Killing in the Name

I’m out late-night drinking with a bunch of other first-year students just a day or two into our Two-Dimensional Design course at the Cardiff Institute of Higher Education. We’re imbibing our respective student loans at a loud and dimly lit club of sorts, using raised voices to forge new friendships and—more urgently—to warn anyone heading for the corner seat that something is slowly dripping from the ceiling above that spot.

We’re an eclectic bunch whose paths likely never would’ve crossed if it weren’t for our similar career aspirations, and two of the young women in particular have such strong senses of personal style that my imposter syndrome is kicking in even before I’ve seen any of their art. One has matted white-girl dreads you could lose a bird nest in, the other has a shaved head. These fast friends are hanging with the group, but as soon as Rage Against The Machine’s “Killing in the Name” comes on, they race to the dancefloor.

I’m hearing this song for the first time, and I’ve never seen anything quite like my classmates’ moshing before. In this moment, the ongoing expansion of my world feels more tangible and more exciting than ever.