I
was invited to a bar crawl this
past weekend. Though I love
Charley’s, The Brown Jug and
Rick’s, the thought of going to each
in quick succession
made
me
anxious.
I tried to do a quick
mental
calculation
of how much mixed
drinks, beer and cover
from each bar would
cost me. The number
was intimidating.
Having
a
social
life at this university
is
expensive.
Bar
covers, drinks, tickets
to movies and concerts, Ubers and
dinners at Ann Arbor’s many fine
restaurants are not kind to student
budgets. However, the alternative
is often staying in alone while
your friends have a blast. At the
least
socioeconomically
diverse
public university in the nation, this
phenomenon is especially disturbing.
If the University of Michigan
is to become a place where people
of all incomes feel welcome,
wealthier students should be more
conscious of their peers’ ability to
pay when making social plans.
The median annual parental
income
is
$154,000,
three
times the Michigan average.
A full two-thirds of students
come from the top 20 percent
of national incomes, while less
than 4 percent come from the
bottom 20 percent of incomes.
Perhaps most depressingly, the
University ranks last out of all
public universities in terms of
economic mobility for students.
The University’s predominance
of wealthy students naturally
breeds a campus culture in
which money is often taken for
granted. And even if the University
admitted more low- and middle-
income students, would they even
want to stay in an environment
where social pressures encourage
nonstop spending?
The
University’s
tuition
partially
explains
this
exclusivity. In-state tuition has
been consistently rising and
now sits at $14,826. Consistently
decreasing state funding has
encouraged
the
University
to
accept
more
out-of-state
students
who
pay
sky-high
tuitions.
Furthermore,
Ann
Arbor’s housing costs are a
full 73 percent higher than the
national average. Add books
and miscellaneous costs to the
equation,
and
attending
the
University costs $29,526, if you’re
lucky enough to live in-state.
That’s about two-thirds
of the average Michigan
household income. The
University social scene
shouldn’t require low-
and
middle-income
students to shell out
enormous
amounts
of cash on top of the
already
exorbitant
costs of attendance.
A
number
of
factors contribute to
the University’s overly classist
social scene. First, it seems as if
almost every social event requires
attending one of Ann Arbor’s
often costly dining, drinking or
entertainment
establishments.
Going to a friend’s birthday dinner
at Sava’s, seeing Mac DeMarco
perform at Hill Auditorium and
buying a movie ticket for the
Michigan Theater each costs a
lot of money. Nightlife further
squeezes one’s budget. The two
most popular bars on campus,
Rick’s and Scorekeepers, charge
covers to get in and offer pricey
drink menus. Even the ubiquitous
coffee date at Espresso Royale or
Starbucks requires a few bucks
for a latte. Students build their
social lives around activities at
these
establishments;
almost
every date, get-together or night
out with friends comes with a
high cash premium.
Some institutional features
of
the
campus
social
scene
further exclude students of lower
socioeconomic status. Institutions
like Greek life and club sports
charge entry dues or require
expensive gear to participate.
Additionally, the time commitment
of
these
activities
precludes
some
who
participate
from
working part-time jobs. These
organizations play a large role in
the campus social scene — they are
an easy place to make friends and
often host large parties.
I recognize many of these
organizations
offer
financial
assistance.
However,
the
monetary barriers may still prove
prohibitive to many students
of lower socioeconomic status.
Because financial barriers exclude
many less wealthy students, these
organizations
help
maintain
physical and social separation
between the University’s wealthy
and
less
well-off
students.
Furthermore, these organizations’
exclusivity is especially harmful
to economic mobility given their
facilitation of beneficial personal
connections to successful peers
and alumni. Unequal access to
these institutions only further
isolates poorer students from
campus social activities.
When students miss event after
event, maintaining friendships on
campus becomes very difficult. It
can be embarrassing to admit you
can’t get dinner because your bank
account can’t weather it. I know
I’ve told friends I couldn’t make
it to an event when I really just
couldn’t afford it at the moment.
Missing
these
social
events
means missing crucial moments
of friendship.
Other everyday realities on
campus also exclude students of
lower socioeconomic status from
the
University’s
social
scene.
The most obvious is housing. As
a recent Daily survey indicates,
students of lower economic status
tend to live farther from campus,
and students with more money
tend to live closer to campus,
restaurants and bars. High rents
and simple geography give richer
students easy access to the popular
hangout spots in the city. With
the recent crop of luxury student
high-rises that cost up to $1,999 a
month, rich students can live, quite
literally, on top of the bars.
I recognize that many students
frequently enjoy social activities
that require virtually no money,
such as watching Netflix with
friends or hanging out in the Arb.
Additionally, I’m not arguing all
students should swear off Skeep’s
forever and live as hermits. I
only ask that wealthier students
become a little more conscientious
when asking friends out to dinner,
concerts and the bar. Perhaps a
night out could be swapped for
a movie night at home, a concert
could be swapped for a trip to the
UMMA and a fancy dinner could
be swapped for a homemade
meal
with
friends.
These
activities may not solve the
University’s diversity problem,
but they may make the University
just a little more inclusive for
students of lower incomes.
Opinion
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
4 — Thursday, November 16, 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
The only fascist bigot in the classroom
TALIA KATZ | OP-ED
Making fun cheaper
Carolyn Ayaub
Megan Burns
Samantha Goldstein
Emily Huhman
Jeremy Kaplan
Sarah Khan
Max Lubell
Lucas Maiman
Madeline Nowicki
Anna Polumbo-Levy
Jason Rowland
Anu Roy-Chaudhury
Ali Safawi
Sarah Salman
Kevin Sweitzer
Rebecca Tarnopol
Stephanie Trierweiler
Ashley Zhang
Why minimize?
JOSIE TOLIN | COLUMN
W
hile I’m no modern
lifestyle
guru,
I
have
in
fact
noticed
the
frequent
use
of
the
qualifier
“minimalist”
as
an antecedent for
many of the current
“hottest
trends.”
(And
yes,
I
do
realize I sound like
a middle-aged white
mom as I type this
phrase.)
Recently,
I’ve heard friends
and
acquaintances
alike refer to their
preferences as those of a
minimalist — be it musical
taste,
clothing
choice
or
living arrangement. I’ll admit
it too — I even found myself
searching Pinterest the other
day for “minimalist tattoo
ideas,” unaware of my own
reasons for my attraction to
this particular aesthetic.
Though
“minimalism”
is a term most classically
associated
with
the
fundamentalist
artistic
movement
of
the
mid-
to-late
20th
century,
its
current application seems to
encompass everything from
literature
to
architecture,
from
zero-waste
practices
to
marketing
techniques.
However
contradictory
this may sound, evidence of
minimalism is far-reaching
and relatively conspicuous at
this point in our society.
In the midst of all this
minimizing,
I’ve
come
to
wonder what composes the
core appeal of the movement.
Could
sustainable
living
practices finally be receiving
the attention they deserve?
Is
the
push
to
minimize
perhaps a manifestation of
the
anti-capitalist
leanings
held
(stereotypically)
by
many younger folks? Might
mental health play a part
in this aversion to excess?
While the current trend is
associated most generally with
an outdoorsy demographic of
millennials, it really does seem
to have a diversity of merits.
Blogs,
magazines
and
newsletters
devoted
to
minimalism have sprung up
left and right over the past
couple of years, written and
run by experts on the trend.
Self-help columnists and life
coaches alike have adopted
this philosophy to advise
their audiences and clients.
For people like these who
swear by simplicity,
one thing is certain:
Material gains are
stressful.
With
the
rise
of
consumerism
and
materialism
well
underway,
minimalism might be
the antagonist we’ve
all been waiting for.
This isn’t extremist
nor counterculture;
it’s simplistic, accessible and
conscious.
It
promotes
the
purchase and possession of
essentials only, straying from
materialism without completely
avoiding the economic role of
the consumer.
The psychology of picking
and choosing what to eliminate
is endlessly fascinating and
subject to variation between
individuals. In my own life,
I find myself most prone to
excess in — wait for it — food
transactions. These purchases
are noncommittal; if I decide
I don’t need the food, I’ll
be able to dispose of it with
only a slight pang of guilt.
These same qualities don’t
necessarily apply to other
consumer items — much more
guilt accompanies the disposal
of a never-before-worn shirt or
a never-before-used blender.
Getting
in
touch
with
personal consumer tendencies
is important, and it’s exciting
that
the
trend
toward
minimalism
might
inspire
people to do exactly this.
So, why then is the movement
to minimize so commonly
associated
with
hippie-
wannabes in their early-to-
mid 20s? Instead of focusing
on individualized definitions of
the word, people often think of
the lifestyle trend as attractive
and pristine in this geometric,
Instagram-worthy way. In the
same manner that vegan and
vegetarian diets are criticized
for their inaccessibility on a
broader socioeconomic scale, so
too is the movement for simple
living. These criticisms are
perhaps pointed at a specific
subcategory of minimalism that
has developed exclusively in
wealthy spheres, unfortunate
portrayals
of
a
generally
inclusive
philosophy.
This
subcategory is not undeserving
of the criticism it receives,
but it vastly oversimplifies
something
that
can
(and
should) be highly personal.
Having
fewer
belongings
creates a stronger personal
attachment to what is already
owned,
decreasing
the
subjective
expendability
of
these items and increasing the
likelihood of fixing what is
broken rather than disposing
of it. This is good — this is
sustainable
and
monetarily
efficient. Recently, I’ve heard
many people openly describe
their
consumerist
style
as
“only
buying
things
with
lifetime warranties,” which
is exciting. This definition
of
careful
consumerism
seems to be contingent upon
an
item’s
permanence
or
semi-permanence,
a
pretty
honorable philosophy.
Attachment
to
material
items, however few there may
be, still does constitute a sort
of materialism. Some claim
minimizing can become an
obsession, similar to the toxic
excitement of consumerism.
Getting caught up in the
aesthetics of minimalism can
be obviously unhealthy, but
the
philosophical
practice
itself is grounded in individual
needs and priorities.
There’s
something
comforting in minimums, in
really tapping into lifestyle
preferences and attempting
to make those a simplistic
reality.
The
less
mind
space is occupied by more
peripheral and superfluous
life accessories, the better.
TOM AIELLO | COLUMN
Tom Aiello can be reached at
thomaiel@umich.edu.
Josie Tolin can be reached at
jostolin@umich.edu.
FRANNIE MILLER | CONTACT FRANNIE AT FRMILLER@UMICH.EDU
TOM
AIELLO
JOSIE
TOLIN
I
magine you are a social
justice warrior in college.
You believe that Bernie
Sanders’s ideas are novel. You
are passionate about raising
the
minimum
wage.
You
believe women have a right to
free and safe abortions. You
think college tuition ought to
be free for all Americans.
Now,
imagine
that
you
are the only student among
20,000
who
holds
these
beliefs. Not only that, people
think you are an inherently
bad person for stating those
opinions. They tell you that
you’re a stupid and entitled
idealist
and
an
ignorant
communist.
They
casually
comment how people like you
are vile because you are from
an urban area and you voted
for Hillary Clinton. You are
a proverbial punching bag in
class discussions. According
to the people you see every
day, you are not just wrong,
you are evil. You are not just
of a different opinion, you
are hateful. You don’t just
disagree, you are the enemy.
This is me. Except I hold
conservative beliefs, and the
rest of my peers are leftists.
I applied to the Ford School of
Public Policy because I wanted
to narrow my studies to my
passions and pursue a career
in policy analysis. I knew that
by enrolling in a public policy
school, let alone the University
of Michigan, I would have to
endure heated political debates.
I welcomed the challenge. I was
excited to sharpen my debate
skills and question my own
opinions by hearing a diverse
array of perspectives.
After just two and a half
months in the public policy
undergraduate program, I am
fearful. I have been called
racist for criticizing some
affirmative action programs.
My classmates claim that my
unabashed support of Israel
stems from a baseless hatred of
Arabs. They call conservatives
like me rednecks, brainwashed
by Fox News and detached
in desolate “flyover states.”
I have been called a bigoted
elitist before even getting the
chance to open my mouth.
Due
to
this
pervasive
toxic
rhetoric,
I
now
sit
quietly and hold my tongue.
Say a classmate claims that
women who are pro-life are
hypocritical and indoctrinated
by
the
patriarchy,
and
multiple people chime in in
agreement while the professor
nods her head. I avoid putting
a big target on my head and
lie low. I silently listen while
my opinions are called sexist,
Islamophobic,
bigoted
and
fascist. Most of my professors
are not objective facilitators;
rather,
they
encourage
students
to
marry
their
ideologies while deeply hating
all others.
I am not the only one
taking note of the threatening
classroom environment.
I overheard a peer accusing
another student of being a white
supremacist because he wanted
to “play devil’s advocate” and
suggest that water purification
and distribution should not
be
wholly
funded
by
the
government.
Another classmate pulled me
aside one day while walking out
of a lecture on gun control. She
whispered in my ear, “I am a
conservative, too.” I asked her
why she was whispering. With
fear in her eyes, she said, “I
don’t want people to hate me.”
The vilification of dissenters
and
self-aggrandizing
is
antithetical to the mission of
higher education. A college
campus should be a place
to
challenge
one
another
respectfully and form opinions
by
hearing
a
diversity
of
perspectives. The University
strives to cater to those who feel
even mildly offended, but I and
those like me are easy targets
for insults.
I am not asking the University
to silence liberals’ offensive
statements, and I am not asking
anyone to cater to me because
I hold unpopular opinions. I
am asking for my peers and my
professors, especially in a public
policy program, to foster open
and considerate dialogue. The
University and students alike
tout the Diversity, Equity and
Inclusion initiative, but there is
little to no emphasis on diversity
of thought. That needs to change.
Instead of shouting down
speakers, hold a separate event
to debate their perspectives.
Instead of throwing out words
like “bigot” and “xenophobic,”
listen
to
the
other
side’s
reasoning. Develop empathy
while not assuming the worst
of
people
with
different
opinions.
Open-mindedness
and
respect
are
critical
once we graduate from our
ideologically
homogenous
university and find ourselves
in a diversity of environments.
We all want to see a world
that
is
peaceful,
inclusive
and prosperous. We just have
different ideas on how to get
there. So, let’s talk to one
another. Let’s listen carefully.
Let’s ask questions. Maybe we
will both learn something.
Talia Katz is a public policy junior.
Having fewer
belongings
creates a
stronger personal
attachment to
what is already
owned.