As my 3-hour seminar on
Modern Middle East history
came to an end, a classmate
approached
me
about
some
comments I made in class. Of
course, nothing about that was
inherently unusual. What made
the encounter memorable was
that she chose to address me in
my native tongue, Arabic.
After fumbling with my words
in conversation, I explained to
her that I’m not used to speaking
my language here. Maybe back
in Jeddah, the city I grew up in,
but not here in a classroom at
an American university. Since
I moved here four years ago,
Arabic has been a language
that belongs strictly within
the confines of my household.
In
my
history
courses,
colonialism wasn’t isti’mar, it
was
colonialism.
Economics
wasn’t iqtisad, it was economics.
Belonging wasn’t intima’, it was
belonging.
University
simply
turned the Arabic vocabulary
of my household into a jumble
of
indistinguishable
sounds,
replacing them instead with
their English counterparts.
I left class that day thinking:
what else have I buried away at
home? What secret knowledge
have I kept away from my day-
to-day life at the University
of Michigan? And why have
I unconsciously decided that
some knowledge belongs at
home, while other knowledge
belongs in the classroom? I
answered all of these daunting
questions when I took a second
look at what brought me to that
seminar on Modern Middle East
history to begin with.
I decided to study history
at the University of Michigan
from a desire to learn about
myself and how I relate to the
world around me. Three years
ago, I did not feel confident
talking about my own peoples’
history. I did not understand
why the biggest socio-political
occurrence of my childhood —
the Arab Spring of 2011 — had
occurred, much less why it had
descended into violence in my
homeland in Syria. I came to
this institution in search of
these answers — and now, I’ve
realized that I was, only partly,
looking in all the wrong places.
Students
of
color
and
otherwise, largely understand
“academic” knowledge to be
the knowledge in books -- the
knowledge passed down to us
by our faculty in the form of
academic articles or textbooks.
The
gatekeepers
of
this
knowledge are the academics
with “mastery” over a given
field: they’ve read every last
piece of literature on the subject.
Subconsciously,
I
aspired
to be one of those masters of
knowledge. I wanted to know
everything there is to know
about my people and I thought
the way to go about doing so was
consuming all this literature,
doing my homework, writing my
essays and getting my grades.
I’ve learned quite a great deal
through doing so — and yet, I
can’t seem to speak about all
that I’ve learned in my native
tongue, the language I dream in,
the language I yell at reckless
drivers in, the language I use to
play with my 5-year-old brother.
I
realized
that
I
had
internalized
a
hierarchy
of
knowledge:
the
serious
“academic” knowledge of my
classes, juxtaposed against my
family traditions, the stories my
grandparents tell me and the
jokes my middle school friends
and I shared in Jeddah. To my
mind, learning about who I am
meant unlearning the latter, and
honing in on the former. It took
a conversation in Arabic about
class material for me to even
recognize what I had done.
To be clear, I don’t believe we
ought to uncritically accept our
own lived experiences wholesale
as “universal.” Rather, I want
to invite fellow students of
color, particularly immigrant
students, to join me in taking
our
own
lived
experiences,
communal
traditions
and
unconscious
knowledge
just
as seriously as we take what
we read in the classroom —
which, for the record, is not
“universal”
either,
as
much
as it often pretends to be. My
biggest moments of personal
growth at the university have
been moments in which I put
my personal experiences in
conversation with what I learn
about systems of power, other
identities and narratives that
differ from my own.The mental
exhaustion
of
struggling
to
speak my native tongue at the
University is well worth the
reward –– I am finally one step
closer to learning who I am.
What secret
knowledge have
I kept away from
my day-to-day life
at the University
of Michigan?
10 things I
love about
Halloween as a
Black Woman
in America
One.
It is every day.
Two.
When
Kim
Kardashian
donned cornrows.
Three.
Blackface.
Four.
When
Marc
Jacob’s
Runway
models
donned
dreadlocks.
Five.
Miley Cyrus twerking.
Six.
When Katy Perry slicked
down her “baby hairs.”
Seven.
Kylie Jenner’s lip fillers.
Eight.
Rachel Dolezal’s existence.
Nine.
Knowing that my body is a
costume.
Ten.
Knowing I can’t take it off
tomorrow.
Multiverses of
liminality
The first time I encountered
the idea of a “multiverse” —
multiple dimensions of reality,
of potential — was when I
watched
Spider-Man
Into
the Spiderverse (arguably the
best Spiderman movie, don’t
@ me). In it, Miles Morales
is just one of many very
different Spidermans who are
part of different universes:
There’s
bitter,
middle-aged
Spiderman;
there’s
young
Gwen, Spiderwoman; there’s
a black-and-white Spiderman;
an
anime
Spidergirl;
and
even Spiderpig.
If
you’re
wondering why
this article that
is
not
about
Spiderman
is
spending
its
first paragraph
on a Spiderman
movie,
don’t
worry,
I’m
getting there
One night, as I was trying to
fall asleep, I had an idea for a
writing project (my writing
ideas always seem to come
at the most inconvenient of
times, most frequently while
I’m showering or about to fall
asleep). I kept wondering about
my multiverse — is there a
universe in which I didn’t quit
Korean school after less than
a year, and the Monica of that
universe is fluent in Korean?
Does that Monica also speak
only in Korean to her parents,
rather than Konglish? Is she
able to hold more than a five-
minute conversation on the
phone with her grandfather,
who lives in South Korea?
I wanted to explore this idea
of the multiverse, especially
concerning liminality — of
in-between-ness
—
which
is what I’m currently doing
with a series of bad, first draft
poems. There’s little things,
like how I hold my chopsticks.
There’s a universe in which I
was taught the “correct” way
to hold them, a universe where
I wasn’t taught the correct
way but learned how to hold
them correctly, a universe
where I was taught correctly
but got into the bad habit of
holding them incorrectly, a
universe where I’m not taught
the correct way and can’t hold
them correctly (which is the
current universe we live in).
In all of these universes,
does my cousin still question
my ability to hold chopsticks
the right way? Does my uncle
still make fun of the way I
hold them? Do I still feel bad
about not being Korean enough
because of something so small
as the way I hold chopsticks?
The
question
of
being
Korean enough is something I
started struggling with at the
end of high school and was the
subject of my Common App
essay, which feels very cliche;
but maybe there’s a universe
in which my Common App
essay is not about this topic.
Even though it feels cliche, it’s
something
that
immigrants
and children of immigrants
grapple with a lot. I am othered
in America; I am othered in
Korea. Not American enough,
not Korean enough.
There was a time when
someone calling
me whitewashed
wouldn’t bother
me, when I felt
something akin
to pride when
I was called a
banana — yellow
on the outside,
white
on
the
inside — because
it
meant
that
I was one step
closer to whiteness in the
predominantly white middle
school and high school I went
to. It meant that, maybe, I had
a better chance of fitting in,
of not being subject to racist
microaggressions. It led to
a lot of self-loathing about
how I looked and the culture
I came from, to the point
where I stopped speaking in
Korean to my parents, stopped
wanting to partake in cultural
events like chuseok, Korean
Thanksgiving.
Now I feel like I’m making
up for lost time. Maybe there’s
a universe where I took Korean
classes
instead
of
French
to fulfill my LSA language
requirement (instead of trying
to improve my Korean by using
Duolingo). Maybe there’s a
universe where I asked my
parents more about Korean
current events and history
(instead of relying on Western
media). But even in these
universes, would someone still
tell me I was whitewashed?
Would someone still tell me
to de-emphasize the Korean
part of my identity? (Both
of
which
have
happened
within the past two months).
Would these questions and
conversations still happen in a
loop, regardless of whether I
went to Korean school for more
than one year or whether I kept
my Korean name as my legal
name or whether I could hold
chopsticks the correct way?
It’s what I’m trying to
explore in my writing. There
are spaces of liminality, of
in-betweenness, of what could
have been and what has been
and what has not yet been.
MONICA KIM
MiC Columnist
MICHAELA MINNIS
MiC Columnist
Knowing in Arabic:
Reflections on language
and identity
BASIL ALSUBEE
MiC Contributor
AYOMIDE OKUNADE
MiC Columnist
When I began to menstruate it
was awkward to have to talk to my
parents about finding a surprise
that morning; I hid it from them
as long as I could. I experienced
excruciating aches and pains that
at times forced me to stay home
from school or ride them out
because my parents had to go to
work and couldn’t stay with me.
I developed Polycystic Ovary
Syndrome (PCOS) about a year
ago. PCOS is a condition that
causes
hormonal
deficiencies
leading to prolonged or infrequent
menstrual cycles or excess male
hormone levels. PCOS is common
among young menstruators, and
it can be difficult to diagnose
due to access to health services.
Additionally,
patients
face
challenges due to not being taken
seriously at the doctor’s office and
difficulty handling high treatment
expenses. A common form of
treating PCOS is to use an oral
contraceptive, but birth control
is not accessible to everyone due
to treatment prices, lack of health
insurance and inability to seek
out a specialist such an OBGYN
(obstetrician gynecologist). Much
more needs to be done to ensure
equitable access to menstrual
products
and
to
health-care
services for menstruation-related
conditions like PCOS. This is just
what the PERIOD organization is
striving to do.
On October 19, 2019, the
first
National
Period
Day
was celebrated. The PERIOD
organization held sixty rallies
in all U.S. states and in four
countries calling for an end to
the tampon tax, to celebrate
menstruation, reduce stigma, and
to advocate for menstrual equity
by making menstrual products
more affordable. The DotOrg, an
organization on our U-M campus,
hosted an event on the Diag
Saturday as well.
In thirty-five states, menstrual
products are not labeled as
essential products thus adding
a sales tax on them (called a
pink tax). Concerningly, women
who face certain socioeconomic
obstacles must choose between
their next meal or buying period
products in some instances. In a
womens’ studies class I took, many
students in the class expressed that
they had to plan out when to buy
period products because they are
so expensive and that they had to
mediate menstrual product prices
with the need to buy groceries.
The PERIOD organization also
publicized that some have to use
cardboard when menstruating
because they cannot afford to
purchase
necessary
products.
The Menstrual Equity for All Act,
proposed
by
Congresswoman
Grace Meng in March, would
require Medicaid to cover all
costs for menstrual products
while also mandating employers
with 100 or more employees and
all federal buildings to supply
menstrual products. There is also
an additional push to have these
products free in schools, shelters
and prisons.
“If faces were bleeding, someone
would do something” the PERIOD
organization tweeted to promte
National Period Day. While all
menstruators are affected by this
stigma, holding different identities
cause menstruators to experience
this stigma differently. Ending
the stigma of menstruation must
include
all
voices,
especially
those
from
Black,
Brown,
nonbinary, transgender and other
marginalized voices. The language
around
menstruation
has
to
change to be more inclusive of all
genders and identities because not
every person who menstruates is a
woman.
Donate to menstrual product
drives. Laugh it off if a pad falls
out of your backpack. Include
others in this conversation about
menstruation that are usually
forgotten about. Uplift others,
and make them feel good about
menstruating (even though it can
suck).
Now I feel like
I’m making up
for lost time.
Period.
JULIA SCHACHINGER/Daily
Ann Arbor residents participate in the first annual Period Day Protest on the Diag on October 19
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Monday, October 28, 2019 — 3A