Jessai Flores
Why did you come here?
No, I’m not asking for the polished and palatable reasons you wrote in your supplemental essay. Nor the lofty Ivy-League-to-ambitious-career path that you outline when faced with an inquiry about your choice.
Why did you come to Yale?
Who did you think you would become at this place? Away from the bubble of people back home who have always known you — who did you hope to be?
Are you becoming that person? Are you happy here?
The day I got into Yale, after the celebrations waned and the news settled in, my father pulled me aside to deliver an ultimatum.
“Go. Do what you need to do. Become who you need to become. But if you’re not happy, come back,” he said.
For my first several months at Yale, I threw myself into every aspect of the “Yale experience” that I could. There was no nook or cranny of this campus I did not explore. I trodded the path to the Divinity school; sat in empty classrooms in Harkness Hall late at night; and wandered aimlessly in the reading rooms at Sterling, swallowing every detail of every engraving and stained glass window. There was no class I did not browse through or attend. I shopped an East German film class and scoured through Mandarin syllabi, contriving a bucket list of courses I wished to complete and professors I wished to be taught by. There was no party I did not attend — every weekend was defined by a notable function, whether a frat wedding I stumbled into, or a sports house’s themed darty.
I wanted to — no I needed to — be as happy as I could to justify my time here.
My Instagram showcased my having the time of my life. My friends from back home would send me my posts with joyful comments: “we’re so happy for you!” they would say. And to a certain extent, my felicity was true. I was ecstatic. I was becoming who I had hoped to be. I was extroverted. I became friends with people from all walks of life, expanding my horizons from the international school domain I had long existed within in Singapore. I was expressive, and began to write, act and experiment with new interests with a vigour and vivacity I had long lost in the efforts to consolidate my passions to get into a competitive university.
But underlying this supposed jubilance was a complete uncertainty about my life and where it was going.
What did I want to study? Was I comfortable in my new skin? Was I losing parts of myself from before I got to Yale — parts I didn’t intend to lose in the first place?
Scrolling through my Instagram archives, I found posts and stories showcasing aspects of my life that I had forgotten about. I used to collect vinyls, wander through museums and hop around coffee shops with my dearest friends. I used to post stupid daily vlogs to a small circle of 20 people, without a care in the world for how I was perceived. I don’t do those things anymore. I don’t remember when or why I stopped. I had simply changed, and what once mattered to me more than anything no longer did.
You have to make room for the new parts of yourself. I just hadn’t realised what I had let go.
The excitement of Yale — its ever-changing and expansive opportunities — is its very kryptonite. Yale doesn’t stop. It doesn’t give you time to think. Before you know it, you’re standing in your empty dorm room, wondering how the year could have passed by so quickly, and how you’ve grown — if you’ve grown.
Change is desirable, but it requires you lose something of who you were. The real question is then, are you happy? Are you happy with how you’ve changed? Are you happy with who you’re becoming?