A

s an introvert, I have been

in some way, shape or form

preparing for this moment

for my entire life. I had used Zoom

before a few of my classes made

the switch to virtual meetings on

the platform, and I was no stranger

to the virtual learning world. I

used Google Hangouts before it

was cool or necessary. I regularly

swipe through videos on TikTok,

which is apparently a quintessential

Generation Z activity.

And
still,
with
all
of
that

generational knowledge, I ran into

all sorts of questions during the start

of my online courses a few weeks

ago. Could I be more informal in my

class’s BlueJeans chat than I would

be in a class email? How am I possibly

going to take an exam online? Are

other people also realizing that

this particularly useless meeting or

mandatory in-person seminar could

have just been an email?

My initial opinion

about
shifting
from

in-person
classes
to

online meetings was

largely
negative.
It’s

definitely been difficult

to retain information

and
remain
focused

during
these
online

sessions,
and
many

students I’ve talked to

have expressed similar

feelings. During class

and during my newly-

expanded amount of

free time, I am having difficulty

motivating myself to do anything

at all. I miss my classmates and

roommates a whole lot, and I miss

studying with friends. I miss being

employed. I miss certainty, routine

and structure.

In particular, I miss my roommate’s

Muddy
Buddies.
That
is
not
a

euphemism for something weird or

kinky — one of my roommates makes

this delicious snack (also known

as puppy chow) that simply tastes

like joy and whose components

yield zero health benefits. There

is perhaps an argument to be made

in defense of the peanut butter,

but the rest of the ingredients for

Muddy
Buddies
(confectioner’s

sugar, cocoa, butter, etc.) have

about as much nutritional value

and addictive quality as the average

mango Juul pod. I thought that my

exodus from Ann Arbor would mark

the end of my roommate’s delicious

treats for the house to enjoy. My

sister has a vicious allergy that

could require hospitalization if she

were to ingest a peanut, and in this

time of crisis, messy peanut butter

foods are to be strictly avoided in

my household. Imagine my surprise

later, standing in the half-empty

Detroit
Metropolitan-Wayne

County airport, as I spotted some

Chex Mix Muddy Buddies ripoffs

on the way to my gate. I impulsively

bought two bags.

It is hard to describe the taste

of Muddy Buddies à la Chex Mix.

I suppose it tastes like giving

up, if that were something one

could taste. Whereas snacking on

my
roommate’s
Muddy
Buddies

provided me with the carelessly

optimistic sense that everything in

the world might just turn out OK,

crunching
on
these
artificially-

flavored
bad
boys
evoked
the

anxiety of a mediocre English or

theater major graduating into one

of the worst job markets in recent

history. If you were to rip open the

dark belly of all human despair and

venture into the gunk of its fleshy

depths, you’d find those peanut

butter chocolate Chex Mix bags.

As a recent Harvard Business

Review
article
suggests,
the

coronavirus
crisis
will
create

indelible
changes
within
the

United States. and abroad. It’s

unclear exactly how the massive

shift to online college courses will

impact the future of learning at the

University of Michigan, or other

educational
institutions
in
the

long-term. A nation-wide survey

of college students have found the

psychological effect of their school’s

shutdown to be significant; many

survey respondents reported higher

levels of depression and anxiety. This

should come as no surprise given the

abrupt changes in daily

student life: 52 percent

of
respondents
had

been unexpectedly laid

off from a job or had

their hours cut back,

28 percent lack reliable

access to healthy meals

and 20 percent lack

reliable access to a

mobile device or WiFi.

Statistics
like

these
illustrate
my

biggest concern with

the
“we’re
in
this

together” style of guidance to those

feeling dejected about the crisis.

Some students have the means to

make it through the coronavirus

pandemic with very few disruptions

if any at all, as suggested by the

21 percent of survey respondents

who
expressed
no
significant

changes in their lives due to the

coronavirus. Some students may

be forced with the decision to

withdraw from their studies. Many

students will lose loved ones. We

are not, in fact, all in it together.

This is perhaps something we forgot

amid the confusion of President

Donald Trump’s response to the

coronavirus, the shuffling closure

of many public places like libraries

or restaurants or the bizarre frenzy

of the supermarket rush for — of all

things — toilet paper.

Everyone has someone who cares

about them and would love to hear

from them (from afar — seriously,

please stay at home). It would be

foolish to expect our attempts at

social interaction in quarantine

to be as good or as valuable as the

genuine sense of fulfillment that

comes with getting to see your

favorite people. It might as well be

a law of physics that Chex Mix’s

imitation puppy chow will never

taste like my roommate’s, but I

eat it nonetheless. I still go to my

online classes, despite the lingering

feeling of loss that is palpable

among students who have ceased

to see their friends, go to work or

leave their houses.

Do what you have to do. As one of

my favorite professors once said in

her newly-online office hours, “Be

gentle with yourself.” Try to make

new memories, good ones.

5 — Monday, April 13, 2020
Opinion
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

ALLISON PUJOL | COLUMN
Love, your new favorite online college student

Allison Pujol can be reached at

ampmich@umich.edu.

O

utside of the Louvre,

a guard stands in

front of the endless

queue,
controlling
eager

tourists
and
admitting

them in an orderly fashion.

Somewhere around noon, he

will cut the queue and close

the entrance, then tell that

unfortunate traveler who was

just cut, “Sorry, come back

tomorrow.” These days, when

no one can actually get into

the Louvre, I feel like that

unfortunate traveler. This is

about when the entire country

draws the line right in front of

you.

Amid
the
crisis,
I
am

living in the United States as

an Asian and a foreigner. It

would take an hour for me to

explain how this situation has

unleashed racist sentiment

against
Asian
people,
but

there is another important

aspect: How COVID-19 has

forced me to recognize my

position here in the U.S. At the

White House press conference

on
March
17,
a
reporter

pointed out that President

Donald Trump’s use of the

term “Chinese Virus” is racist

against Chinese Americans. It

is not even worth discussing

his remark, but the phrasing

of the question itself was

upsetting. She criticized him

for being insensitive to the

discrimination against “Asian

Americans,”
not
Asians

in
general.
Other
media

coverage also addresses this

as an Asian American matter.

At first, I wasn’t sure if I read

them correctly. What about

Asians in this country who

are not Americans?

I have been living in the

U.S. for almost two years as a

“Korean Korean.” Observing

American
reactions
to

coronavirus-related
racism,

I felt like the queue was cut

right in front of me. Even

when
being
discriminated

against, there is a priority to

be recognized as a victim. If

there was a queue to enter the

category of victimhood, they

let Asian Americans in, but not

us. The most depressing part is

that even the journalists and

so-called liberals who claim

to defend minorities against

the current administration

draw
the
line
to
first

recognize “their people” as

victims.
Intersectionality

creates
different
tiers
of

“minority-hood.” While Asian

Americans
are
prioritized

over Asian foreigners, racists

attack both groups on the

same basis. If we are not even

recognized as victims, who

will care about us?

The ugliest part of this

intersectionality
is
that

our
nationality
alienates

us institutionally. In other

words, if someone says “If

you don’t like it, just go back

to your own country,” I have

nothing to say, unlike those

who are “from here.” This

devastating reality becomes

even more apparent during

hard times. Canada closed

its border and decided to

only let their citizens and

permanent residents in. The

University pushes all students

to go home, but there is no

guarantee that international

students can return to the

U.S. someday. What I see from

this panic is the priority of

inclusion.

Of course, I am aware

that
U.S.
citizens
have

always been entitled to more

rights in the first place. For

instance,
in
the
Supreme

Court
case
Kleindienst
v.

Mandel (1972), it is decided

that foreign nationals are not

entitled to the same degree

of due process as citizens

when entering the U.S. It

is
institutionally
accepted

that foreigners are not even

second-class
“citizens.”

However, when it comes to

a national emergency, aside

from
my
value
judgment

of whether this is right or

wrong, countries prioritize

their
citizens
even
more

explicitly.

To
clarify,
what
I
am

pointing
out
here
is
the

priority of recognition, not

the priority of privilege. I

don’t expect the same degree

of legal privilege with the

people who have no other

country than the U.S. that

will protect them. I, too,

have my own country that

will take care of me as much

as, or even more than, the

U.S. does to its people. But

by choosing to stay in Ann

Arbor, I am denying myself

that opportunity by my will.

However, that doesn’t mean

that I am willing to risk

more than what I would have

received in my country of

origin. As long as I am living

here, paying more than any

domestic students would, as

well as taxes, I want the same

degree of respect as a member

of this community. At least,

I want the recognition as a

victim who needs protection

from racist attacks. Maybe

my analogy to the Louvre was

wrong: It is more like a queue

rushing into a tornado shelter.

This is a more serious and

desperate situation, where no

one should be left outside. So,

don’t draw the line.

Don’t draw the line

SUNGMIN CHO | COLUMN

Sungmin Cho can be reached at

csungmin@umich.edu.

T

his
Letter
to
the

Editor is written in

response to a news

article written by Angelina

Brede titled “Students, faculty

question
spring,
summer

tuition costs, quality of remote

learning.”

Though I understand the

frustration with the University

of Michigan’s refusal to reduce

tuition costs for the spring and

summer terms, I cannot agree

with the sentiment entirely.

Tuition is about so much more

than paying to be on campus

for classes and community.

First and foremost: Spring

and
summer
terms
are

incredibly different from what

occurred during this winter

term. They are optional —

nobody is expected to take

courses during these terms.

Additionally, they were moved

online a month in advance

of the courses starting. This

gives instructors substantially

more time to convert the

courses
than
there
was

during this term, and thus,

these courses should be of

substantially higher quality

in comparison. Beyond this,

students
are
making
an

informed decision. We were

told the classes would be

remote far in advance. Unlike

this term, nobody is being

blindsided by this change.

Furthermore,
though

buildings are on lockdown,

University
resources
are

fighting to go remote for

the benefit of students. I

understand
we’re
losing

the
“campus
experience”

by not being in Ann Arbor,

but we are not losing all of

the resources of student and

University
organizations.

The library has made an

additional
1150
books

free-to-read
online.
Many

organizations, including The

Daily, First Generation, LSA

Opportunity Hub and LSA

Honors, have offered online

events for their members

and/or the broader University

community.
Though
these

resources are compromised,

it’s demeaning to erase the

labor of countless people

in complaints about losing

the “campus experience” by

insinuating that we have lost

them entirely.

The
University
is
more

than
its
buildings.
Spring

and
summer
tuition
will

support the additional labor

of faculty and staff who are

working tirelessly to give us

the opportunities we are so

scared of losing.

BETH DEVLIN | LETTER TO THE EDITOR

Beth Devlin is a freshman in the

College of Literature, Science & the

Arts and can be reached at

bldevlin@umich.edu.

Everyone has
someone who
cares about
them and
would love
to hear from

them.

It is institutionally

accepted that

foreigners are not
even second-class

“citizens.”