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.