Nostalgia is a curse of small actions. You find it reading a book and highlighting a line your old friend might like. You find it in a coat that’s left behind, slung over the dining room chairs. You find it in photo albums, tracing the curves of familiar faces pressed into the page.
I’ve noticed recently that there has been an influx of people on the Scholars Network – welcome new scholars, and hello to old friends. It’s been a minute since I wrote something for this blog, but every Outlook notification I get (You have a new follower!) spurs some deep-rooted desire to re-open the document, put pen to paper (I’m not sure what the online equivalent for this phrase is), and write. During my time as a Laidlaw scholar, this process felt extremely natural. I’m sure I could come up with any number of metaphors to describe the simplicity of it -- as easy as breathing, a walk in the park, a breeze – and they are all true. Walking along the monsoon-damp roads of Bandra or through the bustling avenues of Shibuya invited analogy and deserved poetry, and I just wanted to do my best to capture what was ultimately beyond description. I hope, as you set out on your research and leadership summers, that you feel the same.
Figuring out what to write after an ending is extremely different. We all wonder what comes after the final page: The End, and then what? I’ve been grappling with this question for several moments now, watching my cursor blink frustratingly. The truth is that a lot happens after an ending, some of it known but much of it unplanned and unexpected. I did not know when I finished Laidlaw that I would set out to write my dissertation on the same subject, just as I did not know I would spend much of my third-year grappling with illness and medication-induced fatigue. That’s the journey, though, isn’t it? The destination, be it graduation or work or further studies, may be clear, but the curves and loops and cobblestones of the path there will surprise you. Just be sure to wear good shoes.
So, in the spirit of then what, I’ve come here to tell you a bit about my life after Laidlaw. In complete honesty, this has been inspired largely by one late-night scroll through old photos from the last two summers: me in Tokyo, me in Mumbai, me slumped over my laptop in the St Andrews library basement. My time in Laidlaw has been a highlight of university, and it set me on a path personally and academically which has continued to define my aspirations as both student and individual.
As I approach my fourth and final undergraduate year, I find myself now returning to the same subject I began work on three years ago, just three months into university, writing my Laidlaw application, albeit with a significantly stronger set of research skills. My Laidlaw project, if you’re unfamiliar, was on the colonial and postcolonial experience of sexuality and gender within South and East Asia. I confuced a series of interviews across India and Japan with queer individuals to understand their experiences: interviewees ranged from eighteen-year-old students to elderly couples, speaking to a range of lives. My senior-year thesis, which I have just begun outlining, was inspired directly by one of the conversations I conduced in Mumbai with an individual who belongs to a hijra community. Hijra refers to a set of third-gender communities and kinships structures in South Asia, comprising individuals are born male but experience a feminine gender identity: there is no exact taxonomy in Western studies to explain the term. The communities faced extreme prejudice and backlash during British colonial rule, and have continued to experience decreased legal and economic status, social taboo, and poverty. My dissertation will focus on the legal evolution of third-gender communities, such as hijras, throughout and beyond British colonial settlement, to hopefully shed light on the existence of communities which have been historically and academically shunned.
Laidlaw, of course, was not only about one specific topic. It instilled in me a love for research and academia which I am reminded of every day. A close friend of mine told me yesterday that she’s never met anyone who loves their degree more than I do. I’m not sure about that, but I can affirm that I do adore my degree, even when it keeps me up late and sends me down unnecessary JSTOR-sponsored rabbit holes. After all, history is what we live and breathe; it surrounds us. Especially in a town such as St Andrews, it is truly impossible to escape. I feel it walking down the Kinnessburn, or passing the cathedral, stone flaking off into the sunlight. I feel it every time I wear the red gown.
Every path has its hedges, and I would be remiss to not mention what is, arguably, the most crucial lesson I learnt as a scholar. Lean on your friends. It doesn’t need dressing-up. There is no point in going through things alone. The last few months, I have been, at times, experiencing my absolute lowest moments. I won’t go into the details of why (one word: progesterone), but I will tell you that there have been several days that I have barely felt like leaving my bed. I pride myself on being a generally cheerful person, but I felt that something fundamental within me had been altered, and all I could do was try to keep my head above water. But – and this is the most crucial but! - I had friends to hold my hand through it. It is so easy to pull the curtains tight and let silence fill your room. Throw the windows open instead. Turn the kettle on.
I do not have words for you about the slow drip of rain down a fruit-vendor stall on Pali Hill, or the blurred landscapes that fly by as I ride the shinkansen to Kyoto. Someday, hopefully soon, I’m sure I shall again. But for now, I wish you all the best on the start of your Laidlaw journeys. Take lots of photos along the way.
Aki