The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Monday, April 22, 2019 — 3A

wq“Kayleah... 
Kayleah… 
KAYLEAH.”
My mother always repeated her 
statements in threes, louder each 
round, without any care if I had 
responded or not. It didn’t matter 
to her whether it was at the dinner 
table, the grocery store, in the quiet 
aisles of the library, or while driving 
on the freeway with me in the 
car… sitting next to her.
And with every repetition, I 
became equally impatient and 
irritated.
“Mom… MOM… WHAT DO 
YOU WANT?”
I admit, I’ve lost my temper 
at times when my mom and I 
simply talk – merely because of her 
severely prolonged explanations 
(repeated several times, of course) 
that would drive me insane.
“Get to the point,” I would tell 
her. “Stop talking so loud,” I would 
yell back. I became frustrated: Was 

it her difficulty in speaking English? 
Was it her personality? Or was it 
because of her home culture?
I searched for all the possible 
rationales to explain her ceaseless 
echo of thoughts.
“Sorry ddal *…” she would 
apologize.
Afterwards 
rolled 
in 
an 
uneasy silence that left both of us 
awkwardly shuffling our hands at 
the dinner table, the grocery store, 
in the quiet aisles of the library, or 
while driving in the car.
“It’s fine, but mom –– explain 
clearer,” I would say. Then I would 
sheepishly smile. But I always felt 
bad.
Ensuing our altercation was 
always this look on her face that I 
couldn’t describe: Sorrow? Guilt? 
Embarrassment? Frustration?
I could never figure out.
For my entire life, I’ve always 
assumed 
her 
gradually 
loud, 
repetitive demeanor was a fusion 
of her immigrant experience and 
lack of knowing English. Her long-
winded commentary and responses 

would prime my ignorance; I would 
berate her with a harsh tone, hoping 
to stifle her monotonous discourse.
However, it’s taken years for me 
to realize that it’s women who come 
from backgrounds where they’re 
not heard –– women of color –– that 
have learned to speak louder to get 
their points across. Consequently, 
her life as a maternal figure, 
housewife and stay-at-home parent 
nurtured and shaped her voice, 
while simultaneously muffling her 
inherent range of expression as 
a human. Within the East Asian 
culture that perpetuates the male 
dominance 
and 
subordinate, 
inferior women, I realized her loud 
and discursive conversations was 
not to overpower others, rather 
for someone to simply listen to her 
thoughts.
So mom –– I’m sorry for getting 
mad at you. I’ll always try my best to 
hear you out.
Whenever you need me,
I’ll always be listening.
Love,
Kayleah

Diminished voices, 
speaking loud

What’s in a name?

When parents and teachers bully kids

Sylvia. 
Silvia. 
Sylvie. 
Sophia. Sofia. Sophie. Saliva. 
Okay, maybe the last one 
isn’t as common as the first 
couple examples, but you get 
the point. All of these names 
have graced my Starbucks 
cups, have been called out 
by GSIs and professors in 
class roll call, and sometimes 
even have slipped out of the 
mouths of both friends and 
family members at one point 
or another. For the last 20 
years of my life, I have lived 
with a name that gives off 
major old lady vibes and 
seems to confuse pretty much 
every person that has the 
unfortunate job of reading it 
out loud (don’t even get me 
started on my last name).
But 
regardless 
of 
these 
(mostly) 
minor 
inconveniences, 
I 
can’t 
imagine being called by any 
other 
name. 
The 
history 

behind my name and its 
quirkiness fits my personality 
to a tee. My parents were 
expecting a boy and had the 
name 
Maximilian 
picked 
out and ready to go. It was a 
surprise when I showed up 
a week after my due date not 
only late, but also a different 
sex than they were expecting. 
They played with the idea 
of keeping “Max,” but felt as 
though it didn’t quite fit their 
new bundle of chubby cheeks 
and mass of black hair. After 
much debate (it was a close call 
between Sylvia and Noelle), 
I was given a first name after 
my 
maternal 
grandmother 
and a middle name that was 
a variation of my paternal 
grandma. The full name on 
my birth certificate is Sylvia 
Marie Gisler.
I 
absolutely 
love 
being 
named after my grandmas. It 
feels as though a piece of them 
is with me always and I am 
constantly reminded of my role 
models and the type of woman 
that I aim to be. One of the best 

parts of having the same first 
name as my maternal grandma 
is the differentiations my 
family uses to keep us apart. 
My grandma is referred to as 
“Big Sylvia” while I am “Little 
Sylvia,” which is hilariously 
ironic due to our height 
difference of almost a foot. I 
am constantly in awe of how 
strong she is as a person and 
the lengths that she’s gone to 
keep our family together.
My mom and her family 
differ in many ways, from 
parenting styles to political 
beliefs, 
and 
there’s 
often 
tension at holidays and dinners. 
But despite these differences, 
she’s always ready to keep 
the conversation moving and 
regroup after a particularly 
heated debate. She has learned 
how to adapt and live in 
America after immigrating 
from the Philippines and was 
able to give her children the 
opportunities and choices that 
weren’t always available to 
her. I am proud to be called by 
her name.

In December 2018, a teenage 
girl named Aritry Adhikary in 
Bangladesh ended her life after 
her parents were insulted by her 
teachers. Aritry went to a Bengali 
medium school, Viqarunnisa, 
and during her exams was found 
with her cell-phone,— in violation 
of the rules in school. Her parents 
were summoned to school the 
next day where they spoke to 
the class teacher who informed 
them Aritry was expelled. Her 
father narrated the incident and 
revealed that they all cried and 
asked for mercy, including his 
daughter helplessly begging for 
forgiveness at the principal’s 
feet. However, the headmaster 
remained unconvinced. Aritry 
left this scene earlier, and was 
found hanging from the ceiling 
later in the day.
Following this tragic incident, 
there has been uproar from 
students and Aritry’s parents 
have 
sued 
the 
school 
for 
instigating her suicide. When I 
heard this excruciating story, I 
had many thoughts on my mind 
and a deepening sadness for a 
life that shouldn’t have been lost. 
But I found myself horrifically 
empathizing with the shame 
she felt. There were many points 
in my life where I couldn’t see 
anything but a bleak future,— a 
suffocating image imprinted on 
my mind by punitive pressures 
exerted from those older than me, 
whether they were my teachers 
or family members.
Even 
though 
I 
went 
to 
a 
different 
school, 
penal 
disciplinary 
methods 
were 
largely normalized in educational 
institutions and in every corner of 
the social structure. As suicides 
and tragic incidents continue 
to happen, it’s not the 66-year 
old institute and their policies 
that should be held accountable. 
There is a larger sociocultural 
problem that undergirds such 
devastating events. We must 
recognize that humiliation and 
fear-mongering narratives have 
become intrinsically embedded 
in schooling and parenting, and 
we have to come to terms with it.
During my formative years, 
some teachers were the most 
caring individuals I’ve ever seen, 
but others were not. I have seen 
more teachers bully students 
than I have seen peers bully each 
other. I still remember a teacher 
slapping the most notorious kid 
when we were in first grade. 
When insulting a student for 
poor grades, references were 
made to family backgrounds. 
Teachers routinely yelled and 

we were expected to silently 
swallow our shame even when 
the most insulting words words 
were fired upon us. They were 
our educators, and in respect to 
their service, we were expected 
to obey without question. We 
were taught to be stoic; in our 
uniforms; we were somehow 
expected to be the same human 
being — robotic, methodical and 
straight A students. The value of 
academic success was taught as a 
matter of life and death, not as a 
concept that serves our lives and 
our personal passion.
This sort of policing was not 
only limited to formal education. 
Many of us had private tutors, 
and 
we 
attended 
“coaching 
centers” for private tuition. When 
I was fifteen, I joined three of 
these tutors’ private classes with 
my peers for chemistry, physics 
and math. The Physics teacher 
had a great track record: “All his 
students get As in the IGCSEs.” 
Prior to joining his class, I asked 
parents of other students what 
was the key to his success? Some 
forty-year old mothers boastingly 
informed me: “He is very strict. 
He hits you with a scale if you 
score less than 80.”
In reality, it was never this 
“hitting” that made me study. I 
stopped going to my math tutor 
after he hit me with a scale. I 
stopped going to Chemistry class 
after the tutor grossly insulted 
my parents for my absences. I 
revolted to my Physics teacher 
for hitting his students, and when 
he listened to what I had to say, 
I stayed in his class. I learned 
nothing from those who belittled 
me. I learned that I never want 
to see their hateful faces again 
— which is a very “normal” 
reaction. I received good grades 
by disciplining myself to study at 
home. I learned when my father 
sat with me to discuss Demand-
Supply 
curves 
with 
current 
events, and when he handed out 
excel sheets with a timetable 
to help me study for my exams. 
Violence and humiliation can 
never enforce discipline. It only 
cooks fear that is never effective 
in the long run.
But the question is why is this 
sort of behavior allowed from 
adults? Why is this considered 
productive? 
And 
why 
do 
parents so readily accept it? It 
is because many parents also 
believe degradation is key to 
train children. Most of us, South 
Asian kids, have been bullied 
by adults, and beaten up by our 
parents. In Kindergarten, my 
teachers complained about my 
handwriting and short attention 
span. They scolded me in class, 
and mother physically abused me 

for it as though I was on trial for 
first degree murder. Most of my 
friends can empathize with such 
treatment from adults. Fifteen 
years later, my handwriting is 
now worse than Kindergarten, 
and it makes no difference to my 
academic performance or my life. 
And I still have a short attention 
span, except I now know it’s 
called ADHD. I also learned I can 
get treated for it and I don’t have 
to kill myself because I couldn’t 
concentrate and got a seventy-
percent in my fourth grade math 
exam.
For the longest time, my family 
members said: “It’s for your own 
good, you’ll learn when you are 
a parent.” I can assure you I 
won’t need to choke my kid to 
make them eat and study. I can 
assure that there is zero logic in 
nurturing my worst impulses. 
About five years ago, mother 
apologized and owned up to 
her mistakes. I don’t resent my 
mother for what she did because 
I always understood it was a 
societal problem and not her 
personal issue. I even consider 
myself lucky for my mother’s 
realizations, because most of my 
friends’ parents still continue to 
believe that abuse was the right 
method. In other words, irrational 
violence 
and 
humiliation 
is 
normalized under the fallacious 
umbrella: 
“Authority 
of 
the 
elderly.” And the most dangerous 
element 
to 
this 
pernicious 
normalization 
of 
violence 
is 
recycling it intergenerationally. 
Many friends of mine believe that 
you need to hit and yell at kids to 
make them listen, which shows 
how ingrained this problem is.
The irony of all this is that 
parents 
and 
teachers 
who 
adopt 
destructive 
techniques 
actually do it out of love and care. 
Intimidation and punishment 
has become standardized as the 
most effective form of training 
to the extent that it has become 
difficult to see the problem with 
it. It is difficult to look beyond 
the system and realize that you 
cannot teach kids to respect 
others by disrespecting them. 
And as I write this, a part of me 
still fears that those older than me 
will read it and I will be labelled 
as the delinquent girl, who went 
to the United States and became 
too foreign. Yet, all I’m trying to 
say is don’t bully kids, just don’t, 
and that shouldn’t be an invalid, 
ungrateful or belligerent tagline 
when kids are out there feeling 
hopeless and ending their lives. 
Adults need to be vigilant, they 
need to lighten up and stop 
nourishing their own anger at the 
cost of a child’s mental health.

KAYLEAH SON
MiC Columnist

SYLVIA GISLER
MiC Columnist

RAMISA ROB
MiC Columnist

Constructed: Living in a body of color

ANURIMA KUMAR, DANYEL THARAKAN, SAMUEL SO / DAILY