Campus just isn’t right without them

I grew up in China, so coming to the States, I was expecting to miss the familiar twang of Chinese in my ears. Little did I know, a tremendous Chinese grad student population roams campus.

According to Columbia’s International Students & Scholar’s Office, in 2024, about 6,463 out of 13,745 of international students were from China. In other words, about half the international school population was Chinese. As soon as I took my first steps around campus, shuffling after the dotted blue path marked on my Google maps app, I began to hear proof of that statistic. Snippets of Chinese drifted to me on the wind just about every time I strolled outside. Students groaned about deadlines, tests, love lives—all in Chinese. In chattering pairs or larger groups, they sent unexpected reminders of home to me, a spectrum of exhilaration and exhaustion and the yearning for something familiar embodied in their decision to speak Chinese.

Scholars have written extensively on the importance of language for connection. For instance, the University of Michigan wrote this cute little Valentine’s Day note on how language forms the crux of human understanding that makes love possible. I agree, but I’d add that not just the content of language but its form powerfully communicates a sense of connection. Although I grew up for years in China, I only speak Chinese conversationally. Yet when I’m brushing past some Chinese grad students, even when I can’t understand everything they’re saying, the language itself translates a sense of belonging to my ears.

The same goes for languages I don’t know at all—Spanish, Russian, Japanese, etc. Each carves out its own corner on campus, a sense of displacement that resolves in belonging as a voyager. Each brings beautiful texture and vibrancy to a place where spring is finally peaking through.

Image via Bwarchives