When Columbia Thaws

A tribute to the timelessness of Columbia’s lawns under the eye of the 2024 solar eclipse.

By Chris Brown

Illustration by Isabelle Oh

Author’s Statement: Ten days following the event depicted in this piece, the NYPD arrested 108 students protesting on this same lawn. Words fail to adequately capture the magnitude of this; it is impossible to express the feelings of seeing your classmates and peers removed in zipties as hundreds watch. I wrote this piece as a celebration of Columbia’s community, to highlight the times every year when we come together in peace to enjoy the beauty of the world.  For more than 50 years, Columbia students have been on the front lines of activism. Protest unites us; it is our culture, and it is in the fabric of our being. The South Lawns are our space, our center of community, and they deserve to be safe; the right to protest must be encouraged, not suppressed. When the story of Columbia’s spring 2024 is told, the solar eclipse will not make an appearance. Columbia is now in the eyes of the world. But I hope that I can remind us of the strength of our community, and that our presence on the lawns is not new.

April 8, 2024, 12:44 p.m.: The weather forecast shows the first sunny day of spring after a week of torrential rain and wind. With it also being the day of a once-in-a-generation cosmic event, I have no choice but to skip my class. Setting up on the lawns, armed only with my soccer ball, backpack, and a pair of eclipse glasses, I watch as the first wave of people emerge onto Columbia’s green oasis. 

For just a few weeks every school year, when the presence of students and nice weather overlap, the South Lawns become the beating heart of Columbia. The green ocean to Low Beach’s marble sands, they’ve been a meeting point for hundreds of classes of students since the Morningside Campus opened. They’ve seen Lou Gehrig home runs, classes, protests, festivals, birthday parties, picnics, and any other activity you can imagine happening at a college. But today they’re the seats to a once-in-a-(college)-generation watch party, and I’m one of the first ones here.

1:48 p.m.: A little more than an hour has passed since I got here, and the Lawns are beginning to fill up. Joined by friends on various picnic blankets, I see a Lit Hum class seated in a circle to my left. To my right, the first Spikeball net has made its way out. Aside from the freshmen discussing Virginia Woolf, I’ve yet to encounter anyone who isn’t skipping class to be here. Maybe the pull of the eclipse is too strong; maybe nice weather is irresistible. In the sky, there’s no sign that anything is abnormal.

2:43 p.m.: The moon has begun to visibly trace its path, and a glimpse through the tunnel vision of the eclipse glasses shows that it has already eaten into a fourth of the Sun’s territory. 

But beyond the world inside the eclipse glasses, there is no indication that today is special. If anything, it’s timeless. The activity on the lawns doesn’t represent an exception, but a rule: When provided with nice weather, Columbia students will crowd South Lawns. This could be any spring day in any year, and only the retro-futuristic cardboard sunglasses give away the date.

3:02 p.m.: A glimpse through the glasses reveals the sun almost halfway covered, and the weather starts to cool as the moon’s interference fades the mid-afternoon light. But this cold isn’t enough to scare people off the lawns on a day they’ve waited so long for.

Every year, South Lawns gets an influx of people enjoying the last gasps of summer and the first weeks of fall before the chill starts to set in. But once the cold comes, they stay empty for almost the entire year. Only a major snow will bring people onto the lawns with the same joy during the cold months, and only for as long as the snow lasts before collecting dirt and turning brown. Everyone retreats inwards, and the heartbeat of campus becomes subdued. A week ago, I walked across an empty campus on my way home from work; today, campus is thawing out.

3:25 p.m.: The eclipse reaches its apex, the sun little more than an orange crescent shining behind the near totality of the moon. Everyone on the lawns pauses their soccer games, their conversations, their homework for a brief moment to watch. In the past, many cultures saw eclipses as a sign of impending doom, an apocalyptic event. But right now, this one unites.

3:40 p.m.: Just like that, this moment in history is over. The moon retraces its path back across the sun, the warmth and light return to normal. Everyone returns to what they were doing before. Some leave. The event will mark another in the list of solar eclipses visible from the United States. But hidden within that line, “April 8, 2024 (Total)”, is all the joy and community of Columbia’s lawns, a permanent representation of what spring brings to this campus every year.

5:00 p.m.: It’s time for me to repack the few things I brought, collect the glasses scattered on the ground, and give up my claim to the spot that belonged to me today. For one day, I was able to make part of the lawns mine as friends (and celestial bodies) moved around me, coming in and out through the day. In my mind, there’s a promise that I’ll return, but with work looming and the Lawns’ closure impending, it's impossible to know if this may be the last day of its kind this year.

7:20 p.m.: Walking back from dinner, I see the last stragglers left as the sun begins to set, taking advantage of every minute that the lawns remain open. Come mid-April, like clockwork, they will close once more as Columbia readies itself to send off its seniors at Commencement. The flags above South Lawns will show red and the grass will hide beneath tarps and chairs.

But for a moment, this year and every year, Columbia defrosts. The moment may be a month, a year, a week, a day. It may be transitory, melding into the memories that become the “college days.” But it will always come.