Sunday is my day for laundry. My self-care day. It sounds odd that throwing dryer sheets would be my healing space, but it is something I will always be able to do for and by myself. I find a certain peace in the lonesomeness. And a certain endless possibility within it.
As I walk on the corners of Nathan Road where I had the fondest memories of my teenage years, I see water cannons and riot police with their rifles and I start coughing from the teargas as I try to find the nearest train station on New Year’s Eve.
In the past three years at this university, I’ve learned a ton. Most of my learning has been done outside of the classroom, however, I have also learned by actively taking part in movements, issues and communities that challenge me to think about the world critically.
For much of my life, my identity as a woman of color was rooted in embarrassment. I hid my weekend activities, which were always Carnatic music class, Bharatanatyam class, and Bala Vihar (study of Hindu scriptures).
As a little girl, nothing brought me more joy and excitement than dancing. My parents recognized this and were quick to enroll me in dance classes, in an attempt to encourage my curiosity for the performing arts.