Home is (Not) Where the Heart Is
An exploration of the Cornell experience through my home screen
This article is part of the Claritas spring 2024 issue, Home.
By: Priscilla ye
Home (n.) - a concept that is nearly impossible to explain, but is easy to define by what it is not.
I. Productivity
Home is not a state of being.
My eyes creak open, a door suffering from decades of disuse. My alarm hasn’t gone off, so instead of getting another half hour of sleep, I decide to scroll through my phone. But rather than being greeted with notifications of new Instagram followers or LinkedIn connections, I wake to a barrage of Canvas notifications and emails. Ah, yes. This is the day that the Lord has made, I will wallow in despair having to face the drudgery of the sameness to which my academics subjects me. I already know that I’ll be eating the same Morrison pancakes for breakfast, the Ithaca skies will be gray, and my 32 oz tumbler full of coffee will be depleted before I set foot out of my 9 a.m. math lecture. This is not the life I imagined for myself; my dreams of having the luxury of getting boba with friends on weekends and the freedom to operate entirely on my own schedule have gone out the window. Instead, my first step on campus instead triggered a relentless torrent of projects, prelims, quizzes, and essays. What are we even doing here?
My case is certainly not an isolated one. Perhaps a certain student productivity app (Canvas) has ruled your life since elementary school like it has mine, and if not, it certainly might now. Either way, our time at Cornell is marked by a constant bombardment of assignments, demanding the most productive (whatever "productive" means to us respectively) season of our lives. Sometimes it’s a necessity (the weekly problem sets are no joke) or for the sake of appearance (I can’t be caught watching YouTube in the library again while everyone around me is working). The problem arises when we desire to be “productive” all the time, even when God Himself rested on the seventh day. A healthy work-life balance has now been twisted into a reality of chronic sleep deprivation and caffeine dependence. Of course, we see these realities all around us, and maybe they’re inevitable.
There will always be that one person working late in the library, that one classmate getting a head start on a project, or that one teammate applying to a billion internships at once (No, dropping your Cornell email on LinkedIn posts for résumé workshops does not count). In particular, as an engineer, the sentiment of “If you’re not in a project team, what are you even doing with your life?” is strong. Despite our best efforts to cram many achievements into our résumés, I aptly heard a girl next to me in Cafe Jennie say, “24 hours just isn’t enough.”
Productivity, an idea with a seemingly positive connotation, has evolved into a sort of idolatry in a society that rewards performance above all else. Take China’s brutal 996 work week—9 a.m. to 9 p.m. six days a week—or the “Suneung,” the Korean equivalent of the SAT but on steroids, where the South Korean government bans planes from flying over the country in an attempt to give students as optimal of a testing environment as possible. [1] In the face of this Sisyphian rat race of constantly trying to keep up with the next person in front of us, other countries have turned to four-day work and academic weeks, resulting in a nearly ubiquitous increase in “productivity.” Even with this societal shift, why do we still feel the need to do, do, do? Are we trying to make ourselves more busy than God? Where were we when He laid the foundation of the Earth? Is this the home He created for us?
II. Education
Home is not a state of having.
As I make my way between classes, the quotes boasting of Cornell’s love of learning (because Ezra said so!) plastered all over campus are merely cruel jokes, generic mantras that serve no real purpose other than to slap a bandage over a bullet wound (i.e. failing prelim grades, project team rejections, or the thought of financially burdening our parents, to name a few). I walk past Fall Creek Gorge as I remember once turning to my friend during the first week of the fall semester saying, “I hope I never lose my sense of awe and gratefulness for being able to go to school here.” How could I, only a few months later, speedwalk past Beebe Falls and think of it as just another sight to ignore as I rush from meetings to class to dinner plans? Since when did education turn from a community into a commodity, from a gift to a burden?
Orientation week found us to be bright-eyed children, excited for what the next four years had to offer—but now, none of us look like children anymore. We have lost the curious spark in our eyes to explore and discover, and the name brand “Cornell” has long since faded away, replaced with frantic pencil scribbles on wooden carrels in the Olin stacks (i.e. something along the lines of “HELP ME GET ME OUT OF HERE”) like a hostage victim in a horror movie. We finally obtained what our parents wanted so desperately for us to achieve—a world-class education—yet all the gratefulness we can muster is a measly, “That’s it?” We remember the failing grades, the side-eyes, the club rejections that we were given, but seldom do we remember what we already have. We scoff at prospective students touring campus (If only they knew what it’s really like here!), but what about the experiences that have shaped us to become better students, leaders, and friends? We have so many opportunities just one mutual connection away from ourselves. Why are they so easily forgotten?
A concept in psychology termed the “Hedonic Treadmill” describes this curious phenomenon. It states that, in general, people’s level of happiness tends towards a middling constant regardless of negative responses to tragic events or positive responses to success. The feeling of winning the lottery will soon fade away, and the six, seven, or even eight figures in your bank account eventually become meaningless numbers (According to this logic, so does student debt, but hedonic adaptation says I’ll get over that soon enough). [2] But why is this the case? Why are we unable to be grateful without having to be reminded of those who are in less fortunate positions than we are? Such is the human condition. Why are we constantly dissatisfied, no matter how much we have gained? Is there something that could satisfy this seemingly endless hunger?
III. Social
Home is not a state of feeling.
I run into a friend in the dining hall and perform the same sequence of motions I have countless times before: I make eye contact, smile (with the eyes, not just the lips), wave vigorously, break eye contact (with only a little twinge of regret), and carry on as usual. First, I lament the lack of options in the dining hall (Appel could do so much better with the salad bar!). Then, I grow astounded at the insincerity of my encounter. To my left and my right, there are people sitting alone, others in animated conversation with friends, having seemingly fulfilling interactions while I stand in the midst of it all, heart and stomach both empty. Do I truly belong here?
Socially, people typically fall into one of two camps at Cornell: the “lone wolf,” or the “party animal.” Upon my arrival in Ithaca, I was struck by the onslaught of fellow freshmen walking down the hill in massive groups from North Campus on their way to the frat houses at the beginning of the fall semester. Yet, I was equally surprised at the number of people I walked past every day, headphones on, their sole focus to get to class, to blend in with the crowd, and avoid conversation with an acquaintance or a recruiting a capella group. No model brings the reality of college life into stark reality more so than the difficult-to-balance triangle of grades, sleep, and social life. They say that out of these three things, you can never have them all—one must go. And at a place like Cornell, grades are non-negotiable for everyone. Evidently, this forces many students to stand at a crossroads between the other two options: a social life and getting enough sleep—hence, the apparent divide. Of course, many students manage to strike a balance between all three aspects, but the apparent need for students to be hooked to an IV of orange-flavored Celsius and the raging “I only got x hours of sleep last night!” epidemic say otherwise.
This experience is not unique to Cornell students. U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy, in his talk about social connection at Duke University, describes his awareness of the growing loneliness epidemic and the general lack of fulfillment with one’s social relationships, especially on college campuses. [3] Students spend less time fostering connections with friends and family as well as making new ones, leading to isolation in the midst of a campus teeming with tens of thousands of students, basketball games, and prominent Greek life. Even at universities known for their vibrant party culture, students feel lonelier than ever. Given that we are surrounded by so many fellow students with similar interests and values, which should make finding friends natural and straightforward, why do we still feel like something’s missing?
IV. Bible
Many of us, despite being in a position we dreamed of being in, are fundamentally dissatisfied at the end of the day. When we are most productive, we compare ourselves to those who have more extracurricular commitments or internship offers than we do. Clearly, being productive isn’t the answer to all of this. Even when we receive the education we so desperately wished for and wrote at great lengths about in our college essays, we cite the apparent shortcomings of this institution day after day. Again, our education won’t fulfill us, either. What about the people we surround ourselves with? Just like the many friends that will come and go throughout our four years here, social relationships, though gratifying in the moment, may be just as fleeting as those people we exchanged contacts with. What else can we hold on to that will satisfy us? Some answers are offered by something that transcends our time: the word of God.
As my Sunday School teachers would joke, “Jesus” is almost always the answer to any possible question they could ask. We cannot, however, abandon our academic responsibilities in favor of wondering when He will return so that we don’t have to take that dreaded final. As students, our vocation includes the duty to dedicate ourselves to our studies, making us more susceptible to turning to things that result in ultimate unfulfillment. For me, even though I have the solution, tackling this issue seems insurmountable. What we can do right now is live our lives in imitation of Him in all regards, being the salt and light on a cold, gray campus:
Though many value work, few prioritize rest. (I, too, want more than anything else to have the ability to sleep like a rock in a swaying boat in the middle of a stormy sea.) [4] But in all seriousness, I know that I can only find true rest in Jesus. “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened,” He says, “and I will give you rest.” [5] Of course, we cannot just throw our academics to the wayside, either. But I think it is time for us to reevaluate our relationship with rest and work and prioritize things differently than we do now. It is only when we take rest just as seriously as our other academic responsibilities that we are equipped to be the hands and feet of Jesus.
It is certainly undeniable that I am here to obtain a quality education, but I seldom stop and truly think about what I am learning. Do I truly recognize that we are learning about the beauty of God’s creation, from the motion of the planets to the intricacies of language? As is the case for many of us, it seems that we have lost our deep appreciation for learning, much less the tendency to marvel at the things we learn in lecture. Reminding ourselves daily of this fact may just curb our temptation to skip that one supposedly boring class.
As a Christian, I sometimes find it difficult to relate to those who hold different beliefs and values. Yet, that did not stop Jesus from interacting with the socially ostracized. Regardless of who we share the Gospel with, we should remind ourselves to “[speak] the truth in love,” not withholding one or the other. [6] Though we probably won’t have the opportunity to meet tax collectors on a daily basis, the beauty of such a diverse and substantial student body is the sheer potential of just how far the Gospel can reach.
Through small actions like these, I realized that I was meant to set foot on this campus that others might begin to see the “home” that I am striving towards. The home God created for us is not here but elsewhere. Trudging through the snow-turned-slush gives way to the hope of walking on streets of gold, returning to a room that Jesus prepared for us in place of a desolate dorm room. Instead of screams of rambunctious teenagers in the dead of night, we will hear joyous praise illuminating the Earth and the sound of the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant. Welcome home.” [7]
[1] Broom, Douglas. “Four-Day Work Week,” World Economic Forum.
[2] Raghunathan, Raj. “Winning the Lottery,” YouTube Video.
[3] Alonso, Johanna. “The New Epidemic” Inside Higher Ed.
[4] Mark 4:38
[5] Matthew 11:28 (NIV)
[6] Ephesians 4:15
[7] Revelation 21:21; John 14:2; Matthew 25:23