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Michigan in Color
Monday, February 3, 2020 — 3A
In the summer semester of
2019, I took a Latin American
and Caribbean Studies course
about space and identity in
Latin American history. For
the final project, the class
was
given
the
opportunity
to choose between writing a
12-page research paper or to
create a piece of art in relation
to any of the material we
learned in the class. I decided
to make a painting of an Aztec
woman, crying tears of blood
because of the destruction of
the spaces that belonged to her
people that began in 1515 CE
by conquistadors. New Spain
continued to send its people to
Mesoamerica, where the Aztecs
resided, to build churches on
Destruction of Aztec Spaces and Identities
“American Brother”
GABRIJELA SKOKO
Senior MiC Editor
top of the Aztec temples. The
Aztecs were forced to convert
to Christianity. Otherwise, they
would get killed.
Over the summer of 2018, I
participated in a rally at Clark
Park in which the residents
of
Southwest
Detroit
and
surrounding
areas
came
together to show support for
those who had been detained
by ICE. The rally consisted of
members of the community
talking about their relatives
who had been detained or about
their personal experiences. Our
camping outside the detention
center in Detroit delayed the
deportation of detainees, so it
was encouraged by the rally
organizers. My painting, The
Destruction of Aztec Spaces and
Identities, similarly showcases
the
displacement
of
ethnic
minorities.
DANIELA LUGO
Senior MiC Creative Content Editor
Photo courtesy of Daniela Lugo
Sunday is my day for laundry.
My self-care day. It sounds odd
that throwing dryer sheets
would be my healing space, but
it is something I will always be
able to do for and by myself.
I find a certain peace in the
lonesomeness. And a certain
endless possibility within it.
In this time, I can be whatever
I want. This week, I chose to
be a listener, and I sorted my
clothes to Nikole Hannah-
Jones’ 1619 podcast.
In the first episode, she talks
about her childhood home. Its
ragged form, and its constant
need
for
reparation.
Each
floorboard is cracked and door
unhinged. Her father doesn’t
mind, but what he would never
let fall into disrepair, was
the American flag that flew
outside. Jones couldn’t make
sense of her father’s pride
in something that only ever
denied him.
My brother was stopped by
a cop again. By that, I mean
my brother was speeding in
July when a Black cop pulled
him over. The cop’s violent
screams piled spit on my
brother’s shoulder like some
sort of souvenir. Souvenir,
in its native space, means to
remember. Remember. You’re
lucky I got to you first. It’s the
reason you are still alive.
My brother was stopped
again. By that, I mean that my
brother Freddie Gray died in a
police van while six Baltimore
police, who committed the
fatal
injury,
watched
him
sink. I mean that my unarmed
brother Sam DuBose was shot
on his motorcycle at a traffic
stop in Cincinnati because
the cop didn’t want to get run
over. At a traffic stop. I mean
that my brother Alton Sterling
was pinned to the ground and
killed for selling CDs on the
street. I mean that they shot
my brother Jamar Clark in the
head in Minnesota once he had
already been handcuffed.
In the head in Minnesota.
Like December 26, 1862. Like
Abraham
Lincoln
hanging
Thirty Eight Men in Mnisota*
once their land had already
been
stolen.
Handcuffed.
Hanging. When I think of
these 38 men, I think of Sandra
Bland. Pulled over because she
forgot to turn on her blinker.
Arrested
because
of
her
attitude. Dead in her cell by
that weekend. Hanging.
Her family had just spoken
to her before her death. She
said she would not give this up.
That she would not let them
kill her too.
And yet, there she hanged.
I think about my brothers
past, and of you, knowing
that you probably don’t know
their names. Like how up
until last year, I had never
heard of the Dakota 38, or
of Mnisota. I think of how
Lincoln was taught to me: the
great abolitionist, the liberator
of me. I think of what it means
to be free. American. Honored.
None of these feel like words I
can associate with myself.
American?
Isn’t that something we
created for other people? Land
we build to be beaten on?
It never crosses my mind
to tell people I am American.
Like Nikole Hannah-Jones, I
feel a sort of shame in claiming
something that never wanted
to claim me. When people ask
that convoluted question of
what are you I tell them that I
am Black and I am Serbian.
I capitalize Black because I
believe it is holy. It recognizes
all sides of my Diaspora. It
accepts the roots laid for me
in Africa without ignoring
my Jamaican soul. African
American is a settler-colonial
term. One that denies my
‘Americanness’
but
does
not want to understand my
African. It straddles me in
the Atlantic, stolen from one
land to create another whose
people deny me. Don’t see me.
Or know me.
I fold my dark laundry
through 1619’s third episode,
and as I throw my whites into
the dryer, the third episode
takes me to Wesley Morris’
kitchen, chopping tomatoes,
and I feel I’m with him. His
Pandora radio plays a genre
called yacht rock, and as he
listens to these white men,
his voice lifts into awe for
the homage their music pays
to Black music. The body that
lives within the music is like
this land. Stolen.
We can recognize the birth
of America, but we can never
call a Black woman the mother.
We
can
recognize
the
birth of American music, but
we don’t ask why this is the
only space where we can be
American too.
In the fourth episode, a man
named June tells the story of
how his bank stole his land
from him in 2008. How they
forged his signature and cut
his loan prices in half so that
they could evict him from his
home. He talks about how
that land was all he had. All
his father, grandfather and
great-grandfather had. I think
about music. How it is all my
ancestors had. How singing
was what eased a day’s labor.
How singing was the Black
body’s
freedom.
Liberator.
Protector.
Not our president.
Not our cops.
Layli Long Soldier speaks
on the 17-day ride held in
memorial of the Dakota 38.
She calls this a poem in its
own right. I call Freddie Gray
a poem. Sam DuBose a poem.
Alton Sterling; poem. Jamar
Clark; poem. Sandra Bland.
Poetry. American. And I want
to ask them if they would fly
their flag or let it fall.
*The word Minnesota comes from
mni, which means water; and sota,
which means turbid. Mnisota is the
original spelling of Minnesota
This past weekend, I played a
game called “We’re Not Really
Strangers.” For those who are
unfamiliar, WNRS is a card
game with various questions
curated to help develop and
strengthen relationships in your
life. There are three levels to
this game, each level consisting
of a deck of cards with curated
questions that you would not
typically ask someone. These
questions forced an inevitable
vulnerability upon me, allowing
me to reflect on parts of my life
that I had grown away from and
enabled me to empathize with
people in my life on levels that
were previously unavailable to
me.
Every question moved me,
but of all the questions asked
of me, there is one that I can’t
seem to forget. The card read,
“What is a dream you’ve let go
of?” Before even fully grasping
this question, memories of my
childhood began to resurface.
I reminisced about the wild
careers I had dreamt of as
a child and the extravagant
futures I had envisioned for
myself. Whether I was going
to be a supermodel doctor or
a zookeeping musician, my
younger self placed no limits
on the future. I dreamt freely
— free from social expectations
and constructs.
As I grew older and developed
a stronger grasp of “reality,” my
dreams changed. I was taught
that
success
meant
having
money and that there were a
select number of careers that
would guarantee my success.
I was taught that women were
only
qualified
for
certain
careers and that instead of
following my dreams, I should
find a career meant for me. I was
taught that, as a person of color,
I would face more obstacles
than my white counterparts,
so I should take whatever route
is easiest. These “limitations”
shaped my mind in a way that
hindered my ability to dream
freely. I felt that a dream career
was one that made money and
was socially acceptable, but not
necessarily one that I enjoyed.
All throughout middle school
and high school, I hated that my
dreams were constructed by the
minds of others and that I no
longer had the liberty to create
my future.
Since
coming
to
college,
however, a lot of those restrictive
beliefs have diminished. At the
University of Michigan, I am
surrounded by students with
identities similar to my own
who are still holding on to their
childhood dreams instead of
letting their “limitations” stop
them. I have met people who
want to start companies, run for
office and perform in Broadway
musicals. I have met people
who run clothing brands, have
interned at top companies and
have raised thousands of dollars
for charity. These people, along
with countless others, have
expanded my worldview and
have reassured me that I can
still become anything I want to
be.
I
currently
find
myself
at a point very similar to
my
childhood.
Though
my
dreams have evolved from the
zookeeping
model-doctor-
musician of my childhood, they
are still just as important. I
am blessed to be somewhere I
can still believe in my dreams,
regardless of what the world
has told me. I hope that anyone
reading this is striving to make
whatever dreams they have
come true. I hope that you
never lose sight of what you
once wanted. And I hope that if
you ever play WNRS and come
across the dream question, you
will be able to answer with
confidence that you have not let
NOOR MOUGHNI
MiC “Off the Record” Blogger
“Don’t Let Go”
Photo courtesy of Daniela Lugo
Photo courtesy of Daniela Lugo
“Her father doesn’t
mind, but what he
would never let fall
into disrepair, was
the American flag
that flew outside.
Jones couwldn’t
make sense of her
father’s pride in
something that only
ever denied him.”
“I think of how
Lincoln was taught
to me: the great
abolitionist, the lib-
erator of me. I think
of what it means to
be free. American.
Honored. None of
these feel like words
I can associate with
myself.”
“We can recognize
the birth of Ameri-
can music, but we
don’t ask why this
is the only space
where we can be
American too.”