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The Dead Already Paid for Washington Square Park

New York University made an announcement this week. The school pledged $6 million over four years to the Washington Square Park Conservancy, the nonprofit steward of the nine-and-three-quarter-acre square at the foot of Fifth Avenue. The university’s own headline chose a gambler’s verb: “Doubles Down.” The money is real. The park needs care, and the Conservancy has paid for horticulture crews and free programming there for years. NYU students treat the park as their quad because it is one. A school without a campus was handed a campus by geography, and the students love the ground they borrow. Grant all of that. The gift is generous, and the park will be cleaner for it.

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The $20,500 Ceiling

Columbia’s journalism school paused its midcareer degree three months after Washington capped what America will lend a journalist. The timing is the story. The email went out on a Thursday afternoon. On October 1, 2026, Dean Jelani Cobb told alumni of the Columbia Journalism School’s Master of Arts program that admissions were paused for the coming cycle. The message landed in the inboxes of people who had paid six figures for the degree it described. The school, Cobb wrote, had begun “a critical evaluation” of the M.A. curriculum, and the pause would give the review “the focus it deserves.” The school’s admissions page now carries the same message and dangles a future “relaunch” for anyone willing to wait.

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No Glass on the Table

Students came back to Columbia College this September with printed books and pens. In Literature Humanities, phones stayed in bags. Laptops stayed home or shut inside backpacks. Some of the paperbacks were already creased. You could hear pages turn. For the length of each seminar, the only networked machine in the room was the human being across the table. The same rule now governs every section of Contemporary Civilization, the sophomore course that asks twenty-odd students at a time to argue about Plato and Du Bois face to face.

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The Empty Quad

This is move-in week at the American university, and I keep thinking about the freshmen. They were born in 2008, most of them, into the autumn the economy fell through the floor. Their parents signed leases in August and watched the banks fail in September, and a fair number of the classmates who should have been hauling suitcases up the dormitory stairs beside them do not exist. American births peaked in 2007, sagged with the crash, and never came back. The recession officially ended in 2009. The births did not return with the recovery, and the fertility rate has since sunk to its lowest marks ever recorded. Economists can argue about why, and they do, everything from housing costs to delayed marriage to a general gloom about what was coming next. Whatever the cause, the count kept falling, and the count is all a registrar needs. The empty crib has been rolling toward the campus gates for eighteen years, and this semester it arrives.

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Free Buses, Dark Screens

On the Thursday before Labor Day, the principals of New York City’s public schools opened a memo from the Education Department. The free T-Mobile internet service built into 350,000 student Chromebooks would end that Sunday, August 31. Classes begin September 10. Four days of warning, ten days of scramble, and then the school year opens on machines that still power up, still glow, and can no longer reach anything. The laptop survives. The world inside it has been repossessed. During the pandemic the city handed out some 725,000 devices and never tracked how many still function; the Chromebook program was the sequel, the do-over, the one arriving with a plan attached. The plan lasted a year.

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The Name You Cannot Give Yourself

Every semester it happens by the second week. A student in ASL 1, bright and eager and already half in love with the language, waits until the room empties and asks me for a sign name. The asking is shy and confident at the same time, the way people ask for something they assume is a formality, a small ceremony the teacher performs on request, like handing back a quiz. I tell them no. Then I tell them why, and the why takes the rest of the semester, and if I teach it well, it takes the rest of their lives. I want to set the why down in one place, because the question deserves a fuller answer than a hallway can hold, and because the answer opens a door into how Deaf culture actually works, which is what my students came to learn whether they know it yet or not. Two notes on words before we start. Students usually say sign name; the scholarship says name sign; I answer to both terms and grant neither on request. And when I write Deaf with a capital D, I mean the culture: the language, the schools, the clubs, the families, the jokes, the weddings, the funerals, the whole inherited world of people who live in American Sign Language. Small-d deaf is an audiogram. Capital-D Deaf is a people. The name sign belongs to the people.

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Every Face Is Doing Something

A viral post claims the West never once produced the Buddha’s expression across twenty-five centuries of art. The claim collapses in the first wing of any decent museum, and the thing that killed it spent thirty-five years walking through Janna’s ASL classrooms. There is a post moving through social media that stakes an entire theory of civilization on one face. Every Buddha statue, it observes, from Thailand to Japan to China to Tibet to India, wears one expression: lids lowered a few degrees, the corners of the mouth lifted by a hair. The styles vary by country and by century while the face holds steady. The post rules out the easy readings, smile and peace both, and names the look “the absence of wanting.” Western religious art, the argument continues, produced this expression at no point in twenty-five hundred years. Michelangelo’s Last Judgment strains, Bernini’s Teresa swoons, every Annunciation leans toward its angel. Western faces reach; the Buddha’s face has stopped reaching; and that difference, the post concludes, compresses the whole philosophical quarrel between East and West into a single expression. It closes with a slogan engineered for the share button: “your face is where you are.”

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