If
my
experiences
during
college have taught me anything,
it is that writing is a powerful
means of expression. Somehow,
even when I don’t know what to
say, I always have something to
write. Last semester, and this one,
was really rough for me health-
wise. I grew quite frustrated
and could not seem to express
how I was feeling. So I wrote it
down. And even though “One
Second” is a poetic rendering of
my struggles, it still does not do
me justice. I am so much more
than my disease, but I am also
a writer, and it feels incredibly
empowering to say that.
***
It’s amazing how long a second
can feel.
At any time, in a matter of
seconds, I could have a sickle cell
attack.
As the crescent-shaped red
blood cells coursing through my
veins turn on me. They start to
stick together and block the flow
of blood in my body.
It’s
surprising,
the
sheer
amount of pain caused by the
lack of oxygen to an organ.
It happened today. Honestly, it
happens every day but the attacks
vary in severity and usually, I can
suppress them.
I’m not the type to complain,
ask for pity or even tell people
it’s happening, but this one was
different — it only lasted for a
second.
Just one second that felt like
an eternity.
I was in class and all of a
sudden felt I couldn’t breathe.
I resisted the urge to grasp my
chest and fall back into my chair
simply because I didn’t want to
bring attention to myself.
Now I wonder if anyone would
have even noticed. Would you?
And if you did, would you
care? After all, there was nothing
you could do.
It’s funny how stark the
contrast is between my identities.
Most of the time I’m the only
person like me in the room.
It’s like I have my own
personal spotlight that follows
me around.
I mean how many Nigerian-
American Muslim women with a
chronic illness do you know?
One second, I’m the only Black
person in a room and I feel as if
all eyes are on me; the next, I’m
gasping for air and though I’m
surrounded by people, they don’t
see my struggles.
I feel that my pain is invisible.
But I’ve always known this.
You can’t tell, you can’t see my
pain.
Yet, I wonder if you ever notice
the subtle signs: The blank stare
in my eyes, the quiet gasps I take,
how I slur my words.
I know it’s not fair to expect
that of you. I know it’s on me to
teach you to look for these signs.
I know it’s on me to let you know
I’m not okay.
But sometimes I wish you
could just sense something was
off about me. Sometimes I wish
you would just ask. Sometimes I
wish I could take you with me,
just to show you.
I don’t know how to describe
what happens.
One second I’m fine and the
next I feel like I might collapse.
One second passes and no one
knows it ever even happened.
One second and I feel all alone.
Today it was my ankle, a part
of our bodies most of us ignore.
Today
it
demanded
my
attention as it burst into pain.
Every second was agonizing as
I waited for the pain to go away,
but the seconds continued to pass
and the pain stayed.
Then it would stop and just as
I would go to take a sigh of relief,
I would be struck by pain again.
Today I limped home because
with every pang, I felt my ankle
would give out and I would
collapse.
Today I feared I wouldn’t be
able to walk to class tomorrow,
And worse yet, today I worried
the world would not wait for me
to heal.
Today became tomorrow and
it happened again.
One second I was fine and the
next, in pain.
I gripped my pen so tight not
even the jaws of life could save it.
After
several
everlasting
seconds,
it
stopped
and
I
remembered I was still in class.
I try to refocus my attention
and next thing I know it’s back.
I hold my breath so as to not
scream.
I don’t know what to do.
I ask God for help, but as the
seconds pass, I find myself still
helpless.
As I walked across campus
from class to class, I held back
tears,
As I was in so much pain but
couldn’t explain,
As I begged for someone,
anyone to see my pain.
I guess I wrote this hoping I
could get you to see a glimpse of
what I feel.
But as I write, I realize nothing
I do can adequately show you.
My story, this feeling, is just
one moment of your day.
But I live my whole life this
way.
One second: Fighting my invisible pain
HALIMAT OLANIYAN
MiC Contributor
Forgotten histories of people of color
During this past Spring Break,
several Michigan in Color editors
were given the opportunity to
travel to Washington, D.C. to
discover forgotten histories in
our nation’s capital. From visits to
the National Museum of African
American History and Culture
and National Portrait Gallery to
traversing
the
now-gentrified
streets of Chinatown, we were
reminded
of
how
dominant
narratives
in
the
United
States erase the history and
contributions of people of color
and the resistance necessary to
create a more equitable society.
At all of the museums we
visited — and especially the
National Museum of African
American History and Culture —
we were impressed by the focus on
activists we never learned about
before coming to the University
of Michigan. While Rosa Parks,
Martin Luther King Jr. and
Ruby Bridges all undoubtedly
played monumental roles in the
ongoing
struggle
for
racial
equality,
it
was
interesting
and refreshing to learn about
those who risked it all so we
could live out their dreams,
despite receiving little national
recognition.
While
the
aforementioned key organizers
had their space in the museum, the
NMAAHC also had information
about local organizers, students
and brave families who had
just as much to lose but were
seemingly forgotten by history.
While learning about larger-
than-life figures is important, it’s
just as important to remember
the Civil Rights Movement — like
all other social movements — was
powered by individuals who put
themselves on the line for the
chance of a better future.
We were also impressed by how
the museums we visited framed
our
narratives.
Oftentimes,
people of color are portrayed as
“sidekicks” or passive victims
of greater societal events. The
museums we visited told another
story. In these spaces, POC were
centered and portrayed as active
agents in their own lives. For
example, the National Museum of
the American Indian emphasized
Native Americans did not just
passively agree to leave their
land and walk what is now
called the Trail of Tears — many
fought against the colonizers and
negotiated treaties that would’ve
been
mutually
beneficial.
Additionally, we learned about
many
different
instances
when Native Americans used
the American court system to
reclaim the land that was stolen
from them in the past. These
examples highlight that history
is not just what is taught to us in
school: POC have always been
and always will be powerful
agents of change. Because our
narratives are very rarely front
and center in history lessons,
visiting these museums — which
highlighted the narratives of
POC — was especially impactful
to see.
One of the only aspects of
social movements that we felt
wasn’t properly displayed was the
role of coalition building and
alliances.
When
we
walked
through
the
museums,
we
struggled to find evidence of
the initiatives and impacts of
coalitions
and
allies
among
different
groups
of
POCs.
However, just because the actions
of allies were not highlighted,
this does not remove their
necessity nor their contributions.
Coalitions unify individuals and
groups interested in a common
goal, enabling them to adequately
share
resources,
information
and
numbers.
The
call
for
coalitions is becoming even more
significant, and we can see this
being carried out on our own
campus. Student organizations,
such as MuJew, the Black-
Asian Coalition and Leaders
of Education, Advocacy, and
Diversity are formal coalition-
building
spaces
focused
on
creating community and change
across identity lines. Similarly,
organizations like La Casa and
the Muslim Students Association
have made it a priority to
facilitate cross-cultural sharing
and to strengthen social change
networks. Now more than ever,
organizations
are
realizing
the power that is made by
establishing relationships across
our communities.
Most importantly, the trip
allowed
for
plentiful
self-
reflection. As MiC continues
to grow, we strive to remain
a
platform
that
accurately
showcases
the
myriad
of
experiences of POC. To focus
on race in isolation — without
discussion
of
how
gender,
sexuality,
ability
status
and
other social identities affect our
experience — is to also promote
a dominant narrative and forget
the histories of students on this
campus.
My trip to the National Museum
of African American History and
Culture in Washington, D.C. was
a poignant one. The visit started
with an elevator ride down to the
building’s lowest level. “1968” …
“1954” … “1948” … “1865” — the
years on the wall counted down
as the elevator descended. I knew
each year must’ve been picked for
a significant event that occurred
— the passage of the Civil Rights
Act in 1968 or the end of the Civil
War in 1865 — but for many of the
years (especially the older ones), I
didn’t know what specifically was
being referenced. “1808”… “1776”
… “1565.” Finally, the elevator
stopped and the door opened. The
wall read “1400”.
According
to
my
most
conservative estimates, 1400 is a
good two centuries before any of
my past American history courses
began. As a result, I didn’t know
exactly what I’d encounter, but I
predicted it wouldn’t be positive.
My hunch was correct.
Immediately, I was greeted
with information and beautiful
artifacts
from
pre-Columbian
Africa, but it didn’t take long
before I was shown the horrors
of the Middle Passage and slave-
life in Colonial America. The
next section focused on slave-
life in the Antebellum South
(which was marked by the same
savage treatment received by the
slaves who came before) and life
in the Jim Crow South. Finally,
as I worked my way back up to
the top of the museum, I walked
through the exhibit about modern
Black life in America. As “The
Message” by Grandmaster Flash
and the Furious Five played in the
background — a song my parents
frequently
played
during
my
childhood — I read about the crack
epidemic, the Federal Emergency
Management Agency’s botched
response to Hurricane Katrina
and education inequalities.
There was no happy ending.
As a Black American, that wasn’t
comforting — but it also wasn’t
surprising. I went in knowing
there’s still much work left to be
done, and I didn’t leave any more
optimistic for the future.
As I exited the exhibits, I
entered
the
“Contemplative
Court.” Earlier in the morning,
the guide on the elevator told
us about this room. In fact, she
recommended
spending
some
time there to reflect on what
we were about to see and learn.
In the center of the room sat a
large, circular pool. Water rained
down around the perimeter, and
the drops lit up as they hit the
water below. To me — and to
many people, as I learned after
conducting more research once
I returned home — those drops
symbolized the tears of those who
came before me. The tears were
from the people who suffered
during the Middle Passage, the
slave families separated on the
auction block and the Black
students who were denied an
equal shot at education. However,
as their tears hit the water, the
light symbolized the progress
made possible by their sacrifices —
they didn’t suffer in vain.
As I looked up from the
fountain, ready to leave the room,
the quote on the wall caught my
eye. Across from me, the wall read,
“A change is gonna come” — a line
from the chorus of Sam Cooke’s
1964 song with the same name.
With the negative mood left by
the museum, I was particularly
affected, almost relieved, by that
line. While the exhibits offered
little solace, the “Contemplative
Court” and Sam Cooke’s quote
gave me optimism for the future.
While I can’t go back to undo the
suffering of the past, I can fight for
a more just future — the only way
to truly ensure that those tears
weren’t cried in vain.
Reflections from the NMAAHC
MIC EDITORS
JASON ROWLAND
Managing MiC Editor
HANNAH QIN AND SHARON SHEN
SAM SO/Daily
SAM SO/Daily
“There was no
happy ending. As
a Black American,
that wasn’t
comforting”
“One second I’m fine
and the next I feel
like I might collapse.
One second passes
and no one knows it
ever even happened.”
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If interested, please email us at
michiganincolor@umich.com.
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Michigan in Color
Monday, March 12, 2018 — 3A