W


hen I arrived at the
University of Michigan
at the beginning of
freshman year, my friends and I
discovered Bird electric scooters on
the Diag. I’d never ridden e-scooters
since they had not yet made it to
my native New York City, where
Citi Bike and Uber reign supreme.
“Pick up and drop off anywhere,”
the app promised, for only 15 cents
per minute. We took them for a spin.
Soon we were hooked. We used Bird
to get to class on time, explore the
Ann Arbor downtown scene and visit
friends on North Campus, all for only
a dollar or two a ride. Birds solved the
busy student’s central problem: how
to quickly get to a destination that
is beyond a walk for a low cost. We
kept saying to ourselves, “Why hadn’t
somebody come up with this years
ago?”
After weeks of Birds popping up
everywhere in Ann Arbor, the city
began confiscating them off the
street. Riders had driven Birds on
sidewalks in violation of ordinances
and left them parked in the street.
Then, in September, the city of Ann
Arbor talked about limiting Birds
further. In an instant, it seemed the
app that had given us inexpensive
freedom and utility for weeks
was now the vice of delinquent
troublemakers. I set out to better
understand the Bird: What are the
dangers? Do e-scooters bring more
benefit than harm to Ann Arbor?
What I found is that Bird is the
future of transportation for students
at the University of Michigan.
First, financially, Birds are for
everyone. It is possibly the most
egalitarian transportation available
on campus. College is expensive
and an Uber or Lyft comes with set
minimum fees and a calculated route
that can add cost. It’s hard to take an
Uber anywhere on campus for less
than $7. Bird offers point A to point
B transportation for a dollar to start
and only 15 cents per minute! You
can get from the Hill Neighborhood
to the Diag for slightly more than
a dollar, and you’ll never miss that
lecture again. Furthermore, Birds
are far less expensive than bicycles.
An average “lifestyle” bicycle is
priced upwards of $250, and more
specialized mountain bikes go for
$2,000 and more. In addition, you
have to account for maintenance,
repair and a bike lock or two. During
Welcome Week, we’re told that one

of the most frequently stolen items
on campus is a bicycle. So, for the
hundreds of dollars you’d need to
sink into a bike and accessories, you
could just take Birds for the semester.
Second, Birds are one of the
most
environmentally
friendly
transportation services on campus.
The watts of electricity used by
a Bird is nominal, so even if the
energy is originally created by a
fossil-fuel-burning power plant, the
environmental harm is negligible.
As electric generation in the state
of Michigan gradually transitions
to natural gas, solar and wind, the
environmental argument for Birds
becomes more compelling. E-scooters
can also persuade people to use public
transportation because most scooter
trips are in the last mile of transit, that
one to two-mile gap from the station
to the final destination.
Third,
Bird’s
e-scooters
are
the
most
consumer-oriented
transportation choice. You pay only
for what you want and for as long
as you want it. Birds don’t have a
waiting period of upwards of seven
minutes which typical for an Uber,
taxi or bus. Just scan it with your
phone and go. Birds take you exactly
where you want to go, right to the
front door. Because of the à la carte
nature of Birds, there is no obligation
to maintain or lock it up when you’re
finished. Just park it on the sidewalk,
out of the way of pedestrian traffic,
and go about your day.
But what are the downsides of
these e-scooters? The most frequently
cited concern is the potential for
accident and death. Major city
newspapers, like the Los Angeles
Times, report alarming upticks in
e-scooter-related
hospital
visits,
from scrapes and bruises to severe
head injuries. As Bird and Lime, two
dominant e-scooter providers, both
launched their multi-city expansions
in 2017, reliable statistics for these
incidents have not yet been compiled.
For the meantime, all we have to
go on are anecdotal, often alarmist,
news reports of e-scooter accidents
and fatalities.
Since their launches in two
dozen cities over a year ago,
Bird reports approximately 10.5
million rides and Lime reports 11
million rides. From the combined
companies’
recorded
deaths
involving their rideables, e-scooter
usage involves approximately one
death for every 10.75 million rides.

By comparison, bicycles appear to
be quite dangerous and expensive
from a health care perspective, and
yet remain a celebrated mode of
transportation. The medical journal
Injury Prevention at the University
of
California,
San
Francisco
recently reported there were 3.8
million bicycle accidents and 9,839
deaths in the U.S. from 1997 to 2013.
In 2016, there were approximately
470,000 bicycle accidents and 840
deaths in the U.S. The majority
of those deaths (30 percent) were
caused by being struck by an
automobile and the next largest
statistic
(20
percent)
involved
bicycle riders not paying attention or
suffering rider error. The majority
of bicycle fatalities (58 percent) do
not occur at intersection locations
and only 4 percent occurred in
bike lanes. The time period of 6:00
p.m. to 9:00 p.m. had the highest
frequency of bike fatalities (26
percent) and alcohol involvement
(BAC of .01) was reported in 35
percent of the crashes that resulted
in bicycle fatalities. Despite these
rather gruesome statistics, there
is no local or national call to
eliminate bicycles in our country.
Virtually all of the responses to
the dangers of bicycle use propose
the imposition of stricter safety
regulations, changing user habits
or improving transportation laws
and infrastructure. Apply these
precautions to Bird and you’ll make
them just as safe as bicycles.
Similarly, the approach by the
University and the city to the arrival
of the e-scooter should be to find
ways to encourage e-scooter usage,
admittedly with improved safety
and security. The University and the
city government should encourage
a scenario in which e-scooter
companies like Bird unite with
bicycle manufacturers to advocate
for a shared solution. As scooters
operate at much slower speeds
than bicycles, the use of scooters
on sidewalks should be evaluated.
Electric rideables should be allowed
wherever bicycles are legal, like
bike lanes and protected paths. The
statistics from decades of bicycle data
should be used to craft sensible policy
that recognizes the brilliant potential
of an
electric scooter future in
Ann Arbor.

Opinion
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
4A — Friday, October 19, 2018

Emma Chang
Ben Charlson
Joel Danilewitz
Samantha Goldstein
Emily Huhman

Tara Jayaram
Jeremy Kaplan
Lucas Maiman
Magdalena Mihaylova
Ellery Rosenzweig
Jason Rowland

Anu Roy-Chaudhury
Alex Satola
Ali Safawi
Ashley Zhang
Sam Weinberger

DAYTON HARE
Managing Editor

420 Maynard St.
Ann Arbor, MI 48109
tothedaily@michigandaily.com

Edited and managed by students at the University of Michigan since 1890.

ALEXA ST. JOHN
Editor in Chief
ANU ROY-CHAUDHURY AND
ASHLEY ZHANG
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

HANNAH HARSHE | COLUMN

Marketing to Gen Z
I

t seems that all people
can talk about lately are those
pesky millennials and their
consumer habits, whether it means
buying avocado toast or Kylie
Jenner lipsticks. What we often
seem to forget, however, is that
the millennial generation is now
comprised of adults and Generation
Z is no longer comprised of babies.
In fact, Gen Z, or the demographic
group made up of those born
between the late 1990s and around
2015, will account for 40 percent
of all consumers by 2020. This
means that we’ll likely see a vast
change in mainstream forms of
advertising in the next few years as
Gen Z’s consumer preferences are
fundamentally different to those of
millennials.
One
example
of
such
strategies is Dote, a shopping app
that’s targeted mainly at Gen Z
consumers. Dote works as a virtual
mall: It allows users to select items
from over 140 retailers, pay only one
time (rather than pay separately to
each retailer) and receive all the
items in one package. According to
Fashionista, “the typical Dote user
is a female between the ages of 13
and 22 years old. She visits the app
about four times a day and spends
an average of 40 minutes on it.”
How did these users find out
about Dote? It wasn’t through
traditional advertising. I learned
about Dote through my younger
sister, Brianna Harshe, who, at 12
years old, is smack in the middle of
Gen Z and an avid user of Dote.
“I watch a lot of YouTubers
like Hannah Meloche and Summer
Mckeen,” Harshe explained to me.
“I got Dote because I saw them
talking about it. They went on a
bunch of trips because of Dote and
they would advertise for Dote on
their trips. It didn’t really matter to
me that it was advertising because
they were still going to Fiji and stuff
because of it.”
What is she talking about?
Well, Meloche and Mckeen are
high-school-age
social
media
personalities who avidly post on
Instagram, Twitter and YouTube
about
everything
from
their
makeup routines to their inside
jokes with their friends. They

recently went on a luxury vacation
to Fiji with several other social
media personalities. All expenses
of the trip were covered by Dote.
As members of Gen Z tend to do,
they posted countless photos on
Instagram and videos on YouTube
of their trip. In every photo and
video, they made sure to tag Dote,
or at least thank them for the trip.
Boom: Every Gen Z member who
already watches Meloche’s and
Mckeen’s videos has now been
exposed to Dote. This isn’t the first
trip that Dote has sent girls on. In
the past, the “Dote Girls” have been
to Miami, Aspen, Colo., Malibu,
Calif. and even the music festival
Coachella (or “Dotechella”).
The reason that Dote appeals
so much to Gen Z is that its founder
and CEO, Lauren Farleigh, chose to
advertise in a way that truly reached
this segment. Gen Z is often called
the iGeneration because it’s the first
generation that can’t remember
a
world
without
smartphones
and social media. Because of
this, according to Forbes, “While
traditional celebrities once had a
monopoly on influence, ‘regular’
people are now gaining influence
online based on their unique voices,
opinions and perspectives.”
Harshe affirms this sentiment:
“I trust the YouTubers I watch
because they’re a lot more genuine.
It seems like they’re showing their
true selves. With a lot of celebrities,
it seems like they just put on a mask
to please people. … I usually find out
about products from YouTubers,
even if it’s on Instagram or
another app. It’s more like a friend
recommending me a product than a
commercial.”
Members of Gen Z are generally
cognizant of this generational gap.
They see traditional advertising
techniques
and
celebrity
endorsements, but they tune them
out fairly easily. Dote was able
to catch onto this difference and
use it to its advantage. “From our
perspective, we see these retailers
who haven’t fully identified or
caught up with that shift,” Farleigh
told
Fashionista.
“They
really
are trying to use old marketing
techniques for this new generation,
but not authentically engaging

these social creators and their Gen
Z followers.”
A good example of Dote’s ability
to market to Gen Z is its partnership
with
17-year-old
YouTube
sensation
Emma
Chamberlain,
who is practically a household
name among Gen Z, thanks to her
sarcastic personality that shines
through in her videos about thrift
shopping, going to school and
drinking
coffee.
According
to
Forbes,
“(Chamberlain’s)
social
media engagement — the amount
of likes and comments of a post
divided by the total amount of
followers — is averaging around 25
percent on Instagram. If you’re not
in the social media world, you might
not understand how mind-boggling
that is. To give you a comparison,
Kim Kardashian and Selena Gomez
are averaging 9 percent and 5
percent engagement, based on their
last five posts.”
Chamberlain might not be a
typical celebrity, but she has an
incredibly loyal following, and Dote
made a smart but unusual move in
partnering with her. Chamberlain’s
store, which is called High Key by
Emma, was the first brand to be
sold exclusively on Dote and sold
out in just two hours. Clothing lines
by celebrities don’t usually have
that kind of success rate, but the
personal connection that Gen Z
members feel with YouTube stars
creates an indescribable loyalty.
Harshe confirms, “I follow
YouTubers more than celebrities
because they’re more relatable. Like
Hannah Meloche lives in Michigan
and she just lives a normal teen
life and goes to school, which is
attainable for kids like me if we
wanted to follow in her footsteps.”
Sending a group of teenage girls
on a trip to Fiji might seem like an
odd way to advertise your product,
but if you know Generation Z,
then you know how important
social media is to them. Put a
group of teenage girls in Fiji, and
the Instagram photos will come
automatically. As long as they know
to tag Dote, that’s all the advertising
you need.

Let the Bird fly

My body isn’t mine

MILES STEPHENSON | COLUMN

Editor’s note: The author’s
name was omitted to protect
their identity.
I


was sitting in Biology 172
on a Friday morning in
November 2014 after my
first semi-formal when I got an
email from a woman involved
with Title IX at the University
of Michigan asking to speak
to me about an event that had
been reported. Then came the
text from my resident adviser,
who had apparently been on
duty when I’d been locked out
of my dorm and crying the
previous night, explaining he
was a mandatory reporter and
that I’d said some concerning
things.
I had flashes of what had
happened in my mind, but I
couldn’t remember what I’d
said to my RA. I panicked.
Everything felt fuzzy, and I
couldn’t face the memories
threatening to surface — the
drink from a boy I never
should have accepted, how
I felt like I was looking and
speaking
through
a
fog
afterward.
So
I
decided
nothing
had
happened,
emailed the woman back and
asked her to never contact me
again and told my concerned
friends and RA that I’d just
been drunk.
That wasn’t the only time
something
happened
my
freshman year. Two nights,
two different guys. The shame
often threatens to swallow me
whole.
On New Year’s Eve, I was in
Ann Arbor and went to a frat
with a friend. She met up with
her boyfriend, and I was with a
boy who seemed nice enough.
Until he wasn’t. To this day, I
can feel the visceral terror that
came when I realized what
was about to happen, and that
I couldn’t stop it. When I tried
to scream, he put his hands
on my throat and told me to
shut up because he knew I
wanted this. I froze, and my
memories from that point feel
like I was watching it happen.
The sound of metal clicking
sends me into a panic, even
now, because of the sound of
his belt buckle. I remember
crying in a bathroom, and
when I called a friend from
home,
they
laughed
and
told me I sounded so drunk
they couldn’t understand. In

reality, I was crying so hard
and was too panicked to be
coherent — I’d been sober for
hours at that point. So, again,
I decided I had to be fine. I
pushed it away, told myself it
had just been rough sex and
that I needed to get over it.
I pretended I was OK and
that nothing had happened for
years. I’d developed an eating
disorder in high school, which
had
gone
untreated,
and
after these events, I spiraled.
I had panic attacks almost
daily, missed class because I
started to cry and my heart
raced when leaving my dorm.
I rarely ate, and when I did, I
threw up, desperate to be so
small that I would disappear.
I eventually had to withdraw
that winter semester, blaming
the escalation of my eating
disorder on poor body image,
perfectionism and academic
stress. For the next two years,
I went in and out of treatment,
plagued by impossible anxiety,
poor sleep, jumping at small
noises and a constant need to
be in “survival mode.” I would
exercise for hours, desperate to
feel some sense of control over
my body. After six months in
treatment in 2016, after being
nourished for long enough
that my brain was working
properly,
I
began
having
nightmares every night. I
kept trying to say everything
was fine, but my re-emerging
restriction
and
exercise
addiction said otherwise. I
finally said, “Yes,” when my
doctor asked me about abuse,
and things spiraled from there.
My therapist found out and
told me I needed to talk about
it. I couldn’t. I froze, unable
to speak every time I thought
about it. I lived on steamed
vegetables,
convinced
that
everything else was “dirty,”
and that if I ate “clean,” then I
would finally feel clean again.
I didn’t care that I was dying. I
thought I would never get past
this, and that the constant fear
wasn’t worth living through.
I
barely
slept
between
nightmares and hunger. My
mom and doctor threatened
me with a psychiatric hold
and a court-ordered hospital
stay if I didn’t voluntarily
receive treatment. I stayed in
a hospital for a week before a
residential treatment center
declared me medically stable
enough to receive their care,

and then had to go through
the
process
of
evaluation
after evaluation, again. But
I couldn’t pretend nothing
had happened anymore. I still
couldn’t talk or think about
it much, but I tried getting a
word out here or there about
how it made me feel.
I returned to Michigan
after that last treatment stay
and still hadn’t dealt with the
post-traumatic stress disorder.
I still avoid the streets where
things transpired. I won’t go
to Pizza House because I went
there one of those nights. I’ve
done a decent job of avoiding
the
memories
whenever
possible, even though I still
have nightmares every night.
When the #MeToo movement
started, I once again missed
classes, but kept eating. When
the Kavanaugh case hit the
news, I felt so much anxiety
that I couldn’t breathe unless
I curled up in a ball and
used a weighted blanket.
I missed three classes in
one week because I just
couldn’t feel safe outside of
my house. I go to therapy
twice a week, and still freeze
and have flashbacks when
we approach the subject of
those nights. The Kavanaugh
case sent me spiraling. I’m
finally beginning to actually
try
a
form
of
trauma-
therapy called EMDR, or eye
movement
desensitization
and
reprocessing.
I’m
terrified. But the past four
years of my life have been
defined by these nights.
I’m so tired of being tired
from lack of sleep — tired
of feeling like my body isn’t
mine.
It’s hard being a survivor,
right now. It’s hard calling
myself a survivor. It’s hard
being a survivor, period.
I’ve built up grounding
skills
—
essential
oils
in
silly
putty,
carefully
crafted playlists, breathing
exercises — to keep me
present instead of spiraling
into
memories.
There’s
no neat end to this story,
because this will probably
still affect me for the rest of
my life. But I’m hoping that
I can get to a point where
it’s part of my story, not the
defining factor.

The author is an LSA senior.

ANONYMOUS | SURVIVORS SPEAK

EMILY CONSIDINE | CONTACT EMILY AT EMCONSID@UMICH.EDU

Miles Stephenson can be reached at

mvsteph@umich.edu.

Hannah Harshe can be reached at

hhsarshe@umich.edu