The undergraduate lament

I had a Russian oral exam last week. It ended with my teacher entreating me to review grammar. I can never be great at Russian, she told me, until I master the grammar. I thanked her, left her office, and broke down.

To be clear, my professor was completely correct. But I am a senior in fourth-year Russian who has put many hours and a semester in a very cold country into learning this language, and though I would like to think that I will have the rest of however long to learn this, I realize that “however long” may come to an end when I graduate in May. I may never use the grammar or the (still to be attained) greatness after that.

I descended still further down existential lane. I realized that I could wonder why I’ve tried as hard and cared as much as I have for any class I’ve taken here (excepting those that I’ve taken for the science requirement). Many of my peers could probably be asking themselves the same (though, hopefully for them, they are not). I wondered if there was a point to anything I’ve (and, at the risk of dragging my class into this, we’ve) been doing here.

Why do we bother to see our majors and Core and elective classes as anything but means to an end (a high grade point average, a lucrative job offer, etc.)? Why do we spend time trying to read between the lines if we’re going to forget the words in a few years? Why do we exert ourselves challenging professors and teaching assistants on theories that they may or may not just want to see regurgitated in blue books around midterm time? Why do we struggle staying up late perfecting projects that don’t count for all that much, pushing ourselves to learn languages we may never need?

I considered the argument that all of this can be explained by asserting that we learn for the sake of learning. I thought of how two years ago I could barely say, “I don’t understand Russian” in Russian (although I got very good at saying that very quickly, as it was my most practiced phrase in class). Of how art history majors appreciate beauty in dripped paint in addition to learning dates. Of how physics and chemistry students understand more of how the world around them works. I believe in this argument and its validity—I’m just not sure it alone is enough.

But perhaps it’s not just the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake. Maybe it’s for our sake, too. I thought of what I’ve learned besides grammar in Russian classes. Of what I now know about dedication and perseverance and flexibility and fool-heartedness. Maybe we try to do better because that, in turn, makes us be better. Maybe that will stay with us long after we’ve forgotten what we’ve learned in these classes.

And then I understood—or, at least, began to understand—that I might never know why we try and care as much as we do about books and foreign vocabulary and facts we may never remember or use. But I do know that trying to be great at Russian is not as important as trying to be great at whatever one committing oneself to. Genuine interest and enthusiasm is what I—we—will have gotten out of these classes.

I sat down to study Russian grammar.

Emily Tamkin is a Columbia College senior majoring in Russian literature and culture. She is the general manager of the Columbia Political Union, vice chair of the Senior Fund, literary criticism editor of the Birch, and Spectator’s former Editorial Page editor. Back to the Future runs alternate Mondays.