When Local Teens Crash Reunions

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Courtesy of Sofia Cipriano ’27

They travel in packs and wear Brandy Melville clothing. They swivel their heads periodically, ever so slightly paranoid. Huddled over iPhones, they Snapchat their friends.

If you’ve seen such a group roaming the tents at Princeton Reunions, chances are you’ve spotted a group of high schoolers crashing the party.

Current students and alumni from the Princeton area think of Reunions crashing as a universal rite of passage. It’s even a unifier: Students from both local public and private schools participate. Many link up with their older friends who attend the University, who can open some doors for them — literally.

This Reunions, I set out to understand how high-schoolers crash the festivities.

On the Thursday evening of Reunions, I approached a group of suspicious-looking teenagers as they clustered a respectful distance from the five-year tent, plotting their infiltration. The high-schoolers — a group of five who let me shadow them on the condition of anonymity — brought me into the loop, regaled me with tales of their bravery, and shared their reflections on the Reunions experience.

Quickly, I learned that these kids are crafty. Few have been able to attain wristbands — at least legitimate, functional ones; a girl proudly showed me her knock-off. Instead, they tried to sneak into the tents through dorm buildings. After conferring, the group dispatched one member to scout a way in, carefully avoiding attention. Another girl received a call from a classmate who had managed to catch an open door. She peeled away, followed by a few others, a school of fish swimming through the hallways.

In the meantime, I chatted with the group awaiting their signal. They told me that it’s technically a school night — one girl confided that she has a quiz tomorrow — but tomorrow’s a half day, anyway, and this is tradition. Reunions must go on.

Last year, they said, it was easier: fewer security guards, more open windows, and paper wristbands that were easy to copy and fake. But this year Princeton upped its game. Security guards cloaked in shadows lined the dorms and had all but eliminated the open-window route, and the return to cloth wristbands made forgery much more difficult.

According to Erika Knudson, associate vice president for Advancement communications, the wristband system was introduced in 1999. Before then, attendees wore buttons that identified them and distinguished adults from minors. Asked about high-schoolers sneaking into Reunions, Knudson said, “We generally do not discuss the specifics of campus security arrangements because doing so could reduce the effectiveness of our security program.”

The high-schoolers and alumni explained that windows have been the preferred method of sneaking onto the premises. One girl said that last year a security guard grabbed her shoe as she hurled herself through an open window. She managed to evade capture. Later, she returned to retrieve her shoe and found that it had been kindly left for her.

Creative methods for sneaking in abound, including pretending to be a pizza delivery driver or desperately needing to use a restroom.

As the high-schoolers navigated from one tent to another through the basement of a dorm building, a group of slim blondes emerged. They told us they had been hiding in the laundry room for an hour. It was unclear if this was necessary. They seemed giddy, delighted by the mere act of rebellion.

There are no high school students to be found here ... as far we know.

Kevin Birch

Out in the tents, the crew stuck together. I asked one girl to estimate how many of her classmates are in the vicinity, and she said about 50.

She pointed out a small, co-ed group and said, “Those guys are soph-mores.” She side-eyed her friend and they rolled their eyes in unison. Sneaking into Reunions is understood to be upperclassman territory.

“Aren’t you going to party?” one girl asked me, scrutinizing my gray rain jacket — she was wearing orange and black — and an under-21 wristband. She seemed concerned for me.

“I’m working right now,” I replied, startled by her directness, “I’m talking to you guys. I’ll party later.”

She winked at me.

What’s the allure, I asked? The partying? The sneaking? The drinking?

Several girls said they come to Reunions to dance. There aren’t any clubs or discos in Princeton, and most nights there’s not much to do. Reunions are “Princeton’s way of giving back to the community,” as one girl, a head shorter than me, put it.

They don’t seem to be in it for the alcohol. At one point, one girl, who managed to acquire a beer, took a sip and scrunched her face. “Gross,” she said, launching the cup toward her friend. A group of taste-testers formed. They came to a consensus: really gross.

Of the dozens of high-schoolers around — I became an expert in spotting them — almost none had drinks.

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They seemed to be in it for the love of the game.

That said, a few high schoolers were ejected. I spotted one being led out, her beer confiscated. Her friends checked on her later. We found out that she got let off with a warning, and a friendly “better luck next time.” On the next few nights of Reunions, security measures seemed to increase; one of the girls from Thursday night said that she and her friends stuck to the 20th tent on Saturday night, as the fifth and 10th were effectively fortified.

The threat of exile makes the party all the more tantalizing.

On Thursday night I saw a cluster of them right by the DJ, forming a protective circle. They threw their hands up and their phones up even higher, documenting their bravery on social media. They belted out the words to the early 2000s pop songs; they danced, arms thrown around their friends.

I think they were having more fun than the rest of us.