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.
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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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