Finding Mentorship at Columbia: Advice from a Professor

The author, Sarah, with Professor Landman (credit: Eliana Steele)

The benefits of mentorship from a professor are very clear, but the steps to finding a mentor are not always so obvious; Columbia is a large school in an even larger city, and it’s easy to feel lost in the crowd. Compounding this is the fact that Columbia’s professors are experts in their fields with amazing accomplishments– this is both exciting and intimidating, from the student perspective. Even so, I’ve been lucky to find several mentors during my time here, both professors and non-professors: my upperclassman TA showed me the path through “Introduction to Linguistics” as a freshman, my graduate student history TAs have dramatically improved my writing skills, and my faculty mentors in research programs like Laidlaw have given me a rare glimpse at human expertise. 

For this blog post, I spoke with one of my own professors and mentors, Meredith Landman, in order to share the “professor perspective” on mentorship at Columbia. Meredith is a linguistics professor, and I’ve been taking her classes since my sophomore year. For myself and many of my peers, Meredith is an invaluable source of guidance on graduate school, career options, summer research, and anything linguistics-related. Most recently, we’ve been working together on the Linguistics Program’s blog, and on documenting the Kalmyk language in our Field Methods class. Here is an abridged version of our conversation:

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To The Lighthouse and Back Again

To The Lighthouse book cover (credit: Powell’s Books)

Freshman year is the gift that keeps on giving. Untoward anxiety about your future, LinkedIn connections, friends you spend sixteen hours out of the day with, and most importantly, a hefty collection of Literature Humanities books. Many of us know that trying walk back from Book Culture, with your $100 box of books for the entire year in your hands, or the painstaking process of visiting CLIO to try and get the last Library Reserves copy of the book you were supposed to read a week ago.

Although freshman year gave me the distinct and unforgettable (try as I must) memory of walking into LitHum with a cardboard box full of books, I didn’t know what was buried deep inside. Fast forward seven months, I cracked open To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf in April 2023. The lawns were busy, the weather was getting nicer, and I was almost done with my first year at Columbia University. Little did I know, the best was yet to come in LitHum. 

For those of you who haven’t taken it yet (or were too busy with spring festivities first-year), I’ll try and explain. Beyond the foggy sight of a lighthouse lighting up the night sky lays the hazy world of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. Set at the precipice of World War I, it paints a fragmented picture of the Ramsay family’s annual vacations to their summer house off the coast of Scotland. The novel, characterized by Woolf’s stream-of-consciousness writing style, lacks plot, dialogue, or action. Instead, Woolf uses the characters’ thoughts and observations to engross the readers in her mystery of time and reality. Although her novel is technically true to reality, she bends the rules of time and subverts our conceptualizations of her narrative world. One moment can take up ten pages, and ten years can take up one page.

In an early section of the book, an old friend of the patriarch of the Ramsay family, Mr. Bankes, reflects on their friendship. Woolf writes, “They both smiled, standing there. They both felt a common hilarity” (20). Mr. Bankes continues his rumination, thinking about how “Ramsay lived in a welter of children, whereas Bankes was childless and a widower,” until claiming “their friendship had petered out on a Westmorland road … their paths lying different ways” (21).

Woolf uses a shared memory to lure the reader into a false warmth, yanking it away and replacing it with truths about the passage of time. We can all feel the depth of their friendship through a moment shared in silence. Woolf moves their relationship, like the Greek Moirai,  binding them through space and time before yanking them apart.

What a gut punch my first year of college. It was spring, and I thought I was about to see the light on the other side! But Virginia Woolf (and by proxy, my LitHum professor) yanked that away from me too. In To The Lighthouse, there is no other side. In fact, there are no sides at all. Time has no construct. She paints a world of art and love and relationships and memory, but no time. All the deadlines, the stress, the imagined futures weren’t as fixed as I thought. They could stretch, bend, collapse, or vanish, just like Woolf’s pages. Yes, I still had to submit my final LitHum paper and take my Latin final. 

However, there was no straight line towards clarity. There was barely even a straight line back home to Maryland at the end of the semester. And returning home that summer wasn’t all quite I had hoped. I wasn’t suddenly on a different path, my familial relationships and home friendships turning left on Westmorland road, where I turned right. Perhaps it was a ripple. A stone skidding across the lake towards my own proverbial lighthouse. And Woolf refuses to let her characters, and refused to let me, escape that illusion. 

Two years after that, my trip to the lighthouse still echoes. The sound of laughter late into the night echoes through my townhouse, even when everyone has left. When I turn on the lamp I bought at University Hardware in 2022, I’m back in my freshman year double again. But then the room lights up, and suddenly I’m not. In ten, twenty, or fifty years, I’m sure I’ll find these memories fragmented in my mind. Maybe I’ll find that some of my college friendships have been twisted by the relentless road. 

Or maybe I’ll still have that same lamp, turn it on, and it will be April 2023 all over again, and I’m about to start To the Lighthouse for the first time. 

Julia Sherman, CC’26

Work Cited:

Woolf, Virginia. To the Lighthouse. Mariner Books, 1981.

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Canonization in the End Times

Zollverein, a former industrial complex and center of Germany’s Ruhr Valley, now a UNESCO world heritage site (credit: Joseph Karaganis)

Since it was first taught in the years following World War I, Contemporary Civilization has navigated the tension between debates of the past and challenges of the present. Students read Plato, Aristotle, Aquinas, and Machiavelli before tackling Martin Luther King, Franz Fanon, and Simone De Beauvoir, authors whose central concerns—American racial inequality, the psychology of post-colonial violence, and the existential-cultural morass of gender difference—are as relevant today as they were in the mid-20th century. But CC’s continuum of moral and social thought extends to our own time. No present challenge is as urgent and world-historical as climate change, which will leave our planet a more unstable and unlivable place if it does not destroy it altogether. New additions to the CC syllabus have sought to introduce students to the humanistic discourse that has emerged—and which, in the darkest of times, has even flourished—in response to the crisis of global warming. But this discourse is rapidly evolving and has not yet settled into teachable fault-lines, like Plato against Aristotle, Augustine against Aquinas, or Hobbes against Locke against Rousseau, which students encounter in CC’s first semester. 

There is no established climate change canon. And there won’t be one anytime soon. Canonization is a drawn-out process and an unstable one. The fluctuations of the present are a filter through which we understand our collective past. New texts emerge from the ash heap of history and old ones die out. Mary Wollstonecraft, who wrote in the late 18th-century, wasn’t widely read until her work was rediscovered by second-wave feminists in the 1960s and 70s. Karl Marx’s Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts, which form the bulk of students’ engagement with Marx in CC, were not easily available in English and French until the mid-1950s—four decades after the October Revolution and well past the peak of communist popularity in the West.

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On Looking Closely

Cloud Study, John Constable, The Frick

At the beginning of my semester abroad at Oxford, my tutor summoned me and the two other visiting students studying English to his office to give us some advice. We were going to be writing papers much more regularly than we were used to, he told us: during our two terms at Oxford, we would basically write one essay each week on what we had read. My tutor said that reading criticism on the books and writers that we studied could be helpful—he himself would give us a list of recommended criticism each week—but that our most effective tool was not criticism, but close reading. Considering our limited time and fast pace, we would never be able to grasp the scholarship on a writer as thoroughly as a specialist could. This made it difficult for us to try to wade into scholarly debates. But at close reading, he said, we could be as good as anyone else.

I found this to not only be quite helpful for the coming term, but also comforting. Since I first took Literature Humanities, I had often wondered how it could be possible to say something new about these very old books. How many books had been written about these books, and how many of them had I read? My tutor’s answer seemed to be that right now we didn’t have to worry about being original. Instead, it was enough to try to understand the intricacies of the text as thoroughly as we could, and to write about what we noticed. A provocative piece of criticism could kickstart this process, but it wasn’t necessary.

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A Speaking, Bleeding Book: The Relevance of the Core Outside the West

“El Castillo,” the main pyramid at Chichen Itza (credit: Sarah Bryden)

My faith in the value of the Core has wavered on some occasions: during exam periods, while slogging through an exceptionally-dense reading, and in the last half-hour of any seminar discussion on a warm spring afternoon (to name a few instances). More persistently, I’ve often struggled to see the overlap between the Core curriculum and my own academic interests. Much of my research centers on using Indigenous languages, specifically Quechua and Yucatec Maya, to research colonial history in Latin America. Pre-1492, these languages operated in complete separation from the Western canon; as St. Augustine wrote Confessions, the Classic Maya were starting construction on Chichén Itzá. It’s somewhat ironic, then, that I received my strongest proof of the Core’s relevance at a library 45 minutes away from Chichén, in a small Maya-speaking town called Xocén.
I visited the town’s library last summer with a group of fellow Yucatec Maya students. The librarian gave us a thorough tour, but the book that stole the show was actually not on a shelf– instead, it was locked in a safe. To be specific, it was a velvet-wrapped manuscript, which the librarian handled with care and named as a facsimile of the Kuxa’an Áanalte’ (“Living Book”) of Xocén.

He explained the manuscript this way: the original copy was a living, speaking, bleeding document, which contained a history of the world and prophecies about the future. Its provenance is dotted with famous figures, including Jesus and the Maya leaders of the Caste War. But mysteriously, the manuscript disappeared sometime between the Caste War and the 1940s. Although several investigations have been launched, the Living Book’s whereabouts remain unknown. In its place, a handwritten facsimile was drafted by people who had heard, read, and remembered the contents of the original.

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Interdisciplinary Beginnings: Getting Started with Research

Butler Library with tents and risers set up for graduation (photo courtesy of Ishaan Barrett)

In such an interdisciplinary field as urban studies, it can be hard to determine exactly one place or department in which to house or even propose a research project. In fact, the broad disciplinary foundations of the urban studies program—ranging from economics and anthropology to environmental science and sociology—is one of the many reasons I’ve come to love my major. In a field with so much breadth, proposing a research project or jumping off point can be challenging when the multiple academic apartments and fields of study can plausibly come weigh in on the trajectory of your project. The Urban Studies field not the only academic area where this interdisciplinary aspect of research rings true. Even the “clean cut” academic departments at Columbia house overlaps: economics and mathematics, history and sociology, economics and political science, to name a few. With a bit more work, one can find even more complex overlaps between various academic departments and fields when research is concerned. The binary “Venn diagram” of academic overlaps in research can further complexify as the scope and focus of your project shifts or draws on other methods.

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Learning the Core Personally

We’ve all been in that room. Maybe it was your closest class friend. Maybe it was your unspoken class nemesis. Or maybe it was even you. But we’ve all been there when the professor cold calls someone in LitHum or CC to discuss the reading, and instead they launch into a five-minute spiel about their life. Perhaps it was a Marxian reading of Flex Dollars. Perhaps a Vindication on the Rights of Boarding Schools. Maybe even what their Biology class has to say today about Darwin’s theory of evolution and how that makes people in STEM overqualified for the Core.

Chances are, if you’re reading this blog, when you were in that room, you probably rolled your eyes, highlighted a new quote, and mentally prepared to shoot your hand up first with your rehearsed points in tow. For many of us in the humanities who enter a Core classroom, we assume we have it locked down with CC and LitHum analysis. You might have watched your friends struggle over a GenChem problem set, but reading the entire Leviathan in one night was a breeze. And while I do agree it can be quite frustrating to feel like the only one doing the reading or who knows what’s going on in the class, unfortunately, we are not. 

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The Art of the Research Interview

St. Luke Drawing the Virgin, by Rogier van der Weyden, mid-15th century (credit: Wikipedia)

Conducting interviews for a research project can be difficult. As an undergraduate, you’ve only just started to learn about your topic—whether industrial-labor relations in the Old West or modern-day separatist movements in Catalonia and Quebec. Your respondents, on the other hand, depending on the project, will either be experts in their fields or people who have experienced first-hand what you’ve only studied from afar. You’re afraid that you might come off as uninformed, insensitive, or banal. You’re afraid that the interview won’t go anywhere, that you’ll waste your time and that of your subject.

These are persistent anxieties that I’ve had to navigate and overcome. Three summers ago, as a Laidlaw Scholar, I spent two months interviewing journalists and academics about the impact of large language models on American and British newsrooms. I had never conducted an interview before (not even for a school newspaper!) and, in retrospect, had very little idea of what I was getting myself into. I made plenty of mistakes, learned on the fly, and came out of the summer with 21 conversations that I then cobbled together into a long-form research paper. It was an arduous but rewarding process. To make your interviewing experience a little less arduous and, hopefully, a little more rewarding, here are some tips and tricks I picked up along the way:

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Starting the Core Paper

Madonna and Child, Simone Martini, MET

When I was assigned my first paper in Literature Humanities three years ago, I felt somewhat overwhelmed. The paper could be about any aspect of the Iliad, a topic that seemed incredibly rich yet also strangely sterile—what new perspective or insight could I bring to this book that had been read and thought about for thousands of years? 

What seemed particularly daunting was achieving a balance between a thesis that was too obvious (for example, that the gods of the Iliad often behave like humans) and one that was too far-fetched (for example, that Homer wanted to trivialize the gods’ divinity and power). Or, to take another example, it seemed intuitive to say that fate played a large role in the Iliad, but to be taking things too far to say that everything that happens in the epic is predestined and the characters have no free will.

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Reflections on Taking Research Abroad

The Archivo General de Indias in Seville, Spain, where I spent this summer researching for my senior thesis (credit: Sarah Bryden)

I didn’t come to Columbia with aspirations of traveling abroad– New York City already felt like a foreign country to me, and its museums, languages, and libraries have enough to occupy ten lifetimes’ worth of curiosity. In my sophomore year, however, I spent my summer working on a language documentation project in Mérida, Mexico, through the Laidlaw fellowship. Taking my research abroad proved incredibly rewarding, both academically and personally. I’ve since traveled to Spain for archival research, worked virtually with research teams in Mexico and Germany, and been thoroughly convinced that conducting research abroad is more beneficial and accessible than you might expect. Here, I want to share some of these benefits (which apply to any major or research area), and some of the paths to international research that are open to Columbia students. 

Researchers’ motivations for international travel are often self-evident: archaeologists will travel to digs, linguists to language communities, and historians to archival materials. As undergraduates who have not (yet) specialized academically, these kinds of self-evident travel rationales will not always apply to our projects. This doesn’t mean that traveling for research as an undergraduate is unnecessary– to the contrary, as we develop our academic interests and personal identities, time abroad can be incredibly formative. Moreover, our lack of academic specialization can mean additional opportunities for international travel, and for securing funding. My own experiences abroad have pushed me and my research to grow in two main ways.

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