Bring originality back to Valentine's Day

Here at Columbia, Valentine’s Day is in the air. Yet the only indication on campus seems to be in some sparse fliers and those who complain about single's-awareness day. If anything, the only real indication of Valentine’s Day are local restaurants boasting romantic menus (which happen to be twice the price) and professors scheduling midterms for Tuesday with typical lack of deference to our social lives. In and of itself, the concept of dedicating a day to expressing your love for that “special someone” seems full of endless possibilities and promising opportunities—the opportunity to turn a candy-gram into a date, a Valentine into a lover, a lover into a love. It’s an excuse endorsed by both popular culture and society for people to make romantic pursuits the primary agenda for 24 hours.

Well-intended as the premise is, however, it has morphed into a holiday that only rarely achieves its original agenda. Instead, the holiday furthers the agendas of retail executives, greeting-card companies, florists, and jewelry stores throughout the world. The only effects it has on those celebrating the holiday are endless stress for those in relationships to adequately express themselves and desperation for singles to get dates.

The classic anti-Valentine’s Day argument inevitably involves the well-worn yet timeless rant regarding the ever-expanding power of consumer culture and capitalism, vehemently disparaging the businesses that shamelessly profit from the holiday. This argument gains weight when one considers that the historical basis of Valentine’s Day is flimsy at best. While it does indeed mark the remembrance of the martyrdom of the Catholic Saint Valentine, he died for defying the Roman Emperor Claudius and for aiding Christians in a time of persecution, not for reasons remotely romantic.

The stories of the day’s origins range from vague to ridiculous, with some blatantly contrived for the purpose of propaganda. I’m particularly fond of one origin story, which posits that Feb. 14 is the beginning of many birds’ mating season and thus is a day for romance. Who are we to defy the birds and the bees? Apparently we don’t dare defy nature, as exhibited by the fact that over a billion Valentine’s cards are sold each year.

When looked at as an opportunity to express amorous emotions rather than a global marketing conspiracy, the holiday’s sparkling allure returns, along with intimidating pressure to transfigure that enticing sparkle into many 24-karat sparkles on your lucky Valentine’s neck, wrist, or finger. This pressure is traditionally one-sided, as the man is expected to do the bulk of the gift-giving on Valentine’s Day. In addition to causing a lamentable lightening of said gentleman’s pockets, this also represents an inherent perversion of the entire gift-giving experience. If the impetus for splurging on the woman you love is the date on the calendar—and your fear of her reaction should you fail to deliver a gift worthy of your love—what does that say about your priorities?

The pathetic state of the current Valentine’s Day is eerily reminiscent of Plato’s Theory of Forms. In this case, the Form is that idyllic day of love. The forms are all the things that mark the modern Valentine’s Day, which have nothing to do with love and everything to do with conforming to societal pressures.

If Valentine’s Day is to have any hope of regaining its dignity, its only shot at redemption lies solidly in our hands. We—as lovers, couples, and significant others, and yes, even singles seeking love—must choose to convey our sincerity through creativity. We must keep in our sights the Form that calls for love’s expression and reject the perversions of that form that gives life to Hallmark, e-cards, two foot tall stuffed animals, and cheap chocolate. It’s hard, between the high costs of the city and the rigorous academic demands, to give Valentine’s Day its due here at Columbia. But the real solution isn’t to force a new romance, but to spend the day with friends.

The author is a Columbia College first-year.