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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