“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.