Whenever I read senior columns in this newspaper, I notice how fashionable it is to introduce them in terms that protest too much—to insist on the impossibility of doing justice to the Columbia experience in a mere 700-800 words, before proceeding to make the attempt. I’m always a little envious of columnists who take this tack. Their college experiences are, apparently, so complex as to be inarticulate. Meanwhile, the more I reflect on matters, the more I find that my own amounts to pretty standard fare. It can be summed up in roughly seven words: napping, procrastination, Gchat (off the record), problematization, Spectator, oversleeping, and, of course, the dialectic.
I’ll concede that it’s disappointing to take such a narrow view of my undergraduate years. But facts are facts. (Or are they? Thank you, postmodern theory.) The objective truth (?) is that I haven’t used my time at Columbia to achieve anything very impressive or exceptional. Instead, I spent four years changing majors (from political science to history to English), thinking about studying abroad (nope), adjusting my postgraduate plans (TK), and otherwise enjoying the life of the mind. I took classes that ranged from terrible to sublime and made friends who politely ignored my habit of sleeping through social engagements. Without really realizing it, I spent six semesters working at this paper. The whole experience has a haphazard quality about it.
Oh, but it wasn’t always going to be this way. In my more ambitious days as a senior in high school, I had big plans for my college career. In my mind, I was set to leave behind suburban mediocrity and remake myself in the context of Columbia’s aggressively urban, rigorously academic environment. This notion of personal refinement was what first drew me to the Core Curriculum—because, let’s be honest, you have to feel at least a little sentimental about the idea of prescriptive education to make it through very much of Adam Smith. Before I knew anything about that particular thrill, I thought I knew how my college experience ought to play out and who I would be at the end of it. I saw, in Columbia, a simple and effective function for personal growth.
Fortunately, Columbia presented me with something altogether different. From the moment I arrived in Morningside Heights (more “quietly gentrified” than “aggressively urban”), I was startled by how disorienting it could be to live and study here. There were so many potential courses, potential friends (in that awkward, Columbia kind of way), and potential extracurricular activities, that it was hard to know which ones to pursue. Every choice seemed crucial, but the options seemed too many. I was overwhelmed, and any hope I’d had of confidently moving through my college years was soon dashed.
So I learned to make it up as I went along. I chose classes based on which books I wanted to read, even if these didn’t add up to a coherent program of study. If I liked a certain professor, I made it a point to take other classes with him or her. I limited myself to two extracurriculars and stayed involved as long as they held my interest. As for my friendships... I can’t explain why I’ve taken to some people and not to others. I figure Columbia attracts so many variously interesting individuals that it’s a privilege to know even a few of them.
The sum of all these occurrences is my college career. It’s been an arbitrary experience—and an immensely satisfying one. Even so, I know it’s not the only one that could have satisfied me. I can think of a lot of things about it that I’d revise, if given the chance. So I guess I’m of two minds: I would do it all again, and I would do most everything differently. To borrow a phrase from Camus, whose heavy-handed self-indulgence certainly has no bearing on the Columbia experience, “I had lived my life one way and could just as easily have lived it another.” It’s probably for the best that this option doesn’t exist. It’s a testament to Columbia’s wealth of opportunity that I wish it did.
To the list of things beyond my control, add the passage of time. It’s finally the spring of 2009, and I have to move on from this experience. I don’t kid myself into thinking that it will be an easy process—my time at Columbia has been far too interesting for that. In all likelihood, I’ll be second-guessing it for a long time. Whenever this happens, I’d hope to take comfort in a convenient truism: a liberal arts education means never having to say you’re sorry—unless, of course, your degree is in English and your graduation happens to coincide with the worst economic crisis in 70 years. Blast!
The author is a Columbia College senior majoring in English. He was the head copy editor for the 131st managing board.
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