On Sunday night, somewhere between the instant messages from Giants fans, the few hundred unstudied Spanish index cards, and the eight or so unread articles for the next two days’ worth of seminars, I grew hungry. It was pushing three in the morning, and the halftime pizza had worn off. As a typical college student, I had no food in the kitchen. I also don’t eat meat, so my takeout options were limited. It was looking like another grilled cheese sandwich from one of the 24-hour delis on Broadway. But having grown up 15 minutes from a small New England town called Foxborough, I was already feeling sick.

I live on the corner of LaSalle Street and Claremont Avenue, about five blocks from Columbia. It’s a little student village made up of Columbians and those attending the surrounding academic institutions. It’s also at the northern end of a very visible physical boundary. Claremont dead-ends at Tiemann Place, just one block north of LaSalle. And that’s it. That’s where the euphemistic realtor-driven neighborhood of Morningside Heights abruptly stops. Continue one block north, and you’ll find yourself in Manhattanville—that foreign place where clearly nobody lives, works, or has any business being in until there’s a university in its footprint. The people that claim to live there (and clearly, they’re all liars because the University claims that nobody does) are frightening, dangerous, uneducated, likely poor, and, to just to complete the stereotype, certainly nonwhite.

There’s a 24-hour McDonald’s on the first block of Manhattanville on the southwest corner of 125th Street and Broadway. It serves salads that look fairly edible on television. With limited options, I thought why the heck not—I’ll be the vegetarian at three in the morning at McDonald’s. This particular McDonald’s, a suburban-like stand-alone with a drive-through, is rare for the city. Then again, we all know that Manhattanville is just a giant cluster of unprofitable auto shops and empty lots with no semblance of civilization. Heck, Columbia bought the property back in 2004 for $2.7 million, so it’s only a matter of time before McDonald’s meets the wrecking ball. And McDonald’s management knows that the restaurant is in a terrible location. They lock the door to the interior and force carless late-night patrons to a walk-up with a glass window just to the left of the main entrance. Employees won’t get shot and the registers won’t be robbed. It’s genius.

So there I was in the middle of the night, alone like a target, waiting to place my order. I found myself behind four local teens going on about Eli’s miraculous yet gut-wrenching pass to Tyree. Feeling like I somehow didn’t belong there, I stood back, looked away, and let out a deep sigh when they left the window. I would have loved to talk football with them, but I didn’t want to get, like, mugged or anything. When they left, I approached the window and the employee lowered his head into the glass. I wasn’t sure why until I noticed that the microphone and speaker next to the window had been destroyed. I placed my order and put six dollars on a carousel. The money swung to him and he went searching for the salad. I took a step back and waited, hoping the time would go by fast. Within seconds, a homeless man approached. I pretended to ignore. He said something and puffed cigarette smoke in my face. I think he wanted money, but I tried not to notice. The employee came back and swung the carousel back toward me with the salad. When I turned around, the homeless man had completely disappeared.

I paced back to my apartment on the safe side of Tiemann, realizing that I had returned to the secure Columbia-patrolled green zone from a world I do not know, but, as a student, would give anything to understand. Sadly, the way my University wants me to understand is by forgetting that this world exists. Rarely do we have reason to be in Manhattanville, and when our academic buildings rise in the vicinity, we will forget the people, like the four harmless kids craving a late-night snack, that once depended on what the neighborhood now offers. Our carefree world of privilege rarely interacts with how this other half lives and we’re left afraid of what we do not know, conversing among only ourselves. This is likely because we’re conditioned to believe certain neighborhoods and their inhabitants to be bad, but we never know why. This misunderstanding results in a vicious cycle in which neither side can get along.

I’m still unsure about Manhattanville. I want my University to remain one of the top institutions in the world, and if that requires expanding, so be it. Expansion should, however, include a way to better incorporate our Manhattanville neighbors with the institution beginning now and not with temporary construction jobs, full-time service-sector jobs, and a hefty community-compensation check. When the new Columbia buildings rise, nearby residents will undoubtedly be priced out of their homes in favor of wealthier temporary students, low-end independent stores will give way to more retail shops, and the iron curtain of safety will expand from 125th all the way to 133rd Street.

If the University took this opportunity to reconcile a historically rocky relationship with Harlem, helping its own community understand, appreciate, and respect our neighbors to the north, not only will the process moving forward be easier, but its community will learn something about the real world and not be so apprehensive to walk alone at three in the morning in Manhattanville.

Jarid Maged is a student in the school of General Studies studying political science. Frozen in the Ninth Circle runs alternate Fridays. Specopinion@columbia.edu