Fischer 2010; Massey and Fischer 2005; Quinn and Spencer 2001; Spencer, Steele, and Quinn 1999; Steele 1997. 16. Scholars have documented the broadly shared expectation, desire, and pressure to “have fun” in college (see, for instance, Armstrong and Hamilton 2013; Arum and Roksa 2011; Hamilton 2016). Some of these narratives about the social side of college emphasize the importance of meeting interesting people with interesting and unique worldviews (Lee 2016; McCabe 2016; Nathan 2005). 17. The term woke was used to describe individuals who were socially aware, especially of injustices and social problems. 18. Schilt 2010; Ridgeway 2001, 2011; Rudman and Glick 2001. 19. Bowen, Kurzweil, and Tobin 2005; Geiger 2011. 20. Wilder 2013. 21. Karabel 2006. 22. Alland 2002; Wilder 2013. 23. Bowen, Kurzweil, and Tobin 2005; Mattingly 2017. 24. Arum et al. 2018; Harper and Hurtado 2007; Roksa et al., “Racial Inequality in Critical Thinking Skills,” 2017. 25. Chavous et al. 2004; Massey and Fischer 2005; McGee and Martin 2011; Quinn and Spencer 2001; Torres and Charles 2004. 26. For instance, Asian students on campus encounter stereotypes that they are “boring,” “too intense,” or “can’t lead” (Chou, Lee, and Ho 2015; Spell 2017; Wong et al. 2012), while Black and Latino students deal with the racist assumptions of others who view them as “threatening,” “violent,” or “loud” (Ispa-Landa and Conwell 2015; Lopez 2003; McCabe 2009; Morales 2014; Morris 2007). 27. Much of the foundational work in student development theory did in fact focus primarily on White males, with little attention paid to women and racial/ethnic minorities (see, for instance, Chickering 1969; Perry 1968; Schlossberg 1981). More recent scholarship has critiqued this literature for ignoring race and gender (Cabrera 2019; Evans et al. 2009; Hurtado and Carter 1997; Johnson et al. 2007). See chapter 1 for a discussion of critiques and revisions to student development theory. 28. Of course, one might still have been skeptical about the degree of simplicity in students’ social performance as managers and educators. Could these two-dimensional roles really reflect self-actualization? Perhaps questions

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would have been raised about whether managers could learn to ask questions or be more compassionate, and whether educators could learn to listen as much as they spoke. In this case, we may have looked for students to add nuance to their self-presentation over time through a process of personal development. I address this possibility—and the forces that worked against change—in greater detail in chapters 5 and 7. Chapter Four 1. See Collins (2004, 351–62) for a discussion of the interpretation of introversion and its relation to self-presentation. While Collins claims that there are at least seven types of introverts, he observes that manifestations of introversion are driven only in part by individual psychology. They are also shaped by culture, interactions, and social performance. As Goffman (1959, 252) notes, the self should be understood as a “product of a successful interaction performance,” not simply as the surface of some deeper, genuine, or true self. 2. Collins 2009. 3. Wilkins 2012. See also Wingfield (2007). 4. Wilkins 2014, 12. See Ispa Landa (2013) for a discussion of similar patterns in the K–12 setting. 5. See, for instance, Chou, Lee, and Ho (2015); Lopez (2003); Spell (2017); Wong et al. (2012). 6. See, for instance, Kuipers (2015); Palmer (2003); Shifman and Katz (2005). 7. See, for instance, Goffman (1961); Coser (1966). 8. Others have likewise documented the tendency of caregiving to cultivate feelings of closeness or intimacy (e.g., Hochschild 2003; Mignon, Armenia, and Stacey 2015; Stacey 2005). 9. As noted earlier, female students like Amira who occupied the entertainer role were comparatively rare, comprising just a small portion of the entertainers I interviewed or observed. It is possible that differences in the cultural assumptions about women and humor—compared with racial/ethnic minority men—explain a potential difference in expressions of value. Such differences may have made it easier for women to present as entertainers without incurring the frustration of peers. But with the limited sample of female entertainers who participated in this study, it was difficult to explore this possibility further. 10. Collins 2004; Geen 1984; Hills and Argyle 2001. While some have sought to rebrand introversion as a positive and even a powerful trait, quietness or shyness has historically been treated as a pathological deviation from normal social interaction (Cain 2013; Scott 2004). 11. At first glance, it would be easy to attribute versions of the cookiecutter self to manifestations of personality. Most social scientists would agree that the intersections of cognition and culture play an important role in influencing aspects of self-presentation. However, in scholarly and pop literature alike, the role of biology in shaping personality is emphasized (Cain 2013; Corr and Matthews 2009; Geen 1984; Hills and Argyle 2001). In contrast, cookie-cutter selves at ESU were crafted in strategic and thoughtful ways. They required much more effort to produce and sustain than we could fairly expect

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that personalities would. This becomes clearer as I explore the maintenance of self-presentation in the next two chapters. 12. There were also six White male students (16 percent of the total White male participants) who maintained the associate role over the course of this study. Notably, however, these men did not appear to be conforming to identifiable stereotypes or resisting controlling images. In fact, their reserved self-presentation conflicted with cultural assumptions in a way that caught the attention of their peers. At some point, most of them were encouraged by other students to take on more authoritative styles of self-presentation. Chapter 6 elaborates on their experiences. 13. This phrase is explained in sociological research by Richard Majors and Janet Billson (1993) in their book, Cool Pose: The Dilemma of Black Manhood in America. Since then, it has been applied broadly to understanding identity among racial/ethnic minority men, especially in educational settings (see, for instance, Abreu et al. 2000; Czopp et al. 1998; Harper 2004; Palmer, Davis, and Hilton 2009). Notably, though, the associate role also diverged from the cool pose in some respects. For instance, while taking on a cool pose is theorized as a way to project confidence or defiance, performing as an associate was often a way of showing deference to the expectations of peers. 14. Research has shown that in predominantly White educational settings, Black and Latino males can feel compelled to demonstrate that they are not aggressive or violent. At their core, these efforts are frequently about making White peers feel more comfortable (Holland 2012; Ispa-Landa 2013). For instance, Holland (2012) builds on Blau’s (1960) theory of social integration, finding that in order to achieve integration with peers, racial/ethnic minority men must show themselves to be “attractive to a larger [diverse] group and at the same time approachable” (103). Black and Latino students accomplished this goal by demonstrating that they were safe and nonviolent. 15. Lu and Wong 2013; Wong et al. 2012. 16. The widespread stereotyping of women as passive has been documented in a variety of studies (see, for instance, Connell 1987; Eagly and Carli 2007; Ridgeway 2011). 17. Connell 1987, 184–85. Notably, just as racial/ethnic minority men had to contend with stereotypes and controlling images, the successful accomplishment of emphasized femininity required strategic identity work. In performing as passive and agreeable, female associates distanced themselves from controlling images of “bossy” or “domineering” women. 18. Descriptors like these reflect commonly held stereotypes of women (see, for instance, Connell 1987; Eagly and Carli 2007; Ridgeway 2011). 19. Schippers 2007. 20. Hochschild 1983. 21. In her study of professional workplaces, Wingfield (2010) uncovered evidence of implicit rules about emotions tied to gender and race. These rules in effect limited certain kinds of emotional displays to White employees. Further, demands for emotional restraint targeted Black men in different ways from Black women. 22. Moreover, some women were able to enact emphasized femininity

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while simultaneously avoiding controlling images. For example, showing up as passive meant that Black women could debunk stereotypes that painted them as “loud” or “dramatic” (Ispa-Landa 2013; Ispa-Landa and Conwell 2015; Morris 2007). 23. Given the way these students were branded as “shy” or “passive,” we might have expected that they would be involved in fewer and/or smaller groups. However, the associates I interviewed and observed tended to be just as involved—in similar numbers and types of groups—as their peers with other roles. In fact, many of them were more involved than the predominantly White male managers and educators, who typically honed their extracurricular involvement to one or two groups (see Silver 2019 for more detail on students’ involvement patterns at the intersections of class, race, and gender). 24. Arum and Roksa (2011, 96–98) provide documentation of the ways students allocate their time in college. Notably, they find that on average, college students spend 51 percent of their time socializing and recreating. 25. I borrow this dramaturgical metaphor from Goffman (1959; 1967). While he conceives of the participants in social interaction as simultaneous “actors” and “audiences,” it was apparent when observing associates that these students’ primary role was to serve as an audience for more visible peers. They were witnesses, observing and validating the action of others, but they rarely received similar kinds of attention themselves. 26. Although resident advisors were students themselves and sometimes took part in formal or informal friend groups with others on their floors, Quinn’s resident advisor wasn’t part of the peer group she typically hung out with in the residence hall. 27. Collins 2004, xiii. 28. Collins 2004. 29. Ancis, Sedlacek, and Mohr 2000; Bowen, Chingos, and McPherson 2009; Museus 2013; Ngo 2006; Ngo and Lee 2007; Rankin and Reason 2005; Strayhorn 2010. 30. Carter 2005; Ferguson 2000; Lopez 2003; Yates and Marcelo 2014. Research suggests that the impact of these behavioral constraints extends through the transition to adulthood. For instance, sociologist Amy Wilkins finds that the identity strategies Black men employ in high school become especially problematic during their transition to college. As the parameters of Black masculinity demanded a performance of adolescent coolness, these men were confined to “roles that were anti-school and counterproductive” (Wilkins 2014, 184–85; see also Ispa-Landa 2013). 31. See Liu (2002); Lu and Wong (2013); Wong et al. (2012). 32. See Connell (1987); Eagly and Carli (2007); Ridgeway (2011). 33. As others have likewise shown (e.g., Connell 1987; Currier 2013; Kelly, Pomerantz, and Currie 2005), adhering to the parameters of emphasized femininity constrained possibilities and offered few rewards. Chapter Five 1. Goffman 1967, 6. 2. Goffman 1967, 11–12.

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3. In his focus on interactions as the primary unit of analysis, Goffman does not offer much insight regarding how individual social actors’ lines and roles could be durable over time (rather than simply within a single interaction). However, Collins (2004), Durkheim (1915), and others encourage consideration of the broader “emotional marketplace” and group solidarity. In Collins’s case, thinking about interactions within and across groups over time facilitates understanding the experiences of individuals as they move through different situations. It is this approach that leads to his theory of interaction ritual chains, which build or deflate emotional energy as social actors move from one interaction to another. 4. For examples of prominent scholarship focusing on college students’ extracurricular involvement as an arena for growth and development, see Evans et al. (2009); Hu and Kuh (2003); Baxter Magolda and King (2004). 5. See, for instance, Armstrong and Hamilton (2013); Chambliss and Takacs (2014). 6. The contours of students’ identities rarely changed in sustained ways over the course of the year I spent with the Volunteer Collective, the Cardio Club, and the Learning Community. Interactional styles and the descriptors students used to characterize themselves and their peers showed surprising consistency. Moreover, in interviews most students professed to have a singular identity and corresponding style of self-presentation across all their social groups at ESU. We may well be skeptical of self-reports regarding identity and behavior in interview settings. After all, scholars document the pressure social actors feel to demonstrate a coherent, singular “true self” (Bettie 2003), which may dissuade interview participants from disclosing contextually dependent styles of self-presentation. Yet it’s worth noting that Emily, the one student whom I observed firsthand in multiple groups (the Learning Community and the Volunteer Collective), held fast to the associate role within both communities throughout the course of this study. My data does not allow me to address the ways students interact with family, coworkers off campus, peers in previous K–12 educational settings, or other communities outside ESU. Questions about variation in self-presentation in different on- and off-campus social groups could be productively explored in future studies that follow individual students as they move through various communities. 7. Goffman 1967, 8. 8. Ispa-Landa (2013) shows how young people leverage charges of “loudness” against Black female students in order to retaliate against those who are perceived to threaten the overall gender order, where only men are allowed to be assertive (see also Morris 2007). 9. See, for instance, Bonilla-Silva (2017). 10. In chapter 4, I discussed common controlling images and the ways certain roles allowed students to distance themselves from these images. Collins (2009) offers a more extensive discussion of controlling images. 11. While it’s possible that managers and educators could also have been policed in unique ways, I did not observe students attempting to add complexity to either of these roles. Given the authority they were imbued with and the expressions of appreciation they received, this finding may be unsurprising.

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While an outside observer might wish for more versatile managers or educators (I discuss this possibility more in chapters 6 and 7), managers and educators themselves seemed fairly satisfied with these roles. 12. Pascoe (2007) identifies gendered meanings inherent in the “fag” epithet, which she claims is not simply about sexuality but also about demanding rigid adherence to norms of masculine self-presentation. Similarly, I found that the “fake” label was leveraged to ensure that caregivers performed femininity in consistent ways. 13. Additionally, just as Jamie was informed through the grapevine when other students called her fake, James likely heard about Drew’s frequent public dismissal of his leadership potential by way of other students. 14. As the previous chapter showed, the one group that hardly ever received attention was associates. Even when they performed their roles with consistency, taking part in group activities and following direction unassumingly, they often remained invisible. In short, associates were unique among the five roles. Without benefiting from positive attention, their social performances were maintained primarily through the disciplinary action of their peers. 15. While I was almost certain Alice was heading in the right direction, whenever possible I avoided making definitive statements or giving directions in an attempt to minimize my own influence on the action of the group. In general, these efforts to minimize my effect on group dynamics seemed effective. Nonetheless, I fully recognized their limits. As many ethnographers have found, there are times when efforts to fade into the background are futile (Lareau 1996). 16. Goffman 1967, 11–12. 17. Binder and Wood 2013; Baxter Magolda 1999; Chickering 1969; Chickering and Reisser 1993; Cross 1991; Josselson 1973; Kaufman and Feldman 2004; Kuh 1995. 18. Lee 2016; Reyes 2018; Willie 2003; Winkle-Wagner 2009. 19. See also Armstrong and Hamilton (2013); Chambliss and Takacs (2014). 20. Cuba et al. 2016. Chapter Six 1. In both the Cardio Club and the Volunteer Collective, I observed sustained changes in the self-presentation of 14 percent of students (4 out of 29 students in both groups). In the Learning Community, this applied to just 8 percent (3 out of 40 students). Additional students outside these groups whom I encountered during interviews likewise described changes in selfpresentation that they or their friends had experienced. 2. Though it seems feasible that students could have been redirected from the manager or educator role to the caregiver role (which was central but not characterized by the exercise of authority), I did not observe any instances of this happening. It’s possible that students who were interested in occupying the manager or educator role were unwilling or unable to perform as caregivers, and instead were more apt to relocate to the associate or entertainer roles. Alternatively, centrifugal pressure may have been interpreted as a signal that a student was unwelcome in any role with greater centrality or value, including the caregiver role.

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3. Notably, not every student targeted by centrifugal pressure responded by changing his or her self-presentation. While the majority complied, chapter 7 includes an exploration of the experiences of a small group of exceptions who resisted centrifugal pressure. 4. This kind of treatment aligns with broader patterns of social behavior in which White men benefit from the positive evaluations of others regarding their potential. Rivera (2015), for instance, shows how this phenomenon extends to employment as hiring committees describe White males who are awkward, passive, or reserved in interviews as “needing coaching,” while racial/ethnic minority men are rejected for performing in similar ways. 5. Sociologist Christine Williams (1992) proposed the concept of the glass escalator to understand the expedited career advancement of White men in majority-female occupations. Studies in this vein have unearthed the systematic advantages White men gain as they are mentored and encouraged by supervisors, while women and racial/ethnic minority men are overlooked (see also Wingfield 2009; Woodhams, Lupton, and Cowling 2015). 6. Moreover, for women and racial/ethnic minority men, the dividends for attempting to occupy the manager or educator roles were limited. While White men in these roles could feel appreciated by peers fairly consistently, women and racial/ethnic minority men contended with centrifugal pressure, which undermined their feelings of mattering and belonging. 7. Armstrong, Hamilton, and Sweeney 2006, 489; Hamilton 2007. 8. Ray 2013; Ray and Rosow 2010. 9. Collins 2004; Goffman 1967. For instance, as I noted in chapter 4, Randall Collins makes the claim that in order for some individuals to gain the emotional energy that comes from existing in the spotlight, others are pushed to the background through “emotional processes that pump some individuals up while depressing others” (Collins 2004, xiii). 10. Cain 2013; Corr and Matthews 2009. 11. Chambliss and Takacs 2014, 155–57. 12. Chase 2010. 13. See, for instance, Astin (1984, 1993); Baxter Magolda (1999, 2008); Chickering (1969); Chickering and Reisser (1993); Evans et al. (2009); Baxter Magolda and King (2004). 14. While there is widespread belief in the existence of “natural-born leaders,” research suggests that effective leadership is learned rather than innate (Appelbaum, Audet, and Miller 2003; Komives et al. 2011; Owen 2015). Chapter Seven 1. For insight into the status attainment and economic outcomes of college graduates, see Hout (1988); Torche (2011). A range of studies have documented the more equitable and tolerant attitudes of college graduates (see, for instance, Bolzendahl and Myers 2004; Campbell and Horowitz 2016; Kingston et al. 2003). 2. Findings about the equalizing potential of higher education usually refer to students who have completed college, neglecting those who are denied entry or who never make it to graduation. Notably, though, even among gradu-

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ates and soon-to-be graduates, persistent cultural differences can produce divergence in students’ understandings of success, plans for the future, and approaches to employment (see, for instance, Rivera 2011, 2015; Silver forthcoming; Silver and Roksa 2017). 3. Armstrong and Hamilton 2013. 4. Stevens’s (2007) ethnographic account of the admissions office of an elite liberal arts college illuminates how common admissions practices propagate class-biased ideas regarding merit, while in effect “laundering privilege” for the upper classes. Likewise, in her concluding chapter, Warikoo (2016, 184–85) provides a review of the ways educational institutions, including colleges and universities, play a role in legitimating social stratification by encouraging acceptance of beliefs about merit. She illustrates how elite US institutions are complicit in equipping students with rhetoric and diversity frames that prop up these ideas. 5. Building on the work of Pierre Bourdieu (1973, 1986), scholars have documented the influence of class-based resources in shaping access to colleges and extracurricular opportunities as well as approaches to interactions with faculty (see, for instance, Armstrong and Hamilton 2013; Jack 2016; McDonough 1997; Stuber 2009, 2011). 6. Bettie 2003; Holland 2012; Ispa-Landa 2013; Morris 2007. 7. Ispa-Landa 2013. 8. Collins 2009; Collins and Bilge 2016. 9. This became clear in my interview-based conversations with first-year students who described their pathways to becoming involved. Elsewhere, I have written in greater detail about these social class differences in group access (see Silver 2019). Other scholars have likewise documented the importance of social class in shaping involvement patterns (see, for instance, Ardoin 2018; Armstrong and Hamilton 2013; Rubin 2012; Stuber 2009, 2011) as well as access to/use of institutional resources (Collier and Morgan 2008; Jack 2016; Roksa and Silver 2019). 10. This finding aligns with Ridgeway’s (2011) claim that in the United States, it is not class but race, gender, and age that influence self-presentation as primary categories in social interactions. 11. As noted in chapter 1, meanings about social class difference may not be as salient at diverse public institutions like ESU. Armstrong and Hamilton (2013) suggest that accessible colleges may be able to integrate working-class students more effectively. 12. Lee 2016; Beattie 2018. 13. For instance, see Nicolazzo (2016) for a recent exploration of the experiences of transgender students with inclusion on college campuses. Kimball and colleagues (2016) review the experiences of students with disabilities. 14. Gerson 2010; MacLeod 1987; Massey 2007; Ridgeway 2011; Tilly 1998; Willis 1977. 15. Swidler 1986. 16. Goffman (1967) claims that disrupting a pattern of behavior—such as a “line” or “script”—usually leads to discomfort shared by both a social performer and her audience.

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17. Notably, there were five additional students who resisted centrifugal pressure but still took on a version of the cookie-cutter self. They occupied roles that conflicted with stereotypes (i.e., a female educator or a racial/ethnic minority male manager) and encountered pressure from peers to change their self-presentation. While these students also stood out in social groups, they still conformed to narrow styles of self-presentation. Here I focus only on the six students who resisted both the cookie-cutter self and centrifugal pressure. 18. Collins 2009. 19. See, for instance, Beasley (2011); Croom et al. (2017); Guiffrida (2003); Harper, Byars, and Jelke (2005); Harper and Quaye (2007); Reyes (2015); Sutton and Kimbrough (2001). 20. Hamilton 2014, 2016. See also Armstrong and Hamilton (2013); Hamilton, Roksa, and Nielsen (2018); Roksa and Silver (2019). 21. A literature on diversity experiences suggests that faculty involvement improves outcomes (see, for instance, Dee and Daly 2012; Saenz, Ngai, and Hurtado 2007; Shim and Perez 2018). Emerging approaches to partnerships between student affairs professionals and faculty at some institutions of higher education involve bringing professors into the social realm of college in various ways. Sometimes, these partnerships manifest in faculty-in-residence programs or faculty advisors for living learning communities (see, for instance, Browne, Headworth, and Saum 2009; Cotten and Wilson 2006; Inkelas et al. 2008; Levine Laufgraben and Shapiro 2004; Wawrzynski et al. 2009). 22. I recorded one instance in the spring semester when a group of approximately ten Learning Community students raised the topic of stereotypes during a discussion about racial inequality. While it is possible that this discussion allowed for some reflection (for instance, Rhonda connected the controlling image of the “angry Black woman” to her reluctance to exercise authority), it was not structured by faculty/staff in a way that allowed students to think about potential alternatives to their social performances. Further, it occurred far enough into the academic year that change in self-presentation likely would have been difficult anyway. 23. The sixth exceptional student was Adam, a White male captain of the Cardio Club. Adam’s story is similar to Zara’s and Sean’s, although his position was elected rather than staff appointed. He seemed to take his responsibility to manage safety and build team camaraderie more seriously than other captains. He exercised authority like managers, but he also cared for new members and, at times, used humor to defuse tension. Perhaps, like Sean and Zara, he picked this up from leadership training. Adam was one of just four captains who had taken the full series of club sports risk-management trainings before the start of the year. But caution is necessary when extrapolating from his experiences, given that other elected leaders, who lacked the staff mandate and extensive training that resident advisors possessed, tended to rely on one of the five cookie-cutter identities (including Drew, Alyssa, and James, who had also taken the same risk-management trainings). James in particular was frequently the target of behavioral policing in instances when he needed to exercise authority, and he avoided making decisions for the group whenever possible.

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24. Scholarship on the work of resident advisors describes their responsibilities as requiring a mixture of leading group activities, conveying information, enforcing rules, and caring for others within their communities (see, for instance, Berkowitz and Perkins 1986; Pasco et al. 2012; Wilson and Hirschy 2003). 25. I verified this claim with two university administrators, who supported Sean’s assertion. 26. Research on youth development shows that for most traditional-age college students, desires to conform to peer expectations and stereotypes play a crucial role in shaping how they perceive and describe themselves (Abes, Jones, and McEwen 2007; Baxter Magolda 1999). 27. Riesman 1961, xlii. 28. Gerlitz and Helmond 2013; Hong, Chen, and Li 2017. 29. Lee 2016; Stuber 2011; Chambliss and Takacs 2014. 30. See, for instance, Braxton et al. (2014); Upcraft, Gardner, and Barefoot (2004). 31. Coleman 1961. Other social scientists have similarly documented the powerful influence of peer groups and desires to attain social status in shaping durable patterns of behavior (see, for instance, Eder 1985; Eder and Kinney 1995; Harris 2002, 2011). 32. Put differently, these students were reflexive about what sociologist Charles Cooley (1902) called the looking-glass self. They became aware of how others’ perceptions related to their own identities and how they would show up in group settings. 33. Blackwell and Lichter 2004; Iceland and Wilkes 2006; Kalmijn and Flap 2001; Orfield and Lee 2006; Reardon and Owens 2014. 34. In her book The Diversity Bargain, Natasha Warikoo (2016, 101–4) shows that students come to accept the value of structural diversity as well. Most see racial diversity in particular as a means of gaining valuable opportunities to be personally enriched by learning from others of different backgrounds. Further, as they exit college, many young adults testify to the beneficial outcomes of engagement with difference. Recent graduates cite interacting with diverse others in extracurricular clubs and student groups as one of the most important experiences of college (see, for instance, Arum and Roksa 2015; Chase 2010). 35. Hartley and Morphew 2008; Lee 2016; Stevens and Roksa 2011. This message resonates not only in colleges (Aries and Berman 2013; Chase 2010) but also in government and public policy circles (Epperson 2011), in courtrooms (Berry 2015; Chang and Ledesma 2011), and even in the halls of elite boarding schools (Khan 2011). 36. An illustrative case can be found in an interview conducted by National Public Radio’s Scott Simon (2018) with Larry Moneta, Vice President of Student Affairs at Duke University. 37. See, for instance, Antonio (2001); Chang, Astin, and Kim (2004); Bowman et al. (2011). 38. See, for instance, Cabrera et al. (1999); Harper and Hurtado (2007); Yosso et al. (2009).

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39. Armstrong, England, and Fogarty 2012; Armstrong et al. 2014; Hamilton and Armstrong 2009. 40. See, for instance, Arum et al. (2018); Bazarsky and Sanlo (2011); Beattie (2018); Fine (2016); Lee (2016); Lee and Kramer (2013); Lehmann (2007, 2014); Nicolazzo (2016). 41. See Massey and Fischer (2005); Quinn and Spencer (2001); Spencer, Steele, and Quinn (1999); Steele (1997); Steele and Aronson (1995). Other studies show that interactions and experiences with peers of different races and ethnicities may provoke anxiety and deplete cognitive focus (Richeson, Trawalter, and Shelton 2005; Trawalter and Richeson 2008). 42. Roksa et al., “Racial Inequality in Critical Thinking Skills,” 2017. 43. These students arrive at college with eighteen years of experience in segregated and unequal settings in which racial and gender inequalities are stark and beliefs about gender and racial difference are pervasive (Davis and Greenstein 2009; England 2010; Iceland and Wilkes 2006; Lopez 2003; Orfield and Lee 2006; Tilly 1998). 44. See, for instance, AAHE, ACPA, and NASPA (1998); ACPA (1994); Keeling et al. (2004). 45. Keeling et al. 2004, 8. 46. For insight into the market and consumer pressures that increasingly shape higher education, see Bok (2003); Geiger (2004); Kezar (2004); Saunders (2014). 47. See Kuh (2009) for a study documenting the underutilization of optional services. These services are prevalent in large public universities, producing a phenomenon that Roksa and Silver (2019) call the “do-it-yourself university.” Likewise, Bailey, Jaggars, and Jenkins (2015, 91) discuss “cafeteria colleges,” where “services are available on an individual and voluntary basis.” In this context, the students most in need of such resources tend not to find or make use of them (Person, Rosenbaum, and Deil-Amen 2006; Roksa and Silver 2019). 48. See Blimling (2001); Manning, Kinzie, and Schuh (2006). Further, even when student affairs practitioners work to realign priorities and goals, organizations’ day-to-day practices are often more entrenched (Kuk and Banning 2009; Silver and Jakeman 2014). 49. See, for instance, Arum and Roksa (2011); Arum, Roksa, and Cook (2016); Bok (2009); Roksa et al., “Facilitating Academic Performance in College” (2017). 50. Dee and Daly 2012; Harper and Hurtado 2007; Hurtado et al. 1998; Museus and Jayakumar 2012; Saenz, Ngai, and Hurtado 2007. Similarly, Trawalter and Richeson (2006) show that the potential negative effects of interracial interactions on cognitive focus can be mitigated by encouraging students to intentionally pursue more positive interactions across difference instead of simply trying to avoid prejudice. Appendix b 1. Arum and Roksa (2011) report that students spend 51 percent of their time socializing and engaging in recreational/leisure activities, compared with

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just 7 percent studying and 8 percent in class. See also Chambliss and Takacs (2014); Cuba et al. (2016); Nathan (2005). 2. Campus climate surveys and studies of student perceptions of belonging or institutional fit make it clear that female, working-class, racial/ethnic minority, LGBT, and religious minority students encounter challenges as they engage in the college social scene (see, for instance, Armstrong, Hamilton, and Sweeney 2006; Cabrera et al. 1999; Garvey and Rankin 2015; González 2000; Guiffrida 2005; Fine 2016; Harper and Hurtado 2007; Rankin 2005; Torres and Charles 2004; Yosso et al. 2009). 3. Rhoades and colleagues (2008) show that in recent years, nonfaculty student support personnel have been the fastest-growing employee category in higher education. 4. Blimling 2001; Manning, Kinzie, and Schuh 2006. Scholars note that the various models can be difficult to integrate with one another. It’s not uncommon to observe a mixture of different approaches within a single postsecondary institution or even within the same student affairs office (Blimling 2001). 5. This type of model is described as one of the oldest and most durable approaches to student affairs. Although scholars and practitioners continue to call for greater emphasis on integrating student affairs with the academic mission of universities (e.g., AAHE, ACPA, and NASPA 1998; ACPA 1994), these goals are achieved less often in practice due to a variety of constraints (Kuk and Banning 2009; Manning, Kinzie, and Schuh 2006; Silver and Jakeman 2014). 6. Such claims can be found in the work of Goffman (1959, 1967, 1981) and Collins (2004). Scholars of student affairs have likewise theorized situational changes in the social construction of identity (Jones and McEwen 2000). 7. See, for instance, Chase (2010); Warikoo (2016). While prior research has examined more homogeneous groups like fraternities and sororities as well as identity-based student organizations (see, for instance, Harper and Quaye 2007; Hughey 2008; Pike 2000; Ray 2013; Ray and Rosow 2012; Reyes 2015), less attention has been paid to the diverse settings and communities in which many college students at places like ESU spend their time. Appendix A offers detailed information on the demographic composition of each of the groups I selected. 8. Prior research has documented the barriers students face as they look for social involvement opportunities in college (see, for instance, Armstrong and Hamilton 2013; Rubin 2012; Stuber 2009, 2011). 9. While no group responded with an outright refusal of my involvement, a few wanted to set narrow parameters for what my participation would look like (only being present at “general membership” meetings, for instance). I politely declined these more restricted offers. 10. Nathan 2005; Stuber 2011. 11. While the Learning Community did require an application, program staff coordinated this process. The goal of the application was to match students with communities based on shared interests, not to limit participation. 12. See, for instance, Eder (1985); Eder and Kinney (1995); Milner (2004); Wilkins (2008).

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13. As in other studies of campus life (e.g., Armstrong and Hamilton 2013), I found that hierarchical distinctions among fraternities and sororities were sometimes discussed by students who participated in the rush process, and a few students articulated admiration for standout players on the ESU men’s basketball team. However, similar status distinctions did not translate into the arena of intramural sports, clubs, associations, or learning communities. Further, those not involved in Greek-letter organizations (over 90 percent of the undergraduates at ESU) were usually unfamiliar with distinctions between fraternities and sororities. And, as others have found (e.g., Adler and Adler 1991), the university’s basketball team was in many ways cordoned off from the rest of campus life, with the schedules of its student athletes rigidly controlled by coaches, advisors, and athletic tutors. Historian Helen Horowitz (1987, 19) claims that while campus subcultures were a dominant form of organizing social life up until the 1960s, their salience diminished over time, and the divisions that persisted on campus “signified personal preferences unconnected with prestige.” 14. Multiple social groups were selected by students, producing diverse configurations of extracurricular outlets. Students in the communities I observed were also involved in the video game club, academic major–based societies, informal fitness groups, the debate team, fraternities, sororities, art clubs, campus religious groups, music ensembles, the campus tour guides, cultural associations, clubs for various kinds of dancing, and varsity sports teams, to name a few. 15. See Vander Ven (2011) for a thorough ethnographic study of offcampus parties. 16. See Kingston (2000); Sherman (2017). 17. Armstrong and Hamilton 2013; Lee 2016; Stuber 2011. Socioeconomic status often refers to the specific operationalization of SES—distinct from social class—in strands of quantitative sociological research. However, for the purposes of this study, I classified students by socioeconomic advantage, using this term interchangeably with social class (see, for instance, Lee 2017; Ostrove and Cole 2003). 18. Antonio 2001; Bowman 2010; Bowman et al. 2011; Chang, Astin, and Kim 2004; Gurin 2004. 19. For instance, they offer a useful point of comparison to the experiences of racial/ethnic minority students becoming socially involved in predominantly White institutions or groups (see, for instance, Holland 2012; Hughey 2010; Ispa-Landa 2013). 20. Chou, Lee, and Ho 2015; McCabe 2009; Morales 2014; Rankin 2005; Rankin and Reason 2005; Reason and Rankin 2006; Solórzano, Ceja, and Yosso, 2000; Spell 2017; Whitt et al. 1999. 21. Ridgeway 2011. See also Wagner and Berger (1997). 22. For a detailed discussion of the role of participant-observers, see Lareau and Shultz (1996). 23. Blumer 1986; Mead 1934. 24. Goffman 1959, 1967, 1981. 25. Luker 2008, 164.

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26. Luker 2008, 163–65. 27. Jottings are used to quickly capture observations or quotes in the field site, often by momentarily finding a quiet space to write in a small notepad or taking advantage of other technology to discreetly take notes (see, for instance, Emerson, Fretz, and Shaw 1995). 28. See, for instance, McDermott’s (2006, 35–36) ethnographic work in two convenience stores. When jottings proved impractical—for instance, in situations in which writing would have been awkward or impossible (i.e., during long runs with the Cardio Club), field notes had to be developed from memory later (for recommendations related to this practice, see Lareau and Shultz 1996). 29. Emerson, Fretz, and Shaw 1995, 12. 30. Geertz 1973. 31. Corbin and Strauss 2008; Lamont 1992, 2000; Luker 2008; Swidler 2001; Weiss 1994. Interviews provide unique insights into culture that cannot be attained through observations or surveys alone. Sociologist Allison Pugh (2013) notes that interviews allow researchers to access four kinds of information about research participants, including (1) the display work they use to present themselves in a positive light, (2) the frameworks they draw from to make sense of the social world, (3) their emotions, and (4) the potential distance between the way they feel and their sense of the “right” way to feel about a situation—what Pugh dubs “meta-feelings.” 32. Further, as noted in chapter 5, research shows that the friendship circles students develop during their first year of college tend to be durable over time (Cuba et al. 2016). Notably, though, a few students beyond their first year of study joined both the Volunteer Collective and the Cardio Club. Their approaches to finding social inclusion were comparable to those used by the first-year students. 33. Although the three groups I studied as a participant-observer were formalized within the university as “recognized student organizations,” students were also part of groups that they had created outside the bounds of formal recognition: four friends who had met during orientation and worked out together at the gymnasium; a group of five students who collaborated in a biology lab and met regularly for lunch; a cohort of students who played pickup basketball every afternoon. It is worth noting, however, that while interviews helped me learn more about different extracurricular outlets, according to the students’ accounts the patterns described in this book held across a range of diverse groups, including both formal and informal ones. 34. For more information on the benefits of writing memos to inform ethnographic research, see Emerson, Fretz, and Shaw (1995). 35. Corbin and Strauss 2008. 36. Hurst 2010. 37. Willis 1977; Horowitz 1987. 38. Wilkins 2008; Milner 2004. 39. Milner 2004; Wilkins 2008; Horowitz 1987. 40. Adler and Adler 1991. 41. It is possible that similar strategies could be productively applied to

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K–12 educational settings, where most scholarship has focused on status differences between student subcultures. Questions remain about how inequality might develop within diverse social groups in these settings. When we move beyond consideration of status disparities between “geeks” and “cool kids” (Milner 2004) to look within a debate team or a group of young Democrats, does the egalitarian appearance of these groups hold up? Admittedly, this kind of research may be difficult because of persistent school segregation (Reardon and Owens 2014), coupled with racial, gender, and class homogeneity in subcultures and social cliques (Bettie 2003; Wilkins 2008). Nonetheless, given the ways inequality develops within groups as well as between them, such efforts are worth pursuing. 42. See, for instance, Bettie (2003); Hurst (2010). 43. Geertz 1973; Lareau and Shultz 1996. 44. Lareau 1996. 45. Armstrong and Hamilton 2013, 276–78. 46. Khan (2011) recommends such an approach. 47. See, for instance, Lareau’s (2011) reflection on the reactions of study participants who objected to their portrayal in her book Unequal Childhoods.

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Index ability, 5, 144, 195n13 Academically Adrift (Arum and Roksa), 3 academic engagement: as an alternative for feeling selfworth, 82; and grades, 4, 10; and intellectual development and learning, 4, 156; in the Learning Community, 51, 151; and pathways through college, 117; and retention, 4; and self-presentation, 62–66, 150–52; and social involvement, 3–4, 11, 157, 180n17, 187n8, 200n14; and stereotypes, 184–85n59, 186–87n19; undermined by caregiving, 17, 26, 40–41 access: to college, 5–6, 9, 15, 142, 156, 184n44, 184n53, 195n5; to opportunities for growth and development, 139, 142; to social and extracurricular groups, 10, 142, 169, 183n43, 195n9; to styles

of self-presentation, 17, 48, 105, 114, 121 activism, 125 Adler, Patricia, 176 Adler, Peter, 176 administrators: club sports, 110; and diversity, 155; and endorsement of social involvement, 3, 155, 180n11; K–12 school, 10; and student satisfaction, 157; and trainings for students, 152, 197n25; university, 1, 144–45, 157 admissions, 180n10, 180n18, 195n4 advising, academic, 180n18, 200n13 age, 183n43, 195n10, 197n26 alcohol: abstaining from, 34; education, 153, 157; and parties, 3, 61, 137, 170; penalties for possession or use of, 34, 40, 153; use, 34–36. See also intoxication, alcohol

INDEX

amenities arms race, 3, 179–80n9 American College Personnel Association (ACPA), 4, 157 American Revolution, 133 Aries, Elizabeth, 184n56 Armstrong, Elizabeth A., 10–11, 137, 142, 177, 180n10, 183n43, 195n11 Arnett, Jeffrey, 181n21 Arum, Richard, 3, 183n39, 191n24, 198–99n1 assimilation, 5 associates: and the cookie-cutter self, 13–14, 135; invisibility of, 89–92, 128, 135–37, 191n25, 193n14; involvement in multiple groups, 191n23; physical location of, 73, 87–89, 176; and policing, 112–15, 124; raced and gendered associations of, 84–87, 135, 173, 190n17; self-presentation of, 74, 83–84, 92, 128; and struggles to belong, 92–93 Astin, Alexander W., 180n15 athletics, 3, 11, 42, 65, 180n10, 200n13. See also Cardio Club (ESU) attention: being the center of, 13, 44, 48, 58–60, 70, 98, 128–30, 133; distributing, 13, 59, 89, 100–101, 112, 115, 153; fleeting, 79, 102; and inequality, 68–69, 92, 124– 25, 137–38, 143, 156, 191n25; not receiving, 73, 84, 88–90, 128, 193n14; as a valued social resource, 10, 59–61, 68, 134, 156 attrition, 4, 56, 65, 180n17, 187n8 authority: caregivers avoiding, 12, 29, 31–33, 101, 196n22; and centripetal elevation, 128–34; and colleges regulating student behavior, 16; and complex selfpresentation, 146, 149, 153, 196n23; educators exercising, 46, 62–66, 69–70, 192n11; gendered and raced nature of, 32, 48, 65– 66, 186n11; and inequality, 156–

232

57; and interaction ritual theory, 187n6; managers exercising, 46– 48, 50–52, 69–70, 120, 192n11; policing female and racial/ethnic minority male students who exercise, 14, 103–15, 119–27, 193n2; structural, 55–58; White men trying out, 134–35 Bailey, Thomas R., 198n47 Baxter Magolda, Marcia B., 192n4 Bean, John P., 180n17 Beattie, Irenee, 144 belonging: appreciation and value linked to, 36–39, 61, 67–69, 82, 91, 135–36; changes in, 118–19, 129, 142; and identity, 25, 39, 46, 74, 135, 158; inequality in, 11–12, 94, 135–36, 141–44, 156, 199n2; sacrifices for, 15, 116, 140; struggling to find, 13–14, 91–93, 194n6; students’ feelings of, 2, 7, 141, 169, 172–74; and student success or retention, 2, 5, 180n17 Berger, Joseph B., 180n17 Billson, Janet, 190n13 Binder, Amy, 180–81n20 Blau, Peter M., 190n14 Bok, Derek, 179n8, 198n46 Bourdieu, Pierre, 195n5 Butler, Judith, 185–86n7 campus subcultures. See subcultures Cardio Club (ESU): associates in the, 83–85, 87, 112–15; caregivers in the, 28–31, 41–42, 186n9; and centripetal elevation, 127–31, 135; and change in selfpresentation, 193n1; and complex self-presentation, 196n23; details of, 7, 169–70; diffusing tension in, 28–31; educators in, 64–65; entertainers in, 78–79, 81, 102, 108–11, 116; formal leadership within, 44–46, 56, 110–11, 187n7, 196n23; managers in,

INDEX

44–47, 52–56, 59, 61–62, 101–2, 187n7; members, 163, 170–71, 186n10, 201n32; membership turnover, 56, 163; and policing, 108–15; and resisting centripetal elevation, 135; and role inertia, 101–2, 108–16; studying, 172, 201n28; value of care in, 37–39 Cardio Crush Week, 44–45 cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR), 109–10 caregivers: absence of, 37–39; and belonging, 35–36, 82, 92–93; consistency of, 77; constraints on, 31–33, 48, 105; contrast with associates, 73; contrast with entertainers, 81; and the cookie-cutter self, 12–14, 25–26, 70; drawbacks of performing as, 39–41; and emotional care, 28–31, 78, 176, 186n9; and intimacy with peers, 81; leaders who perform as, 32, 56; physical location of, 12, 176; policing, 103–8, 193n12; providing drunk support, 186n14; and role inertia, 101, 103–8, 124; selfpresentation of, 23–28; studying, 176; value of, 33–37, 72, 89, 91, 135–38 care work: ambivalence about, 39– 40, 186n13; gender associations with and inequality in, 13, 41–42, 46, 185n6, 186n9; and intimacy, 189n8; sacrifices made through, 26, 39–42; theories of, 41, 187n20; value of, 46, 83, 136–38 centrifugal pressure: operation of, 18–19, 118–19, 121–27, 130, 135–39, 142, 194n6; resisting, 145–57, 194n3, 196n17 centripetal elevation, 18, 118–19, 127–36, 138–39, 142 challenge-based activities. See teambased activities Chambliss, Daniel F., 138 Chase, Susan, 138 Chosen, The (Karabel), 69

233

civic engagement. See political engagement; service class: background, 10–11, 143, 170–71, 183n43, 200n17; and college outcomes, 142; as a form of difference or diversity, 5, 169, 195n11; inequality, 10–11, 142, 183n43, 195n9; of participants, 162–66, 174 club sports, 11, 78, 109–10, 196n23 code switching, 150–51 Cohen, Geoffrey L., 180n17 Coleman, James, 155 Collins, Patricia Hill, 8–9, 76, 192n10 Collins, Randall, 92, 137, 187n6, 189n1, 192n3, 194n9, 199n6 colonialism, 69 community service. See service competitions: in the Learning Community, 48–50; or races with the Cardio Club, 28–31, 41, 44, 65, 83–84, 127–28, 169–70 conformity: and emphasized femininity, 86; to feel belonging or valued, 5, 25–26; to maintain group membership, 14, 115, 155; resisting, 145–47, 152, 154, 158; and stereotypes, 85–87, 93, 147, 155, 190n12, 197n26 connections: as an alternative to social integration, 5; with friends and family from home communities, 181n24; and interactions, 14; liminal, 71–74, 91–92, 117, 140; and shared interests, 125; students discussing, 2; students pursuing, 92, 117, 141; studying, 7. See also belonging; inclusion consumer pressures in higher education. See marketization of higher education controlling images: definition of, 76, 192n10; examples of, 86–87, 105, 190n17, 190–91n22, 196n22; resisting, 87, 147

INDEX

cookie-cutter self: and acceptance, 115–16; as a barrier to development, 144; changing, 118, 124; as different from personality, 189– 90n11; and expressions of value, appreciation, or mattering, 34–37, 60–62, 66–69, 82, 135–38; historical context of, 15; and inequality, 14, 94, 135–38, 141; narrowness of, 14–15, 24, 27, 111, 139, 144; resisting, 145, 148, 150–54; role inertia and, 14, 100–105, 117, 141–42; versions of, 12–14, 25, 46, 72–74, 93–94, 139, 173–76. See also specific roles Cooley, Charles, 197n32 cool guys. See entertainers cool pose, 85–86, 190n13 Cooper, Diane L., 180n15 CPR, 109–10 cross country. See competitions Cuba, Lee, 117 cultural capital, 10, 142, 178, 195n5 cultural immersion assignment, 150–52 culture: in action, 144; consumer, 175; and exclusion, 10–11; and identity, 10, 189n11; and inequality, 141–42, 201–2n41; and interaction, 172, 189n1; organization/group, 65, 129; popular, 10; researching, 172–73, 201n31; student or campus, 3, 28, 143–44, 154, 169, 175–76, 200n13, 201–2n41; Tamyra’s lessons on language and, 146; youth, 7–8, 10, 175–76. See also tool kit metaphor curriculum, 26, 150–52, 157, 184n55 customer service. See marketization of higher education Davidson, Cody, 180n15 Deil-Amen, Regina, 180n17 Derber, Charles, 60 development: cognitive and intellectual, 138, 156, 181–82n26,

234

184n53; through engagement with difference, 5, 156, 171; identity, 4, 188–89n28, 197n26; limiting students’, 17, 100, 139, 156; moral, 16, 138, 180n19; personal, 32, 118, 131, 155, 157, 188–89n28; through social involvement, 13, 100, 138–39, 157, 192n4; and student affairs profession, 168; theories of student, 4–5, 180n15, 181n24, 188n27 diversity: of college enrollment or student body, 5–6, 15, 143, 155; expanding theories to account for, 5, 181n24; frames, 195n4; at public universities, 15, 124, 156, 183n43, 195n11; and stereotypes, 15, 146; student engagement with, 148; of student groups, 16, 146–48, 150–52, 155, 158, 171, 186n9, 187n9, 199n7, 201–2n41; student perceptions of, 197n34; studying, 8–9, 168, 170–71, 183n43; university endorsement of engagement with, 148, 155, 171, 181n26, 196n21 diversity experiences, 5, 155–56, 171, 181n26, 196n21, 198n50 Diversity Bargain, The (Warikoo), 197n34 Division I athletics, 11, 180n10 doing gender, 26, 86–87, 93, 105, 185n7, 190n17, 191n30 dormitories. See residence halls drugs, 35, 40, 68. See also alcohol drunk support, 186n14. See also intoxication, alcohol Duke University, 197n36 Durkheim, Emile, 192n3 Earth Day, 68–69 educators: and attention, 68–69, 84, 88; and belonging, 67, 69, 82, 92–93, 141; centripetal elevation and, 127, 131–34; compared with caregivers, 68–69; compared with managers, 62–64, 68; and the

235

INDEX

cookie-cutter self, 14, 46, 139, 188–89n28; female and racial/ ethnic minority students policed for presenting as, 103–4, 124–26; and formal leadership positions, 56; physical location of, 176; and policing, 124, 192–93n11; raced and gendered associations of, 69–70, 141; and role inertia, 101– 2, 115; self-presentation of, 46, 62–66, 77, 176; studying, 176; value of, 66–69, 72–73, 79, 89, 91, 141 effectively maintained inequality (EMI), 9, 184n54 elections: national, 97–98, 101, 103– 4; for student leadership positions, 111, 128, 130, 135, 149–50 elite colleges and universities, 6–8, 66, 142, 144, 171, 195n4 Emerson, Robert, 173, 201n34 emotional energy, 92–93, 168, 194n9 emotional labor: by caregivers, 28– 31, 41–43, 99, 186n16; and gender inequality, 29, 41–43, 186n9. See also care work emotions: caring for and monitoring, 28–31; entertainers paying close attention to, 81; and identity, 39, 46, 74, 81, 135–37, 153; and inequality, 92, 135–37, 190n21, 194n9; and positive reinforcement, 102; shaped by emotional trajectories, 92, 192n3; stereotypes and controlling images related to, 76, 86–87, 104–5, 196n22; students discussing, 98– 99; and the workplace, 190n21. See also belonging emphasized femininity, 86–87, 190n17, 190–91n22, 191n33 employment, 142, 171, 190n21, 194n4, 194–95n2 England, Paula, 187n20 entertainers: and attention, 102, 115; and belonging, 82, 92–93; centrifugal pressure, 118–21; and the

cookie-cutter self, 14; and emotional distance from peers, 81; and formal leadership positions, 108–12; physical location of, 81, 87, 176; and policing, 108–12, 124; raced and gendered associations of, 76; risks encountered by, 79–81; and role inertia, 102, 108–12; self-presentation of, 71–76, 78–79, 176; and similarities to associates, 74, 92–93; studying, 176; and surprise, 76– 78; value of, 81–83, 90, 92–93, 189n9 ethnography: conducting, 7–9, 84, 168, 172–73, 175–78, 182n32, 193n15, 201n28, 201n34; in research, 3, 195n4, 200n15, 201n28 Evans, Nancy J., 180n15, 192n4 exclusion: as a form of policing, 104; histories of, 16, 69; and inequality, 16, 171; in youth subcultures, 10–11, 169 extracurricular involvement. See social involvement extracurricular organizations, formal: art, dancing, and music, 2, 57, 89, 200n14; athletics, 1–3, 11, 78, 89, 110, 200n13; cultural, 200n14; debate, 2, 200n14, 201–2n41; general, 7–8, 11–12, 122, 168–71, 174, 197n34, 201n33; majorfocused, 200n14; political, 201– 2n41; religious, 32, 67–68, 176, 200n14; student media, 90; tour guides, 89–90, 200n14; video games, 91–92, 200n14; volunteer, 2, 7, 11, 42, 170. See also Cardio Club (ESU); Greek-letter organizations; identity-based groups; Learning Community (ESU); Volunteer Collective (ESU) face, 99–100, 103–4, 119. See also Goffman, Erving Facebook, 154

INDEX

facilities, 3, 7, 52, 169–70 faculty: endorsement of social involvement, 3, 139; engagement in extracurricular activities, 150–52, 158, 196n21; and engagement with diversity, 155, 196n21; facilitating feeling valued in the classroom, 90; interactions with students, 180–81n20, 195n5; participation in welcome week, 1; partnerships with student affairs, 196n21 fakeness, charges of, 105–8, 116, 193nn12–13 Fall Festival (ESU), 170 family: and caregivers, 24, 33, 35–36, 42; and connection, 5, 183; interactions with, 192n6; and social class background, 8, 170–71, 183; and socialization, 132; structure, 8, 170–71. See also parents; siblings femininity: dividends and drawbacks of performing, 34–37, 39–42, 89–92; policing, 114–15, 193n12; and self-presentation, 13–14, 25– 26, 86–87, 93–94, 105, 190n17, 190–91n22, 191n33. See also doing gender field notes: analyzing, 140, 175; observations in, 59, 61, 63, 80, 83, 120, 127–28, 177; writing, 172–73, 201n28 first-generation college students, 5–6, 144, 148, 156 first-year experience, 33, 51, 117, 155–56, 173, 182n37, 195n9, 201n32 Fitzgerald, F. Scott, 66 Floor Olympics. See competitions for-profit institutions, 182n28 fraternities. See Greek-letter organizations funding, higher education, 3. See also tuition fund-raising, 57–58, 119, 170 funny guys. See entertainers

236

Geiger, Robert L., 179n8, 198n46 gender: and allocation of value, 136, 141; and belonging, 14; complementarity, 26, 150; defining, 170; and distribution of students in roles, 136; and emotions, 29, 190n21; and expectations for selfpresentation, 26, 42, 93, 104–5, 121, 156, 171, 185–86n7, 192n8, 195n10; extracurricular groups focused on, 146–48; as a form of difference, 5, 155; and homogeneity in subcultures and cliques, 201–2n41; and intersectionality, 9, 13, 87, 121, 135, 142–43, 173, 183n41; and marginalization, 11, 16; and physical space, 137; and social networks, 11; students discussing, 12, 63, 103–5; studying, 26, 143, 168–70, 173, 182–83nn38–39, 188n27. See also inequality glass escalator, 130–31, 194n5 Goffman, Erving, 7–8, 99–104, 115, 137, 145, 172 gossip, 106–7, 193n13 governance, 101, 151 grade point average (GPA), 10 graduation rates, 4, 9, 93 Greek-letter organizations, 2–3, 11, 169, 180n10–11, 199n7, 200n13–14 group moms. See caregivers growth. See development Gurin, Patricia, 181–82n26 Hamilton, Laura T., 10–11, 26, 142, 150, 177, 180n10, 182–83n38, 183n43, 195n11 Hausmann, Leslie R., 180n17 Healy, Margaret A., 180n15 hiring, 194n4 Hochschild, Arlie, 87 Holland, Megan, 190n14 homelessness, 151 honors or advanced coursework, 9–10

INDEX

hookups, 11, 137 horizontal stratification, 10, 184n52 Horowitz, Helen L., 175–76, 200n13 household labor, 41 Hout, Michael, 194n1 How College Works (Chambliss and Takacs), 138 Hu, Shouping, 192n4 humor: and attention, 102; and complex self-presentation, 145–46, 149, 152, 196n23; functioning to distance from peers, 81; and policing, 108–12, 123–24; as a risky social currency, 72, 79–82, 102; and self-presentation of entertainers, 71–72, 74–80, 93, 111, 121–23, 140; value of, 82–83 Hurst, Allison, 175 identity-based groups, 145–48, 171, 199n7, 200n14 illness, 33, 40, 81 immigration status, 5, 144 impression management, 7. See also Goffman, Erving inclusion: assimilationist approach to, 5; and belonging, 2, 12–13, 15, 67, 140–41, 144; and connection, 5; contrasted with equality, 94, 142; cost of, 2, 12–15, 140–41; and identity-based groups, 146– 48; inequalities in, 9–12, 135–38, 144–45; and integrity, 147; lack of guidance from the university on, 5, 141, 157; and likeability, 154–55; obstacles to, 144, 158; and self-presentation, 12–14, 25–26, 70, 116, 143, 201n32; studying, 6–9, 143, 169–71, 173; supporting students in finding, 154–55, 158; White men’s ease of access to, 70. See also belonging; connections inequality: in access to groups or institutions, 9–10, 184n53, 184n56; in attention, 58–60, 68–69, 84, 98–99, 137–38, 176, 191n25;

237

class, 142, 150, 184n53, 184n54; combatting inequality, 139, 142, 145, 154–58; durability of, 144, 158; and emotions, 92–94, 135– 38; and exclusive extracurricular outlets, 11; in feelings of belonging, 14, 144; gender, 26–27, 42, 86, 150; and the history of higher education, 15–16, 69–70; justifying, 142; in K–12 schools, 142– 43, 156, 169, 185n73, 201–2n41; racial, 156, 184n53, 196n22; relational theories of, 143; (re)production of, 8–10, 15, 118, 137–38, 141–44, 156–58, 167; in responsibilities, 29; as a result of hidden advantages, 131; and self-presentation, 13, 26, 135– 38; sexual and romantic, 26, 42, 137; and stereotypes or assumptions, 42, 70, 94, 143, 196n22; in student experiences, 9, 15, 68–69, 135–38, 154, 167; in student outcomes, 11, 93; students discussing, 12, 151, 196n22 in loco parentis, 16 inner-directed dispositions, 154 integration. See social integration intellectuals. See educators intentionality: extracurricular groups and calls for, 19, 141, 157–58; extracurricular groups and lack of, 16–17, 141, 157, 198n47; in social groups, 47, 131, 138, 147 interaction ritual theory, 137, 168, 187n6, 192n3. See also Collins, Randall intersectionality: in approach to research, 8–9, 143, 174, 183n39; and inequality, 135, 142–43; and involvement patterns, 191n23; and self-presentation, 13, 87, 121; and stereotypes or controlling images, 105, 173. See also Collins, Patricia Hill interviews, 8, 173–74, 177, 192n6, 201n31, 201n33

INDEX

intoxication, alcohol, 24–25, 34–35, 40, 102, 186n14 intramural sports, 1, 3, 61, 200n13 introversion, 73, 85, 189n1, 189n10 involvement. See social involvement Ispa-Landa, Simone, 143, 189n4, 192n8 Jaggars, Shanna S., 198n47 Jell-O, 78, 82 Jenkins, Davis, 198n47 Jeopardy! event, 75–76 jokes. See humor jottings, 172–73, 188n12, 201nn27–28 junior year, 1, 40, 110 K–12 schools: and diversity, 197n35; and identity strategies, 93, 191n30; inequality in, 9–10, 169; and pre-college experiences, 33, 79, 91, 104, 120; research on, 7–10, 107, 143; as sites for volunteer work, 23–24, 36, 51; social environments in, 10; and teachers, 23–24, 132–33. See also segregation Karabel, Jerome, 69 Ken, Ivy, 183n41 Kezar, Adrianna J., 198n46 Kimball, Ezekiel W., 195n13 King, Peter M., 192n4 Kinzie, Jillian, 180n15 Kuh, George D., 192n4, 198n47 Labaree, David F., 179n8 Lareau, Annette, 177, 200n22, 202n47 leaders, colloquial references to. See managers leadership: associations with White masculinity, 13, 48, 63, 70, 105, 128–31; and complex self-presentation, 149–50, 152–53; and constraints on self-presentation, 111, 114–16, 122, 140, 193n13; development

238

in college, 4, 139, 152–54, 157, 194n14; positional, 32, 55–56, 109, 137, 149, 152–54, 196n23; as a quality attributed to managers, 12, 46–47, 59–61 learning, 19, 100, 151, 156–58, 168, 184n53, 197n34. See also development Learning Community (ESU): associates in, 73–74, 86, 88–89; caregivers in, 31, 33–36, 40, 101–5; and centrifugal pressure, 121–26; and centripetal elevation, 131– 34; cookie-cutter selves within, 12–14, 25; details of, 7, 151, 168–69, 172, 193n1, 199n11; discussion following the presidential election, 97–99; discussion of stereotypes, 196n22; educators in, 63, 66–68; entertainers in, 74–75, 78, 82; guidelines, 51; managers in, 50, 56, 59, 187n5; members, 162; Past, Present, and Future presentations, 23–25, 73; peer leadership within, 152–53; and policing, 105–8, 121–26; retreats, 36, 152; and role inertia, 97–99, 101–5; service projects, 28; studying, 172; and support by caregivers during exams, 28; welcomed by caregivers into, 27–28 Lee, Elizabeth M., 144 lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) students, 5, 144, 156, 195n13, 199n2 liberal arts schools, 6, 144, 195n4 likeability, 154–55, 158 line, 99–100, 115, 145, 192n3, 195n16. See also Goffman, Erving listening: as a behavior of associates, 13, 88–89; as a behavior of individuals with complex self-presentation, 146, 148, 152; and development, 138; leading to feelings of belonging or being valued, 68; managers speaking more than, 46; as a way of show-

INDEX

ing appreciation, 13, 51, 57–60, 63, 68, 98, 101, 132–33; as a way to demonstrate care, 25, 31 living learning communities, 7, 82, 169, 196n21, 200n13. See also Learning Community (ESU) Lonely Crowd, The (Riesman), 154 looking-glass self, 197n32 loss of face, 99, 103–4. See also face; Goffman, Erving Luker, Kristin, 172 majority minority institutions, 6 majors, academic: extracurricular groups focused on, 200n14; and inequality, 10, 184n53; and inertia, 100, 117; research participants and, 178; students discussing, 84, 122 Majors, Richard, 190n13 managers: and attention, 58–60; and belonging, 60–61, 69, 82, 92–93, 118–19, 141–42; centripetal elevation and, 127–31, 141–42; compared with educators, 62–64; and the cookie-cutter self, 14–15; female and racial/ethnic minority students policed for presenting as, 105–7, 109–10, 113–15, 119–24; and formal leadership positions, 55–58; influence on group activity, 48–52; physical location of, 176; and policing, 124, 192–93n11; raced and gendered associations of, 48, 70; and role inertia, 101–2; self-presentation of, 46–48, 52–55, 77, 139, 187n5, 188–89n28; studying, 176; value of, 60–62 marketization of higher education, 3, 157, 168, 179nn8–9, 198n46 marriage, interracial and cross-class, 155 masculinity: dividends and drawbacks of performing, 69–70; policing, 93, 105, 107, 121, 127– 35, 193n12; and self-presentation,

239

13–14, 48, 65, 76, 85–86, 191n30. See also doing gender McCabe, Janice, 11, 182n28, 182– 83n38, 184n56, 186n8 McDermott, Monica, 201n28 McMillan Cottom, Tressie, 182n28 medical supplies, 25, 28, 37–39 Metro-Area Relays, 52–55 Milner, Murray, 175–76 mobility, 6, 142, 175 mom of the group. See caregivers Moneta, Larry, 197n36 Nathan, Rebekah, 3, 179n3, 188n16, 198n1, 199n10 National Association of Student Personnel Administrators (NASPA), 157 National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA), 11, 180n10 nationality, 5, 9, 155 National Public Radio (NPR), 197n36 neighborhoods, 150, 155, 185n73 nice girls. See associates Nicolazzo, Z., 195n13 Oakley, Ann, 40–41 Obama, Barack, 98 off-campus parties, 34, 61, 137, 170, 186n14, 200n15. See also party scene orientation, 134, 148, 153–54, 201n33 other-directed dispositions, 154 parents: absence of, 33; and class background, 171; engaging, 139, 144–45, 150, 157, 184n54; inequality perpetuated by, 26, 150, 184n54; influence on selfpresentation, 148–51, 179n7; institutions acting in place of, 16 participant observation, 8, 172–73, 176–77 party scene, 3, 11, 66, 137, 142, 180n10, 180n11. See also offcampus parties

INDEX

Pascoe, C. J., 107, 193n12 Pell Grants, 182n30 performance: and attention, 73, 87, 101–2, 108–9, 193n14; change in, 14, 119–21; and class, 183n43; constraints on, 13, 94, 103–5, 114–17, 188–89n28, 191n30; and the cookie-cutter self, 23–25, 46– 48, 62–66, 74–76, 83–87, 173; embodied, 78–79; and impression management, 7; and role inertia, 99–101; and sexuality, 11, 156. See also femininity; masculinity persistence. See retention personality, 73, 85, 126, 138, 180n19, 189–90n11. See also introversion Piaget, Jean, 181–82n26 planners. See managers poetry, 66–67 policing: associates, 112–15; caregivers, 105–8; and centrifugal pressure, 121–26, 141–41, 145; entertainers, 108–12, 196n23; lack of for managers and educators, 192n11; resisting, 147, 149– 50; and role inertia, 100–101, 103–5, 115–17, 141–42; source of, 124–27 political affiliation: extracurricular groups focused on, 201–2n41; as a form of difference, 5, 155; and identity, 180–81n20; students discussing, 64, 66, 98–101 political engagement, 12, 50, 64, 66, 125 poverty, 125, 151 Princeton University, 66 private institutions, 3, 15, 182n31 public institutions: accessible, 6, 15, 143, 156; changing, 141; and diversity, 15, 156, 195n11; as the future of higher education, 6; histories of, 15; mission of, 157; and optional resources, 198n47; research at, 167–68,

240

182n28; student enrollment at, 6, 15, 143–44, 182n31; and tuition dependence, 3 Pugh, Allison, 182n36, 201n31 race: and allocation of value, 136, 141; and belonging, 14; and college access/outcomes, 184n53; defining, 170; and distribution of students in roles, 136; and emotions, 87, 190n21; and expectations for self-presentation, 10, 13, 93, 104–5, 121, 183n43, 195n10; extracurricular groups focused on, 146–48; as a form of difference, 5, 155; and homogeneity in subcultures and cliques, 201– 2n41; and intersectionality, 9, 13, 87, 121, 142–43, 173, 183n41; and marginalization, 11, 69; and social networks, 11; students discussing, 103–5, 146; studying, 168–70, 173, 183n39, 188n27. See also inequality races. See competitions racism: and cultural assumptions, 16– 17, 94, 105, 127, 135, 188n26; and higher education, 69–70, 183n40; histories of, 65, 69, 138, 144; resisting, 135, 153; students familiar with, 104, 153; and trainings for student leaders, 152– 53; and violence, 103. See also controlling images radio station, campus, 68 recruiting: new members for the Cardio Club, 44–45, 65; new members for the Volunteer Collective, 56, 170, 187n9; students, 156, 180n10 reinforcement, positive, 100–102, 105, 115–17, 124, 126, 141–42 religion: extracurricular groups focused on, 36, 148, 200n14; as a form of difference, 5, 155; and identity, 180–81n20; and inclu-

INDEX

sion, 144, 169, 199n2; students discussing, 64, 66 remedial or developmental coursework, 9–10 representation, on campus, 42, 148, 183n40 research ethics, 177–78 residence halls, 6–7, 48–49, 51–52, 90–91, 152–53, 186n14 resident advisors, 48–50, 90, 152–53, 191n26, 196n23, 197n24 retention, 2, 4, 65, 180n17 Reyes, Daisy V., 180–81n20 Rhoades, Gary, 179n8, 199n3 Richeson, Jennifer A., 198n50 riddle, 58, 188n10 Ridgeway, Cecilia, 171, 183n43, 195n10 Riesman, David, 154 risk management, 110, 196n23 Rivera, Lauren A., 194n4 Roksa, Josipa, 3, 156, 183n39, 191n24, 198n47, 198–99n1 role inertia, 18, 100–105, 115–17, 135–39, 141–42, 145, 148 romantic relationships, 24, 26, 42, 104 rush week, 44–45, 200n13 Salisbury, Mark H., 184n56 Saunders, Daniel B., 179n8, 198n46 Schofield, Janet W., 180n17 second-generation immigrant students, 5 segregation, 155, 185n73, 198n43, 201–2n41 Seider, Maynard, 184n56 self. See cookie-cutter self; Goffman, Erving self-actualization, 2–4, 13–15, 26, 32, 40–41, 139 senior year, 1, 29, 110, 194–95n2 service: events, 28, 42, 182n32; Learning Community and, 28, 50–51, 88–89, 169; and the mission of the Volunteer Collective,

241

7, 42, 170; and student engagement, 157; and student organizations, 2, 11; students discussing, 88–89; and value, 82 sexism: and cultural assumptions, 16–17, 26, 94, 105, 127, 135; and gender complementarity, 150; and higher education, 69; histories of, 65, 69, 138, 144; and policies, 26; resisting, 135; and stereotypes, 156; and trainings for student leaders, 152–53. See also controlling images sexuality, 11, 26, 42, 137, 193n12 sexual orientation: extracurricular groups focused on, 148; as a form of difference, 5, 9, 155; and identity, 5, 180–81n20; and inclusion, 5, 144, 169, 199n2 siblings, 24–25 Simon, Scott, 197n36 Simpson, Jacqueline, 180n15 Slaughter, Sheila, 179n8 slavery, 69 social class. See class social construction, 26, 56, 146, 180– 81n20, 185–86n7, 199n6 social groups, informal, 3, 8, 56, 90– 91, 134, 169. See also extracurricular organizations, formal social integration: critiques of, 5; research on, 143; and student success, 4, 180n17; theories of, 4–5, 180n15, 190n14. See also inclusion; social involvement social involvement: and belonging, 61, 91; benefits of, 2–4, 32, 138– 39, 147, 180n15, 192n4; and college pathways, 100, 187n8, 191n23; critiques of, 5–6; and the curriculum, 150–52, 157–58; and exposure to diversity and difference, 5, 138; inequality in, 9, 11, 139, 143, 184n56, 195n9, 199n8; and lack of institutional oversight, 141; levels, 88–89, 184n56,

242

INDEX

social involvement (continued) 191n23; limitations of, 32; types of, 146–48, 171, 184n56; university endorsement of, 2–4, 139, 141, 168–69, 190n18 social justice, 51, 88–89, 98, 104, 125, 151 social media, 2, 112, 125, 154, 179n2 social movements, 68, 125, 133 social networks, 10–11, 147 social psychology, 7, 137, 156, 173 socioeconomic status, 6, 8, 144, 170– 71, 175, 183n43, 200n17. See also class sociology class, 150–52 solidarity, 192n3 sophomore year, 1, 117 sororities. See Greek-letter organizations sports. See athletics status attainment, 184n44, 194n1 Steele, Claude, 156 stereotypes: applying, 15, 184–85n59, 186–87n19; and centripetal elevation, 131; combatting, 145–47, 150, 152–55, 158, 190–91n22, 196n17; gender, 26, 31–32, 42, 93–94, 156, 171, 190n18; at the intersections of race and gender, 76, 86, 93, 104–5, 173, 190n17, 196n22; and policing, 114–17, 124; racial, 69–70, 142–43, 188n26; and self-presentation, 12, 15, 66, 87, 94, 100, 104–5, 197n26; students encountering, 11 stereotype threat, 65, 156 Stevens, Mitchell, 10, 142, 195n4 strategic interaction, 7. See also Goffman, Erving stratification. See inequality Stuber, Jenny, 10 student activities center/unit, 2–3, 168, 170, 180n18 student affairs: divisions, 157, 168, 197n36, 198n48, 199n4–5; professionals, 2–5, 152–53, 180n18, 196n21; scholars, 3–5, 199n6

student development. See development student organization fair, 1–2 student organizations. See extracurricular organizations, formal student outcomes, 10–11, 142–44, 181–82n26, 184n53, 194n1, 196n21, 197n34 subcultures, 10–11, 169, 175–76, 200n13, 201–2n41 Swidler, Ann, 16, 144, 185n73 Takacs, Christopher G., 138 team-based activities, 4, 48–50, 58– 60, 153, 169–70, 196n23. See also competitions thick description, 173, 176–77 This Side of Paradise (Fitzgerald), 66 time use, 3, 89, 191n24 Tinto, Vincent, 4–5, 180n17 tool kit metaphor, 16, 144, 154–57, 185n73 Torche, Florencia, 192n4 track. See competitions; Metro-Area Relays; workouts, with the Cardio Club tracking, 9–10 transition: to adulthood, 191n30; in American society, 154; to college, 6, 9, 191n30; out of college, 194– 95n2; unsettled times and, 16, 144. See also centrifugal pressure; centripetal elevation; first-year experience; senior year Trawalter, Sophie, 198n50 Trump, Donald, 97–98 tuition, 3, 157, 179–80n9, 180n10 typology, 175–76 Unequal Childhoods (Lareau), 202n47 upward mobility. See mobility Vander Ven, Thomas, 186n14, 200n15 veganism, 125 Virginia, University of, 167

243

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Volunteer Collective (ESU): associates in, 87–89, 134; caregivers in, 32–33, 42, 56; and centrifugal pressure, 119–21; and centripetal elevation, 134; complex selfpresentation in, 146–52; details of, 7, 59, 170; entertainers in, 77, 80–81, 121; formal leadership within, 32, 56; managers in, 56– 60; members, 164, 170, 192n6, 201n32; membership turnover, 56, 164, 187n9; and policing, 119–21; and positive reinforcement, 101; and role inertia, 101, 192n6; studying, 172 Walton, Gregory M., 180n17 Ward, Kelly, 180n15 Warikoo, Natasha, 142, 195n4, 197n34 welcome week, 1–2, 153–54 well-being: caregivers monitoring in others, 28–29, 40, 43, 78, 81, 176; research on care work and,

41; of students, 17, 40–41. See also care work West, Candace, 185–86n7 Wilkins, Amy, 76, 175–76, 191n30 Williams, Christine, 194n5 Willie, Sarah, 180–81n20 Willis, Paul, 175 Wilson, Kristen, 180n15 Wingfield, Adia H., 190n21 Winkle-Wagner, Rachelle, 186n15 Wolf-Wendel, Lisa, 180n15 Wood, Kate, 180–81n20 Woods, Rochelle L., 180n17 workouts, with the Cardio Club, 7, 28, 44–46, 64–65, 79, 111–15, 169–70 workplace, 48, 131, 190n21. See also employment writing, creative, 13, 66–67 youth culture. See culture Zimmerman, Don H., 185–86n7