I have never seen my parents as upset as they were the day they dropped me off at college. My mother, I think, cried because she knew that she would no longer have my companionship on those evenings when she returned, embittered by the legal profession, from her office. But on that first day, reassuring her that I would see her at Thanksgiving, I sent my mother on her merry way.
My father was another story. With glazed eyes, he hugged me and I asked him why he looked so sad. After all, he lived a mere half-hour from school and would see me frequently.
"Why are you all teary," I asked.
"I'm jealous," he replied.
What he meant, of course, was that he remembered college with the fondest nostalgia and envied that he could never return to this carefree point in his life. I did not understand then what all the hype was about-college to me meant more homework, longer hours, less sleep, and generally less relaxation, all of which seemed to me far less carefree than even my strictly regimented high school years.
Admittedly, my first year of college was carefree, more carefree than I had anticipated. My father was right to have envied me. Devoting most-though not all-of my high school years to academic pursuits, I allotted little time for the social scene and was surprised, arriving at school, at how much fun it was to be social.
Naturally, entering college, I assumed that my fellow Columbians would be workaholics like myself, students addicted to reading, studying, writing, and learning. My orientation adviser told me otherwise. He suggested that we, a pack of seventeen and eighteen-year-olds, eager to begin our education in the Big Apple, spend our free time searching for fake IDs so that we could fully appreciate the bar scene. But I spent my first night at Columbia at an atrocious frat party, which only solidified my belief that Ivy Leaguers did not know how to have fun.
Over time, I learned that Columbia students are just as devoted to socializing as they are to academics. The perfect Columbian knows how to balance both good and evil and, during the first few weeks of freshman year, I discovered how to manage both the excessive work load and the excessive social load.
This was not the only acquired knowledge that freshman year supplied me. I also learned that the human body only needs four or so hours of sleep and seven Cokes to operate. Morning classes may be painful, but they are manageable, provided you have the right amount of caffeine in your system. Beginning freshman year with a nine a.m. class was no picnic, but the soda machine on the first floor of Carman certainly helped to ease the pain.
I reflect on my freshman year with a mixture of fondness and contempt. I remember how much I enjoyed spending all of my time in a 200 square foot room in Carman with my so-called friends. I remember the excitement of living on a floor where no one went to bed before four in the morning. I remember the sheer thrill of living away from home, finally having gained my long-awaited independence.
Mostly, in remembering how I spent my time, I question why I sat in one place when I could have been out exploring the City, seeing New York in all her glory. Sometimes I even regret having invested so much energy in people who could not have cared less, who I now try to avoid on my walks through campus. As a freshman, I befriended people because of proximity rather than because of shared interests or beliefs.
But somewhere along the line I grew up, realized that it was my choice, that friendship did not have to be a matter of convenience.
And somewhere along the line I learned not to trust my first impressions.
My first year roommate and I both believed that we were ill-matched. She stayed out of my way and I hers, though neither of us could avoid divulging our darkest secrets when the lights were out and the rest of our suite lay sleeping. When the year ended and she returned to California, we realized how much we missed those late night conversations, talking through the night in the grungy room that was our haven. Best friends can appear in the strangest of places; mine happened to be assigned by lottery.
Forget the Iliad. In the end, freshman year taught me much more than epic poetry.
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Hannah Selinger is a Columbia College junior. She is an Associate Editorial Page Editor of the Spectator.