The curious case of Columbia students

Last week, one of my suitemates had a friend visit her from New Orleans. In order to do something that seemed location-appropriate for her, we watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and despite my intense and irrational dislike of Brad Pitt, I will admit that the film is touchingly haunting. Particularly harrowing, I felt, was the part of the movie in which an accented Pitt says in a voiceover, “For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.” He was talking about life. Thinking back on it, though, this very easily could have been a description of the experience and frustration of a Columbia undergraduate.

Maybe this is just my experience, but, as much as I complain about needing to study, I find it much easier to do that than to pry myself away from my books and laptop and head out to one of the many events held each night. One of the reasons that I chose this school was because the campus is so alive in such a variety of ways—politically, culturally, artistically, spiritually, athletically—and people representing all of the aforementioned offer something to go see. There constantly are great minds giving speeches, notable academics holding question and answer sessions, the stars of tomorrow doing some sort of performance... this list goes on and on. I meant to see them all. I meant to remain an active member of a multitude of organizations. But then the Lit Hum reading list hit.

This is where Mr. Button comes in. If I want to be as engaged on this campus as possible, then that’s both my right and responsibility. This is a responsibility that I take particularly seriously, because the events that I was determined enough to go to were great. I Am My Own Wife back in the fall was a theatrical feat. The talk by Jonathan Safran Foer was immensely enjoyable. I appreciate the conditions of our current economic climate because I showed up to the Undergraduate History Council’s panel on economic crises throughout history. Furthermore, having organized one and been part of the organization of several other events this year, I know the heart that goes into planning them, and the heartache that comes when they’re under-attended, especially because so much effort is put into making sure they’re worth going to.

I am writing this because I don’t think I’m alone in this situation. I earnestly believe that this campus is engaged and diverse, but I also know that my fellow classmates acutely feel the burden of work. The trouble is that this workload becomes an easy scapegoat for noninvolvement.

This campus is only ever going to be as active and engaging as we make it. Yes, there’s work, but there’s always going to be work, and To the Lighthouse will be there tomorrow (seriously—I can’t seem to lose it). We can’t complain about lack of campus community if we don’t see what it is we’re offering one another. We can’t boast our passion for engagement if we aren’t fully engaged. We can’t say that we’re enriching our minds fully inside and outside the classroom if every now and then we don’t step outside. Yes, Wednesday at 8 or Tuesday at 7 is always going to be inconvenient, and perhaps we really should be reading or studying then. But if there really aren’t any rules to this thing, then we should at least consider the fact that the choice is up to us. I would never advocate not doing work. I do, however, believe that we should strive for campus engagement as well as academic success. I think we each want to be that kind of Columbian. And if hours of Benjamin Button’s technically stunning cinematography have taught me anything, it’s that we can be whoever we want to be.

And pre-frosh (because it’s never too late or too early), if you’re reading this: You can make the best of it or the worst of it. Benjamin and I both hope you make the best.

The author is a Columbia College first-year. She is an associate editorial page editor.