Kevin Petersen

It goes without saying that the ongoing coronavirus pandemic has caused great physical, social, and financial strain on our student population. In response, now is the right moment to discuss the burden that the cost of university is putting on students. Not only are we going through one of the worst economic recessions in American history, but the pedagogical quality of remote instruction raises a fair question about whether it’s truly worth the $60,000 price tag.

Earlier this year, a couple of friends and I were hopelessly searching for a table in Ferris. It was the first week of the semester and prime lunch hour, so we eventually had to make do with just a third of a table we negotiated from some young first-years. Having just met on Low Steps about 15 minutes earlier through a mutual friend, we sat down and continued the conversation that initially brought us together—military service.

It is said that when Archimedes discovered his principle of buoyancy while stepping into his bathtub, he quickly got up, flew out the door, and excitedly ran down the street—naked—yelling “Eureka! Eureka!”—meaning, “I’ve found it!”

Over my first few months on campus, I’ve noticed that Columbia students don’t seem to feel a strong sense of belonging to our school—we lack an “esprit de corps” that is far more prevalent at other universities. And to be clear, by belonging I don't mean the superficial “university sweatshirt and bumper sticker” sort of school spirit that is often talked about. Rather, I’m referring to a genuine feeling of attachment that persists long after graduation. As former columnist Robert Godfried similarly noticed last year, this is especially evident when looking at Forbes’ ranking of alumni give-back rates: Dartmouth comes in first, Princeton comes second. Yale takes 14th, Brown 16th, UPenn 20th, and Harvard 26th.

For many Columbia students, Thanksgiving break is a much-anticipated chance to go back home, reconnect with family and friends, and enjoy some time off before the start of finals season. The issue with this holiday, however, is its short length—it’s only five days long. For those of us who live just a bus ticket away from home, the trip, and its relatively small price tag, are easily justifiable. For the rest of us left behind on campus, however, these days off can be an emotionally isolating nightmare.

My buddies and I in the Army used to pass most evenings hanging out in somebody’s barracks room, drinking cheap beers and venting about the day. Life in the military isn’t easy, so these moments were rare opportunities to voice our frustrations, away from the prying ears of our sergeants. Most of these nights weren’t particularly memorable, except for one around three years ago when I had just reported to my unit. That night, I noticed written on my buddy’s whiteboard an oddly specific number: 986. Curious, I asked him what it meant. Grinning, he proudly proclaimed that he “only had” 986 days until his military discharge.

Just the other day, I was in the Office of Undergraduate Admissions, waiting to be interviewed for a tour guide position. I arrived a little bit early, so I passed the time in the lobby by thumbing through the Columbia brochures on the table next to me. Reading those fliers brought me back to my senior year of high school. I remember getting dozens of such pamphlets in the mail, all trying to sell me on their particular college. I always thought it was funny that in order to market themselves as the “best fit” for any student, these brochures all ended up sounding the same. They all proudly boast of their “world-class faculty” and “dozens of majors to choose from” so much that, eventually, nothing sounds unique to each school besides its location and name. Unfortunately, the same could be said about the School of General Studies brochure when compared to the other undergraduate colleges at Columbia.

Getting an undergraduate degree from Columbia is hard enough as it is. Getting a doctorate from Columbia, while commuting from Long Island and raising three kids, including a newborn? That sounds almost impossible. But Secretary Madeleine Albright did it, earning her Ph.D. in 1976. Countless late nights, hour-long commutes, and early mornings to get the kids ready for school culminated in the successful defense of her dissertation—it took her 13 years to prepare for it.

Orientation week can be exhausting. Not only are you trying to get your schedule straight, move into your room, and decipher syllabi, but you’re also doing all those annoying, repetitive introductions with everybody you meet. Like any other form of small talk, the typical introduction follows a sort of predetermined script, consisting of, “What’s your name?” and, “Where are you from?” For students in General Studies, though, a third and sort of peculiar question is always asked: “What’s your ‘GS’ story?”

Victoria Hou is a sophomore in Columbia College attempting to study political science and economics (like every other student at this school). Her claim to fame includes a few posts that reached over 1,000 likes on columbia buy sell memes and her being the reason why the class of 2021 got T-shirts at the New Student Orientation Program. To all sophomores: You’re welcome. H Mart keeps her sane, but trips down to Koreatown and Chinatown keep her happy. You can find her pretending to study in Ref, likely on Facebook and ranting about Asian American issues. You can also send questions, secret admirer notes, and hate mail at vh2279@columbia.edu. Chop Suey runs alternate Mondays.