Last fall was the first time I didn't wear a uniform to school. Instead, I wore a rumpled T-shirt and jeans as I headed to class, passing by countless students who were all dressed differently. The lack of uniformity was unfamiliar. I watched silently as the large crowd moved with me through the narrow hallway, and I felt the lingering graze of swishing skirts and palpable anticipation for a new semester.
I was anxious. I felt exposed. I'd taken off the uniform that I'd worn like a second skin for six years. It was just me.
Prior to starting school, I'd spent close to a year in practically complete isolation. Apart from my family, I didn't interact much with anyone else. Settling down in a wintry suburban home after spending a lifetime in the island metropolis of Singapore was rougher than expected. I couldn't go anywhere because I didn't know how to drive when I first arrived. I couldn't work or volunteer because I didn't have the right permit. Instead, I spent my time between helping my mother straighten out the household and meandering through the Internet.
I was also nursing a broken heart.
I'd done poorly in the A-Level exams - a set of national tests administered annually by the Ministry of Education to college-bound students. Along with school grades from secondary school and junior college (Singapore's equivalent of high school), the A-Level scores define a student's qualifications and entry into university.
It is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to prove oneself. Unfortunately, I squandered it. With only two A's and three B's, I had not gotten even a preliminary interview from the local law and medical school. Despite being eligible for other faculties in local universities, I was crushed.
So I chose to come to UB. Unsurprisingly, my mother was beyond furious.
"Why not go to the National University of Singapore? Ranked No. 23 by Times Higher Education! UB? No. 198! Aiyoh, you silly, silly girl. What do I do with you? You're going to be the death of me."
Why, indeed?
I spent four years at a reputable secondary school in Singapore. After graduating, I spent another two years at its affiliated junior college. Getting into such an institution was the definition of success in Singapore. It meant getting into a prestigious university, which in turn promises a respected career like law or medicine. So for a good six years, I was the definition of success.
But life doesn't always work like a pipeline. Sometimes results fall short of expectations. What do students do then? What did I do then? I stopped trying.
Shortly after beginning the A-Level curriculum in junior college, I realized I had trouble keeping up with the massive workload. There was immense pressure to do well in everything ? daily assignments, monthly tests, projects, extracurricular activities, community service, even SATs. I was overwhelmed by all these responsibilities.
I once proudly put on my uniform (despite incessant complains about its unflattering cut and drab color), because it was a symbol of my triumph in the meritocratic system. I've outcompeted so many others to be a lucky handful deemed capable, intelligent, enviable. I thought it would always continue to be so.
In actuality, I was struggling to catch up with my peers. So I became lazy. I started procrastinating. I avoided challenging subjects. I thought, even if I fail, at least I'd have the excuse of not trying hard enough. But underneath the exhausting cover-up, I knew I was just trying to maintain some semblance of a bright student from an elite school, at the expense of my education.
I still proudly put on my uniform because it had been such an essential part of my identity over the years. But it had also become a dreadful reminder of how disillusioned I'd become with the harsh reality of meritocracy, with the elitist take on education and with myself.
Coming to UB instead of staying in Singapore was essentially a cop out. I could start with a clean slate here. There were no "Ah ... that school" looks or unspoken questions like "Why did she choose to study this? How many A's did she get"as I introduced myself in class. But it was also scary. I could no longer rely on my alma mater to identify myself. I had to prove myself from square one.
The long months I spent with my family in the middle of "nowheresville" were months spent licking my wounds. By the time I came to UB, I was desperate to stop feeling sorry for myself. So I started setting small goals: to speak up in lab even though I'm extremely shy; to take a religion class to expand my worldview; to join The Spectrum and confront my fears of talking to strangers; to sign up to be a teaching assistant. It was extremely gratifying to check items off the bucket list. Doing things I've never done before rebuilt my confidence and motivation.
In addition, through all these unexpected endeavors, the most important lesson I learned is to keep trying. I used to think trying means I'm setting myself up for disappointment. Disappointment, however, turned out to be so much better than the complete hopelessness not trying inevitably brings. Now, even when I get disappointed, I push on. Who knows when I'll eventually succeed?
I started writing this column thinking it would be about my freshman experience. But this isn't about my freshman experience. It is about my life. I think what I went through reflects that of many others: meeting social expectations, forging a self-identity, seeking approval from others and losing perspective while trying to attain entrenched conceptions of success and happiness. Your uniform could be anything ? ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation, interests.
Who I am now is a culmination of all the unforgettable experiences that made up the first two decades of my life. As such, despite shedding the uniform that embodied all the tears, laughter and battles of my adolescent years, what I went through then will always be an integral part of me. It has been a bittersweet but empowering journey. And I know, as I head to class these days, I'm moving toward a better me.
Email: tong.meng@ubspectrum.com
