Opinion

JENNIFER CALFAS

EDITOR IN CHIEF

AARICA MARSH 

and DEREK WOLFE 

EDITORIAL PAGE EDITORS

LEV FACHER

MANAGING EDITOR

420 Maynard St. 

Ann Arbor, MI 48109

 tothedaily@michigandaily.com

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the University of Michigan since 1890.

Unsigned editorials reflect the official position of the Daily’s editorial board. 

All other signed articles and illustrations represent solely the views of their authors.

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
4 — Friday, January 23, 2015

Claire Bryan, Regan Detwiler, Devin Eggert, David Harris, Jordyn Kay, Aarica Marsh, 

Victoria Noble, Michael Paul, Allison Raeck, Melissa Scholke, Michael Schramm, 

Matthew Seligman, Linh Vu, Mary Kate Winn, Jenny Wang, Derek Wolfe

EDITORIAL BOARD MEMBERS

As a freshman, I’ve found my first semester 

of college to be one of the most overwhelm-
ing and rewarding growing experiences 
I’ve ever encountered: meeting more people 
than I ever have before, navigating the vast 
sea of people that is our student population 
and taking classes that twisted my perspec-
tive and seemed to challenge every assump-
tion I had once held as truth. As a result, 
my worldview has shifted; my beliefs have 
become more robust. Having opinions about 
social and political issues has become less of a 
lazy, automatic reflex and more of a thought-
ful, deliberate action. I came home for winter 
break carrying an identity that’s undergone a 
kind of collegiate evolution.

This happens to many freshmen: the first 

semester of college knocks them off their feet, 
creating the potential for a trip home for win-
ter break that might be a little weird, spending 
extended amounts of time with friends and 
family who only knew you pre-first semester.

As I mentioned before, one of the biggest 

changes I’ve experienced in my first semester 
is that my opinions have grown stronger, which 
has allowed me to have more confidence in 
them and be more willing to share them. For 
example, having been exposed to the preva-
lence of sexual assault on college campuses, 
I’ve become more acutely aware of sexism that 
can sometimes find its way into everyday con-
versation. I’ve always been an advocate of gen-
der equality, but now more than ever, I see it as 
an issue that needs as many voices as possible. 
If a friend makes a sexist remark and doesn’t 
realize it’s sexist, I’ve learned how to playfully 
point out its discriminatory nature.

People are pretty open to that sort of thing 

around here; those conversations have always 
taken place with friends and fellow students 
who are open to different experiences and 
new perspectives. But what happens when we 
go home, where we’re surrounded by family 
members who aren’t university students, who 
aren’t taking classes that challenge their ways 
of thinking, who aren’t immersed in the explor-
atory, socially and politically active campus 
that we are? What happens when an older fam-
ily member, someone you’ve grown up respect-
ing and would feel disrespected if contradicted, 
makes an out-of-the-closet joke right in front 

of you? Are you supposed to abandon all of the 
work you’ve done forming opinions, making 
arguments and peacefully advocating what you 
think is just for the sake of keeping the peace?

I’ve experienced this problem before, the 

problem of being surrounded by people I love 
unconditionally but sometimes seem to stand 
against what I believe is right. It seems absurd 
that two things so personal to me can be so 
frustratingly contradictory. People always talk 
about family and heritage being what a person 
is made of, but what happens when “what we’re 
made of” doesn’t seem to be what we are?

It boils down to a puzzle with which people 

have been grappling for a long time, one that each 
person continues to grapple with throughout life: 
the apparent dissonance between background 
and self. A dissonance, in the musical sense of the 
word, is “a clashing or unresolved musical inter-
val or chord,” a simple lack of agreement.

But when one’s family doesn’t reflect oneself, 

it doesn’t necessarily mean that person’s fam-
ily isn’t what makes them who they are. Maybe 
the fact that a dissonance occurs is what defines 
that person in however minor or major ways. 
We are, to a certain extent, a product of our 
experiences, and in this way, these uncomfort-
able experiences with those we love are part of 
what makes us who we are.

The solution may not be to start a heated 

moral or political debate at a family dinner 
because ultimately, it probably won’t go over 
well. Perhaps simply stating one’s opinion in 
a subtle and non-confrontational way is an 
appropriate way to hold true to one’s mor-
als and attitudes while still maintaining the 
respect integral in certain family relationships.

Even if this does not go over well, it is con-

soling to remember that family is what makes 
us who we are, to the extent that our collec-
tive experiences are what make us who we are. 
To fellow freshmen and anyone else who has 
recently felt this way, remind yourself every 
now and then that our ability to control how we 
react to what seems like a dissonance with our 
families and our identities can make the dis-
comfort of winter break festivities feel a little 
less like a punch to the chest.

 Regan Detwiler is an Assistant Editorial 

Page Editor and an LSA freshman. 

REGAN DETWILER| VIEWPOINT

Dealing with dissonance

I

’m a creative writer. I like writing fic-
tion. I also occasionally take part in the 
sort of journalistic writing that I admit-

tedly don’t understand. But 
I’m very much a creative 
writer of fiction. Doing so in 
a democratic country means 
I take full advantage of my 
First 
Amendment 
rights. 

Loving what I do also means 
that I plan to continue taking 
full advantage of my right to 
express myself.

Yet these facts shouldn’t 

be the end of a conversation, 
especially one as complex 
as the Charlie Hebdo case. 
I write. I express myself. I don’t deserve death 
or injury or threats under any circumstances. 
Anyone who has been a victim of such violence 
because they chose to express themselves should 
receive our greatest condolences and support.

But again, our conversation shouldn’t end 

here, with a generalized statement about a code 
of conduct that most of us already follow. We 
need to understand context. We need to take 
into account nuances. We especially need to talk 
about something that I almost never hear when 
we talk about creativity and expression — power.

Power in the sense of artistic freedom means 

I not only have the ability to express myself, but 
I also (and especially) have the means to do so 
to an audience who will listen. The first facet 
of the “power to express” I think most people 
have down: we all have opinions and ideas, 
and we’re generally able to communicate them 
using our respective languages — written, spo-
ken, performed or drawn. It’s when we get to 
the other two facets that everything gets messy 
and suddenly race, ethnicity, socioeconomic 
status, gender, ability, citizenship, etc. come 
into play. In the case of Charlie Hebdo, we need 
to think about how many Muslim citizens and 
immigrants don’t have the same access to pub-
lic self-expression as do non-Muslims.

In 2010, a Stanford study found that a Chris-

tian citizen of France is more than twice as 
likely to get a call-back for a job interview as 
an equally qualified Muslim citizen. About 
60 percent of the prison population in France 
is comprised of those with Muslim ties. In 
July, the European Court upheld France’s 
ban on wearing the Muslim niqab in public. 
The single tragedy of Charlie Hebdo, no mat-

ter how devastating, cannot be viewed in a 
vacuum, especially not when discrimination 
against Muslims is a real and current issue. 
We’re talking about an influential magazine 
using its power to comment on a religion that 
is practiced by a group of people whose voices 
have never been fully heard. The issue is no 
longer about the right to express. The issue is 
about the “power to express,” namely having a 
means to say something as well as an audience 
who will listen, which I mentioned earlier. 
Muslim women not being allowed to wear the 
niqab demonstrates that a means of expression 
has been revoked. Discrimination in the work-
force and higher rates of incarceration mean 
the French culture as a whole is unwilling to 
be a listening audience.

In creative writing, there’s been a running 

debate on whether or not our works carry any 
sort of social burden. It’s a difficult discussion, 
and I see both sides of the argument. If artists 
are limited in what they can say or do, then 
that means art cannot evolve. After all, many 
of our greatest literary classics today were 
once very controversial. At the same time, I 
think all artists need to be more mindful of 
how their pieces influence others and shape 
others’ beliefs, especially if the subject matter 
touches on those who lack the sort of power 
and influence to assert their own dignity. How 
does Charlie Hebdo’s portrayal of Islam affect 
the already negative opinions of Muslim citi-
zens and immigrants in France? Do Muslims 
have access to artistic mediums where their 
voices can be heard just as loudly with just as 
much respect? As a brief side note, I’ve always 
found it interesting that many writers I know 
want to make a difference through their writ-
ing. But when we realize that our pieces might 
have any smidgen of negative social conse-
quence on marginalized people, we hide and 
say we’re only “expressing ourselves.”

When Charlie Hebdo published their maga-

zine covers portraying the Prophet Muham-
mad, they sent a message to the world beyond 
merely their views on Islam. They told the 
world just how much power they, as non-Mus-
lim artists, held. They were saying, “Look at 
me. Look at the kind of power I hold over you. 
I can depict a religious leader whom I don’t fol-
low in any way however I want. Look at me.”

— Jenny Wang can be reached 

at wjenny@umich.edu.

The power to express

JENNY
WANG

MICHAEL SCHRAMM | QUEER IN ACTION

I wish I could say “I’m gay” and let 

it roll off my tongue. Hear the words 
make noise as they float into people’s 
ears. Feel some sense of comfort with 
how they mix with my personality, 
my masculinity and my femininity.

But they never have.
I’ve never fit into conventional 

masculinity. I hated sports and fight-
ing. I loved Avril Lavigne and “Pretty 
Little Liars,” but I quickly realized 
this wasn’t “normal” boy behavior. 
Instead, I learned that I needed to 
be tough, hyper-sexual and rug-
ged. Never show emotion, and most 
importantly, be very straight. I 
learned that men who didn’t follow 
these traits were pussies, exiled from 
the pack.

I was pushed into the heteromold 

— the institutional and self-policed 
mold we use to cast every boy into 
this identity. My peers, and even 
adults, pressed with varying degrees 
of pressure against my bones to fit 
me into the cast. I learned to fill it 
above all else, or I would risk being 
labeled gay. Gay was weak, embar-
rassing and shameful, and I wanted 
no one to think I was gay, especially 
since I was.

Sometimes 
I 
was 
physically 

pushed into the mold.

I signed up for freshman football 

because a family member suggested 
it. It wasn’t a good decision. I was 
atrocious, and it only aided in wiring 
my brain to reject my identity.

It was 90-degree weather. We all 

wore bulky equipment and we all 
drank from rugged-looking Gato-
rade bottles and we all formed lines 
in synchronization and we all looked 
the same. One day, our coaches 
instructed us to guard against a part-
ner and stop them from pushing past 
us. To no one’s surprise, someone 
pushed past me. Typically, coaches 
would make a suggestion to improve, 
but this time everyone was brought 
together as my coach told me, “You’re 
a disgrace to this team.”

My body raced with a mix of adren-

aline and fear, and I felt the intense 
pressures of being pushed into the 
heteromold. I realized how my team-
mates would react. They laughed 
with an abrasively teasing tone, and 
I found myself immediately labeled 
as the weakest one. The wimpy one. 
The gay one. My mockery served as a 
feast for the self-loathing of my femi-
ninity and gay identity.

I wish I could grab 14-year-old 

me, drag him to the sidelines, strip 
his overheating equipment and 
place my hands on his exposed 
shoulder as an affirmation of love. 
I want to wrap him in warmth and 
tell him what he needs to hear. That 
being gay is great, being effeminate 
is great and neither is a symptom of 
the other. That his eyes are lit with 
ambition and his soul blazes with 
personality and being gay takes 

nothing away from that.

But I was too young, and people 

had spent too long coding my hatred 
of everything surrounding their per-
ception of gay.

It began in sixth grade. I sat sur-

rounded by my friends in a library. 
Huddled on beanbags amongst 
books 
of 
knowledge 
we 
were 

taught a clear lesson: homosexual-
ity equaled sin. Someone being gay 
was fine, but only if they didn’t act 
on their attractions, meaning they 
rejected their sexuality.

That struck a chord in seventh 

grade, when I had a crush on a guy. 
Puberty hit me in the close confines 
of the boys’ locker room. Amongst 
the chatter about girls, I found myself 
developing an internal monologue 
about my crush. As he gushed about 
the girl he liked, I became distracted, 
smelling his Axe body spray against 
his natural scent, hearing the tone of 
his voice, seeing the subtle gestures 
he made to air out his shirt. Part of 
me craved him.

But the other part wanted nothing 

more than to erase these senses and 
talk about girls. I became infected 
with homophobic undertones, and 
my brain was at war on whether to 
squeeze into the heteromold. I was 
13 years old. I should have been con-
cerned with pre-algebra, but instead 
I fought unrequited emotions, preju-
dice and a split sense of identity. My 
heart rested in the locket of my chest 
— shackled, prickly and pure.

I graduated in the closet and 

entered college closeted. On Michi-
gan’s liberal campus, this didn’t last 
long. I heard overwhelming accep-
tance toward homosexuality, and it 
served as an antibiotic to my homo-
phobic infection. I unlocked my 
sexuality to the confidence of accept-
ing peers. They were receptive and 
provided me inviting hugs and kind 
words. I felt like I was reaching the 
end of my journey.

I wasn’t.
Instead of receiving shame for my 

feminine traits, I was subconscious-
ly shamed for my masculine ones. 
Many treated me as a pre-packaged 
toy with clear instructions: heel 
guru, overdramatic, boy-crazy, a 
plaything. Whether explicit or not, 
I was the gay friend for many, and 
I was taught to be one of the girls, 
never one of the boys.

When I began weightlifting, I was 

told it was “cute.” Guys I befriended 
got teased, told that my attempts 
to bond in the dining hall were bla-
tantly transparent attempts of going 
on a date.

It’s bizarre. The moment I declared 

a piece of my identity outside of the 
heteromold, I was automatically cast 
as its antithesis. Why?

Why is it so difficult for people 

to understand that my skin, bones 
and cells are not liquid sludge that 

forms into a solid cast? I like physi-
cal strength and wear my heart on 
my sleeve. My identity doesn’t fol-
low a precedent. I’m unpredictable, 
three-dimensional, dense. None of it 
has anything to do with my sexuality, 
and all of it is fine.

I’ve been foolish in thinking 

otherwise, and I’m starting to 
 realize this.

Cramped between dozens of peo-

ple at a house party this year I ran 
into a guy for whom I cared deeply. 
He was never a romantic interest, but 
his cordial attitude gave off a friendly 
warmth that led me to try hard in 
becoming close friends. Hidden in 
my mind was the thought that some-
one would let me into the male inner 
circle without the prerequisite of a 
masculine façade.

As we said hi by the refrigerator, 

much like my prior attempts to bond, 
I was smacked with the cold reality 
that this would never happen with 
him. There always existed a barrier 
between us that I saw go down when 
he interacted with other guys.

Our conversation ended and 

he headed the 10 feet back to his 
pack of male friends. They all wore 
backwards caps and huddled in 
a tight-knit circle and decided to 
play beer pong. I saw the animated 
expressions and gestures that he 
gave his friends contrast the stiff-
ness he always gave me. Whether 
conscious or not, I could tell his 
inability to open up to me was 
because I lay outside the hetero-
mold. It’s not something you need 
definitive confirmation to confirm. 
Once it happens to you, you know 
it’s happening.

It was in that moment that I real-

ized he would never invite me into 
the circle. My micro differences 
between these people created an 
impenetrable wall, and though I 
stood 10 feet from them, the dis-
tance between us was infinite.

And I was okay with it.
I walked up to a friend behind 

the group, put my arm around her, 
and let the pressures roll off my 
back. It was a move — or lack there-
of — spurred by nothing more than 
my desire to push against the forces 
around me. I wanted to conquer the 
echoes that resurface in my head. 
That night, I won.

I’m still insecure. My identity isn’t 

protected by an impenetrable glaze 
of security, but I can feel myself 
developing a Jell-O-like covering 
of confidence. When I feel pressure 
from the outside world, I feel its 
impact, and my defense mechanism 
starts moving me back to my original 
shape. It’s through this that I return 
to the form I choose for myself: mas-
culine, feminine, gay. Infinite.

Michael Schramm is the Queer 

in Action Editor and an LSA junior.

The oppressive pressures of 

the heteromold

R

ight 
now, 
it’s 
snowing 

outside. The sky and the 
ground, and it seems every-

thing in between, 
are white or gray 
or (even worse) 
that 
disgusting 

shade of brown 
that comes when 
fresh snow mixes 
with 
dirt 
and 

gets splattered all 
over 
unsuspect-

ing 
pedestrians 

by cars. In other 
words, 
it’s 
not 

exactly the time of year when peo-
ple relish going outside. During the 
heart of January (which also can be 
described as the heart of winter) 
most people are not going for strolls 
in the Arb, or going on long-distance 
runs through campus — although I 
still see the most dedicated runners 
sprinting through the tundra that is 
“Ann Arbtica” and I don’t think I’ve 
ever been more impressed.

Students bundle up in huge, puffy 

jackets, ski masks, hats, gloves and 
sometimes even multiple pairs of 
pants (wait, that might just be me…) 
to quickly shuffle through Michi-

gan’s icy weather. They barely reg-
ister their surroundings, allowing 
their vision to be terribly impaired 
by drooping, fur-lined hoods and 
hats that fall far below the typical 
brow line of any human. And if we 
can avoid walking, we will. The 
magic bus app becomes essential 
to life and, when the prices aren’t 
surging, Uber becomes our best 
friend.

But maybe this trend of avoiding 

the icy weather isn’t for the best. 
Now, I’m not saying that we should 
lay out tanning in the freezing 
weather, but the freezing quality of 
nature right now does not take away 
from its beauty. Snow dances in the 
wind and gets caught in the waving 
branches of naked trees. Footsteps 
through the snow make campus 
feel lived in, and the Arb looks 
straight out of a fairy tale. Plus, 
being outside in the cold makes me 
feel more alive. The blood rushes 
to my cheeks, and there is a crisp-
ness to the cold that is a welcome 
break from the stress and — let’s 
be honest — boredom that came 
from hunching over textbooks and 
homework for hours on end in a 
heat-controlled environment.

Going outside is good for our 

health, regardless of the weather. 
According to Abigail Wise of The 
Huffington Post, spending time 
outdoors actually increases con-
centration skills and creativity. It 
is also energizing: “20 minutes out-
side can wake you up just as much 
as one cup of coffee can.”

So next time you wake up for 

your 8 a.m. and your phone lets you 
know that it’s six degrees out but 
feels like minus-11, don’t despair. 
Stay bundled, but maybe don’t 
blindly hustle through the cold. 
Breathe in the fresh air and look up 
into the swirl of snowflakes. Enjoy 
the crunch of snow beneath your 
waterproof boots and the vague 
stinging feeling in your cheeks. Just 
know that time spent walking out-
side taking in the (thick, cloud-cov-
ered) sunlight will make you feel 
better, sharper and more motivated 
to get work done.

In fact, when I’m done writing 

this, I think I’m going to go for a 
walk in the Arb. It’s 25 degrees — 
practically a heat wave!

— Eliana Herman can be reached 

at erherman@umich.edu.

Embrace the cold

ELIANA
HERMAN

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