5
OPINION

Thursday, May 11, 2017

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

T

he first time I returned 
home for the summer, to 
the suburb I grew up in 

outside 
downtown 
Columbus, 

was two years ago, the May after 
my freshman year at Michigan. 
I lived at home, worked at a posh 
coffee shop a 10-minute drive 
away, and wspent most of my free 
time hanging out with high school 
friends and trying to catch up on 
reading. Even though I was busy, I 
was bored. Just like in high school, 
I felt I was surrounded by people 
exactly like me. I knew there was 
more to Columbus outside the 
bubbles I hopped to and from 
where I lived and worked, but I 
didn’t know how to access what 
was outside the places I already 
knew.

I didn’t intend on living at home 

for another summer, partially 
because of the boredom I felt 
during those four months in 2015. 
But this past winter, out of a series 
of chance occurrences, I found out 
about an internship opportunity 
in Columbus and decided to give 
it a go. When I settled to the 
conclusion that I’d be home again, 
I was determined to make this 
summer different from the last one. 
I couldn’t handle another summer 
under the beating Midwestern 
sun, glued to the flat landscape by 
the stifling humidity that hangs in 
the air. I wanted to try new things, 
to meet new people, to actually 
engage with the city where I spent 
19 years of my life. And now I had 
three years of school, a car, and a 
bike to help me do it. 

Since 
the 
beginning 
of 

sophomore year, after my summer 
at home, I began learning about 
social issues relating to race, 
class and gender in greater depth. 
What’s more, I became specifically 
interested in these topics as they 
manifested in current events in 
Southeastern Michigan. My job as 
opinion editor at the Daily meant 
I read tons of articles and had lots 
of conversations about affordable 
housing in Ann Arbor, Detroit Public 
Schools reform, gentrification in 
Ann Arbor and Detroit, and lots of 
other issues broad and specific. 

The 
importance 
of 
local 

activism as a means of directly 
helping people became clearer and 
clearer to me, while at the same 
time, I began to understand some 
implications of my status as an out-
of-state student. Although I was 
learning about issues that impacted 
all of the Midwest, I wasn’t learning 
about the state, city, or suburb 

where I grew up. What also became 
clearer to me was that the people 
who could give some of the most 
poignant insight about local issues 
were people who had simply lived 
in Southeastern Michigan for a long 
time. My best friend’s parents, who 
now live in a suburb of Detroit, can 
tell me exactly what Midtown was 
like decades ago because they lived 
there. It didn’t matter how many 
articles I read or how many nights 
I drove into the city for a concert or 
other event — nothing would allow 
me the perspective they gained 
from simply spending time in a 
place. 

Although 
Southeastern 

Michigan is where I had my 
coming-of-age as a socially aware 
person, the place I’ve spent the 
most time is Columbus, Ohio. I can 
tell you that 4th Street did not used 
to have all the fancy coffee shops 
and restaurants there now; I can tell 
you about going to the now-closed 
mall downtown during my mom’s 
lunch break on take-your-kid-to-
work day; I can tell you about the 
ice cream shop on High St. with the 
best ice cream flavor ever — Coffee 
Oreo — that shut its doors after 
only a few years ago. But, over the 
course of this past semester, as I 
began to investigate more into the 
history of my city and began paying 
more attention to current events in 
Columbus. In the course of doing 
so, I was shocked by the things I 
didn’t know about home. 

I started reading poetry from 

Columbus that spoke to police 
violence on the Near East Side, right 
over the edge of Bexley. I started 
Googling things about economic 
and racial segregation, only to find 
out that Columbus is one of the most 
segregated cities in the country. 
The dissonance between how well 
I thought I knew Columbus and 
how well I actually knew Columbus 
sharpened the further on I read and 
the more searches I ran. Although 
my shock is probably unsurprising 
to many who are familiar with 
these issues, I found it hard to 
fathom just how uneducated I was, 
despite having been through one of 
the best school systems in the state. 

I knew the suburb where I 

spent my adolescent years had 
been dubbed a “bubble” by most 
of the greater Columbus area — 
and rightfully so. While I went to 
a private Montessori elementary 
school 
that 
was 
considerably 

diverse in terms of race, ethnicity, 
socioeconomic status and ability, I 
spent my adolescence going to public 

schools in Bexley, a neighborhood 
that’s predominantly white and 
upper-middle class. Bexley is a 
wonderful and odd little place, 2.45 
square miles that’s actually a city 
of itself inside of Columbus. It has 
its own mayor, its own city council, 
and yes, its own school system — it’s 
one of the best in the state, and it’s 
why my family moved there when I 
left Montessori. With wide streets 
lined with beautiful old trees 
that flood your vision with green, 
teeming with blossoms in the spring 
and summer, Bexley was actually 
named an arboretum in 2013. It’s 
different from the stereotypical 
midwestern suburb in that the 
houses are older and don’t all look 
the same; but it’s similar in that its 
people are mostly homogenous and 
the community is largely isolated 
from the world immediately outside 
its borders.

I could write for a very long time 

about all the ways my high school 
education was excellent, and I’d be 
remiss not to mention the generous 
and knowledgeable teachers who 
helped make my experience at 
Bexley High School irreplaceable. 
However, I will say that my high 
school education did not offer much 
in the way of experiential learning 
and connection to the greater 
Columbus community. I remember 
volunteering once, maybe twice, 
for a community garden on the 
edge of town. That was a valuable 
experience I’m unlikely to forget, 
but still. I feel there have been some 
gaps in my education, and I intend 
to close them in the following 
months.

I’m not sure what form this 

will take, but my efforts to more 
deeply know my home will be 
thoughtful 
and 
reflective. 
I’m 

particularly 
interested 
in 
the 

history of the suburb I lived in 
during my adolescent years, in the 
neighborhoods 
directly 
outside 

of this suburb, and in the natural 
landscape of central Ohio. These 
are all parts of central Ohio’s 
culture that I hope to learn more 
about, but I also understand my 
experiences — researching area 
histories and meeting new people 
— may lead me to topics and ideas I 
haven’t thought of yet.

—Regan Detwiler can be reached 

at regandet@umich.edu.

Seeing home with new eyes
Empty chairs

E

xactly one month ago, while 
standing on the Diag at around 
4 am, I felt at ease listening to 

the gentle song of birds around me. 
The warm glow of the streetlights 
illuminated the 900 empty maize-and-
blue chairs positioned throughout the 
grounds. I assumed I would be the only 
one there at this late hour, but I wasn’t. 
A few rambunctious guys sauntered 
out from around the UGLi, pushing and 
kicking at the chairs, standing on top 
of them while laughing and shouting. 
Guards, tucked secretively away near 
the Harlan Hatcher Graduate Library, 
jumped out and yelled for them to 
back away. The culprits, surprised and 
scared, immediately sprinted in the 
opposite direction. This encounter 
was very striking to me. They were 
just folding chairs, right? Why did they 
need body guards? What was all the 
commotion about?

The following day, I learned the 

meaning of the chairs: they were one 
of the art installations in the University 
Bicentennial 
“Stumbling 
Blocks,” 

project. These 950 empty seats were 
representative of the 950 students of 
color who were not able to attend this 
University due to Michigan’s Proposal 
2 referendum, which outlawed race-
based affirmative action within the 
state of Michigan. Therefore, each 
day, while walking through the Diag, 
students would be reminded of the 
various obstacles the University of 
Michigan has faced throughout the 
years. 

A week after I first saw the chairs, 

and the boys who trampled on top of 
them, I walked to Mason Hall for my 
Asian Language class, and saw the 
Diag was empty—the chairs were gone. 
They were collected, folded up. Now, 
the chairs are on the market, for $10/
each, sold by the University’s Property 
Disposition Department. 

After the exhibition ended, I met 

with a member of the University’s 
administration, who, for the remainder 
of this piece, I’ll refer to as Mr. “What 
can I do?”— since that seems to be his 
trademark response when asked about 
issues of diversity and inclusion on 
campus. After respectfully listening 
to my frustrations with the campus 
climate, including recurring incidents 
of racist rhetoric, Mr. “What can I do?” 
offered his remorse and explained that 
because racism is so deeply rooted 
within this country, what could he 
possibly do to prohibit it from rearing 
its ugly head here at University of 
Michigan? 

He then went on to explain his 

frustrations with students continually 
demanding 
immediate 
action 

regarding race issues on campus, 

who often demand he “fix this. Fix 
it now,” and his inability to do so. 
He, instead, suggested it was on us, 
the communities of color, to develop 
ways to establish safe and productive 
intergroup relations on this campus. 

You may be wondering what these 

two occurrences have to do with 
one another—the disappearance of 
the Stumbling Blocks chairs and my 
meeting with Mr. “What can I do.” 
The answer to that question is scary to 
admit. I am an empty chair. Although I 
am a student of color here at Michigan, 
and was not excluded due to Proposal 
2, I am still an empty maize-and-blue 
chair. Why? I am here, on display 
every day. I am on display when I 
find myself one of the only students 
of color in my classes. I am on display 
when fliers are distributed stating 
that men within my community are 

inadequate, unintelligent and violent 
simply because of the color of their 
skin. I am on display when emails 
are released saying I deserve to be 
killed. Throughout this display, I am 
seemingly protected/guarded by the 
“support” of administration, student 
organizations, and faculty—just as the 
maize and blue chairs were the night 
I was standing in the Diag. Then, after 
a little while, when my moment is 
suddenly over, I am folded up, tucked 
away, ignored, and forgotten. I am an 
empty chair. 

In 1903, W.E.B. DuBois published 

The Souls of Black Folk. In the book, he 
inquires, as a black American, how does 
it feel knowing you are regarded as a 
problem? Now, in 2017, at the University 
of Michigan, DuBois’s question is still 
relevant: How does it feel knowing that 
others on this campus view me as a 
problem? And more still, thanks to Mr. 
“What can I do?”, I now also wonder 
how must I be the problem and its 
solution? 

I am not meant for display. I do not 

wish to be pushed away and silenced. 
I no longer want to be an empty chair. 

—Stephanie Mullings can be 

reached at srmulli@umich.edu.

STEPHANIE MULLINGS | COLUMN
REGAN DETWILER | COLUMN

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

I am not meant 
for display. I do 
not wish to be 

pushed away and 

silenced. 

