We all stood on the green on the night before the start of a new academic year. We held candles, and the candles themselves had bases made of card to protect from hot wax. The President of Yale-NUS gave a brief speech, lit one of the professor’s candles, who in turn lit another’s, and so on. Our professors moved through the crowd and used their candles to light the students’. There were 600 of us all on the field with candles, catching up with professors and friends we hadn’t seen in months. It was a great time, and must’ve made a great sight.
As I stood talking to John Kelly, a visiting professor of anthropology from the University of Chicago (who I’ve previously studied the politics of sport with), my hand began to grow hotter and hotter. This is Singapore, where it was already hot and humid, and I thought vaguely that the heat from the lit candle was being felt by my hand. I passed the candle back and forth between my right and left hands, busy in conversation with Prof Kelly about his upcoming class this semester.
It dawned on me after maybe five minutes that the cardboard base of my candle had a hole in it, and for the entirety of this time hot wax had been flowing down onto my hands. My hands were by this point burning, and were entirely encrusted with hot wax. I rapidly blew out the candle, to the (half-serious) horror of a professor for whom no symbol is devoid of meaning.
The only way I could redeem myself was by muttering something along the lines of Bill Deresiewcz’s mantra that “an education is a self-inflicted wound”. There seemed no more fitting setting, no more appropriate time to learn this the hard way, than standing in a field talking to a professor and holding in my hands a metaphor for education that quite literally burned me.
Whether it be a cliche or somehow too formulaic, it nevertheless seemed to me to be an appropriate way to start the semester. I see Professor Kelly in class tomorrow.