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Michigan in Color
Thursday, April 6, 2017 — 3A
I’m not proud to make this
declaration by any means; I’m
actually quite devastated that this
has become a facet of my being,
but holy fuck do I detest reading.
I’m not talking about the day-
to-day casual Reddit browsing,
Facebook lurking stuff, or the
kind that is fundamental. I’m
talking like the big-ass textbooks,
fucking “War and Peace” type of
reading expected of me from a
bunch of classes I’ve taken. Every
Facebook meme ever created that
pokes fun at not doing the reading
can have my name found tagged
somewhere in the comments
section. And before you say
anything, yes, I see the irony in
me writing this for people to read
while simultaneously dispelling
my unfavorable feelings toward
the practice. The title says it all,
but bear with me.
I have this inclination to test
the patience of authority; I love
erring on the side of mischief.
I’m honestly a little shit, and this
display of little shittiness can best
be shown through my inability to
tell you about the plot of a single
novel the average high schooler
should have read in any of their
English classes. I mean, I didn’t
even check out the last book I
was required to read for my AP
Lit class senior year, like I was
that done with reading by then.
Jay Gatsby? I don’t know her.
Hamlet? Couldn’t say that I am
familiar with that queen. Mrs.
Dalloway? Which school did she
teach at? Because I can’t say I’ve
ever met her. I’m not even telling
you all of this to, like, brag, either
— like, it’s actually something
real embarrassing and shameful
to admit, but this primer on my
propensity toward not reading
becomes relevant soon, I swear.
Reading is hard. Reading is
really fucking hard and I relished
in the glory of my simple acts of
disobedience by just … not doing
it. My attention span is essentially
the
Planck-length
equivalent
of time, which could perhaps
explain my habit of becoming
engrossed in the lives and times
of the authors of books I should’ve
been reading instead of reading
the actual books themselves. I
mean, I told you it’s not that I
hate literature or anything. It
most likely was because I couldn’t
be bothered to read anything
expected of me out of both
laziness and adolescent mischief.
This habit would manifest itself
throughout various classes, in
different forms, but nonetheless
with the same result. Physics
lessons on Einstein’s theories
of relativity led me to instead
learn about his hobbies as an
amateur violinist while calculus
lectures on Newton’s creation
of an entirely new branch of
mathematics led me to follow this
tangent about his religious fervor
and penchant for being weird as
hell.
Toward the end of middle
school, I had to learn this
Tchaikovsky
piece
for
a
symphony
audition.
It
was
his
“Serenade
for
Strings,”
the 48th opus, which was this
orchestral masterpiece written
in the absolute most horrific time
signature ever. The technical
demands of the piece alongside
the massive Romantic-era middle
finger that was the time signature
drove me to, of course, not read
through the piece at all. I want
to make a brief mention that my
habit of disregarding readings
did not simply end at the written
text; rather, it indiscriminately
dismantled any drive I would
have to begin reading anything
that was required of me, and
that included this daunting six-
page shitstorm of a serenade.
During the free periods I should
have
spent
rehearsing
the
serenade’s dreaded triple piano
“pianississimo”
measures,
I
instead, surprisingly, read this
book about the composer himself.
It was in “The Life and Letters
of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky” that
I read this quote from him that
would resonate with me well into
the current day. Tchaikovsky
described himself as “Russian
in the fullest sense of the word,”
to
which
I
thought:
“How
incredible. Not just a veritable
sense, but the fullest sense. How
affirming it must be to be able
to fully identify with a culture.”
I think the reason as to why his
words connected with me to such
an extent is because they made
me aware of this hollow cavity
inside me that housed my cultural
identity. It led to the realization
that I couldn’t truly say that I
fully identify as anything.
I was born on the first of
November in Can Tho, a large port
village that skims the Mekong
Delta along the southern fringes
of Vietnam. I couldn’t really tell
you anything about what life was
like there besides the fact that
it’s just really fucking hot. I was
really young when I left Vietnam
with my parents to pursue the
prospect of a better life here in
the States. The first four years
of my life I recall entirely in
Vietnamese. My clearest memory
from this time in my life was a
very specific moment where my
mother was sitting at the kitchen
table eating. I asked her why she
made so much noise while she ate,
to which she laughed and asked
me if I would like to eat with
her. I sat there with her and we
just had this casual and carefree
conversation in the kitchen. I
don’t know why this one specific
memory is so clearly branded
frame for frame in my mind, but
it, like other memories of my early
childhood, was narrated back to
me entirely in my mother tongue.
I think the closest I’ve ever felt to
Tchaikovsky’s cultural “fullness”
was at this point in my life.
I started school at 4 years old.
I never realized that the children
in my class had the privilege
of growing up in homes where
English was regularly spoken.
I remember crying so hard on
the first day of preschool that
I fucking puked a storm on my
teacher. It was such a mess; there
were all of these people around
me mouthing these weird sounds
and reacting with confusion when
I couldn’t understand them and
then the puke being everywhere
— like it really was just not cute.
I didn’t pick up English as quickly
as my teachers would have liked
during early elementary school. I
swear to God I was about a hair
away from repeating the first
grade because of my inability to
properly speak the language or
make any progress in those little
English workbooks where you
fill in a letter to make words and
phrases. In the end, I couldn’t
tell you what made it all click,
but I would eventually pick up
English incredibly fast. Like,
scary fast; scary like the reading
teachers had to constantly tell me
to slow down with my reading,
essentially putting a harness
on my reading skills so that the
other kids could “catch up.” This
was pretty much how the rest of
my schooling went with regard to
English. I honestly did pretty well
in my English classes. Like I’m not
even trying to gas myself up here
or anything, but my essays were
usually pretty fucking lit despite
my never doing the required
readings for any of those classes. I
don’t even know, like I went from
this scared and confused child
who couldn’t understand what
anyone around him was saying to
someone who would be asked to
proofread college and scholarship
essays for friends. English was no
longer a burden on me. I learned
to use it well enough that I began
to identify as somebody who
had a pretty lit command of the
language, but this achievement
came at a cost. What I hadn’t
noticed was that during the years
I spent developing my English,
my ability to speak Vietnamese
suffered. I began to realize that I
couldn’t speak Vietnamese like I
used to. I would stutter, mumble
and replace various words with
their English equivalent. As
much as I tried to communicate
with my parents, the words just
couldn’t come out with the clarity
and eloquence I was so familiar
with when speaking English. I
knew that I knew these words.
Spoken to me, I’d understand
almost every Vietnamese word
my parents would speak, but as
I sorted through the linguistic
rolodex in my brain to try to hunt
for the right string of words or
phrases to respond back to them,
nothing came out. I don’t really
know how to describe it. It’s like
getting into a really fucked up
accident and having to learn how
to walk again. Like you knew that
at some point in the past you could
do it, and that you did it pretty
well, but here you are, trying to
pick up these pieces of your past
so that you can put together at
least a semblance of who you once
were. With language having had
such a profound impact on me, I
couldn’t come to terms with the
fact that I more or less lost my
ability to proudly communicate
in my mother tongue. I was even
having trouble calling it that.
Like aren’t you supposed to know
your mother tongue better than
anything else? By technicality
English is my second language, so
I just felt so distraught realizing
that my ability to speak it had so
greatly surpassed the language
I was basically born speaking.
In a way it felt like language,
something I had learned to
confide in for so long and
something that helped me form
my identity, betrayed me in some
type of way? I can’t really think
of another word for it. Honestly, I
was just about 50 shades of shook
over the whole situation if you
really want to know the truth.
This whole story brings me
back to what I was talking about
earlier, the whole discussion
on “fullness.” I guess a kind
of end goal for me in terms of
culture and identity would be to
connect to something remotely
similar to Tchaikovsky’s cultural
“fullness,” and I don’t mean end
goal like it’s something I want
to do before I die or anything.
I just mean it in the sense like,
“Damn, wouldn’t it be really
fucking incredible to feel the
way Tchaikovsky felt about his
own identity?” I think why this
whole ordeal hit me so hard is
because I feel like language is one
of the most important facets of a
culture. Like, beyond anything
else, language connects you with
others in such a personal way, so
I kept asking myself, like, if I can’t
speak the language of a particular
culture, can I even fully identify
with it? I’m just very preoccupied
with the word “fully,” but how,
like, many things can I even fully
identify as? It just brings up a shit
ton of questions, like, “Can I fully
identify as a given ethnicity if I
wasn’t born in a certain place?”
or “Can I fully be an ethnicity
if I don’t necessarily look like
a person who belongs to it?”
Perhaps such an inability to fully
identify as anything nowadays is
something symptomatic of the
modern age. Like, it could just
be something that accompanies
the
common
practice
of
compartmentalizing
every
aspect of our being into these
new and labeled divisions. Maybe
in some ways this Tchaikovskic
fullness isn’t realistic. Like, I
could just one day come to the
realization that I will never be
able to, in any manner, replicate
even the modicum of the fullness
Tchaikovsky wrote about, but
even if that were the case, I
don’t think there are any real
detriments toward the pursuit of
such a feeling. Some might call
it myopic, like somehow having
this focus on a singular aspect of
culture in the hopes of attaining
some abstract fulfillment isn’t
sensible. I mean, I can definitely
see how people would believe
that, seeing it as being vapid and
shallow, but I think we have to
keep in mind that we all currently
live in this era where we ourselves
have the ability, now more than
ever, to form our own identities.
We can choose to append or
remove certain facets and aspects
of ourselves to grow closer to our
ideal self, and I think that’s a very
freeing aspect of it all, despite
claims that it can be seen as being
inauthentic or full of shit. I guess
the hyper-idealized millennial
sense of self is the result of a
fluid amalgamation of various
different things. Maybe this
fluidity is a completely different
sense of self than Tchaikovsky’s
original
interpretation
of
fullness, or perhaps the result
of this amalgamation is exactly
how he may have felt. I mean, as
much as I’d like to, I can’t really
slide into his DMs to ask him how
he personally defines fullness, so
I guess a lot of it is up in the air.
The fact of the matter is, I’m still
trying to figure out my own sense
of self and how it relates in the
context of the world around me.
And maybe I won’t ever be able to
say that I am Vietnamese in the
fullest sense of the word and feel
the satisfaction Tchaikovsky felt.
I guess I can be fine with that and
just do my best to work toward a
sense of fullness and fulfillment
that reflects what it means to be
fully myself, whatever the hell
that may even mean.
|Arab| |American|
They ask,
Are you Arab? Or American?
Do they not understand
That
heavy
things
break
through light boxes?
|Arab|
My affinity for grape leaves
And ability to roll my Rs
Does not confine me between
the letters |A and b|.
|American|
My
childhood
spent
in
Michigan
And the lack of any accent
Does not restrict me in between
the letters |A and n|.
|Arab-American|
You
have
created
neat
categories
For messy ideas.
You have compartmentalized
me.
My
fondness
for
Kathim
Al-Saher goes in the first box,
But my affection for Hozier
goes in the second box.
My hair belongs in first box,
But my first name falls in the
second box.
My religion falls in the first
box,
But my education falls in the
second box.
When will you learn
That heavy things will break
through light boxes?
-
These categories that you have
created,
Fabricated,
And demarcated
Do not confine me
As I am not either or,
And I am not both.
Dear friend,
Today I cried in public for the
first time in a long time. I cried in
reaction to a performance by the
CRLT Players from the Center
for Research on Learning and
Teaching. I was not supposed to
be there since they only perform
for graduate students, faculty and
staff. However, my participation
in
the
English
Department’s
Diversity
Committee
got
me
the invite so there I was. I sat
next to Theresa Braunschneider,
not
knowing
she
was
the
associate director of CRLT and
the
coordinator
of
Diversity
Initiatives Dramaturg for the
CRLT Players. I was grateful to be
able to discuss the performance
and work through my emotions
with Theresa of all people. Even
so, I could not hold back my tears.
I cried as I watched Mariam,
a fictional character from “A
Thousand Cuts,” represent my
Muslim identity and its depth on
stage. I watched as other fictional
characters who were supposed
to be her friends and peers make
assumptions of her, portray their
stereotypes onto her, dismiss her
and call her out for not being a
“real Muslim” because she did not
wear a hijab or fit their stereotypes
of what it means to be Muslim or
what Islam looks like. I watched
as other fictional characters idly
sat back and witnessed Mariam be
labeled, attacked and excluded by
the community. They told her not
to worry about the election and
that nothing could really happen
because of checks and balances.
Yet here we are.
I, too, was repeatedly told how
to feel, be and handle my identity.
After watching how Mariam was
treated, I couldn’t help but to think
of you, my friend. You represent
every person who has ever claimed
to not be racist because of their one
ethnic friend. You represent every
person who will hold up a poster
that claims their solidarity to take
a picture for the news or post it
on social media but truly does
not care about minority issues.
Most importantly, you represent
the people who claim to respect
my identities and yet support the
policies that attack my identities.
How dare you.
How dare you claim to respect
how I feel and say you stand in
solidarity with me yet support my
attacker and feel nothing for how
my identity is being attacked.
However, this is not about
you or your fake support. This
is about how we claim “all men
were created equal” and “thou
shalt love thy neighbor,” yet that
truly only applies to the dominant,
white,
Christian
men
and,
sometimes, women. I have had
enough of the fake pretenses. The
very government that is supposed
to protect me sees me as a threat.
What am I to do? I’ll tell you what I
am not going to do.
I will not allow you to pretend
to be my ally.
I will not allow you to fill me
with dismay or make me feel like
I am in the wrong for being upset.
I will not idly sit back while you
disrespect me.
I will call you out and remove
you from my life. I will forever
stand up for what I believe in.
And you “those who stand for
nothing fall for anything.”
So don’t you dare.
Don’t you dare tell me I’m
overacting.
Don’t you dare tell me to respect
policies that reinforce the stigma I
have faced my entire life.
And don’t you dare tell me it’s
going to be OK because it’s already
not OK.
It has never been OK.
Still I feel sorry for you. I am
sorry you can’t see past your naïve,
prejudice-based fears and break
through the stereotypes society
has fed you. And I am mad. I am
mad because I truly cared about
you. But this is not about you. This
is about how I feel and you have no
right to devalue my feelings.
So this is goodbye.
And I am not sorry.
|Arab| |American|
How Dare You?
TINA AL-KHERSAN
Michigan in Color Contributor
Vietnamese and Tchaikovsky:
Finding fullness in one’s culture
Attention: Seniors!
MiC is looking for seniors to write a
personal statement about how your
experience as a student of color on
campus has been. Good? Bad? We want
to hear. If interested, please contact us
at michiganincolor@umich.edu.
KHANG HUYNH
Michigan in Color Contributor
HALIMAT OLANIYAN
Michigan in Color Senior Editor
IMAGE COURTESY: MEGAN TRAN