5
OPINION
Thursday, May 4, 2017
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
N
owadays, I feel that we
are out of touch with true
kindness. Kindness is seen
almost exclusively on phone screens
through social media, where selfless
people feed the homeless and leave
extra-large cash tips at restaurants,
where
abandoned
puppies
are
adopted by strangers and giant teddy
bears distribute roses on the streets.
Kindness is no more than a brief
tinge of inspiration before we scroll
down to the next meme, the next
corgi video and the next inspirational
clip to which we tell ourselves, “next
time.” Guilty as any other, I decide
that the people in the videos are
who I strive to be — but when I pass
a homeless person on State Street,
when I am prompted to “donate
to ___ Charity (any amount will
do!),” I think about what an extra
dollar can buy me with my college
Amazon Prime and, begrudgingly,
decide again:
“Next time.”
Next time, I will put a stranger’s
needs before mine. Next time, I
will be rich enough, brave enough
to make a sacrifice. Next time, I
will be kind.
It has become a major trend in
our generation, but it’s not that
we don’t have good intentions.
And it’s certainly not that we don’t
care. Nevertheless, our routine
hesitation to show kindness never
speaks as loud as to those who are
searching for it.
Without realizing it at first,
searching for kindness is exactly
what I set out to do. While I’d
developed a certain distaste for
those using the internet to boast
acts of kindness, I had no problem
using social media to promote
it. Last semester, I had recently
decided to become more involved
in a student organization of
mine, the Pre-Pharmacy Student
Organization.
Seeing
that
it
was Relay for Life fundraising
season, I took on the role of the
“shameless advertiser”: sharing
events
on
Facebook,
posting
updates on my Snapchat story and
nagging virtually every human
soul I encountered to come to our
Chipotle fundraising event today
from 4-8 p.m.! And what shame
did I have, publicizing a nationally
proclaimed fundraiser for cancer
research? I truly wanted to make
a difference — to my club, to the
cancer patients, to anyone I could,
really — but it was the usual lack of
cooperation that met my newfound
bout of benevolence.
The day of the fundraiser, there
were the PPSO members who
attended because they had to,
and the few friends who attended
because I told them to — earning
from me a high-pitched “OMG
thank you!” Mostly, there were
the “next times”: the ones who
didn’t have time that day, the ones
who have already spent too much
money on food that week and the
ones who accepted my Diag flyers
as simple courtesy — if at all. And
I couldn’t blame them, because I
too am busy, poor and experienced
in the art of flyer evasion. I
asked myself if I would be going
to Chipotle that night if it was
another organization holding the
fundraiser, even though I already
knew that the answer was no.
Hence, it was not in particularly
high hopes that I announced the
fundraiser to my evening medical
ethics seminar. I expected my
announcement to affect one or
two listeners at best, and it was no
secret that my classmates, feigning
interest, expected the same. Thus,
it did not occur to us that when
our professor decided to “end
class 10-15 minutes early to get
burritos — on [him]!” that he was
not even a little bit joking. As he
addressed our dropped jaws with a
smile, I cautiously asked if he was
sarcastic, to which he replied, “of
course not, it’s a great cause!”
And a great cause it was – to the
class, to PPSO, to the Relay for Life
foundation, but to me, especially.
As dramatic as it sounds, I had
been splashed with cold cynicism
throughout
my
long
day
of
minimally successful advertising,
such that I began questioning
why I was still pushing for the
fundraiser at all. Was it truly out
of desperation to help others, or
simply out of obligation? Or was it
just to look more passionate, more
involved?
Our
professor
didn’t
want
to look like anything. Rather,
he wanted purely to donate to
charity, sending the whole class
to Chipotle with $200 in cash and
wishing us the sincerest “enjoy!”
before rushing home to spend time
with his kids. As we walked out of
Mason Hall into the cold Michigan
evening, a classmate noted he was
not wearing a coat. In fact, he
had given his jacket to a medical
resident at work, refusing to let her
out in the cold without her own. It
was not the first time he absolutely
inspired us.
Needless to say, my Chipotle
bowl tasted especially good that
day. There is something about
the immediate presence of sheer
kindness that punctuates a moment
so easily mistaken for mundane. I
felt more touched than I had been
in a while — for the first time, I did
not have to beg, persuade or offer
any reward for someone to do so
naturally what most would not. It
was a much-needed reminder that
not every modern act of kindness
is of the “staged, filmed and posted
online” variety, and that the most
commendable of actions are free
of credits, likes and a tirade of
negative comments.
A few months later, I can’t
say that I now drop $200 on
fundraisers or lend my belongings
without question, but hey — I’ve
developed a new appreciation for all
the good causes to explore on this
diverse campus, as well as the pesky
Diag flyers that promote them.
While I can’t say how many more
“next times” are down the road, I
invite us to ask ourselves: if we don’t
inspire each other, who will?
—Angela Chen can be reached
at angchen@umich.edu.
One of a kind
Telling your friends they don’t matter
I
t was about 2:50 p.m. on a Tuesday
in one of the larger lecture halls
at Michigan State University.
Class had been going on for nearly an
hour, but my two friends and I sitting
in the back of the room had basically
checked out. While lazily scrolling
through Twitter on my Mac, I was
daydreaming about my upcoming
weekend plans — I had a few parties
to go to, some friends I wanted to see,
and my roommate and I had to figure
out how to, again, haphazardly sneak
nearly sixty beers into our dorm
room.
And suddenly, an email popped
onto my screen. In all caps it
screamed, “CONGRATULATIONS
YOU HAVE BEEN ACCEPTED
TO...”, and without even having to
open it, I knew exactly what it was.
Screaming silently to myself I realized
that I was going to transfer to my
dream school, one the most prestigious
and elite public schools in the world,
the University of Michigan.
I excitingly showed off the email
to my two friends. They had known
how badly I wanted to be part of the
University of Michigan, yet almost
instantly, their dismissive sighs and
shaking heads highlighted a trend
I should’ve recognized. I selfishly
ignored them, and switched from
daydreaming about my weekend to
imagining what was a pure fantasy
about how amazing my life would be at
the University of Michigan.
I imagined that now, after having to
spend my freshman year at my “safe”
school of Michigan State — I was finally
going to join the most elite students of
University of Michigan where my
“actual” college life would begin.
But unfortunately that life, whether
or not I wanted to accept it, already
had begun at MSU. That year I spent
there was not dominated by self-pity
and jealousy toward University of
Michigan. Instead, I experienced an
incredible freshman year of college
life, going on date parties, attending
football tailgates, playing volleyball and
spending entire nights with friends
cramming for exams. I had every
cliché college experience at MSU and I
enjoyed nearly every second.
And this life I had created was
a massive investment; I had spent
considerable
time
and
energy
understanding
my
identity
and
building a group of friends. I had
become a permanent student at MSU
— I knew every road, building, frat
house and bar in the city, I had friends
scattered across campus that would
see me anytime and my wardrobe was
adorned in MSU’s green and white that
I always looked forward to wearing
with a subtle pride.
Yet
somehow,
I
allowed
my
pessimistic ego to get the better of
me. My unending desire to be part
of the elite crowd at the University
of Michigan fueled a disastrous
perspective that was able to blind me
from all the positives in my life at MSU.
I allowed my selfish thoughts to make
me believe I had lost my potential
and had been trapped in permanent
mediocrity at the “little brother” school
to the University of Michigan.
So when that transfer acceptance
arrived, I was overwhelmed with this
selfish joy that satisfied the jealousy I
had toward students at the University
of Michigan. I felt “happy,” excited,
and finally felt as if I had accomplished
something. I wish I had known that
those feelings were only temporary.
Because not only do those feelings not
last, but the expectations I had built in
my imagination about the University of
Michigan could never be met.
And more importantly, I was
throwing away everything I had
built on MSU’s campus, and was
basically telling my friends that they
did not matter in this decision. That
the campus, the school, the football
tailgates, the late nights laughing
and stumbling around the city, none
of that was good enough for me.
That underneath all of the fun and
amazing times, I was unhappy and
unsatisfied with all of them. And
my transfer acceptance reaffirmed
all of that. I was leaving, I thought
I was better, and it looked as if they
didn’t matter — that I thought I would
make new, smarter, wealthier, well-
connected friends at the University of
Michigan.
Yet my friends seem to know
something I didn’t, that the University
of Michigan wouldn’t make me
“happy,”
that
a
school
doesn’t
automatically change your life for the
better. Sometimes you have to make
a decision for your future, sometimes
you sacrifice things you think you love
in the hope that later on, some greater
return will come. But sometimes, these
decisions are clouded from jealousy
and selfishness.
Transferring to the University of
Michigan changed my entire college
experience; I left behind a life I could’ve
embraced at MSU and often think
about what could’ve been if I had just
stayed. My friends were right though,
a school doesn’t make you happy — it’s
what you make of it.
—Michael Mordarski can be
reached at mmordars@umich.edu.
MICHAEL MORDARSKI | COLUMN
ANGELA CHEN | COLUMN
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