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January 13, 2020 - Image 3

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Text
Publication:
The Michigan Daily

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“No hats allowed in class!”
“Why? She’s got one on.”
The
whole
class
laughs.
Hearing this remark in a Chicago
Public School classroom is not
uncommon let alone malicious.
No matter where you came from
or what you wore, thick skin in
the classroom meant laughing
along and moving on. But when
I asked myself why I wanted
to write for a publication that
is made for people of color, this
instance of a white boy making a
“harmless” joke towards the only
hijabi girl in my 7thgrade English
class came to mind. Even the
teacher laughed. Instances like
this are buried, they are lumped
under the large pile of subtle
Islamophobia that is deemed

harmless by Muslim youths, as
if our job is to make excuses for
other people’s behavior silently in
our minds. When I think of this
silence, the one that prompted
me to ignore this comment and
move on all those years ago, all the
other instances of silence in my
life come up — for example, when
someone blatantly interrupted
me or assumed comments about
Arabs and Muslims would be okay
to say in front of me because of
my “free-spirit” and “open mind.”
Remembering these moments is
what prompted me to join MiC.
I would like to bring forward the
expression of truth in a way that
shatters and unburies instances
people of color have been taught
to ignore. I would like MiC to be a
space for me to explore the range
and complexity of a mind told not
to limit itself after years of being
told to stay quiet.

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Monday, January 13, 2020 — 3A

As I walk through corners of
Nathan Road where I had the
fondest memories of teenage
years, I see water cannons and
riot police with their rifles and I
start coughing from the teargas
as I try to find the nearest train
station on New Year’s Eve.
Walking by the human chain
protest with thousands of people
that
formed
and
dispersed
within 30 minutes, some of us
came by to chant after shopping
on the other block, some of us
joined the human chain after
having dinner in the area. None
of us expected to see the smoke
of teargas instead of fireworks
for New Year celebrations and
festivities tonight, yet there we
are. We aren’t panicked at this
point, but we aren’t used to it, we
cannot be comfortable with it. It
is the 218th day of resistance and

counting. Welcome to the police
state of Hong Kong, where we
have 30000 police as puppets of
the PRC to keep a city with one
of the lowest crime rates and
highest education levels silent.
“Empty
your
mind,
be
formless, shapeless — like water.
Now you put water in a cup, it
becomes the cup; You put water
into a bottle it becomes the
bottle; You put it in a teapot it
becomes the teapot. Now water
can flow or it can crash. Be
water, my friend.” — Bruce Lee
“Be
Water”
has
become
a phrase that embodies the
tactics of Hong Kong Protest.
Our resistance is like water,
decentralized, fluid and flexible.
For the past 7 months, we have
lived through the 1 million
people rally, 2 million people
rally, 721 triad-police colluded
terrorism, 831 police terrorism
in
Prince
Edward
station,
Tienanmen Massacre recurred
in PolyU and CUHK. These

events are not only traumas
that are deeply engraved into
the veins of Hong Kong people,
but also a constant reminder
of how we evolve ourselves as
individuals and as a destined
community to “be fluid and flow
like water” amidst the leaderless
revolution.
Aside from having rallies
and sit-ins every Sunday, our
resistance has become a daily
lifestyle. It’s not hard to find
graffiti and flyers about the
movement around the streets
of Hong Kong or to receive
informational flyers via Airdrop
on the bus. Pro-China and pro-
police businesses are empty with
no customers in the store, while
pro-Hong Kong businesses and
restaurants
are
jam-packed
with people waiting to support
them. Hong Kongers, my people,
have taught me to channel my
frustrations
under
systemic
oppression into positive and
productive energy.

Voices of Hong Kong:

Why I Joined MiC

CHUN HEI SO
MiC Contributor
Day and Night of Resistance

My early life was split between
the
United
Arab
Emirates,
Pakistan, Canada and eventually
the US. Growing up in these
nations with such starkly distinct,
often
opposing,
traditions,
languages, religious beliefs and
cultural practices has shaped
my worldview significantly. It
fostered a need in me to find ways
of belonging in communities
that, due to ignorance or fear,
initially sought to other me.
This developed into a need to
bridge individuals of varying
backgrounds.
The constant moving and
adjusting to new communities
forced me to find solace in
isolation. Through my imaginary
friends, I discovered the powerful
world
of
storytelling
and
theatre. Eventually, I made real
friends through them. I believe
storytelling is the only way
through which we can foster deep
empathy for people who look or

seem different from ourselves.
Through storytelling, we realize
there is strength and learning
to be found in our differences
because we’re not so different at
our core.
Michigan in Color is an
incredible space for people of
color on a predominantly white
campus to feel safe sharing their
beliefs, struggles, stories and
art. I joined MiC in the hopes of
using the skill set I’ve cultivated
in directing theatre to contribute
to an environment that uplifts our
community and draws attention
to our shared humanity. MiC has
a platform and an audience for the
stories of communities of color,
and I hope to use my experiences
to help build bridges between
different communities of color.
The work MiC does to use art to
cross those bridges is incredibly
important to building solidarity
between different communities
on campus. In effect, I want to use
MiC to build on what I’ve spent
my whole life doing: creating a
place for PoC in a community that
may not realize we belong here.

LORA FARAJ
Senior MiC Editor

ZOHA BHARWANI
MiC Senior Blog Editor

I did not understand what it
means to be Black in America
until I arrived at the University
of Michigan. I will never forget
attending
Campus
Day
and
watching droves of white people
walking to the stadium for a
football game. I was terrified, not
because I did not see any Black
people, but because I could only
see a handful of POC. My mom
saw my fear and merely laughed
because I was the one who chose
to leave the Nigerian hub, which
is Texas, for somewhere “too far
away.”
As the first American-born
child in my Nigerian family, the
“American”
in
Nigerian-American
was often muted because of the
depth of community we have
in Texas. On the weekends, I
would accompany my mom to
Southwest Farmer’s Market, a
Nigerian-run foodcenter for all
things Nigerian. Most days, I
would attend my African church
which was over ninety percent
Yoruba (the best tribe in Nigeria).
If I attended a birthday party,
wedding, graduation, there was
a nearly hundred percent chance

that the person was Nigerian.
When I would hear the term
“Black people,” it was referring
to what seemed like an entirely
separate
ethnicity.
It
meant
descendant of slaves, and as a
Nigerian-American I did not
identify as such.
And then I stepped on campus
and longed for nothing more
than to see someone with my
complexion. I quickly integrated
myself
within
the
Black
community here and found a
family which has supported me
through my most difficult times.
I grew to understand that “Black”
was a race, and more specifically
that race was a social construct
meant to oppress people who
looked like me. I realized that I
am Black and I am still grappling
with what that means for me
and my Nigerian background.
MiC has served as the perfect
place for me to write through the
complexities and challenges of
my identity. I am supported by
other POC trying to figure out
what their identity means to them
in a country which is constantly
trying to mute their culture.
Through our writing and art,
however, the depths and richness
of our diverse cultures will be
acknowledged.

AYOMIDE OKUNADE
Senior MiC Editor

CHUN HEI SO/Daily
Lennon Wall at Quarry Bay bus terminal with flyers and messages of resistance under the bridge. In the middle,
candles were set up on the floor to mourn the deaths of those who died by suicide or died during the movement.

The Terrific Torment of Two

Exhale
As my breath flowed out of my
lungs, I could tell it was lighter than
the humid air that enveloped me
The effect?
A surreal feeling-as I was floating
a few inches above the ground
I look down and watched my toes
dig into the earth beneath me
The sand easily gave way as my
feet sunk in further, providing no
explanation for the lightness I felt
from under my collarbones
But my ignorance was bliss

I raised my face and smiled-
welcoming the sun’s warmth
Its rays tugging at the edges of
my lips endearingly-like the hands
of a small child
Gently coaxing a wider smile
I surrendered, beaming back
with an equally radiant euphoria
and peace

From the distance, a voice calls
my name
An elderly woman carrying a
straw basket full of fresh methi
leaves
From under her soft blue dupatta,
her warm eyes beckon me forward

Inhale
The air is room temperature but
still manages to send shivers down
my spine
Complying, I focus on putting
one foot in front of the other to get
to the front of the room
meanwhile, My stomach does
somersaults
I fix my gaze on the bright
fluorescent lights overhead
As my teacher stumbles through
my first and last name
Coffee stained teeth framed by
garishly pink-painted lips send me
back to my seat

As soon as I sit down, a crumpled
piece of paper is tossed to my side of
the desk
I reach for it without hesitation
a sweet innocent confession
My questions about the origin
of the note are answered by an
eruption of muffled laughter from a
nearby table

One boy with chestnut curls
catches my eye and smiles
And a flood crashes through me
all at once, that note carried an
invitation to belong and a reminder
of my current isolation

A disapproving hush brings
everyone’s rapt attention to the
front of the room
But before long, the words on the
page blur out of focus

I’m
watching
perfectly
mechanical manicured hands

Inhale
In the air is a distinct hint of
jasmine and the methi leaves I was
holding
Her fingers danced
as they quickly threaded through
the bunches of leaves
Easily pulling the leaves from
their stems

I am mesmerized by the beauty
in the simplicity
Her nails are bare and the skin on
her hands is adorned by a myriad of
wrinkles
her hands painted wisdom with
each movement
Simple yet elegant

One hand reaches towards mine
and lifts up my chin adoringly
Her eyes look into mine for
answers
But I didn’t know how to put into
words that
For a moment I feel like I’m
sitting beside a tall, willow tree
Tall enough to shade me from the
sun and strong enough to protect
me from any storm

I turn my head towards the sky
again
Suddenly, the sun is nowhere to

be seen
And clouds litter the horizon

Exhale
I watch my breath form a plume
of water vapor in front of me
The dark clouds send down
flurries in a torrent
We rush inside, letting the screen
door slam behind us

Nothing is out of the ordinary:
A blaring TV, the smell of spices
from the kitchen, the laundry
machine whirring away
But, something was wrong

As if to confirm my suspicions,
The rice on the stove boils over
A mistake my ever so attentive
mother
wouldn’t
dream
of
committing

My feet guide me to the living
room
My backpack still resting on my
shoulders
They wear poker faces but the
anguish in their eyes is deafening
And

I’m running
I run until there’s no more land
and icy water laps at my feet
My breathing is heavy

Exhale
Inhale
Exhale
Inhale

But my feet stay grounded
And the old woman in my
memories
The woman I was just beginning
to know
Is lost in time and some 8082
miles

YASHASVINI NANNAPURAJU
MiC Contributor
Forward: I have written extensively about how my Indian
and American identities have shaped and influenced who
I am as a person today. Those influences are largely
positive however there are moments when walking the
line between these two worlds is unduly painful and
especially difficult. This is one of those moments. This
poem was inspired by the passing of my grandmother
almost 10 years ago.

Photo courtesy of the author

Photo courtesy of the author

Photo courtesy of the author

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