isolation

Vocalizing stories about mental health can destigmatize seeking help and initiate honest discussions about these issues.

A while ago, my friend Bassel told me that “small talk is an affront to our society.” We don’t really appreciate it often, but what we choose to say holds meaning. More specifically, we don’t appreciate the emotions behind why we express the things we do. Though the phrase “I hope you’re doing well,” is not necessarily characteristic of “small talk,” it still sometimes feels as empty as if it were.

As we honor our heroes on the front line—the doctors, nurses, teachers, and the blue-collar backbone of this country—it is now, more than ever, imperative to also remember those who often go unremembered: the homeless.

During my last few years at Columbia, the times I regret most were those of self-isolation. There were moments when my anxieties felt too overwhelming and unimportant to voice out loud, especially if other humans were present. Most of these moments were followed by spontaneous overshares to the right humans, which made them feel much more manageable.

I sat in the back of a car, watching bodegas and storefronts pass by through the window. I was coming back to campus, eager to see my friends after the holiday break. Yet, I couldn’t help thinking about what always seems to happen after returning: the rushed “How was your break?” question as we run around trying to see everyone, visit every waitlisted class, and apply to every new opportunity.

As a transfer student who has no problem airing my grievances about this institution, I have been asked a lot whether I regret accepting my offer of admission to Columbia.

Swiping my MetroCard to enter the 116th St. station is more than a monetary transaction. With it comes my promise to be quiet, to keep to myself, to occupy as little space as possible: all the things that are required of a good passenger on the subway. If the train is more than three minutes away, I wait huddled against the wall, feeling the weight of my hands tucked away in my pockets. Typically, my headphones are in as I attempt to distract myself from the sound of subway cars screeching to a stop like nails on a chalkboard (it’s the one noise I haven’t adjusted to in the city), and all the voices that inevitably follow.

Excellence. It’s a standard that very well may be the heartbeat of this campus. It looms over everything we do, from class projects and exams to student clubs and social events. Without fail, we seem to incessantly link our worth as human beings to the caliber of our accomplishments.

I was thinking about benches recently. I was thinking about benches and how effective they are at preserving space: Multiple strangers are able to sit in one place, and they don’t even have to talk to each other. With my upbringing in what could be considered a typical suburban setting, the idea of “space” never held as much importance as it did before I came to New York.

Yesterday, I was pranked by a group of 14-year-old girls. Well, they believed they pranked me, anyway.