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The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Thursday, October 12, 2017— 3A

Following 
the 
Black 

Lives 
Matter 
protests 
and 

demonstrations of the past 
few 
weeks, 
my 
African 

American 
studies 
professor 

gave students the platform 
to have a discussion in class 
about how the racial tension on 
campus has been affecting our 
lives. After many of the Black 
students bravely shared their 
stories aloud, shed tears and 
expressed how dehumanizing 
and degrading being called a 
racial slur can make a person, 
better yet, a community feel, a 
white female student decided 
to speak up. She said (roughly 
quoting): “It breaks my heart 
to hear that when stuff like 
this happens it can remain on 
the backs of the Black students 
for the remainder of their day 
or week or even for years. It 
breaks my heart because I 
know that even though I am 
sad about it, I can leave today 
and remain totally unaffected 
and continue with my day. 
That is due in part to the 
privilege that I have as a white 
person. It allows me to remain 
unaffected and ignorant to 
what is going on with other 
people in my own community.”

Her statement shook me 

to the core. For the first time 
since I have been on campus, I 
heard a white person admit to 
the privilege of indifference. 
The privilege of neutrality in 
times of racial crisis.

This mindset of neutrality 

is one that privileged whites 
tend to have in the United 

States (and on this campus) 
regarding race. White people 
who choose not to be a part 
of the conversation of racial 
tension and who would rather 
“not take a side” perpetuate an 
endless cycle of aggression and 
attack.

From a distance, it may seem 

as if most of the white students 
do not see what is happening 
on campus. It seems that they 
are totally oblivious to our 
struggle. However, I have found 
that the issues we as people of 
color face are in fact being seen 
by white students on campus 
but it seems that they are only 
seeing us through a TV screen 
— as if these racial attacks are 

a natural disaster occurring in 
some foreign land leaving them 
totally unaffected.

Black students feel as if 

they are isolated on an island 
experiencing a calamity and all 
the complacent white students 
act as if all they can do is 
watch. They are not seeing 
our anguish through their 
own eyes, in their own halls, 
buildings and front lawns. 
They are not feeling our pain 
in their own bodies because 
even hundreds of years after 
being brought to this land, 
Black people still are only seen 
as visitors. As the girl in my 
class said, many white people 
don’t feel personally affected 
or attacked when a Black man 
is called “n*****” because they 
do not view said Black man as a 
member of their community but 
another community completely 
separate. We as Black people 
are only tolerated as guests 
on a campus we have worked 
equally as hard to reside upon. 
Therefore, 
when 
something 

happens to us, the urgency of 
the matter is only our issue 
and no one else’s. It is not that 
these white people are evil or 
would ever themselves attempt 
to dehumanize a person of 
color, it is that they choose to 
remain ignorant to the issues 
affecting people of color and 
therefore choose to remain 
neutral to any remedies.

The only way we can fix 

what is going on here is if we 
somehow make the complacent 
white students, who have no 
inclination toward either side, 
feel obligated to defend the 
identities of students of color. 
They have to know that what 
is happening is not fiction. It’s 

not alien. It’s not happening 
on a TV screen! It’s occurring 
right here and right now. The 
neutral white students have to 
feel personally affected when 
their Black neighbors are being 
attacked and they have to view 
an attack on a person of color 
in this community as an attack 
on everyone.

We can only move forward if 

they know their participation 
is integral to our movement 
for positive social change on 
campus.

The neutral white population

Torch Bearers

CYDNEY GARDNER-BROWN

MiC Columnist

I have found 

that the issues 

we as people of 

color face are 

in fact being 

seen by white 

students on 

campus but it 

seems that they 

are only seeing 

us through a TV 

screen 

I’ve 
been 
running 
for 
a 

long time, both literally and 
figuratively. I’ve been an active 
runner for seven years now. First 
as a cross-country runner in high 
school, running has become my 
biggest means of stress relief. 
Figuratively, I’ve always thought 
of life as a marathon, but this 
past summer it was put to me 
in a different way. Life can be 
thought of as more of a relay 
race. Generation to generation, 
the torch is passed down to 
continue the work of those who 
came before us. This fuels the 
altruistic thought process: “I 
may suffer, but I have great hope 
and promise that my descendants 
will not.” 

My leg of the relay started 

almost at the onset of my birth. 
I am the son of one of the few 
people I legitimately know who 
has carried out the American 
Dream; the promise to anyone 
in America that if you work hard 
enough despite your background 
you’ll be able to achieve your 
goals. My father, born in the 
destitute farm lands of Korea, 
worked his way to a Ph.D. in 
Mechanical Engineering from 
the University of Michigan. An 
epic in and of itself, I am often 
inspired by his hard work. Today, 
that dedication is channeled 
into his children, never treating 
himself.

Currently, many individuals 

in this country also aspire to 
similar dreams. However, the 
reality is often different. In an 
era of increasing wage gaps and 
sky-high college costs, it has 
become all but impossible for 
most people to find the right 
help and resources to overcome 
social stratification and move 
up in class. The “Dream” that 
many people all aspire to — one 
of true meritocracy — is instead 
biased, based on the resources 
and opportunities you are born 
into. It is no longer just as simple 
as just going to college, let alone 
being able to even get in. It begs 
the question: would someone like 
my father be able to exist today?

When people ask me about the 

American Dream, I have vivid 
images that immediately pop into 
my head.

Ann 
Arbor, 
2004. 
I 
was 

with my dad and sisters at my 
mother’s graduation. After years 
of studying, my mom had finally 

graduated with an associate’s 
degree 
in 
nursing 
from 

Washtenaw Community College. 
I ran up to hug her as I saw her 
leave the crowded auditorium, 
approaching us in her black 
graduation robes. I squeezed her 
waist and smiled at her. It was an 
interesting moment, filled with 
so much innocence of a child’s 
love for his mother, but at the 
same time, an extraordinary 
amount of ignorance and bliss. At 
the time, I did not appreciate the 
amount of sacrifice my mother 
had just made for our family. At 
my father’s urging, she had given 
up her master’s degree and career 
in art to become a nurse for a 
more stable career to help my 
family. I struggle with pre-med 
courses these days even though 
I’ve grown up speaking English 
from the age of three; I cannot 
imagine what it must have been 
like for my mother, who was just 
picking it up.

As I continued squeezing my 

mother with all the power a first-
grader could muster, I suddenly 
felt something wet hit my hair. I 
looked up, and from my mother’s 
eyes came tears, dripping onto 
my head. “Umma (mother in 
Korean), why are you crying?” I 
asked. My dad pulled out tissues 
from his pocket. How little did 
I understand what those tears 
meant to her. 

Those sacrifices did not come 

easy. What I can look back on 
now — but did not recognize at 
the time — are the many summers 
I was babysat by various relatives 
and family friends in exchange 
for housing. I did not know about 
the times my mother struggled 
to even understand sentence 
structure, let alone the more 
nuanced biochemical principle 
of glycolysis. The times she 
went to our next-door neighbor, 
a 
University 
Biomedical 

Engineering professor, to ask 
questions, sitting for hours to 
understand only a fraction of 
the words coming out of his 
mouth. The time she failed her 
first nursing license exam, felt 
dejected and almost gave up 
entirely on becoming a nurse. 
The time she studied even harder 
and finished the same NCLEX 
in record time. The many times 
my sisters and I would fall 
asleep at her feet as she stayed 
up late night listening to audio 
recordings of lectures on cassette 
tapes, 
highlighting 
textbooks 

and 
making 
flashcards. 
The 

time she started working as a 

nurse at the hospital 
and 
struggled 

communicating with 
others. 
The 
times 

she still made sure 
my sisters and I were 
being fed and taken 
to school. Through 
all these obstacles, 
she overcame and did 
the biggest favor she 
could for me; feigning 
ignorance. Ignorance 
of the struggles and 
hardships 
behind 

her warm smiles and 
delicately 
prepared 

rice and side dishes.

Incheon, 
South 

Korea, 2006. I had 
just spent my first 
weeks in Korea after 
my family had moved 
to the United States. 
But the trip was now 
over, and it was time for me to 
go home. My grandmother had 
accompanied my mother, my 
sisters and me to the airport. 
As we waited in the cavernous 
terminal for our flight to depart, 
I sat in those black cloth seats, 
feet dangling, unable to put them 
on the ground. My grandmother 
reached over and patted my 
head. She handed me my favorite 
Korean snacks as I looked into 
her eyes and smiled warmly. 
My younger sisters were getting 
restless, unused to having to wait 
for long periods of time.

Eventually, my mother and 

grandmother exchanged some 
words and my mom started 
grabbing my hand and packing all 
the bags around me. We started 
heading toward the security 
check as my mother gently 
guided me through the airport. 
I stared as the linoleum floors 
passed by. I turned around to see 
my grandmother’s beaming eyes 
and warm smile one last time. As 
a kid, I had no conception of time. 
I did not realize it would be years 
before I saw her again. With one 
hand still clasped in my mother’s 

hand and my feet working 
overtime to keep along, I waved 
back to my grandmother with 
my other hand as we boarded the 
plane.

Soon, we safely found our way 

to the right seats in the airplane. 
As we got ready for takeoff, 
something felt off. I looked over 
and my mom’s body was slowly 
moving up and down, and when 
she took off her glasses I saw 
those tears she’d been holding in 
for so long. Perhaps if the stress 
of taking care of three kids for 
two weeks wasn’t hard enough, 
I knew it was harder for her 
to say goodbye to her parents 
once again. “Umma, don’t cry!” 
I begged as she pulled out some 
tissues from her purse. Though 
I was small at the time, my heart 
ached. What could a little boy do? 
My incessant pleas fell on empty 
ears; the tears kept falling and 
falling.

Years have passed since these 

moments, and I am working my 
way toward my goals. Though 
my surroundings, friends and 
experiences 
have 
changed, 

one thing remains: a burning 

passion to work 
hard. 
Friends, 

mentors 
and 

advisors 
alike 

have told me to 
take a break and 
to relax, that I 
don’t know how 
to enjoy myself. 
My 
calendar 

is always filled with varying 
shades of colors and deadlines 
and responsibilities. There are 
many days when I almost come 
to the end of myself, but it’s the 
only way I can make peace with 
myself.

I’ve often heard advice from 

others that they don’t owe their 
parents anything, as it’s not like 
they chose their parents. While 
I can agree with this sentiment 
on some level, as you don’t want 
to spend the rest of your life 
living out someone’s vicarious 
dream, it makes it sound easy. To 
just not care. Maybe it’s just my 
personality. Maybe it’s a lot of 
other things. Maybe it is the best 
thing to do, but damn is it hard.

To my parents, for the many 

times I have blown up at you, 
I hope you can forgive me. I 
was just scared, scared that I 
wouldn’t be able to live up to your 
sacrifices. Scared that I wouldn’t 
be able to look you in the eyes as 
an adult and say your sacrifices 
were not for waste. Scared I 
wouldn’t be able to provide you 
a financially comfortable life 
as you both got older. That my 

grandparents didn’t send their 
eldest children to a foreign 
country for no good reason. I 
didn’t want to take on the torch; I 
wasn’t asked to run. It was never 
really about the shame or you 
scolding me. I’m sorry about that. 
I just couldn’t bear the weight. 

To be honest, I will always be 

the young kid in the airplane, 
unable to stretch his hands fully 
to wipe his mother’s tears and 
say the right comforting words. 
Alone in America with only my 
parents and sisters. When I see 
myself in the mirror, I’m the 
little boy standing in the airport, 
waving back to my grandmother 
who I’m not sure when I’ll ever 
see again. I’m the boy who goes 
back to Korea inches taller only 
to see my aging grandparents. I 
see my father unsure of his future 
on the farmlands of Korea, and I 
see my mother missing her family 
and struggling to understand her 
professor and coworkers because 
of the language barrier. I see 
their sacrifices in me.

I know it’s not just me. I have 

had the honor and privilege of 
meeting folks at the University of 
Michigan who strive just as hard, 
if not harder, to make a name for 
themselves and not waste the 
opportunities presented to them 
by those before. You know who 
you are. Here’s to immigrants 
and all the other runners in the 
world who are bearing the torch 
and striving for a better future. 
Fight on.

YOUNG LEE
MiC Columnist

PHOTOS COURTESY OF YOUNG LEE

