I remember leading my first Spring Allocations. The spreadsheets, the appeals, the long day (and night) spent debating line items — it’s a daunting process, even for seasoned members of CSA. You sit with a finite pool of money and an infinite sea of good intentions. Everyone wants to do the right thing for the student body, and everyone believes in the importance of what they’re funding. That’s why I know how difficult it is to make those cuts. I’ve sat in the room when organizations asked for increases that felt justified, even overdue. I’ve seen the tension between precedent and possibility. But some decisions land differently. Some make you pause, even after you’ve closed the budget.

When I first read about the reduction in funding for the Carletonian, it stuck with me — not just as a budget decision, but as something that raised deeper questions about what we value. This isn’t just about a dollar amount. It is about what we believe is worth preserving. Like most groups this year, the Carletonian saw its request exceed what the budget could accommodate. I don’t raise this because I think its work matters more than that of cultural orgs, sports or other clubs — they’re all essential. But student journalism carries a distinct role on this campus, and this funding decision speaks to something deeper than numbers.

When I was a student, I paid the CSA activity fee just like everyone else. That money doesn’t  come from some distant source—it’s the students’ money, pooled together to support the things we think are worth doing. Year after year, we’ve said that journalism is one of them. Not just news as content, but the act of documenting our lives, holding those in power accountable, creating a space for student voices and a record for the future. If we want it done well, if we want it to remain visible—not just in an archive or a browser tab, but in our hands, on our tables, in our Friday routines—we have to choose to fund it accordingly.

It’s not some abstraction to me. I’ve read it on Fridays, picked it up on the way to class or grabbed a copy in Sayles while waiting for a friend. During common time, when the campus comes alive with movement and conversation, I’ve watched a wide range of student organizations hand out their publications — stacked neatly on tables or held out by staffers — inviting students to pause, read and connect with the work of their peers. There is something irreplaceable about print. It doesn’t disappear into a browser tab or get lost in an inbox. It sits in your hand. It sits in your dorm. It travels with you, maybe even home for break to show your mom. When it’s printed, it’s permanent in a way that demands attention, and at a college like Carleton — where time is precious and so much gets skimmed or scrolled past — that matters. Digital publishing is valuable, yes — but it’s not the same. The Carletonian’s physical presence on Fridays is a ritual. It’s a shared moment. At a college that thrives on community, it anchors us to something real. The Carletonian is older than CSA. It has outlasted college presidents, wars, curriculum changes and, yes, budget fights. Since 1877, it has been the pulse of this campus. It has been run by students, sustained by sheer passion and a stubborn belief in the value of the printed word. In that way, it shares a mission with CSA: to advocate, serve and amplify student voices.

It’s easy, especially during Spring Allocations, to start thinking in units. Per-student cost. Percentage increases. Budget-to-ask ratios. But there are things that resist that kind of logic. Things like trust. Like history. Like the experience of picking up a freshly printed paper from the Sayles tables on a Friday, thumbing through it on your way to class or reading a story that makes you feel more connected to this place. That moment of engagement can’t be easily quantified, but it matters. So yes, I understand the budgetary constraints. I understand the pressure to adapt. But I also understand what it means to lose something slowly — issue by issue, week by week — until one day, we realize that a piece of what made Carleton feel like Carleton has quietly disappeared.

This article isn’t a callout. It’s a reminder. In the well-intentioned balancing act, we shouldn’t lose sight of what we’re here to balance in the first place: the voices, the stories, the messy, beautiful collective memory that makes our college more than a campus.

We can fix this. Not just by rerunning the numbers, but by remembering why the paper mattered to us in the first place. And why our stories — told in our words, on our pages — are worth protecting.