Wednesday, January 16, 2019 // The Statement 
7B
Wednesday, February 13, 2019 // The Statement 
7B

F
or 
the 
last 
three 
years, 
I’ve measured my self-worth by an 
admission officer’s decision. I spent 
countless hours drafting Common 
Application essays about my commu-
nity and “Why Michigan?” to prove 
I was worthy of going to the Univer-
sity of Michigan. The first two times 
I was rejected, it felt personal. I had 
bared everything in my essays, hop-
ing they’d look past my sub-30 ACT 
score and two Cs from high school 
and see that as a person, I was a good 
fit for the University. When I finally 
got in, I changed my Instagram bio, 
bought a Michigan pennant flag, and 
stole my sister’s old block ‘M’ pin to 
put on my backpack. Now that I’m 
here, though, I’m torn between being 
proud of my acceptance and being 
ashamed of how long it took me. I 
don’t even know which I’d rather 
be. My identity crisis has stemmed 
not from the need to differentiate 
myself, but rather a desire to be like 
every other student crossing the 

Diag.
In 
some 
ways, 
being 
a 
transfer 
student is a lot like being a 
freshman all over again — I, too, 
have struggled with a new campus 
and navigating Mason Hall’s weird 
floor number system. And just like 
the other eager freshmen, I found all 
my classrooms before the semester 
started so I wouldn’t get lost. But as 
a transfer student, I’m not naive — I 
know how to send an email to a pro-
fessor and manage my time. I’m used 
to the demands of higher education 
and the freedom of eating cookies for 
dinner. Plus, I know how to properly 
dress for a November football game 
at the Big House.
As a transfer student, instead of 
worrying about making friends, I 
wonder if non-transfer students can 
tell it’s only my first year here. I am 
not scared of raising my hand in 
class, but rather I am nervous about 
my classmates finding out I wasn’t 
good enough to get in the first or 
even second time. When the inevi-
table “What year are you?” is asked, 

I stumble over my words. I issue 
a caveat every time, explaining 
that I’m a junior but I trans-
ferred. It’s a simple question 
and should have a simple 
answer, but I think I’d 
rather people know my 
flaw than think I’m try-
ing to conceal it.
I have a friend who 
once said to me, “Liter-
ally no one cares that 
you’re a transfer stu-
dent.” It was meant to 
be comforting — a keen 
observation that I care 
too much about how peo-
ple view me. Now though, 
when I think about the com-
ment, it comes across in a dif-
ferent way. 
I don’t want to belittle the 
work I did to get into the Univer-
sity — I had to change everything 
in order to be accepted. I started 
caring about my grades and meeting 
with professors to actually learn the 
material instead of memorizing it. 
The feeling of getting a hard-earned 
A was addicting, and I became an 
entirely different student than I 
was in high school. I could’ve gone 
to a mid-tier, four-year college, but 
I decided that the University was 
worth it. In some ways it was, but 
at times it feels like I’m the only one 
who sacrificed something to be here. 
And that I’m the only one who can’t 
seem to move past the typical “col-
lege experience” I chose to give up.
On the other hand, I’ve never 
been surrounded by so many people 
committed to their schoolwork. The 
general atmosphere on campus and 
in the classroom reflects the reputa-
tion the University’s students have 
earned, and now I’m part of it. I bond 
with my classmates over grades and 
studying. We compare classes we’ve 
taken and who has had less sleep. 
The pressure and expectation of 
good grades and a successful career 
pushes me to work harder in order 
to keep up with my peers and that 
excites me. 
I remember my dad once took me 
on an unofficial tour of the Universi-

ty when I was still in high school. We 
walked through Hatcher Graduate 
Library and it struck me how many 
generations of students have stud-
ied there. Silently, I wished I were 
like them: self-motivated and hard-
working. Now, when I walk into the 
Reference Room, I view them as my 
peers. When I study, I don’t feel like 
an outsider. I remember how desper-
ately I wanted to go here and how I 
once prayed for the chance to pull an 
all-nighter at the library. In this way, 
I belong at the University. 
People often ask me how the Uni-
versity of Michigan compares to my 
previous school. It’s hard to answer 
exactly, especially with how much 
this university means to me. But stu-
dents here care more — about every-
thing. 
We’re connected through our 
mutual love for the University, but 
also through our passion for aca-
demics. Before this fall, I had never 
seen people in the library on a Satur-
day morning. I’d never heard casual, 
intelligent conversations about the 
doctrine of socialism. I’ve had more 
book recommendations this semester 
than ever before. I feel as though I’m 
constantly absorbing my surround-
ings, soaking up an environment that 
will disappear after I graduate. We’re 
students who naturally thrive when 
we’re learning, and I truly fit in here. 
It’s comforting — the feeling of relat-
ing to a larger community. School is 
our commonality, and I’ve never felt 
more connected to the strangers that 
surround me. 
In August, at my transfer orienta-
tion, they gave out these little pins 
that say “I <3 Transfers.” They told 
us to put them on our backpacks so 
we could easily spot other trans-
fer students. Is it as easy to spot my 
struggle as it is a bright maize pin? 
I’ve seen a couple of them around 
campus and each time I’m reminded 
that I can’t be the only person strug-
gling with this duality. Right now, 
it’s sitting on my dresser in my room, 
a subtle reminder that I’m a minor-
ity among U-M students. And I can’t 
decide whether it’s a badge of honor 
or a badge of shame.

BY FRANCES SMITH, 
STATEMENT CONTRIBUTOR

Pinned

ILLUSTRATION BY MAGGIE HUANG

