Finding a Home in Cambridge

The etymologist in me prefers “Parthian shot” to “parting shot”: the former version of the phrase retains the allusion to Parthia, that ancient West Asian kingdom whose inhabitants employed the charming tactic of firing arrows backwards while they were fleeing, or pretending to flee, battles. Treat this column as a series of shots from Southeast Asia. I have no advice to give. I’m just telling my (unabashedly enthusiastic) story.

• • •

Still, there are times I am bewildered by each mile I have travelled, each meal I have eaten, each person I have known, each room in which I have slept. As ordinary as it all appears, there are times when it is beyond my imagination.

—Jhumpa Lahiri, “The Third and Final Continent”

When you grow up 13 time zones away, the idea of going to Harvard seems almost mythical. Sure, I’d heard of the name (who hasn’t?), but you might as well have suggested studying on the moon, so remote did the possibility seem. (Indeed, I chose to come here sight unseen.) It still surprises me sometimes. I’ll catch a glimpse of the Lowell House belltower from an unexpected angle and I’ll think, four years ago, I was doing my stint in the Singaporean army—how did I end up here?

• • •

Choosing to come here was a shot in the dark that turned out to be surprisingly successful. I’m most pleased about how easy it was to fit in. So much in literature describes coming to America as though it were negotiating some remote terrain. Yet over meals I’ve managed to discuss everything and anything with my friends, from shared childhood memories (sure, “The Cosby Show” was an international hit, but who knew slap bracelets were a worldwide trend in the early ’90s?) to emotional issues (which, as it turns out, are less culturally specific than one might think).

Yes, there was the odd disconcerting moment. It was strange, and occasionally frustrating, to arrive in the U.S. as a native English speaker and find that no one understood my accent. (I made adjustments: those of you who have separate accents for speaking to your parents and for speaking to your Harvard friends will know what I mean.) And while I knew about snow and seasons, I wasn’t prepared for the sun setting at 4:00 p.m. and the attendant seasonal affective disorder. But I’ve never felt like an outsider.

“Assimilant!” you may hiss. But I’m not ever denying where I’ve come from: arguably, being Singaporean informs a lot of what I do, and I’m happy to go on about my home country. The fact is, however, I was comfortable here.

• • •

And then there were the times I went away. At different points in my college career, I have found myself, variously: burrowing through the musty Gov Docs stacks to collect statistical data; flying into New York to interview a movie director; spinning at the Park Plaza Hotel; lounging in the VIP room of London’s Ministry of Sound; in love.

All of which triggered more “How did I end up here?” moments. So I’ll thank Harvard for transporting me, both literally and figuratively. For introducing me to urban economics, an academic field to which I’ve devoted considerable effort. For sending me twice to Britain, courtesy of Let’s Go. For the chance to write about music for The Crimson. And I’ll thank it for giving me self-confidence. It’s not always easy to believe that anything you say about music is applicable when you’re half a world away from centers of pop culture. It’s a lot easier when Green Day’s publicity firm calls your dorm room to make sure you’re sending a reviewer to cover their concert.

I suppose some of you are so used to living in a big pond that you may take it for granted. But the sense that there are opportunities out there just waiting to be taken—the sense that you’ve got the world at your feet (or on a string, as Arlen and Koehler say)—isn’t necessarily apparent to a person growing up in a small country. And perhaps it’s just the sentimental ravings of a departing senior, but I’d like to think that that sense is one of the things I picked up while studying at Harvard.

• • •

I’m surrounded by boxes I’ve packed, boxes that contain both the highlights and the butt-ends of my days and ways at college. It feels like I’m leaving home.

Daryl Sng ’01, an economics concentrator in Lowell House, was associate arts editor of The Crimson in 2000.