Senior Column: Columbia was the destination, but the journey was rough

Getting to Columbia was difficult for me. I don’t mean getting into Columbia—though admissions isn’t a walk in the park for anybody. I mean actually driving here.

My first trip to Columbia was God-awful. The bad news began before I even got here, roughly at the halfway point between my hometown of Buffalo, N.Y. and New York City, when my dad accidentally filled his diesel Ford F350 with regular gasoline at a pit stop. As soon as we got back on the highway the engine started heaving, and the vehicle started spewing black smoke. With the wrong fuel, the truck was undriveable.

There are two critical things to know about this truck. First is that, as a newer model, its gas tank is fitted with an anti-siphoning device that prevents the car layman from emptying the tank himself, especially when he’s hundreds of miles from home. The truck would have to be taken to a dealership but couldn’t be worked on over the weekend.

The second thing is that the F350 is very large, which is perfect for transporting a year’s worth of dorm supplies. But having all that stuff now meant that my parents and I needed to cram all of it into a tiny compact car that was the only one available at the nearest car rental agency in Scranton. This turned out to be a barely feasible task—only if certain items were strapped to the roof. Also, did I mention that it was raining?

You might remember your first trip to Columbia as some mix of exuberance and trepidation for what college might hold. My first trip was complete hell. I was naturally nervous enough to begin with, and the last thing we needed was our car to break down.

When we finally did get to New York, my dad’s and my tempers were still running hot, and in the heat of the moment, right before my parents were about to leave, he told me, “I wish you hadn’t come to Columbia.”

He instantly apologized after saying this. My dad and I had disagreed on which college I should go to, so this wasn’t exactly news to me. It was jarring, though, to hear this from him the moment I was about to begin college.

So four years later, I have to ask: Was he right?

Which college you go to is universally considered one of the most important decisions of your life. And college itself is full of little decisions. Stuff like: Should I wait until 3 a.m. to start this paper? I nearly always answered “yes” to this question. Or: Could I just turn in my Spectator column at 8 p.m.? Again, time and time again, I answered “yes.” (Let this be a formal apology to all my professors and editors.)

Some decisions in college are a bit more important. College students have to ask themselves: What should I major in? After four changes, I settled on economics (along with political science). Chalk this one up as a regret. They don’t call it the dismal science for nothing.

But another question—should I join Spectator?—I did answer correctly. In no classroom at Columbia could I have learned what I did in the Spectator office—how to write, how to report, how to edit. And there I learned, most importantly, that I want to be a journalist (for now, at least). And it turned out that Speccies, beside being some of the smartest and most motivated students at this school, like to stay up until 4 a.m. and avoid schoolwork just as much as I do.

Looking back at my four years here, with the decisions college students must make, there will inevitably be regrets. I could have been a better student, a better editor, a better roommate, a better friend, a better boyfriend, a better son. But one decision I will never regret is deciding to come to Columbia. This school has meant more to me than anything I have ever done. I’ve learned more here, done more here, met more incredible people here, and grown more as a person here than I likely will anywhere else in my life. I hope the members of the Class of 2015 that will replace me and every other graduating senior next fall understand how lucky each of them are.

And, for the record, my dad thinks I’m lucky today, too. As someone who couldn’t go to college himself, he couldn’t be prouder to have his son graduate from Columbia.

Another thing my dad and I now agree on: If I go to graduate school, I’m taking a plane.

The author is a Columbia College senior majoring in economics-political science. He is a former associate copy editor on the 132nd board, head copy editor on the 133rd managing board, Spectrum daily editor on the 134th board, and a current opinion columnist.