Communities of exclusion: the costs and benefits of diversity

One of the first things I noticed about my classmates at Columbia (beyond the abundance of hipsters) was their overwhelming diversity. This had led me to the University in the first place, as I was particularly attracted by the diversity page on the admitted students website. Probably because of this, I imagined a dynamic, heterogeneous community, working together for some unspecified but exciting and world-changing goal, probably involving both lab coats and modern art. Clearly the admissions materials did their job.

I was excited for this change, mainly due to my high school experience in Michigan. It wasn’t necessarily that all African Americans were sitting at the same lunchroom table, but that they probably wouldn’t have filled a cafeteria table. In another sense, all the Latina and openly LGBT kids combined could have easily road-tripped together in a minivan. Perhaps because of this, as one of the few openly gay kids in school, my uniqueness left me feeling less like a distinct snowflake and more like a subject of “Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”

Coming to Columbia and having LGBT friends was initially exciting but soon became the norm. In fact, most of the people I interacted with weren’t straight. My network had become pretty much as homogeneous as it was back home, but in the opposite sense, and I began to realize some of the complications of being part of a “diverse community.”

Communities need reasons to exist. Their creation is often the result of similar people seeking each other out, organizing, and keeping in touch within a larger group. The similarity those people share binds them together, and when they are part of an oppressed group, this collective approbation can come as a welcome relief.

There are great things about groups like these. An ethnic group might be able to better preserve its culture, for example. However, it can also function as a kind of segregating force. In his book, “The Big Sort,” Bill Bishop talks about how the grouping of like-minded individuals in the United States has contributed to the kind of partisan politics we see today. Certain kinds of people will group together geographically, feeling more comfortable in a neighborhood with an organic food co-op and a yoga studio. However, as Americans surround themselves with similar people, a kind of disconnect occurs, one that is furthered by a media pandering to niche markets. Discussion of bipartisanship in politics has increased in light of the recent events in Arizona, but reaching across the aisle in everyday life gets harder when no one of differing opinion can be found within a metaphorical arm’s reach.

Columbia is different. We are all placed together geographically (though in our acceptance and attendance at Columbia, we are already separated from numerous other college students) but another sorting still occurs, and the reasons for this range from the understandable (cultural preservation, protection from negative reactions in the case of oppressed groups), to the lazy (it’s easier to not have to defend your beliefs). This inevitably results in a fragmented student body. Still, I think what is important to consider is the way that the fragments interact. For example, last term the Columbia Queer Alliance had two board members who didn’t identify as LGBT. Communities being open to everyone who wants to support the cause is one method of working more smoothly.

To me, Columbia is the sum of its parts, not a unified whole­—and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Most people need community, especially those in marginalized groups, and it’s wonderful that this university is large enough and diverse enough to provide the opportunity for many vibrant communities. The problems that it faces are the same problems faced by any large, diverse group of people. Hopefully, Columbia communities will continue to reach across aisles to achieve a truly “inclusive” student body.

The author is a Columbia College first-year. She is a member of the Columbia Queer Alliance and ROOTEd.