Where is the Humanity?

The tale of a freshman seeking fellow Humanities majors.

By Ana Sorrentino

Illustration by Iris Pope

It was in my second week at Columbia that I began to notice a foul scent stubbornly clinging to the air. It lingered in the halls, followed me into the elevators, and coiled itself between the crevices of the stacks. I told myself it was only my imagination. Perhaps I was still getting used to life in a new city. But the more it remained, I began to realize that this was different, heavier than New York’s usual cocktail of hot dog sweat and raw sewage.

It trailed me from the steps of Butler, past printing rooms littered with loose resumes, to Pupin’s basement and the windowless corridors of Mudd. It was almost imperceptible in my history lectures and lit mag meetings, but strongest on the walk from Joe’s to Blue Java, where the air still held traces of practiced laughter from coffee chats hours before. It only grew thicker as I entered Uris Library. Amid the rows of wooden tables, where my peers rehearsed elevator pitches reminiscent of Faustian bargains, the stench seemed to be boiling over. 

At last in the safety of a Uris study room, I sank into a leather chair by the window for a moment of quiet. But only two minutes later, the door creaked open to a tall man in a quarter-zip fleece knocking sheepishly, with a reservation and a sinister edge I couldn’t quite place. As he held the door open for my egress, our hands brushed. His fingers were cold, lifeless. Startled, I spun around only to catch glazed eyes staring through me.  

Unnerved, I looked again at the library, at its stretches of oak desks, glassed-in rooms washed in fluorescent light. And then for a moment, something flickered. 

I looked closer.

Patagonias slouched and swayed building pitch decks and spreadsheets. Zombified faces were pallid in the glow of their screens and fingers moved mechanically across glowing keys. The stench was unbearable. A chill curved its way down my spine and my stomach lurched. 

Were they … dead? 

Panicked, I stumbled backward into a classroom hosting an information session for the newest consulting group, staffed by ambitious and anxious leftovers who hadn’t made the cut for the others. As I scrambled to my feet, predatory smiles closed in, fangs hungry for fresh blood. I froze, the air stifling, thick with buzzwords each more meaningless than the last. Not a soul in that room knew what this club did—but then again, having a soul didn’t seem to be a requirement for entry. 

I sprinted outside. I passed clusters of CS mad scientists muttering to themselves and plastering flyers across dorm walls, each one stamped with a new app for access to this week’s frat of choice. Skidding to the bottom of the steps, I stumbled across the Presidential Search Committee huddled in a circle whispering. Relief flooded me. Professors! People who’d devoted their lives to academia! I staggered toward them, begging for help. They didn’t even look up. One of them merely adjusted their glasses as they continued mumbling incantations, and I realized that they weren’t rescuing anyone. In the middle of the circle stood a half-finished human-frame growing by the second. No one wanted to be president, so instead they had decided to make a dastardly creation of their own.  

My heart in my throat, I stood in front of Butler listening to the groans and mutters of all the creatures who had existed right under my nose for weeks. There had to be someone else on campus who understood. Students with passion, who lived for the arts, music, and literature. Yet in lecture halls, professors spoke to graveyards. Students mindlessly filled out internship applications, scrolling through Linkedin connections while TA’s slides flipped on autopilot. Problem sets, readings, and moral decision-making had all been abandoned to ChatGPT. 

Was anyone here alive? 

I began my search for humanity. I initially searched for anyone with a Moleskine, but quickly realized that any physical book with pages would be good enough. I checked everywhere cigarettes were allowed, inquiring for someone skilled in tasteful layering. I ran from zombies, vampires, and witches, all to come across a Political Science major. Not monstrous, just afraid of commitment to their genuine interests. 

Suddenly I felt a slight itch in my throat. My head started pounding, my eyes glazing. In a trance, I began to email my advisor. Subject: Major Switch Inquiry. My fingers moved of their own volition, craving that idealized stability. When I caught a glimpse of my reflection in my phone screen—pupils dilated, veins blue—I leapt from my chair in horror. I had so easily exorcised passion, art, and thought for financial necessity. Around me, the air buzzed with offers and referrals, temptations promising success and stability. It’s so difficult to feel as if my path is the right one. But if I stop believing, I’ll vanish among the living dead.  

When I believed all hope was lost, I went to the Math library. I wasn’t afraid because I knew that everyone here was dead already. I sat at a cubicle in the back, finally breathing in serenity, when a girl walked up to me. “I love that book.” Startled, I stared for a moment at bright blue eyes twinkling in curiosity. I held my Kafka a little tighter as we struck up a conversation talking for hours over literature and philosophy. I could feel myself thinking, living, being human. 

Near the end of our conversation, we discussed our summer plans. I explained that I’d be sending hundreds of cold emails to art galleries in Chelsea hoping to work 15 hour unpaid shifts. When I asked about her plans, she mentioned that she would be working in New York too. Her eye twitched slightly as she uttered the words “Lockheed Martin,” and a pungent scent flooded the room.