Last year in August, I started working for NUS’ Office of Student Affairs as a part-time marketing communications intern. My primary task was to produce content Humans of UTR (HOUTR), which, as the name suggests, borrows from Brandon Stanton’s formulaic Humans of New York (HONY).
This job actually came as a bit of a surprise for me, since I had initially applied to write for the Residential Life blog (which I ironically only got to do so when I’m leaving the job, that is, right now). So when I was asked to, instead, jumpstart a “Humans of” page, it was a pretty exciting opportunity. Be paid to be HONY! I would finally breathe influencer air.
Eleven months, 84 interviews, and just over 100 portraits of strangers later, I’ve definitely taken away a lot more than just pictures and transcriptions from this job. (And unsurprisingly, no influencer air was actually inhaled.)
So here comes the due reflective parting note, though I’ll admit it comes so dutifully, since every intern is required to publish their tear-jerking reflections before their termination. 😛 But I kid! Assignment doesn’t have to discount honest thoughts and feelings, and this one is no exception.
For a start, there’s the love-hate relationship I’ve developed with listening to strangers. Just like any “Humans of” reader, I quickly fell in love with the serendipitous thoughts I encountered, the philosophies, the occasional bitchy rants, and the epic first-person narratives.
But I quickly hated transcribing.
If I loved listening to these strangers and finding meaning in their words, I loathed having to play it back in 0.5x speed to type it out word for word. Transcribing was the dark cloud to the silver lining. It was the post-nuptial lethargy after wedding day bliss. Transcribing was the 3am lao sai after the midnight Double McSpicy.
Though the average interview I conducted spanned about twenty minutes or so, that statistic concealed the outliers. One interviewee contributed an impressive hour-and-a-half worth of audio. Often I considered a future career as a part-time scribe, to go with a full-time career as a therapist.
But in all seriousness, listening was rewarding, even if it came with the pains I would feel in my fingers afterwards.
I mean, I could have stopped the hour-and-a-half interview, but I didn’t. Because that person was halfway through his recollection of a shooting he lived through during his college days. And when you hear someone so emotionally invested in sharing a part of their life with you through words, it is so hard not to do the same through listening.
Just as these people spoke with emotion, I learned to listen with it as well. And so it is amazing to realise that even though I had never known these people beforehand, the vulnerability they offered in their stories was raw and compelling, and the compromise I learned to give in listening was unconditional.
And then there’s photography. Learning portraiture has been an awkward venture. Anyone who’s been asked to take a photo for someone else might know that there’s a certain expectation placed on you when you hold a camera at someone.
And until HOUTR, most of my pictures weren’t of people: mostly of scenery, animals, or the occasional dinner plate. I guess landscapes and lunch just don’t complain and ask for a reshoot like people do.
But you’re paid to learn in an internship. And learn, I did. I’m thankful to my subjects for sparing me their patience, perspiration, and cheek muscles. Today, I’m glad to be able to scroll through the timeline of HOUTR today and be able to call some of the photographs my own.
Lastly, and I do think most importantly, I’ve also reflected about the type of posts that have gained quite a bit of traction on the page. I mean, I’d say that as a marketing intern it was my job to take note of well-performing content. (But I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was also quite self-flattering.) And I think it’s worth sharing some thoughts I’ve had on them.
I’ve noticed how one of the romances of “Humans of” pages is in the diversity of stories they present. It’s alluring to hear how different these strangers are, while knowing that they share a singular identity – in this case, U-Town Residence. Every post is an implicit reminder that we can all be, and are, composed of plurality.
And indeed, the 84 interviews I’ve conducted contain such a colourful medley of histories and opinions, it’s so easy to be swooned by their magical ability to chorus relatable tunes. It’s no wonder that we can sometimes feel a visceral connection to these posts. We’ve either been in these people’s shoes before, or we want to be able to sympathise with them, no matter how unfamiliar they seem to be.
And I can’t help but feel that we somehow share these stories as if they were echoing our own. An exchange student criticises our grade-obsessed ecosystem. A master’s student, living away from home for the first time, encounters grief after a loved one back home passes away. An Indian national grapples with the discrimination he faces, even in a country that prides itself on multiracialism, even from people of the same race.
By liking their stories, we subscribe to the belief that we have empathy. In sharing them, we convince ourselves that their voices are ours, and that we are inclusive in so doing.
But I cannot help but also wonder, as the interviewer of these 84 humans, if these have been all the stories that could have been retold. Towards the end of one interview, when I had asked if this particular resident had anything else to add, her extended deliberation hinted to me that she did. But for one reason or another, she chose to end the interview instead of voicing the thoughts she had so thoroughly embraced.
Perhaps she had her own reasons, but she is not the prime example of the silence I want to be critical of.
My interviewees sat with the knowledge that they spoke not just to me, but to the entire residence, as well as to the public. They’re aware that their lives are at the judgement of the eyes that gaze at them. They spoke not just for themselves, but for the people that they know would eventually listen to them.
So begs the questions: how many of these people have presented themselves wholly when my iPhone’s microphone had been turned on? How many of their voices have inadvertently remained silent in fear of being judged? How many of them have I truly gotten to know?
There’s a tinge in dissatisfaction in realising that I will never know the answers to these questions. And so, I can only hope through an assigned final word, that while we romanticise the voices strangers we may never meet, there can be, and are, many more stories that will not be said and heard. And in our everyday encounters with people, we can choose to embrace those opinions, stories, and identities we may not be familiar or comfortable with.
Indeed, if this internship has taught me anything, it’s that there’s so much we can learn from being open to listening. And I hope that if this page is meant to present an image of UTR that’s colourful and diverse, we should in turn, make sure that our everyday environment is welcoming of all stories, and not just the ones that we want to hear.
Of course, no parting note would be complete without due thanks. I’d like to extend my heartiest thanks to my bosses, Bell and Anne, for their kind supervision, patience, and understanding. These qualities were especially virtuous approaching finals week, when the world came crashing in slow motion, like a Michael Bay movie you could somehow enjoy even less.
Big shout-out to David She for lending me his expensive camera this past year. I’m sure you miss your $3,000 Sony Alpha II, and you’ll be glad to know that you’ll reunited with it real soon. I wouldn’t know if in the months that follow would I actually be nostalgic for the days of working as an OSA RL intern, or just the times when I could use this camera without some degree of criminal misappropriation. (It’s a joke!) Anyway, I am truly grateful. 😛
Lastly, but definitely not least, I have to thank the 84 individuals from U-Town Residence who I have spoken to for their time, spontaneity, and stories.
Thank you for your willingness and vulnerability in both standing in front of the camera and in raising your voices. Words, said in the rhythm of emotion, never leave the air static. And in every recording I’ve made, each contained a voice that believed it deserved to be heard.
From stories of our idols, be they sports stars or professors. Or the hardships in losing loved ones, and recovering from these falls. To the banal rantings of academic life, and the somewhat imminent existential crisis that comes with doing a PhD. And ultimately, stories that are told as deserving and everyday humans.
Thank you for this experience. As I depart from this posting, I hope that HOUTR helps to remind its residences and staff that our stories are worth sharing, others are worth listening to, and that there is so much to learn when we embrace all the voices that come our way.
