I entered college determined not to be the stereotypical “firstie.” I didn’t want what seemed to be a saccharine-enthused attitude toward college life. Sure, I wanted to appreciate and enjoy going to Columbia, but not as a wide-eyed, slack-jawed kid who was so painfully just out of high school.

No. Instead, I slipped right into the role of jadedness—careful to control my excitement, careful to temper my enthusiasm. After all, I was legally an adult who was living away from home with no parental retinue. It seemed only natural that I should skip the cliché childlike wonder and enchantment.

Somehow, this seemed to be the more “mature” way of approaching college. Tempering exuberant impulses was a necessary attempt to prove that I was not a naïve first-year. Rather, I was a young adult—one who had a responsibility to prove this fact to the other young adults around me.

At Columbia, this meant embracing a culture of self-aware criticism. It meant adopting a sardonic tone to belie my inexperience. It meant a cynical view of myself and others around me. It meant a disdainful snort when someone asked if I was going to attend a football game. It meant, perhaps, a knowing look or a chuckle when someone mentioned either NSOP or an overly enthusiastic floormate. It meant a continual self-evaluation. Was I doing something that would be considered embarrassing? Too much enthusiasm? Too many questions? Even... too friendly?

There’s no question that a critical analysis of ourselves and others is an invaluable and necessary skill to have. Without it, we would be unaware of our faults. Flaws would remain unfixed, unexamined, unprotested, unscrutinized.

We’re really, really good at that. Perhaps too good in some cases.

Ironically enough, one of my greatest fears now is that I’ll become so acerbic that I’ll simply miss the fun of college entirely. I’m not sure that this is the time or the place for such an attitude. Practicing a veil of self-aware criticism is undoubtedly a useful skill that will serve us in the future, once we leave the “Columbia bubble,” but the veil itself isn’t needed now.

The bubble is a highly-criticized, intangible, initially imperceptible part of Columbia’s essence. It exists in the physical space of our campus, through the social channels in which we interact. Perhaps most pervasively, it engenders a divide between Columbia and the outside world.

During my tenure at Spectator, I’ve edited no less than half a dozen pieces where authors criticized and lamented our existence behind the bubble’s translucent fences. Columbia’s walls protect us from the outside world and carry within them a miasma of community, ideas, and experiences of the wider, wilder world.

As Cecille de Laurentis wrote in her column last semester, we live in a city typified by its “urban reserve.” We emulate this exterior in hopes of skipping the growing pains of maturation.

But when we do so to the extent that we hold such disdain for each other—becoming hypercritical of ourselves and others—we miss the opportunity that we’ve been presented with.

I am, to be sure, far from the best person to write this piece. My nature long before Columbia was somewhat reserved and often cynical. But I can recognize when this attitude goes too far.

And you might wonder if I’m being hyperbolic, as even the most intransigent of senior snarks have fun and lets loose on the weekend. But if his or her outlook is still that same disdainful maturity, they miss all that it means to be full of fascination and surprise at the world.

Quite honestly, it’s a magical opportunity and, quite possibly, the last one we’ll have. The insulation provided by the Columbia bubble should allow for unabashed growth and exploration, support when we ask stupid questions, encouragement when we suffer embarrassing losses, and openness to be innocent and naïve. That, to me, is the truly mature approach.

The author is a Columbia College first-year. He is an associate opinion editor for Spectator.

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