D

onald Trump wants to 
be your tour guide on 
what makes America 

great and how he is making it even 
greater and even more patriotic.

You can kick off your journey 

with a visit to Charlottesville, 
Va., a place with “some very 
fine 
people 
on 
both 
sides.” 

There, you’ll be treated to proud 
displays of Confederate flags and 
monuments — testament to the 
“patriotic and idealistic cause” 
known 
as 
the 
Confederacy, 

whose flag “proclaims a glorious 
heritage” — Trump’s friend at 
Breitbart helpfully explains.

Next, venture to Alabama to 

bask in the patriotism of newly 
elected 
Republican 
Senate 

candidate Judge Roy Moore. 
Who could be a more patriotic 
or devoted American than Judge 
Moore, who, like Mr. Trump, 
has questioned Barack Obama’s 
birthplace and would, if he could, 
have homosexuality outlawed?

If all this country-loving has 

worn you out, perhaps unwind 
at your nearest NASCAR track, 
a venue where, according to 
Mr. Trump, you would not find 
any disrespect for our country 
or our flag. Here you will find 
one of the few remaining places 
for patriots unsullied by lesser 
Americans where the crowd 
is reliable, united by race, 
orientation and creed.

After completing your tour 

of Mr. Trump’s America, do 
not despair if you still don’t 
grasp Mr. Trump’s brand of 
patriotism 
(dodging 
Vietnam, 

slavishly 
yielding 
to 
Russia, 

indiscriminately mocking those 
beyond 
his 
“base”). 
Maybe 

you don’t play to cameras by 
literally wrapping yourself in 
a flag, but unless you’ve truly 
gone out of your way to be mean 
and obnoxious to others, you’re 
almost certainly a truer patriot 
and a more devoted servant to 
American ideals than Mr. Trump.

That is because what Trump 

and his ilk celebrate is not 
real patriotism. It is selective 
patriotism 
— 
deference 
and 

respect are reserved only for 
individuals who hew to their 
narrow mindset. In The New 
Yorker last week, Prof. Jelani 
Cobb explained that Trump’s 
selective 
patriotism 
is 
what 

“drives him to curse at black 
football 
players 
but 
leaves 

him struggling to create false 
equivalence between Nazis and 
anti-Fascists in Charlottesville.”

Prof. Cobb exposes the lie of 

Trump’s patriotism. How can 
Trump glibly condemn Black 
football 
players 
who 
protest 

peacefully, 
yet 
struggle 
to 

condemn Nazis, attack Russia’s 
meddling in our elections, and 
acknowledge 
the 
Confederate 

monuments 
and 
flags? 
The 

mind does gymnastics trying 
to 
reconcile 
these 
obvious 

discrepancies as anything other 
than racism.

Of course, Trump cloaks his 

conduct and words in patriotism. 
But the founding fathers were 
wary of such exploitation of 
patriotism. 
In 
his 
farewell 

address to the nation in 1796, 
George 
Washington 
warned 

Americans to “guard against 
the impostures of pretended 
patriotism.” Alexander Hamilton 
expressed similar thoughts: “(I)n 
popular commotions especially, 

the clamours of interested and 
factious men are often mistaken 
for patriotism.”

Contrary to what Trump 

and his acolytes think, true 
devotion to the United States 
of America does not mean 
wrapping oneself in a flag and 
covering one’s eyes. Nor does 
it mean being self-righteous 
about one’s love for country.

Being a patriot in the United 

States means fighting to lift the 
most downtrodden of people. 
It means refusing to accept 
inequalities and injustices in 
society, even if doing so invites 
criticism. 
“True 
patriotism,” 

as the famed criminal lawyer 
Clarence 
Darrow 
once 
said, 

“hates injustice in its own land 
more than anywhere else.”

The country has had, and 

continues to have, many true 
patriots — those who advocated 
for women’s suffrage, traveled to 
Mississippi as Freedom Riders 
in an attempt to desegregate the 
South, marched in Washington 
with Martin Luther King Jr. in 
1963, marched in Washington 30 
years later to fight against LGBTQ 
discrimination and millions more 
who have enlisted in the military, 
voluntarily or otherwise.

Like the current movement 

by some professional athletes to 
take a knee during the playing 
of the national anthem, these 
historical acts of patriotism were 
also seen negatively at the time. 
As The Washington Post noted, 
most 
Americans 
viewed 
the 

Freedom Riders and the March 
on Washington unfavorably. A 
Newsweek survey found that only 
23 percent of Americans thought 
that the March on Washington 
for Lesbian, Gay and Bi Equal 
Rights and Liberation “did more 
good than harm in the fight for 
gay rights.”

Today, however, few, other 

than self-proclaimed “patriots” 
like the Charlottesville Tiki torch 
bearers and Judge Moore, would 
deny that the advances gained 
by the suffragettes, the Freedom 
Riders, civil rights activists and 
others who marched to promote 
the welfare of all Americans, 
greatly improved this nation, its 
social fabric and the lives of tens 
of millions.

Protest has lifted the most 

marginalized 
in 
our 
nation. 

Protest has jolted the United 
States out of systemic injustices 
that run counter to the values 
enshrined by the Constitution. 
When we consider the progress 
that we have made in our 241-year 
history, we look to the individuals 
who have had the courage to 
believe that this nation can and 
must do better.

Those kneeling in protest hold 

that same belief. Colin Kaepernick 
took a knee not to object to the flag 
or the anthem, but to object to the 
selective application of the justice 
system in the United States. In 
Slate, John Legend called the 
protests “an attempt to educate 
the public that criminal justice 
— mass incarceration, lengthy 
sentences, police brutality — is 
the civil rights issues of our time.”

Kneeling, 
a 
silent 
and 

nonviolent protest, aims simply to 
call attention to the grave failures 
of our institutions, especially 
toward 
Black 
Americans. 

These athletes simply seek to 
highlight how pervasive these 
racial disparities are, however 
uncomfortable this might make 
some of us. They challenge 
President Trump, our political 
leaders and all of us to not be blind 
nationalists but true patriots, 
loyal to our most cherished ideals 
of fair, honest, equal treatment 
and opportunity for all.

F

rom the moment I entered 
the Michigan League to 
attend 
Tuesday’s 
panel 

discussion on the renaming of 
the C.C. Little Building, I sensed 
the evening’s event would be a 
contentious one. Little, former 
president of both the University 
of Michigan and the American 
Eugenics Society, has been subject 
to increasingly heated debate — 
due in large part to his involvement 
in the eugenics movement.

As I walked to the event, I 

found myself in the midst of 
protesters also headed there. I 
heard one protester responding 
to their friend’s comment about 
the discussion they were about 
to attend: “What discussion? It’s 
racist to have a discussion.”

The frustrations of the students 

of color and their allies at the event 
are entirely justified due to the 
University’s inaction regarding 
concerns over buildings named 
after racists and the broader 
struggles minority students face 
in their battle against racism and 
other forms of bigotry on campus. 
But snubbing the exchange of ideas 
is not the way to further a cause.

Members 
of 
the 
panel, 

Professors Alexandra Stern and 
Martin Pernick and LSA senior 
Joshua Hasler, were consistently 
unable to speak, due to protesters 
interjections — angry over the lack 
of progress in the name change 
process and insistent that the 
academics in front of them weren’t 
doing enough, or even that they 
were part of the problem.

As I stood and watched the 

events unfold, I found myself torn 
between the grievances of the 
protesters and the educational, 
though not politically detached, 
position of those on the panel. 
Reconciling the division between 
radical activists and the academics 
who can give them the tools to 
engage in critical and historically 
informed ways with their activism 
is a major challenge in current 

university student movements.

The categorical dismissal of 

information proffered by educators 
and the rejection of discussion 
creates an environment hostile 
to learning and understanding. 
While I agree wholeheartedly 
with efforts to change the name 
of the C.C. Little Building — and 
all other buildings which threaten 
to normalize and valorize the 
University’s 
bigoted 
past 
— 

rebuffing information and debate 
does no service to accomplish 
these ends. Regardless of a person’s 
certainty in their point of view, 
it’s crucial that they listen when 
information is offered in order to 
maintain an informed opinion.

Furthermore, I doubt anyone in 

the room would dispute C.C. Little’s 
racism; the purpose of the event 
wasn’t to debate whether his views 
were justified. But consensus on 
that point shouldn’t mean the end 
of discussion. While formal efforts 
to change the name have already 
been made, continuing to learn 
about Little and other problematic 
figures in the University’s past (and 
present) is crucial to provide an 
evidential basis for the removal of 
such names.

Perhaps the greatest frustration 

I observed at this event is one often 
directed at historians, who are 
tasked with having “the answers.” 
While history may not provide us 
with straightforward solutions, 
a knowledge of history will show 
a reasonable adversary that you 
care enough to have educated 
yourself on the nuances of your 
cause and will bolster the gravity 
of your appeal. In an institution 
steeped in tradition, acquiring 
historical knowledge will show 
administrators that you recognize 
the significance of names. It can 
also help you come to a solution 
that stops validating proven racists, 
while not devolving into erasure 
and whitewashing.

There’s 
also 
an 
important 

distinction 
to 
be 
made 

between 
commemoration 
and 

remembrance. The debate isn’t 
about whether to remember C.C. 
Little. It’s about whether his name 
should be emblazoned on a science 
building as a sign of honor, or 
whether his memory would be of 
better use in a museum that can 
educate future generations on the 
University’s past failings and the 
power of students in creating new 
histories.

I am also quite concerned 

that students fail to understand 
the 
implications 
of 
spurning 

the offer of information from 
University professors and the 
dangers of rejecting debate. While 
I understand the critique that the 
panel was all white — which is 
something that should be remedied 
in future discussions — the fact 
that professors are willing to 
discuss this topic is an educational 
opportunity that shouldn’t be 
taken for granted.

Listening to a person speak 

does not mean you have to agree 
with them. But shouting down 
educators (especially when they 
are, in fact, supporters of your 
cause) only creates rifts, instead 
of fostering a fruitful learning 
environment that can serve as a 
springboard for activism.

Fundamental to a university 

setting, as well as a democracy 
in general, is that people feel safe 
to discuss ideas and to practice 
critical thinking. The individuals 
participating in the protest, as 
well as those on the panel, are 
playing an important role in 
rectifying a wrong in the history 
of the University. If protesters 
would allow themselves to be 
historically informed, their case 
to remove Little’s name and 
their continued, valiant struggle 
against the ennoblement of the 
University’s bigoted past would be 
all the more powerful.

I

’m studying abroad in 
Paris 
this 
semester, 

something I’ve dreamed 

of doing forever. And I’ve been 
here for a few weeks already — 
time is flying!

I feel really lonely; I miss 

home and Ann Arbor and school 
and familiarity. And that’s not 
something I expected. Going 
abroad, in my mind, didn’t 
include any of the difficult stuff. 
I think I have this image of 
myself as a self-sufficient person, 
a lifelong New Yorker whom 
friends describe as charismatic 
and surprisingly outgoing, a boy 
who only needs a backpack filled 
with a book, journal and maybe a 
bottle of water to be good to go.

But since I’ve arrived, I’ve 

begun to learn how to appreciate 
my most intimate friendships, 
even as the friends themselves 
are thousands of miles away.

I often walk around this 

beautiful place wondering why 
I’m here, what image of myself 
I’m trying to cultivate and for 
whom. Why I’ve intentionally 
surrounded myself with people 
I don’t know, in a new place, 
where people speak a language 
that I have to think quite hard 
about before saying anything 
of substance. I’ve thought a lot 
about how people here read me, 
about the personality I have. 
Quiet 
and 
unassuming, 
I’d 

imagine. I’ve never been called 
these things before. I become, 
then, a stranger even to myself.

Both 
on 
internal 
and 

intersocial 
levels, 
I 
become 

intra-alienated. How I regard 
my circumstances is skewed by 
my present nostalgia for home, 
and, in trying to speak to people 
here, I am read in a specifically 
alienating way, as well.

I really want to be with my 

best friends in the places I know 
best. I’m a senior, so time in Ann 
Arbor, a place where it feels as if 
I’ve lived about seven individual 
lives filled with friendships 
and follies and discoveries and 
observant strolls through the 
crannies of my mind, is coming 
to an end. I check my Snapchat 
on Saturdays to get a glimpse of 
the tailgates I’ve experienced for 
the past three years.

And when I get caught up 

in all that I’m missing out on, 
in all that’s not here, I very 
quickly sink into myself, such 

that everything here, all of the 
beauty and excitement of being 
here, the budding friendships 
with other students here — all 
of it dissipates, becomes an 
afterthought. None of it holds 
weight anymore. I feel confused 
by this sudden change in emotion 
and outlook and I ask myself: 
If only I were home, why do I 
do this, why do I stray from the 
familiar just for the sake of it? 
Why do I do this, when staying 
home would be so much easier?

With these thoughts going 

through me, I neglect to explore 
the city, instead staying in my 
apartment 
and 
FaceTiming 

friends 
from 
home. 
Which 

makes me feel guilty, as if I’m 
doing this wrong, as if I’m not 
taking advantage of being here, 
as I should be. Shame gets 
mixed into the equation, as 
well. I immediately begin to feel 
starkly, existentially terrible, in 
a way that isn’t sustainable. My 
loneliness here is something I 
need to figure out.

Before coming here, I didn’t 

think about the impact a place 
can have on how I feel within 
myself. How the ability to 
identify with a certain place — 
like I do with Ann Arbor or with 
New York City, where I grew up 
— allows me to feel enlivened, 
and how not being able to identify 
with a place, as I have felt here, 
can make me feel stultified and, 
at worst, unhinged.

Being lonely and grappling 

with all this newness have 
specific effects on my psyche. 
My past experiences become dim 
and distant while my present 
sorrow becomes everything I 
know. All that I love feels so 
far away, and all that I do not 
have here, all the absence I feel 
without my best friends and my 
family, takes over.

Stepping back and arriving in 

a place where I can consider and 
comment upon these instances 
of bad feeling, through self-
reflection and conversation with 
loved ones, I’ve learned a couple 
important lessons. First, there’s 
not one right way to do this, to 
be here. I’m not here to see the 
sights of Paris necessarily. I’m 
here to live, to exist in a new 
place. Whatever that means for 
me — staying indoors, walking 
all day, feeling lousy, feeling 
fantastic — whatever life brings.

Because this is still life, even 

though I’m away. And living is 
complex, regardless of where 
one is. New baggage will always 
form, regrets will take shape, 
grass will always appear greener 
somewhere else.

And 
through 
those 

conversations with others, I 
remember the love I have in 
my life, both with other people 
and with other places. My dad, 
with whom email has always 
been the predominant form of 
communication, articulated this 
lesson particularly beautifully:

“What and who are physically 

present is different/maybe less 
than all that is only psychically 
present. But whatever is present 
(coupled with what is only 
available in your mind, via 
memory 
and 
anticipation 
— 

we’ve been with you and we will 
soon again be with you — all of 
us — is what you have — that 
combination of psychically and 
materially present stuff (people 
and things). It’s what you have, 
that combination. It’s what I have 
too — that combination. I have 
you here (the imagined Isaiah, 
reading this; the imagined Isaiah 
with whom I am currently in 
psychic connection by writing 
this) and the Isaiah I eagerly 
anticipate seeing soon; and all 
the recollections of 21 years of 
beloved Isaiah.”

We all feel loneliness. And 

maybe one way of measuring 
the strength of friendships is by 
testing that psychic connection, 
by measuring how well you can 
feel somebody with you even if 
they are thousands of miles away. 
Which, in turn, warms my heart. 
Because of how strongly I feel so 
many of my friends and family 
are here with me right now.

In that sense, by spending 

time away, my friendships are 
increasing in strength and clarity. 
I ought not to think of the absence 
of my friends and family as that, 
as an absence. But, instead, I 
ought to think of all those people 
as being here, to think of their 
presence, to reflect on all that 
we have shared and, crucially, 
to think of all the moments — 
psychic and material — to come. 

Opinion
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
4 — Tuesday, October 3, 2017

REBECCA LERNER

Managing Editor

420 Maynard St. 

Ann Arbor, MI 48109

 tothedaily@michigandaily.com

Edited and managed by students at the University of Michigan since 1890.

EMMA KINERY

Editor in Chief

ANNA POLUMBO-LEVY 

and REBECCA TARNOPOL 

Editorial Page Editors

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.

EDITORIAL BOARD MEMBERS

A meditation on Parisian loneliness

ISAIAH ZEAVIN-MOSS | COLUMN

Patriotism, progress, protest

LUCAS MAIMAN | COLUMN

Engage in conversation

EZRA GERARD | OP-ED

Carolyn Ayaub
Megan Burns

Samantha Goldstein

Caitlin Heenan
Jeremy Kaplan

Sarah Khan

Anurima Kumar

Max Lubell

Lucas Maiman

Alexis Megdanoff
Madeline Nowicki
Anna Polumbo-Levy 

Jason Rowland

Anu Roy-Chaudhury

Ali Safawi

Sarah Salman
Kevin Sweitzer

Rebecca Tarnopol

Stephanie Trierweiler

Ashley Zhang

 Ezra Gerard is an LSA senior.

 Isaiah Zeavin-Moss can be reached 

at izeavinm@umich.edu.

Being a patriot in the 
United States means 

fighting to lift the 
most downtrodden 

of people.

— Melissa Ayala, witness to the mass shooting in Las Vegas late 

on October 1

“

NOTABLE QUOTABLE

It seemed like rapid fire. There was 

blood pouring everywhere.

”

Lucas Maiman can be reached at 

lmaiman@umich.edu.