Shallow encounters

Yesterday I bumped into an old friend. I walked over to him, eager to talk, to reminisce­—but it was awkward, and silent. I was confused at first, a smile still on my face. But now I so passionately remember why we had no enthusiasm to speak. We were NSOP buddies, and it had ended before it could have even begun.

NSOP, 2011. Group 100. That’s me. I find my Orientation Leader, standing leisurely at the head of the circle, with freshmen just like me sitting around him. I sit down, and turn to my left. I see a girl, looking just as confused and uncomfortable as I do. And so I begin. “What’s your name?” I think I heard it. “Where are you from?” I feel my BlackBerry vibrating. One new BBM. “What classes do you plan on taking?” I hear a list. I think I’ve heard of one of them. Lit Hum. I’m in that too. Wait—what was her name again?

You and I are equally guilty of this non-crime. The act of systematically making new friends through the useful medium of small talk is something we are very familiar with. We’ve been doing it all our lives, of course. But this daily discourse, this unexciting routine, matters deeply to us freshmen emerging from a long week at NSOP. We’ve become masters of “What’s your name?” “Where are you from?” and “What classes do you plan on taking?” We’re all experts on The Three Questions. But it’s this shallow medium of meeting new faces that has only hindered our social circles from growing. If Columbia is to truly give its undergraduates a feeling of living “under one roof”, the constancy of The Three Questions needs to be replaced with real, natural social interaction. We have to start seeing the people we meet for who they really are.

NSOP was our week of first impressions­—but our first words were not quite so poignant. We sat with our orientation groups in a circle performing the small talk routine, first with the questions, then with an icebreaker, then with a long round of A Warm Wind Blows. I remember playing the game. But I don’t remember the players.

As we sit in our group, staring blankly at each other, the environs of Columbia fill our vision. And the names look down at us—Plato, Aristotle. The work we’re going to set out to do. Now, though, our work is to make friends. Yet I can’t escape the realization that what I’m doing isn’t achieving that. The icebreakers won’t let us even try. They never seem to lift off from the most basic questions we are used to asking strangers. They touch on similar interests, pet peeves, and idiosyncrasies. But this isn’t supposed to be some cheap memory game­—NSOP icebreakers need a face-lift. In all the time we’ve spent breaking the ice, how do we still not know anybody else’s values? How is it that we don’t know whom we want to be friends with? It follows, then, that we haven’t made many friends.

Fresh out of NSOP, my innocent Columbia mind is brewing with an idea. We thrive on small talk where brief, innocuous encounters characterize our day. But what defines those encounters? Banter about things that don’t mean anything to us? Even your name, your unique name, is to me one of millions. I can’t associate it with you yet because I don’t know you. So let’s change the dialogue. Let’s change the routine. I don’t want to know where the wind blows. I want to learn our histories together. NSOP needs to shed its formality, and begin to build friendships. We need roundtable discussions of our different cultures, heritages, and intended legacies. Our different motivations and skills. We need to attend concerts, plays, and movies, and bond through common passions. We need to talk, not ask. And in return, we should expect stories, not one-word answers. Get rid of The Three Questions. Maybe then we can all stop feeling so alone.

The author is a Columbia College first-year.