Opinion
SHOHAM GEVA
EDITOR IN CHIEF
CLAIRE BRYAN
AND REGAN DETWILER
EDITORIAL PAGE EDITORS
LAURA SCHINAGLE
MANAGING EDITOR
420 Maynard St.
Ann Arbor, MI 48109
tothedaily@michigandaily.com
Edited and managed by students at
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
4A — Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Claire Bryan, Regan Detwiler, Caitlin Heenan,
Jeremy Kaplan, Ben Keller, Minsoo Kim, Payton Luokkala, Aarica Marsh, Anna Polumbo-
Levy, Jason Rowland, Lauren Schandevel, Melissa Scholke, Rebecca Tarnopol, Ashley Tjhung,
Stephanie Trierweiler, Mary Kate Winn, Derek Wolfe, Hunter Zhao
EDITORIAL BOARD MEMBERS
“Y
our neighborhood actually looks
kind of nice in the summer,”
my friend remarked from the
passenger’s seat as
we turned from the
service
drive
onto
my street. It was a
particularly
sunny
day in June, and all
of the windows in my
shabby 2003 Saturn
L200 were lowered
to usher in the warm
breeze.
The
trees
that lined the road
were beginning to
bud — the epilogue of
another prolonged winter.
I rarely ever brought friends to my house
(it was a 40-minute commute from school
and back) and my hometown did not offer
much in the way of entertainment. Forsaking
the journey home would mean we would
have access to nice restaurants, bookstores,
movie theaters and shops — a simple cost-
benefit analysis revealed that it was probably
advisable not to bother at all — and yet there
we were, tourists among the factories and the
lawns peppered with fast food wrappers.
As her passive words hung in the air for what
felt like an eternity, mingling with the sounds
of chirping birds and droning lawn mowers,
I became acutely aware of my surroundings.
The cracks in the pavement became a little
deeper, the white shingles a little dirtier. I
wondered how the street on which I grew up
looked from the outside, a patch of ramshackle
suburbia. My hands tightened on the wheel as
I felt the blood leave my face and slowly drain
— boiling hot — into my ears.
This
embarrassment
was
more
than
familiar to me; my go-to defense mechanism
against people who scrutinize my background
has always been self-deprecation. When I
switched schools after my freshman year of
high school, it only intensified as I made a
point of complaining about my hometown to
my well-to-do friends, and as a result, they
considered it acceptable to make similar
comments, which sounded colder and more
malicious coming from them than they did
from me. I figured if I pointed and laughed
with them, then I could alleviate some of the
burden of not being one of them.
“Yeah, a lot of people drop out or end up
pregnant,” was how I described my former
high school to peers at my new school.
“It’s just a working- class suburb,” is how I
have come to describe my hometown to friends
in college.
But there is so much more to it than that,
and I know that all too well.
Through my window, I scanned the rows
of tiny houses that twinkled in the winter and
emitted an overbearing glow in the summer.
I idly traced the ribbon of sidewalk that
once guided my bike as it drifted toward the
humming interstate and facilitated the journey
of a green wagon that kept my brother and me
under the watchful eye of our mother. This
was home. This was all I knew of the world in
the first 15 years or so of my life — this street,
these people, this town. Why couldn’t I admit
that to myself? Why was I so eager to distance
myself from it?
There is absolutely no shame in coming
from a modest background, a sub-par school
district, or a neighborhood that only looks
“kind of nice” in certain seasons, damn it.
Wanting more than anything to convey this
notion to my friend, I paused for a second and
searched for an appropriate response, but all I
could muster was a quiet: “Thanks.”
Lauren Schandevel can be reached
at schandla@umich.edu.
To be ashamed of home
W
hen one of your best
friends is a guy, there
are some conversations
that arise over
and over again.
Our
recurrent
discussions often
turned
into
a
lighthearted,
odd and almost
subverted “battle
of
the
sexes,”
in
which
we’d
debate about who
had it “worse” —
me or him. He’d
complain
about
constricting and seriously flawed
measurements of masculinity and
about the discrimination he faced
in a heteronormative society. I’d
complain about sexism, inequality
and the wage gap. We’d eventually
both concede we both had to deal
with society placing unrealistic
body expectations upon us.
These “debates” started when we
were teenagers with worldviews
just beginning to expand beyond
the borders of our tiny, rural
hometown. Now, while we still both
joke about individual challenges,
our
conversations
hopefully
include a better understanding
of intersectionality and our own
particular sets of privilege.
When we were still both just
stubborn kids trying to understand
the unfamiliar worlds we were
about to enter, the earlier versions
of these discussions were all about
winning the argument. I tended to,
as the argument escalated, bring up
the topic that silenced every other
man in my life — from my dad to
my brothers to the rest of my male
friends.
Experience
taught
me
that once you bring up anything
minutely menstrual, most men get
uncomfortable
and
desperately
want to switch the topic.
So, there I was, aggressively
pointing out that, in this debate,
I was the only one dealing with
bleeding, bloating and cramping
monthly. My best friend, who has
an older sister, was completely
unfazed. This was also typically
the cue for a teacher, a classmate,
a neighbor or a waiter to interrupt
our conversation and overhear me
mid-rant. Then they’d leave and
I’d be embarrassed, and my friend
would laugh hysterically. Amid the
laughter, he’d agree with me and
acknowledge that his understanding
of the subject was probably lacking.
Today, the same scenario is
still at play, except on a larger
scale. Menstration is still a taboo
discussion
topic.
If
you’re
an
individual who experiences this
biologically driven red mess every
month, you’re expected to deal with
it as discreetly as possible. You don’t
talk about it, and you certainly don’t
let there be any visible evidence.
Yet, the individuals who decide how
much it’s going to cost to ensure this
discretion are most likely men who
don’t understand the experience.
They treat the products women use
to manage and hide this bothersome
natural process as “luxury items”
that deserve to be taxed.
Numerous
states
provide
exemptions
for
products
that
are deemed necessities, such as
food, prescriptions, a selection
of
over-the-counter
medicines
and prosthetics. There are even
some states that have removed the
sales tax on clothing purchases.
However, Michigan is currently
one of roughly 40 states that
impose a “tampon tax.” Feminine
hygiene products, such as tampons,
sanitary pads and other similar
products are subject to Michigan’s
6-percent sales tax, simply due
to being labeled in legislation as
“luxury
items.”
Anyone
who’s
actually
ever
experienced
a
menstrual cycle would find this
terminology ironic. The absolute
last thing someone would describe
using these products as is as a
“luxury.”
Even President Obama, in an
interview last Friday, displayed
some confusion regarding both
the classification and the tax by
stating: “I have no idea why states
would tax these as ‘luxury items’
... I suspect it’s because men were
making the laws when those taxes
were passed.” Obama encouraged
citizens and states to make “local
level” changes to address the highly
gendered tax. In particular, he
mentioned a recent bill in California
that seeks to remove the sales tax
from feminine hygiene products,
such as pads and tampons. Doing
so would alleviate the financial
burden, in a myriad of states, on a
population of individuals who are
already subject to a substantial
wage gap.
Even the tiniest of additional
costs tacked onto a purchase can add
up, especially for women of lower
socioeconomic
backgrounds.
A
news release stated that Californian
women pay roughly $7 each month
for 40 years of tampons and pads.
These purchases accrue to “over $20
million annually in taxes.”
The
United
States
certainly
isn’t the only country disputing
a “tampon tax.” Canada recently
removed
the
tax
on
feminine
hygiene products this past summer.
The initiative was followed this past
fall by protests in Britain to follow
Canada’s example and abolish the
tax. Women wore white pants and
no form of hygiene product while
they were on their periods.
Some may argue that tampons
and sanitary pads are akin to other
everyday products. However, these
products are a necessity — one
that’s also heavily insisted upon by
society. Cultural standards strongly
stigmatize the idea of women
bleeding in public and view it as
unsanitary. Women and girls rely
upon these products to continue
leading their normal lifestyle —
whether that involves working,
going to classes, playing sports or
just generally being in public. These
products
also
protect
women’s
clothing and ensure their hygiene.
Additionally, if one is going
to argue against removing the
“tampon tax,” they must also
consider that women are most
likely already paying inflated prices
for grooming products, such as
shampoo and deodorant. Thanks to
a highly gendered price discrepancy
known commonly as the “pink tax,”
a product designed for women,
even when there’s an identical
product intended for men, may cost
more simply because of its pink or
purple packaging or its particularly
“feminine” fragrance.
While women may avoid unfair
gendered pricing by buying the
cheaper men’s alternative, there’s
no male equivalent for tampons
and sanitary pads. Women have
instead been expected to pay
an extra tax for decades on
a
necessity
that’s
mistakenly
referred to as a “luxury item,” in
addition to extra fees on grooming
products. State governments and
businesses must stop treating the
gender and biological processes
of their consumers as something
they can take advantage of for
financial gain, especially when the
wage gap still remains a prevalent
issue. Perhaps we can remedy the
pricing discrepancies by creating
more
gender-neutral
products,
but until then, state legislators can
ease women’s financial burdens by
removing an unnecessary tax on a
monthly necessity.
Melissa Scholke can be reached
at melikaye@umich.edu.
A misplaced luxury
LAUREN
SCHANDEVEL
MELISSA
SCHOLKE
I
was bulimic in high school. Before writing
this, the only person I had ever told was my
cousin Marissa. We were sharing secrets
around a campfire, unhinged by one too many
bottles of wine. Even under
the influence of alcohol and
emotions, I knew she would
understand.
I don’t exactly remem-
ber the first time I stuck my
hand in my mouth, fingers
stretching toward the back
of my throat to activate my
gag reflex. For months, I
tried not eating, and run-
ning as much as I could with
little to no results. Eventu-
ally, I began to think about
alternative options.
April 17, 2009 — I need to figure out how to
throw up and get better self-discipline. Or I’m
going to be huge.
Two months later, I apparently figured it
out.
June 15, 2009 — I barely eat. When I do, I
throw it up. But I’m in control, so it’s ok.
Twice I thought I was going to be caught,
but no one ever figured it out. As the months
passed, I became increasingly concerned with
my behavior.
Aug. 26, 2009 — Sometimes when I throw up,
it worries me. What if it ruins my body? I don’t
know. It just freaks me out. But it’s hard to stop.
Food just smells too good. And tastes too good.
It’s just hard. And NOBODY at all has noticed.
In my senior year of high school, though my
home life was still hectic, I made some incred-
ible friends and never returned to that familiar
position above the toilet. I felt selfish for what
I was doing to my body and knew the people I
love would be concerned if they knew.
I stopped throwing up before enrolling at
the University in 2011, yet my diet remained
destructive. When trying to eat healthy in the
dining halls during my first two years in col-
lege, I reverted to the salad bar; it was all I had
ever known. Eventually, I began to familiarize
myself with different foods and how they sup-
port the human body. I watched documenta-
ries and surrounded myself with people who
had positive relationships with food.
At nearly 23 years old, I’m the most confi-
dent I’ve ever been in my life. I eat food that
I love — cheese, pasta, chips, bread, chocolate
— but I also consider the moral, environmen-
tal and health implications before making a
purchase. It took a long time, and a lot of edu-
cation, but I’m finally able to understand my
teenaged behavior.
While I now feel confident enough to admit
that I suffer from disordered eating, there are
many University students who struggle in
silence.
In 2012, Ph.D. student Sarah Ketchen-Lip-
son initiated the University Study of Habits,
Attitudes, and Perceptions Around Eating
student survey. With the help of Suzanne
Dooley-Hash, an assistant professor of emer-
gency medicine, and an interdisciplinary team,
U-SHAPE was published at the 2013 Student
Life Research Symposium, formerly the Divi-
sion of Student Affairs Research Symposium.
According to the survey, 28 percent of
female and 12 percent of male undergradu-
ate students, and 21 percent of female and 10
percent of male graduate students, screened
positive for disordered eating. Additionally, 18
percent of females and 6 percent of males indi-
cated that food and weight dominates their life.
Among those with disordered eating, interna-
tional students, sorority members, LGBTQ
students and students who experienced abuse
are disproportionately affected. Disordered
eating is also correlated with mental illnesses
such as anxiety and depression.
In a conversation about why students decide
not to seek help, Julie Stocks, University
Health Services registered dietician nutrition-
ist, said, “It’s important if you feel that it’s an
issue in your life to seek treatment. And it’s a
great opportunity when you’re here to find
wonderful, highly skilled treatment.”
Stocks affirmed that there’s plenty of infor-
mation available to University students about
ways to maintain a balanced diet — online
webinars and nutritional information, dining
hall dieticians, the UHS Nutrition Clinic, sup-
port groups at Counseling and Psychological
Services, etc. But people struggling with dis-
ordered eating cannot be forced to use these
resources.
Overall, Stocks noted that students — and
people in general — need to be realistic when it
comes to weight, diet and exercise. Though the
media constantly bombards us with images of
how we should look, comparing ourselves to a
chart or another person tends to lead to more
destructive behaviors. Instead, Stocks recom-
mended we focus on being healthful and eating
foods that are good for our bodies. We need to
seek help when faced with irrational thoughts.
We need to be vocal about our anxieties, our
depression and our body image. When that
happens, Stocks assured me, natural weight
will go where it needs to be.
It’s not an easy road, to say the least; some
people will never recover from disordered
eating. But there’s always hope. In the past
three years, I’ve internalized a lot of the advice
Stocks gave me during our conversation in my
own time. I’m at a healthy weight, I eat nutri-
tional food and I’m constantly on the move. I
recognize that I have certain anxieties, and I
work proactively to combat them. Sometimes
though, the past still haunts me.
Aarica Marsh can be reached
at aaricama@umich.edu.
Lessons in balance
E-mail FranniE at FrmillEr@umich.Edu
FRANNIE MILLER
AARICA
MARSH
Read more at MichiganDaily.com