As a fourth grader, my afternoon
routine was simple. After getting
off the bus, I’d make myself some
microwavable macaroni & cheese
and settle in with a copy of The
Detroit Free Press. I’d usually start
with the sports section (no one
knew the Pistons like I did) before
moving on to the news section,
film reviews and, finally, the
comics. The day the Freep stopped
delivering to my household was
a dark one and I unconvincingly
pleaded with my parents to pay
for the new, much more expensive
special delivery fee.
My love of the news didn’t
stop as I grew older (even if daily
newspaper deliveries did). In high
school, I joined my school paper
and fell in love with being on the
other side of the business. While
the readership was small, I relished
the power of a platform and its
ability to shape conversation. This
led me to join The Michigan Daily
where I found my way to Michigan
in Color — the section of The Daily
dedicated to uplifting voices of
color.
However, as a member of MiC,
my rosy view of the journalism
industry began to dim. MiC was
founded because The Daily lacked
the voices of students of color, which
led to the mischaracterization
and oftentimes racist depictions
of students of color. The founders
of MiC felt they couldn’t trust
journalists to properly convey the
real experiences of people of color,
so they created a section where we
would write for ourselves.
Fast forward to a week ago.
Since I first heard about the
Newseum, I’ve been intrigued. The
museum is intended as a testament
to the First Amendment — freedom
of the press, speech, religion and
petition — and its importance to
a thriving society. From my first
steps into the building, I felt the
weight and responsibility the
press puts on itself. Famous quotes
about the importance of the First
Amendment, and the press in
particular, covered the walls while
exhibits contained information
and old news clips explaining the
role of the press in the Civil Rights
Movement, the Vietnam War
and uncovering injustice around
the world. Highlights included
a timeline of front pages of
newspapers from pivotal points in
history and the sobering memorial
to journalists murdered for their
work in pursuing justice.
The Newseum is a glorification
of the press. In these hallowed
halls, the press is always on the
right side of history — always
there to stand up for the rights of
the oppressed, always objective,
always the hero. However, I take
issue with this the lack of nuance,
and honestly, the reality of the
building. The Newseum ignored
one of the tenets of good journalism:
Always tell the whole story. For
all the headlines the Newseum
showcased that exalted the Civil
Rights Movement, they missed
the ones decrying its protesters
as “troublemakers” or “rioters.”
The Newseum can cherry-pick
the front pages for the ones that
portray the press
in a good light, but
it doesn’t erase
the harmful work
that has occurred
and continues to
this day.
For its faults,
I cannot entirely
dislike
the
Newseum
or
the
industry
and values it so
lovingly portrays.
The press is a
vital
institution
for a fair society
and
historically
it has been a part
of social change
and
progress.
However,
for
all
its
virtues,
members of the
media must come
to
terms
with
the harm those
same actions can
cause. For all the
Watergates
and
Pentagon Papers
journalism unveils, it does not
mitigate that the news industry
was the main driver of associating
Islam with terrorism.
As the “first rough draft of
history,” the news often shapes
what and how people think. When
the only stories of people of color
are negative, how will society
react? When Black
people who march
are rioters but white
people who march
are protesters, what
will society think?
I want to be clear,
this isn’t a critique
of
the
Breitbarts
of the world. This
is a critique of the
New York Times,
Washington Posts,
and
Michigan
Dailys — papers that
strive for greatness
but either ignorantly
or willfully continue
the marginalization
of
vulnerable
populations. It’s easy
to rest on the laurels
of
journalism’s
success,
but
we
cannot
act
like
journalism
is
immune
to
the
racism,
sexism
and
bigotry
that
permeates
society.
The press often acts
as an accountability measure for
governments and corporations —
it’s time we shined that spotlight
on ourselves.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Monday, March 5. 2018 — 3A
Visiting the Newseum: The power of the press
Defining “presidential” Drawing power from my
name: Reclaiming Nada
The roommate selection process
involved months of calculated
messages,
trying
to
finesse
conversation, hoping the girl I met
on Facebook would think I was
super cool and ask to room with
me. After painful awkwardness
and anxiety, as well as the culture
shock of a small town southern girl
trying to keep up with the big-city
New Yorker, we sealed the deal.
During our mini interview
process, I remember explaining to
her that I was Muslim and would
probably need part of the room to
pray, clarifying that if she had issues
with that I totally understood and
she could room with someone else.
For some reason, it felt natural for
me to be on the defense about my
religion, but coming from New
York and being a generally good
person, she was entirely unfazed.
That was one hurdle that I passed
with ease.
The next hurdle was more
difficult for some reason. I finally
asked her for her number, which
seemed out of order because
we
were
already
established
as roommates, but I took the
opportunity of a new conversation
platform to slip this in.
Nada:
“Also, this is way overdue but it’s
pronounced Nedduh.”
Lizzy:
“Lol oh nooo I’ve been thinking
Nahdah this whole time.”
And who could blame her. I was
kicking myself for letting this girl
who I was going to be sleeping five
feet away from not know my name
after months of talking.
I was brought back to elementary
school, introducing myself by
my
American
pronunciation,
Nah-dah; to my own sister not
pronouncing my Arabic name until
middle school; to taking Spanish
for the first time and getting
chuckles from the whole class at
my teacher’s confusion during roll.
Nada
means
“nothing”
in
three different languages. Even
knowing this, it was easy to just
go with everyone’s assumptions
and introduce myself this way.
Poet Emily Dickinson wrote, “I
am nobody. Who are you? Are you
nobody too?” But I was worse than
nobody. I was nothing.
The longer I introduced myself
as nothing, the more nothingness
became the foundation of my
identity. There was a part of me that
I associated with inadequacy and
not being enough. Introductions
became a source of anxiety, so
I stopped making an effort to
meet people. I started hating my
parents for naming me Nada and
my country for making that a
possibility.
Then, the summer before high
school brought me a beautiful new
opportunity. New classmates. In
what could have potentially been
an awkward arranged playdate
between
another
incoming
freshman and me, I was delighted
when my sister introduced me
before I could sabotage myself.
My new friend had no problem
saying my name correctly, and
she told me point-blank that I
couldn’t let people continue to
mispronounce my name. That
would be misrepresenting who
I was. She had a point; a country
where children were taught to
say Einstein, Guggenheim and
Aristotle could surely manage two
simple syllables.
Together, she and I created a
sort of script that stuck with me
from then on.
“Hi, my name is Nada. It’s like
Ned, from the hit 2000s teen
television show Ned’s Declassified,
and then you add an –uh.”
“Okay so like *insert horribly
mispronounced name here*?”
Cue the pause and slight squint.
This is where I gave them a chance
to try again, usually to no avail.
“Yeah, that’s close enough.”
This was a source of frustration
for those close to me, when I would
give up just to save someone else
the effort of trying harder. I soon
found out that the later realization
of their mistake was even more
embarrassing,
especially
when
they heard someone else saying
it correctly, usually prompting a
“Why didn’t you tell me!”
While my initial insistence on
people saying my name correctly
stemmed from a desire to save
others of future uneasiness, I
realized recently that I should have
wanted that for myself, not for
anyone else.
My name ties me to my Egyptian
heritage, culture and a language
where Nada means the dew drops
coating the earth in the morning.
After 18 years, I finally learned not
to compromise my identity or who
I am for the comfort of others.
I’m about as far from a fine arts
critic as one can get. I don’t consume
art and I definitely don’t study art.
Whenever I go to art museums,
I usually spend more time on the
benches than looking at the art.
For that reason, I was surprised
by my sentimental reaction to
President Barack Obama’s official
Smithsonian portrait.
As I walked toward the back
of
the
presidential
portraits
exhibit to see Obama’s painting,
familiar
feelings
of
boredom
and restlessness that tend to
accompany these museum trips
began to crop up. I passed former
Franklin Presidents Pierce, James
Buchanan and Chester Arthur on
one side of the wall, and James
Monroe, Grover Cleveland and
William McKinley on the other.
Almost all of the paintings were
from a realistic art style, and all
of the subjects had a similar pose
— either sitting or standing with
a stoic disposition in a plain room.
Eventually, all of these portraits
started blending together. As
a result, the contributions and
accomplishments of the men in the
paintings didn’t seem so unique.
When their official representations
weren’t
remarkable,
their
administrations didn’t appear to be
either.
Obama’s painting, however, was
different.
The green leaves stood in
stark contrast to the white walls
(and white faces) of the museum
surrounding it. Even if someone
didn’t know anything about the
Obama administration, he or she
could easily decipher it was unlike
any administration the U.S. has
seen before. Obama’s years at the
helm were marked by bucked
traditions — namely, by serving as
our nation’s first Black president.
In a nation built by slaves, that is a
particularly notable achievement.
Admittedly, the first time I saw
the portrait, I didn’t like it. “This
isn’t presidential,” I thought as I
scrolled through my Facebook feed.
However, after seeing the painting
with my own eyes, I now realize
my definition of presidential isn’t
an objective one; it’s simply based
on what people in the past deemed
to be “presidential.” The problem
with using that standard as a
criterion is that it was framed by
a homogenous group of old, white
men — many of whom upheld the
institution of slavery and Jim Crow
segregation.
Going by this standard, it’s easy
to see why Obama’s portrait can
come off as “un-presidential.” The
problem isn’t with the painting,
it’s with the label. There is nothing
un-presidential about a man who
humbly fought for racial, gender
and marriage equality for eight
years, just like there’s nothing
un-presidential about having a
Black man as a president (even
though all 43 of his predecessors
were not Black).
Obama’s presidency represented
a different type of leadership,
but it’s important to remember
different isn’t inherently bad. In
a similar vein, while Obama’s
portrait definitely offers a stark
contrast to the portraits of his
predecessors, that difference alone
doesn’t detract from its beauty.
Obama’s painting — just like his
presidency — was unique, and
that’s what makes it so special.
NADA ELDAWY
MiC Contributor
ASHLEY TJHUNG
Managing MiC Editor
Editor Jason Rowland reflects after seeing the National Portrait Gallery
MiC Editors Ashley Tjhung and Na’kia Channey observe the Journalists Memorial — a tribute to those killed while report-
ing, photographing or broadcasting the news.
MiC Editor Jason Rowland photographs Barack Obama’s presidential portrait.
SAM SO/Daily
SAM SO/Daily
“I started hating
my parents for
naming me
Nada and my
country for
making that a
possibility.”
“As the first
rough draft of
history, the news
often shapes
what and how
people think.
When the only
stories of people
of color are
negative, how
will society
react?”
JASON ROWLAND
Managing MiC Editor
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SADHANA RAMASESHADRI/Daily