Margaret Boykin

I spent most of my sophomore year having an affair with Brooklyn. Like most great affairs, it was passionate and secret—late at night, after my last class and dinner with my Barnard friends, I'd lock my dorm room and ride the A to the G and exit into my other life, breathing in the leafy trees and stoops and brownstones. I'd walk down Clinton Avenue to my friend's apartment, hip youth flying past me on their vintage bicycles, Clinton Hill's original inhabitants hollering out over their boomboxes, and I'd breath a sigh of relief—I was home. I spent almost every weekend of my second semester crashing on a friend from high school's couch, soaking up her exposed brick, the fraying sketches on the walls, her large kitchen. moreShe goes to Pratt, and eventually I sort of thought I did too—wandering past the Pratt Sculpture garden on a Sunday morning, I'd smile at the Pratt cats that lay in sun patches, scratching the ears of the one I'd started to call my own. By the time summer rolled around, I had the number of the local sushi restaurant in my phone, I'd used the Pratt car service more than once, and I high-fived my friend's landlord every time I approached her front door. When I returned to campus I would feel hungover, the harsh geometry of Manhattan blaring up from the sidewalk, the walls of my dorm room claustrophobic, the pleasant dream of Brooklyn shaken away, leaving me with my cold, normal life. When I began to look for summer housing, the choice seemed obvious—I jumped at the chance to make Brooklyn my reality. So I packed my bags, got my keys and moved in, turning the affair into a long-term kind of thing. The first weekend was amazing. I danced around in all the extra-square footage. I bought groceries. I once even wore an apron while cooking pasta for a dinner party—because I could have dinner parties. However, after the honeymoon period, the affair began to take an ugly turn. When my alarm clock went off at 6 a.m. so I could commute to Times Square, I didn't smile up at the exposed brick. The brownstones lined the endlessly long, magic-less walk to the subway every morning. My high-ceilings seemed to repel air-conditioning, and so I took to sleeping on the chair by the unit, crammed up in a ball while the stupid Pratt cats meowed all night. We ran out of groceries, and the closest thing to Morton Williams was three stops away on the G train, a piece of engineering so unreliable it must have been crafted by blind fourth-graders. My landlord's extreme friendliness turned out to be alcoholism. Oh, and those dinner parties? Turns out no one wants to visit you when you're living in Brooklyn and they're in Manhattan. Brooklyn, far from the oasis I envisioned it as, seemed to bring up the same face and dialogue in my friends that it brought in my cab drivers—a frown, awkward pause, and then "Oh...right. Well, I wasn't really planning on being out late...maybe let's do somewhere in the city?" I have a blurred memory of physically forcing two of my Barnard friends into a cab with me in Williamsburg, imposing a guerilla sleepover on them. "GUYS IT'S NOT THAT FAR COME ON!" I said as I slipped the expensive car service a twenty. "Clinton Hill. Drive." Towards the end, my lifestyle seems to be sort of reversed—I spend my time sleeping at friend's apartments in Manhattan, breathing in the city smog and 24 hour diners in relief. I appreciate things in bursts of familiarity—that's right! I could catch a cab—whenever I wanted! I could get to Times Square in 15 minutes! What is this paradise? I have had my affair, and my body is exhausted from it—all I want is the warm familiarity of my tiny dorm room, the consistency of public safety, and the 1 train. I look forward to September and school starting with a weird eagerness I haven't felt since elementary school, dreaming of Morningside Heights, moving boxes, and the day when I'll finally get to go home again.

Remember the good old days, when you'd come home from school, throw your backpack down in the front hall, grab some freshly baked cookies from the kitchen, and then go into the basement to drill yourself in mathematical equations until you lost vision in your right eye and threw up? No? Well, Yale professor Amy Chua's kids can fill you in. Recently, the Wall Street Journal published a section from Amy Chua's new book, "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother," about her parenting techniques, in an article titled "Why Chinese Parents are Superior." She explains, in detail, her rules for her two daughters. The article's blown up on the internet. The phrase "tough love" doesn't really begin to cover it. For example, Chua denies her seven-year-old child water, food and bathroom breaks until she learns a piano piece. Her kids aren't allowed to have sleepovers, participate in after-school activities, or earn grades lower than an A. more Then, when they finally do excel, they'll get props for their talent and become self-motivated workers. Left out of this equation, of course, is the obsessive compulsive disorder reflexes that come with the pursuit of perfection. Although Chua claims she's going to let her children be at college, it's not hard to imagine a cartoon Chua ghost floating over their frail, gym-class deprived bodies as they hammer out problem sets in the stacks. Chua introduces her parenting style as typical Chinese mothering, in contrast to liberal Westerners. But her philosophy is a mindset that permeates all students' lives on campus, especially in a school as competitive as Columbia. As college students, we are constantly forming and devising our own structures of self-discipline. Here, we are our own parents, and sometimes it's difficult to not want to ground yourself for getting a B. We've all seen the kids who sleep in Butler. Maybe you've even been one of them. What's most disturbing about Chua's article isn't the creepy accompanying photo of Chua and her two loyal disciples (read: daughters), but the familiarity of her all-or-nothing mindset. We all know that being inflexible in your behaviors is unhealthy and obsessive—having to be the very best at absolutely every course you take (one of Chua's rules, of course excepting gym or theater classes) for fear of self-punishment is psychologically detrimental. But as a student, when you're surrounded by wild-eyed, Adderall-infused people voracious to excel, it's easy to wonder if you should maybe feel a little worse about that A- (I mean, where did those points go?). Perhaps Chua's rejection of anything but excellence is just one woman's interpretation of Chinese parenting success. But you don't have to be a Yale professor to know that working to achieve someone else's idea of happiness won't lead to your own. Whether the Butler Sleepers are doing it for themselves or for someone else is up for debate.

It's pretty safe to say we're solidly ensconced in the age of awesome technology, with smelly old books out and that dinosaur, the "laptop," steadily becoming obsolete. Thanks to companies like Apple, we're on our way to a sleeker, cleaner life without face-to-face contact, burdensome in-person social interaction or terribly heavy books. But with any innovative technology comes the backlash. We saw this cruel action in November, when Columbia students were labeled "anti-social" and were even offered prizes to unplug from their hand-held devices and talk to each other (gross, I know). more The issue of cell phones was raised again in the New York Times, which published an article about the fashionable rudeness of Smartphone-addiction, complaining in a Mom-and-Dad, Life-Just-Ain't-How-It-Used-To-Be manner about cell phones disrupting dinner parties, and how even Martha Stewart is distracted by her mobile device these days. Well, we've decided talking to people in person is awkward, dinner parties are passé, and Martha Stewart rules, so newsflash world: get over it! Jump on board! If you can't beat em', join em', for so all those non-believers out there, I've listed some simple instructions on how to fully maximize a little thing I like to call "Cell Phone Chic." You're welcome. 1. Don't answer calls. Answering calls is uncomfortable. There are all those pauses, you can hear each other breathing, sometimes you talk at the same time and there's no way to edit yourself without sounding like an idiot. There's safety in that touch pad and those tiny black keys—that's your home base. 2. However, if you DO have to speak to someone on the phone, only do it when you're in the company of someone you want to avoid. While chatting, make "Can you believe her? She so crazy!" eye contact with the companion you're ignoring. They may not look like it, but they totally want to participate. 3. Similarly, a great date move is to line up your Blackberry next to the silverware at dinner so that when your date gets boring you can check for a new BBM, and you can break the No Voice Calls rule to talk to your friends and speak in code about your date ("Yeah, no, the appetizer is wearing a really bad shirt.") 4. Have a cute mantra you chirp whenever your phone beeps, flashes, vibrates, or rings, like "Somebody loves me!" or "Ooh! I'm popular!" I'll bet you are! 5. It's always OK to read BBMs and texts while someone is talking to you—honestly, in this day and age, who has the time or attention span to only listen to one person talk? But, let's not forget, here at The Eye we have manners, so throw in a few well-placed nods and deep mm-hmms to keep your companion's faith. After all, we're not animals.

The first weeks of classes are always eventful—you're catching up with friends, making impressions on professors, doing the prove-yourself-but-don't-look-like-a-smartass dance It's a turbulent time. Lucky for you, we were listening, and we heard, we saw, and we repeated—all in 140 characters or less. #enjoy

Hey, freshmen! Remember how when you were a kid, Choose Your Own Adventure books were the best? You could run from a creepy haunted house, investigate an old well, open doors and look for secrets… The possibilities were endless. Luckily, the days of tough choices and turning pages aren't behind you—college is like its own Chose Your Own Adventure, with every decision you make irrevocably marking the path of your future, turning the pages till the book ends and you're looking for a job in a thankless economy. Just kidding! Not every decision made in your first year is life-altering, but that didn't stop us from taking a look at what it would be like if it were. Choose wisely!