Keep your eyes open for the October issue of The Blue & White, which, after a delay from the printers, has finally arrived to campus! In the meantime, Bwog will honor our heritage/amorous affair with our mother magazine by posting highlights of the upcoming issue online. Among the treats to look forward to: Knickerbocker Motorsports: a surprisingly gripping history, an examination of Columbia’s updated sexual assault policy, and the festive search for magic on campus. This month, contributor Austin Williams tells you why the Columbia housing shortage does and does not exist.

Illustration by Marie Nganele
If you take the number of deed listings in New York City’s ACRIS property database as a proxy for power, three men emerge as the synecdochic kings of New York real estate: Joseph Aloisius Ratzinger, Michael Rubens Bloomberg, and Lee Carroll Bollinger. That is, the Pope, the Mayor, and the 19th President of Columbia University. Our institution, placing third behind the City of New York and the Catholic Church, owns a hell of a lot of the most coveted real estate on earth. Scores of city lots, the vast majority of them on the isle of Manhattan, are under the control of the Trustees. Yet you or someone you know was forced into Plimpton.
Maybe they had a bad lottery number. Maybe their group fell apart in suite selection. Bottom line, Columbia’s promise of four years of guaranteed housing sometimes yields a the lonely life of a Plimptonian instead of the cozy experience of Ruggles.
This is only one symptom of an unpredictable, and somewhat unsavory, last minute solution to the crisis of an undergraduate housing shortage. The signs are everywhere: your laziest friends take the 1 to class from their 89 sq ft plot in the recently-acquired Harmony Hall (because it’s cheaper than a cab); and your author, who took leave and thus forsook his four year guaranteed housing birthright, couldn’t even snag a Wien single.
The University, through Scott Wright, Vice President of Student Auxiliary and Business Services, does not deny it’s a problem. “There is a shortage of undergraduate housing—that’s not just a perception, that’s a reality—and to compensate for that shortage what we do is create what we loosely refer to as ‘temporary beds.’” These temporary beds are the rooms in places like Barnard’s Plimpton, or in University Apartment Housing (residence units in Morningside, but also in Washington Heights, Manhattan Valley, and Riverdale, usually reserved for graduate, General Studies, fellows, and faculty or staff), or in the East Campus hotel traditionally for university guests, where you will eat, sleep, study, get drunk, and make one or many kinds of love for the nine-month academic year. These beds are temporary only in the long, administrative view. To the Columbians who inhabit them, temporary beds are as good as permanent.
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