Note: The following article is satirical.
The year is 2035, and I’m in the midst of a debilitating midlife crisis. As a Columbia alumnus, I come back to campus often, walking through its stone and grass, looking for an escape from the outside world. I visit in the early mornings, when I can best avoid the miserable generation of students that infects this holy sanctum.
And every time I am here, one image strikes me: Low Library in the sunrise, backlit with the orange glow of hope. There, sitting atop those steps is Alma Mater, wise and unflustered as ever. To her left stands the zestful Bernie Sanders—his belligerent, perpetually frazzled demeanour captured in bronze. And to her right, the calm grace of The First Hero, Barack Obama, serves as an ideal foil. It is picture perfect. In my day, liberals were seen and not heard. Young people had respect for their elders.
Moments like these—as rare as they are—almost make me forget my hatred for the Millennial Revolution and everything that came with it.
I’m writing this essay because I can no longer sit by and let my university, like the rest of my country, be eaten alive by Millennials. I must speak up. Einstein once said, “Bravery is found in the people who, even when they find themselves alone, dare to be.” I am daring to be.
The Millennial Revolution first began as McDonald’s Presents: the Millennial Revolution™—though that name, of course, changed after Bernie nationalized McDonald’s along with the banks. Since its inception, it has changed the direction of our great nation forever.
I was not the biggest fan of the eight years of the Trump administration: I’m the first one to admit that his decision to put “TRUMP” at the end of “the United States of America” went too far.
What I would not give to turn the clock back to those more innocent times! Days when you could stream Trump joyriding Air Force F-22s over the White House, or the opening of the third Trump White House. Back then, nobody could have imagined what damage Bernie Sanders could have wrought. He lost the 2016 primary race, but by the grace of the Good Lord Neil DeGrasse Tyson, he did not lose the war.
Unquestionably, the Bernie-led Millennial Revolution has been the worst disaster these 50 states that make up the U.S. TRUMP have ever seen.
It would be impossible to direct this essay at any target other than what is easily the biggest consequence of the Millennial Revolution: the Socialization of the University.
Our country was founded on the great tradition of hard work—we vehemently didn’t believe in gratuitously distributed handouts. The Collective Pots are littered around campus, receptacles from which government workers hand out everything from clothes to pens, bedsheets to laptop chargers—they are a disgrace.
And yet, today, we find ourselves in the middle of a socialist hellscape, where private property has been abolished and everything belongs to everybody.
I am ashamed that we live in a society where hard work no longer matters—where regardless of your skills and talents, we all get the same things. We used to love things, we used to want to buy them.
And all this Socialization has done is create a generation of entitled, self-centered brats. They parade around this campus in their Birkenstocks as if they have a born, Bernie-given right to be here and share in the rich, vibrant academic tradition and intellectual curiosity of this University. It used to be that only some of us had that right and we earned it. Without challenges, life is just one big commune where healthcare is dispensed as liberally as cotton candy.
But the Socialization is far from the only disastrous policy shift this campus has seen in the last few years. The very fabric of our traditional academic curriculum is tearing.
I remember a time when classes introduced diverse schools of thought. Take Literature Humanities, for instance: We used to read everyone from Augustine to Dante to Milton for a full, diverse view of the human condition.
Now that all the texts have been replaced with Marx, Trotsky, Obama, and Poetics of Jhené Aiko (works that technically aren’t even literature), I worry for future generations Columbians. I worry that they’ll only see the world through the singular lens their reading represents. Even the political science department has gone to the dogs; all the courses have been replaced with History of the Millennial Revolution 101.
But my casual interviews with the students who mow the spacious lawns atop my penthouse in Midtown (I pay a fair market wage of $5.00 per hour) have revealed far gorier details about the collapse of the undergraduate education.
I am unsure if this behaviour is the result of top-down executive orders or the whims of some rogue professors, but reliable sources tell me many classes now closely examine social media academically. Just imagine looking at #foodporn as a means of understanding the human condition. Despicable.
And the dorms! From what I hear, it’s like Woodstock in there these days. Pseudo-intellectual hippies with their mantras and their lewd passions, romancing faculty members, each other, and all intermediate varieties of artificial intelligence—desperate for anything approaching a meaningful life, yearning for another Vietnam War just so they can rally against it.
This ennui owes itself entirely to the legalisation of marijuana, and it is my avowed stance that the time has come to bring back night raids on Venmo drug dealers to ensure the substance never enters our campus again.
Columbia just doesn’t look like the campus I once knew. I understand that the names on the Butler frieze have long been an issue of controversy. I even concede that they need updating. But to replace them with a live feed of Kanye West’s Twitter account feels like a slap in the face to the academic tradition of this great university.