“A
s a straight, white,
cisgender
man
of relatively high
socioeconomic
status
and
having been raised
in
the
Catholic
Church …”
That’s
how
I
started my sentence.
It
was
a
muggy
July
evening
in
New
Jersey,
with
mosquitoes
everywhere and the
temperature
easily
over 80 degrees still
after dark. I was
spinning around on an old
deck chair in my backyard. A
close friend of mine from high
school had come over to catch
up — we hadn’t seen each other
in months — and somewhere
along the way, between talk
of
last
semester
and
our
plans, we started discussing
religion. I was fascinated with
Hinduism at the time, and
I was asking this friend, an
Indian American, how I might
approach that interest in a
respectful, non-appropriative
way. But she cut me off.
She raised her hand, signaling
that I should stop, and smiled,
saying, “Brett, just say what
you’re about to say, I already
know all of these things about
you.” She told me that I didn’t
need to qualify every statement
every time I opened my mouth.
It took a second for me to
process, but then we moved on
with our conversation.
This may seem like a small
moment, an obvious way to
streamline our conversation
and make it so that I didn’t
have to repeat the paragraph
of my privilege I’ve grown
accustomed to another five
times. A timesaver, more or
less. Months later, though,
as I reflect on it, I think this
moment speaks volumes about
the way dialogues can work.
Maybe this interaction stood
out to me because a few months
earlier I had seen a similar
dialogue go horribly wrong.
Another friend of
mine and I were
spending some time
together and, over
the course of several
days, all we did was
disagree — on topics
ranging from how
to define cultural
appropriation
to
whether trap music
was an inherently
depressing
genre
made by sad people trapped in
a vortex of hypermasculinity
(it was a long week). This all
culminated in her screaming at
me — in a very public setting —
that I needed to come around
to her point of view and spend
more time reading what she
had read or risk “being just
another dumb white guy who’s
literally destroying the world.”
The real quote had more
expletives than this or any
other newspaper would allow.
So
what
made
the
difference
between
these
two interactions? Something
was profoundly absent in the
latter, and the only word I
can think of to describe it is
trust. Trust that I was at least
somewhat informed, somewhat
empathetic, somewhat engaged
— that I was trying to put aside
my privilege and understand
another point of view. That’s
what
made
the
discussion
about
Hinduism
work;
my
friend trusted me to make my
best effort to honestly listen.
Meanwhile, the lack of that
kind of trust led to me being
branded as an active member
of a race intent on destroying
the world.
To be clear, I by no means
think I have a free pass from
now on, with her or anyone
else. I had to work to earn that
trust, and that’s the way it
should be. I’ll continue to work
to earn the trust of others, all
the while expecting nothing.
The reality is that as a
straight,
white,
cisgender
man of decent socioeconomic
status on this campus, I’m
accustomed to recognizing my
privilege before I speak in most
groups. It only takes a second
or two. I’ve learned how my
identity tends to dominate
a conversation and take up
space, and I’m consistently
doing my best to break that
mold and listen instead. But
this one time, I got a pass. And
it felt great.
The role of a straight, white,
cis — well, you get it by now.
The role of guys like me within
our
socio-cultural-political
cohort is often difficult to
navigate. Sometimes, the right
thing to do is to speak out, to
use your privilege to point
out
and
correct
injustice.
Sometimes, the right thing to
do is to sit back and listen and
empathize.
Distinguishing
between the two is almost
always challenging.
Liberal white men don’t need
sympathy, though, nor do they
need safe spaces of their own to
figure it out. And it’s no one’s job
to give us a pat on the back when
we happen to do something
right. But it’s helpful, in all
dialogues between friends, to
be conscious of that sense of
trust. Knowing when you still
have to work to earn it helps
you capture the right tone,
to temper your statements.
Conversely,
for
those
who
are in a position to show that
trust, knowing when to take
down a barrier, however small,
can bring these dialogues to
another level of depth.
A
fter trial and error
with plant-based eating
over the course of this
year, I finally decided to ditch
the dairy products I relied on
and be a “real vegan.” I always
imagined
when
I
changed
my diet I would have some
challenges with cravings for
my favorite comfort foods.
Surprisingly, the challenges I
experience have instead been
from the stigma associated
with being a vegan.
Last
week,
standing
in
the buffet line at my friends’
potluck, I soon realized that
there were not many dishes
I could eat. Limited by my
options, I reached the end of the
line where two loaves of garlic
bread laid side by side. The first
one was labeled “no cheese,”
and the other had cheese on
top. I grabbed a piece of the one
with no cheese, assuming it had
to be vegan, and sat down at a
table with friends to eat and
catch up.
I took a few bites of the bread
and it tasted pretty great. The
flavor was familiar, and after
I finished the piece, I guessed
there had to be butter in it. I
could feel the heat flushing into
my cheeks as I asked around
the table to see who made the
bread and if there were any
other animals products in it.
When they answered there
was, in fact, milk and butter
in the bread, I was mad and
embarrassed that I allowed
myself to eat this bread without
asking before.
I know it was just one piece
of bread and there is no way
it could hurt me, but I was
pissed at myself. Why was I so
embarrassed to ask what was in
the food? Why is this something
that I always find myself trying
to avoid in social settings? Did
I secretly hope the bread was
vegan so I could just enjoy some
damn good garlic bread like
everyone else?
I
find
myself
in
this
situation whenever I go to
events and parties where there
are
catered
or
homemade
foods. Realistically, I know
I can easily ask the people
who cooked the food what
ingredients
are
in
their
dishes.
But
asking
these
simple questions about food
brings negative attention that
makes me feel as if I am being
difficult, annoying or making
an issue for everyone else.
Before I stopped eating meat,
I felt as if the vegetarians and
vegans in my life were always
talking about their diets, and
I found it annoying. When I
would go out to eat with them
I was nervous they would make
me feel uncomfortable about my
food choices or try to push their
“agenda” on me. Therefore,
since I stopped eating meat,
I always had these opinions
lingering in the back of my
mind, and I have been actively
trying to distance myself from
this negative stereotype.
In the beginning, I did not
even want to associate myself
with the label “vegetarian.” If
someone asked me about it, I
would casually answer, “I just
don’t eat meat,” because I didn’t
want the label to give others
the power to make assumptions
about kind of person I was as
a vegetarian. But as time went
on, and I continued to cut more
and more animal products from
my diet, I knew that I would
need to start using a form of
this label.
Now, when my veganism
comes
up
in
conversation,
as I expected, I see people
processing
their
own
preconceived opinions about
my lifestyle. I wish I didn’t
care what people thought,
but even as I am writing this
column, I feel nervous that
readers will think I am being
That Annoying Vegan, that I
am just using this space to
push my plant-based agenda
on my readers. And it is hard
not to think this with all of the
anti-vegan jokes and memes
I see online. Though I still
find them funny, I wish there
were a way people could see
veganism the way I do.
I chose my vegan lifestyle
because I found this was the
best for my body and mind.
In addition, I want to do less
harm to living creatures and the
planet we share. It is a choice,
and I want to acknowledge I’m
aware there is a privilege in
being able to eat this way. This
diet or lifestyle is not accessible
to everyone, and it is not my
place to tell another what they
should put in their body. In fact,
I believe it is everyone’s right to
choose what feels best and truly
satisfies their body’s needs.
This is the only body I will
ever have. I know I should
not feel sorry or shameful for
being autonomous over my
diet, body and impact on this
world. I am not going to let
the negative stereotypes about
veganism affect the way I live
my life. The values I hold and
the lifestyle I live do not make
me any better than the next
person. They only allow me
to have control in a system
where I feel powerless. No
one should ever feel shame
in asking questions, because
staying true to your values and
standing up for justice over
your body, the living beings
around you and the planet is
never inconvenient.
Opinion
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
4A — Thursday, October 12, 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
Lettuce eat plants
ELLERY ROSENZWEIG | COLUMN
On recognizing privilege and trust
BRETT GRAHAM | COLUMN
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
Brett Graham can be reached at
btgraham@umich.edu.
ERIN WAKELAND | ERIN CAN BE REACHED AT ERINRAY@UMICH.EDU
Homelessness: A tale of two cities
EMILY HUHMAN | COLUMN
I
grew up in Traverse City. Ask
any University of Michigan
student from Traverse City
about their hometown, and they
will
describe
the
beautiful
beaches,
bustling
downtown
and Moomer’s, our
town’s treasure (it’s
the best ice cream in
the
United
States).
While
these
are
all a part of what
makes Traverse City
what it is, one thing
is often left out in
the
conversation
surrounding
the
city:
homelessness.
Homelessness is an issue that
is prevalent in Traverse City
and Ann Arbor, but the issue is
relatively invisible to those who
are unaffected by it.
Out of the 15,479 people who
live in Traverse City, about 94
people experience homelessness.
Traverse City is not considered a
hub for the homeless; therefore,
the city is not given funding from
the state and federal government
to help deal with the homelessness
problem. As a result, it has been
up to nonprofits to try to care for
the homeless in the city.
I began to volunteer at Safe
Harbor, one of the nonprofits
serving
the
community’s
homeless.
There,
I
learned
about the problems facing my
hometown’s homeless population.
As the main organization working
to serve the homeless, Safe
Harbor is a collection of churches
that makes meals and provides
“bed-nights,” or overnights in one
of its participating churches.
In the winters of 2011 and
2012,
Safe
Harbor
provided
5,540 bed-nights and more than
11,000 meals to 158 different
homeless folks. Though Safe
Harbor provides much help and
services to the homeless, the help
is only temporary — nothing they
provide is permanent. Rather,
federal and state funding is
necessary to provide permanent
solutions
to
Traverse
City’s
homelessness issue.
Of the 364,709 people living
in
Washtenaw
County,
342
of those people experienced
homelessness on a given day in
January 2016. Unlike Traverse
City, Washtenaw County has
taken a much more active role in
reducing homelessness. While
Traverse
City
relies
almost
solely on private nonprofits, Ann
Arbor and Washtenaw County
have implemented governmental
programs to curb homelessness
in their communities. In 2015,
Washtenaw
County
implemented
the
Zero:2016
program,
now called Built for
Zero. This is a national
program that aims
to help communities
develop and utilize
existing
resources
to help those on the
streets. The program
has seen a lot of
success in Ann Arbor
— 172 homeless veterans and
158 of the chronically homeless
were able to get off the streets.
If Traverse City’s government
implemented
this
type
of
program, it could likely reduce
homelessness.
In
addition,
a
lack
of
affordable housing in Traverse
City contributes to housing
insecurity and homelessness.
As wealthy retirees have begun
to settle in Traverse City,
housing prices have increased
substantially. Some downtown
apartments and condominiums
are on the market for more
than $1 million. These prices
are outrageous; middle-class
citizens cannot afford these
apartments,
let
alone
the
working homeless. As a result,
homeless people in the area are
often in danger, either because
of cold winters or vicious
beatings by other homeless
people or local teenagers.
Many attempts have been
made to build affordable housing
units in Traverse City, but these
projects have faced considerable
pushback from some portions of
the community. In 2016, Traverse
City’s city commission sold an
unused government building to
Safe Harbor for $50,000 after
two years of debate. This building
will be turned into a permanent
home for Safe Harbor and open as
a shelter in 2018.
Critics wondered if building a
homeless shelter was the best use
of the land. Others worry that the
increase in services will lead to
more homeless people moving into
the area. However, statistics show
this has not happened. In Traverse
City, 74 percent of the homeless
are from Grand Traverse County
and 93 percent are from Michigan.
As a result, in the deal with Safe
Harbor,
city
commissioners
stipulated that if a housing
proposal comes along within 10
years, part of the property will be
used for housing the homeless.
Ann
Arbor
has
faced
a
similar problem with affordable
housing. Listing prices have
increased 10.6 percent from
April 2016. Now, the average
listing price in Ann Arbor
is $320,335, a price that is
impossible
for
low-income
individuals to afford. Officials
in Ann Arbor and Ypsilanti
have said they plan to add 3,137
affordable renting units. While
this is a great step, it can still
be difficult for extremely low-
income people to afford these
units.
Additionally,
funding
cuts have forced a shelter to
cut 27 beds. More affordable
housing and homeless shelters
are needed to further reduce
homelessness in Ann Arbor.
The homeless in the Traverse
City
area
have
also
been
working to become more visible.
In 2011, the first issue of “Speak
Up
Magazine,”
a
magazine
written
by
homeless
folks
about issues affecting them,
was released in Traverse City.
People can submit articles, short
stories, poems or artwork to
the magazine. Once published,
the
homeless
can
become
vendors after going through an
interview. The vendors can keep
any profits they receive. Though
“Speak Up Magazine” does not
solve the systematic problems
of homelessness, it has provided
a look into the lives of Traverse
City’s homeless population and
given them a voice.
Ann Arbor’s “Groundcover
News”
is
a
comparable
publication. You might see these
vendors in yellow vests around
Ann Arbor — feel free to stop by
and pick up a copy.
I am so grateful to have grown
up in Traverse City. However,
the city can do a lot more to
help the homeless people in the
area. While visibility for the
homeless in Traverse City may
be increasing with “Speak Up
Magazine,” more can be done
by local leaders to help those in
need. Ann Arbor has been able to
implement some governmental
solutions. Traverse City can
take a cue from Ann Arbor
and implement more city-wide
programs and actively look for
affordable housing solutions.
Emily Huhman can be reached at
huhmanem@umich.edu.
Ellery Rosenzweig can be reached at
erosenz@umich.edu.
EMILY
HUHMAN
BRETT
GRAHAM
SUBMIT TO SURVIVORS SPEAK
The Opinion section has created a space in The Michigan Daily for
first-person accounts of sexual assault and its corresponding personal,
academic and legal implications. Submission information can be found at
https://tinyurl.com/survivespeak.