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October 07, 2015 - Image 13

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Text
Publication:
The Michigan Daily

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Wednesday, October 7, 2015 // The Statement
6B

by Samiha Matin, Daily Staff Reporter

I

’m a reason why the University can proudly declare they
have students coming from more than 140 countries
or more. I’m one of the many, many people which

helps make this place have a global, diverse community —
simply because I come from another place. I’m the token
friend who you tell stories about to your other friends from
high school. The friend from the exotic place. The friend
whose nationality is more important than her personality,
it occasionally seems.

I remember when I was the only one standing in an

auditorium of 500 or more international students, as
they called out “Bangladesh” during the International
Orientation Program. There was a typical scatter of
applause; some people, however, looked mildly curious, as
if trying to wonder where my country was located. I blindly
searched across the auditorium, desperately hoping for
another face like mine. There wasn’t.

We were told during orientation that from now on, we

were going to be representing our countries at Michigan. A
foreboding chill ran down my spine as I realized the impact
of the sentence. I’d stepped into America for the first time
in my life two days before. I’d only ever gone abroad twice,
and both times were for religious pilgrimages to Saudi
Arabia nearly six years ago. I was undecided about my
major. I’d hardly ever eaten with a fork. What I knew about
American culture was everything I’d learned by watching
television and movies.

How could I, when I barely knew what to do with my life

and constantly suffered from existential crisis, represent
a country that consisted of a variety of people? How could
they expect me to be excited about such a big burden? It was
almost as if living up to a good image and become a minority
model was the only way I could make my mark here.

When I moved into my apartment last year, I didn’t

know what to expect. On one hand, I’d heard stories from
other Bangladeshi expatriates, who talked about how
the transition was immensely difficult due to the racist
treatment they had received. I’d also heard that it wasn’t

true in most occasions, and people had a tendency to
embellish stories to gain sympathy.

I dragged my luggage into the room after the family who

had sheltered me for a night since coming to Ann Arbor
dropped me off, a piteous look upon their faces.

That night, my roommate commented that I must be very

rich and privileged to be able to afford to come here from
far away. The same thing was said by many other students
in my classes, when they realized I was an international
student.

I frowned, not because what they said wasn’t true, but

because of the condescending tone they would sometimes
use to say it. As if I was a filthy rich kid from a third-world
country, wasting her parents’ money by getting a foreign
degree. As if I had so much money stashed up somewhere
that I was drowning in it.

I glanced at the clothes I wore, and wondered about the

jeans and T-shirts I’d bought from Bangladesh. I’d never
buy anything from here, I decided, because when you
converted dollars to the currency used in my country, it
accumulated to an exorbitant sum of money. I had no desire
for brand clothes or makeup; I couldn’t even afford them. I
had brought my brother’s used luggage into my apartment,
and piled all my clothes there when I was packing.

It didn’t seem as if my attire played any part in giving

people such an impression. Was it simply because I came
from a place that I’d gotten hurdled by these assumptions?

Another setback came when my roommates and I

divided the chores of cleaning the bathrooms and taking
out the trash. I found my roommate making a comment
along the lines that I had probably not done them and I’d
better do them now, as Bangladeshi households, along with
many countries in Asia, hired domestic workers. I wanted
to tell her that it wasn’t the case in all families, and there
were many friends and relatives I knew who’d pay for the
servants’ education, and even their marriages, as my father
and uncles do. I wanted to tell her that such a system existed
because majority of the people didn’t have access to good

jobs, education, health care and working at houses gave
them something to get by. I wanted to engage with her, and
ask her why she was holding me responsible for a system
that had been circulating for centuries. I couldn’t hold her
accountable for mistakes politicians made here; why was
she doing the same thing to me?

But I couldn’t. I felt a strong sense of dual identity that

prevented me from saying another word. On one hand,
I was a Michigan student, who had received the most
amazing resources and opportunities my friends at home
would die to have for. I have my parents’ financial support
for undergraduate studies, and the only way I could repay
them back was doing exceptionally well in academics and
extracurricular activities and get into grad school.

At orientation, I was told, almost compellingly, to give

a good image of my country. And yet, it gets harder to put
on a smile and never getting the chance to explain that I’m
experiencing a double standard.

My status as a Michigan student is firmly tied to the fact

that I am international. I’m not eligible for any type of aid or
scholarships. I’m a citizen of a country, which is famous for
corruption, political instability and religious extremism. I
cannot go home for the next three years, because tickets
are too expensive. All my free time involves juggling
two jobs, and looking into prospective summer jobs and
internships so that I can save up and go to graduate school.
I’m constantly watching my parents’ resources deplete into
nothingness as they make sure I get the best education. In
my country, I never walked alone at night. In my country,
I’ve been molested and dealt with misogyny that’s a
thousand times worse than here. I’ve been told there’s no
value in education, and I’ve watched society try to heave its
sexist views onto me time after time.

I’m both privileged and unprivileged in many aspects,

but I’m more than a statistic to proudly display. I’m more
than a stereotype formed about students coming from
obscure places. I’m more than the product of the society I
grew up in, and I hope this is acknowledged someday.

ILLUSTRATION BY CHERYLL VICTUELLES

Personal Statement: Statistically significant

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