I was in kindergarten. Bunker Hill Elementary School, right after we’d moved from India to the US. Ms. Abernathy sat in front of the class with a paper cutout of a heart. She told us, “Say all the mean things you want to this heart.” And, ruthless, we did.
One boy shouted, “You’re so bad at math!” A girl cried, “You can’t colour!” Someone said,“You’re dumb!” And after every mean thing we said, Ms.Abernathy crumpled a side of the paper heart until, eventually, it became a crumpled ball of paper.
And then she asked to say nice things to the heart and apologise. And for every apology, she opened a piece of the ball into the paper heart it was before.
She said oftentimes we say things or experience difficult moments, and when our heart feels it, it crumples inwards. And even after we apologise and recover from it, those lines on a crumpled paper don't go away. And neither do the lines in our hearts. Those stay. They define our heart and shape us into who we are.
Granted, I was in kindergarten. But I still think about that day. Because of this seed of compassion Ms.Abernathy planted in me back as a child, I dreamt of coming back to the US.
For 17 years of my life, I’ve been an immigrant. And that has been incredible – the exposure is breathtaking. But it often comes at the cost of ambiguity. Within identity, roots, and grounding.
Nothing really feels familiar. Or certain. Or permanent. You can’t know what’s next because nothing is your own.
My mother often said this to me in Hindi, ghar ka ek mahol hota hai. That every home has this specific atmosphere, energy. A personna. One of comfort, support, and love. And I hope this resonates with everyone in my class here today, but over the last four years, I’ve found that same mahol, that belonging, here in Denison.
When I came here for the first time in August 2018 – holding the banner during our Induction ceremony for being the farthest from home – my pre-orientation mentor didn’t ask me where I’m from, but she asked me where’s home for you? She didn’t tell me who I am, what I’m not, and what I should be, but for the first time, someone asked me who do you want to be. And that by far is the greatest gift of a liberal arts education. It’s the opportunity we get to explore ourselves in the context of the larger world.
We learn about the gruesome past in our History classes, and we ask ourselves, is that really just the past? We learn about technology through our STEM classes, and we question if we’re on the right side of its development? We learn about social and cultural practices, and then reflect, on where do our own come from? And have we preserved it or imposed it on others? The ability to look beyond one discipline and string together the different facets of academia is what makes us understand the larger world with empathy and compassion. And ultimately, it’s what makes us understand ourselves better. Pushing us to question our own beliefs, internalize our readings, and then reflect upon how we can use this knowledge to be an autonomous thinker for ourselves.
This freedom, acceptance, and liberation is the beauty of our class, of our mahol. And it’s come not just from the beautiful moments we’ve had together, but also from the difficult ones. Leaving home, dealing with a pandemic, having unfinished goodbyes – it was not easy. But we are a class that persevered. When we couldn’t meet in our dorms, we met outside by the firepits of East quad. When we couldn’t go out on a Friday night, we sat by the food trucks on picnic blankets during those cool September nights. When we couldn’t leave campus, we explored the bioreserve, the IMs, taking walks during the day, and stargazing at night. And it was through those times that we got to really know each other, immerse ourselves into our mahol, absorbing the beautiful journeys and transformations around us.
And with time, our community got stronger. We got vaccinated (one crumple opens), we started eating together again (another crumple), came back into the classroom (another crumple), we let go of masks (another crumple), and slowly, we’ve opened back to the paper heart we started with in August 2018. It’s not the same pristine heart we started with four years ago – but this (holding up the heart), is the class we have become. Yes, we got crumpled up along the way, but we’ve opened back up. And these lines our heart now has, these are lines of definement. Of growth. Of maturity. The lines show all the different journeys we’ve taken together – the ups and downs. But look at it, we’re not two-dimensional anymore. We’ve got depth. We’ve been shaped and flourished, all together as one class.
We’ve built a community, a home, mahol we’ve together here on this hill. And today as we part ways, I would imagine Ms.Abernathy reminding us that despite how delicate our hearts are, each crumple we endure gives us strength and compassion. So let us take this strength and compassion, to build a new home, a new mahol, wherever we go next.
