The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
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

