T
he
seemingly
everlasting
build-up to the Fall 2020 se-
mester made me anxious
about where I would live. My mind raced
with questions as I was stuck in a state of
limbo, full of unknowns. The hope that I
would get to spend my senior year of col-
lege on a pandemic-free campus quickly
dwindled and instead morphed into wor-
ry.
Should I give up my lease? Is it safe to
move back? What seemed to be the safest
option was not necessarily the most finan-
cially sound. Amid deciding, I, and many
other students, waited eagerly to see what
the University of Michigan’s plan would
be.
As a former University-employed resi-
dent advisor for the last one and a half
years, my mind immediately wondered
what the intended precautions would be
to ensure safe on-campus housing. My
previous experiences with University
Housing made me feel like there would
be a disaster waiting for Residential Staff
when they arrived for their training. Sure
enough, when I checked on my peers
during the August ResStaff training, they
were already starting to get concerned.
It seemed as if Housing had not come up
with an adequate plan to keep R.A.s and
residents safe during these unpredictable
times. Rumors buzzed about facilities be-
ing understaffed, and supervisors did not
have answers to questions surrounding
safety precautions.
This storm leading up the R.A. strike in
early September was an explosion of ten-
sion that existed even before the pandem-
ic. Upper-level housing, which refers to
any full-time staff working in the Housing
department above the level of Hall Direc-
tor, and R.A.s may have always had a hard
time finding common ground, but this
time, this tension could cost the health
and possibly the lives of Housing students
and staff.
My personal animosity toward upper-
level housing staff began from the moment
of signing our contract called the Letter
of Appointment, referred to as the L.O.A.
Every ResStaff member is tied to this
contract during their time as R.A.s. Any
deviation from the included provisions
results in disciplinary actions consisting
of anything from a conversation with the
hall directors — who are the R.A.s’ direct
supervisors — or termination, depending
on the severity of the behavior.
I remember when I first walked into
the West Quad Residence Hall Multipur-
pose Room, seeing my future fellow staff
members seated together in a circle. I was
bright-eyed and eager to start making an
impact on the incoming class. As we start-
ed reading through our contract, a feeling
of uneasiness settled into my stomach. I
felt on edge about signing an agreement
that I had just gotten without much time
to think. There is no room for negotia-
tion of the contract — it is an all or noth-
ing deal. And even though we were able to
bring our concerns to our supervisors, we
knew we had to agree to the L.O.A. or be
replaced by someone who would.
While a lot of the L.O.A. is mundane de-
tailing of hours and responsibilities, one of
the more gut-wrenching clauses reads:
“I will not participate in discussions
or activities that in any way disparage my
colleagues or supervisors or undermine
their authority with residents. I will show
public support for all ResStaff decisions
and University or Housing policies. If I
disagree with a policy or decision, I will
discuss it respectfully with my supervi-
sors, but will continue to enforce the poli-
cy unless directed otherwise.”
As a journalist, it felt against my ethical
code to agree to this. As a student, I felt as
if I should be able to take my grievances
with Housing elsewhere if I feel like I am
not being heard. No change comes without
criticism and a little bit of pressure. I am
someone who likes to use my voice when I
see something is wrong. To me, this came
across as an effort to silence staff, keeping
all issues handled quietly within Housing.
Inevitably, the clause instilled in me an
immediate fear and distrust of upper-level
housing. Would I lose my room and board
just because I disparaged the good name
of Housing? Why did they want me to hide
my criticisms? What was I getting myself
into? This sentiment lingered throughout
my time as a staff member, and I recently
learned that I was not alone in feeling this
way.
During the pandemic and the strike,
the aforementioned clause was a particu-
lar point of contention, and worsened the
fear of retaliation. I spoke to a current R.A.,
who asked to remain anonymous with fear
of retaliation from the University, over the
phone about this ongoing battle. In this ar-
ticle, they will be referred to as Sam.
“Here we are now, with a bunch of le-
gitimate concerns that aren’t being ade-
quately addressed by Housing, and yet our
contract says we can’t talk to anyone about
this but Housing,” they said. “We felt very
trapped by that.”
This conflict grows even more complex
when we acknowledge that R.A.s exist in
a gray area, where we are both students
and staff members of the University. And
while I felt more like a student than a Uni-
versity employee, as soon as I left the con-
fines of my room, I had to be there for my
residents. In everyday life, there weren’t
distinct lines drawn between my two roles.
This ambiguity has proven to be an-
other point of contention worsened by the
pandemic. As a part of the strike agree-
ment, R.A.s were given priority for CO-
VID-19 testing; however, there was some
confusion as to the logistics of this because
of R.A.s’ unique standing. Sam described
this tension and the obstacles it created.
“There’s a question on there that says:
‘What is your primary role in the Univer-
sity? Student, staff, faculty,’ and most of us
put: ‘student,’” they explained. “How are
(upper-level Housing) going to recognize
that we are supposed to be getting prior-
ity as ResStaff when, primarily, we’re stu-
dents here?”
This hybrid position has also caused is-
sues in the past, as we struggled to put our
academics, mental health and well-being
first, which sometimes interfered with my
relationships with my supervisors. I got
a taste of this conflict before I officially
started my position as an R.A.
Before starting the role, all R.A.s must
take and pass a class called ALA 421
where we learn to have open discussions
about identity and analyze how our biases
influence our interactions with others.
Prospective R.A.s sign up for a section of
ALA 421 at the beginning of a winter se-
mester, after they’ve registered for aca-
demic classes. Around the same time I
was meant to choose my ALA section, I
was cast in MUSKET’s production of “In
the Heights.” I was struggling to find an
ALA class that fit into both my class and
rehearsal schedule.
The Housing administrator suggested
that I choose between my love of perform-
ing and the R.A. job. She explained that
the job meant I needed to make substan-
tial sacrifices, refusing to acknowledge my
role as a student who needs to engage in
extracurriculars and take time to do what
I love. The administrator told me that she
gave up dancing for her own career. But
being an R.A. is not a career; it is, rather, a
role with some benefits. In fact, many stu-
dents need to have a job on top of ResStaff,
as they are not getting a salary as an R.A.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
15 — Wednesday, October 14, 2020
statement
THE R.A. STRIKE WAS A
LONG TIME COMING
ISABELLE HASSLUND,
STATEMENT DEPUTY EDITOR
R
ich students don’t like to talk
about money. It can be embar-
rassing to express the amount of
money in your bank account, especially when
it’s money your parents wire to you. And it’s
easy to avoid conversation about something
you don’t think of much.
But as a lower-income student, I think
about money during almost all of my daily ac-
tions. When I wake up in the morning, I eat
one egg instead of two to save on groceries.
I rummage through Goodwill, searching for
knockoffs of the fashions I see on Instagram,
a practice I have perfected since middle
school. My friends ask me if I want to go out
to eat and I triple check my funds, indulging
in some quick budgeting to see if I can afford
dinner at a restaurant.
I’m tired of not talking about money to
make my wealthier friends more comfort-
able. I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel
resentment towards them, as they tiptoe
around the topic due to a lack of urgency. I’ve
had a job for the last nine years of my life —
since I was 12 years old — and I can’t fathom
how some of them still don’t have jobs now. I
need to work to pay my rent and quite hon-
estly, it makes me angry that they don’t have
to as well.
Why does no one else talk about this?
I’m starting to realize that it’s because
most of the people at this university come
from financially affluent households. And for
the most part, rich people don’t like to talk
about how rich they are.
Worrying about how to pay my rent has
been an issue since I moved out of my par-
ents’ house in 2017
. My parents no longer sub-
sidized my living costs, and housing in Ann
Arbor is notoriously expensive. As a full-time
yet financially independent college student, I
often face difficulty in figuring out how to af-
ford it. Without friends around me who deal
with the same obstacles, I often feel like I’m
alone in my struggles. I’ve been feeling it a lot
recently after early-voting “yes” on Proposal
C , which is on the November 2020 Ballot.
This proposal is asking voters to approve
a new $1 million tax to fund construction,
maintenance and acquisition of affordable
housing units for low-income individuals.
When talking about this proposal with my
rich friends, I can tell they don’t quite realize
just how dire the approval of this proposal is
for low-income individuals like myself. When
I asked my friend and fellow low-income stu-
dent Amaya Farrell, a junior in the School of
Kinesiology, if she was familiar with the pro-
posal she said, “My whole life is my familiar-
ity with the proposal.”
Farrell is registered to vote in Wyandotte
County, which subsequently means she can’t
vote ‘yes’ on this Washtenaw County approval.
However, she said that if she could she “would
vote yes because of the segregation that in-
come creates in Washtenaw County, specifi-
cally in the Ann Arbor area. Having affordable
and equitable housing to individuals that can
otherwise not afford their rent is crucial to di-
versity, equity and inclusion efforts made by
the city.”
Talking about our shared low-income fa-
milial upbringings is what has bonded me
with Amaya since I met her in the summer of
2020. As with most of my low-income friends,
lamenting about our frustrations with money
is what has brought us closer together.
Farrell was raised by her grandparents be-
cause her mother was in the military and her
father was out of the picture. “I try not to ask
(my grandparents) for anything now because
I feel like I took a huge burden off of them by
moving out,” Farrell said.
This is not the first time Farrell has felt a
sense of economic instability — it’s a feeling
she’s experienced since she was young.
“We were living paycheck to paycheck,”
she explained about her upbringing. “We were
evicted once. There were just a lot of hard-
ships.”
I felt a sense of myself when listening to
her words. I rarely meet people at the Uni-
versity of Michigan with a similar familial
experience as my own, and it was comfort-
ing to know that I wasn’t entirely alone. Re-
lying on my low-income friends for support
in the many challenges we face regarding the
economic disadvantage between us and our
high-income peers has been incredibly help-
ful. And though there are a significant num-
ber of studies regarding this topic, there is
not a lot of action being taken to prevent this,
despite our knowledge that this is a problem.
The facets of this reality far surpass solely
the economic implications. Hours other stu-
dents may spend studying are the hours I
spend working tirelessly to pay my rent, yet
I still beat myself up when I don’t perform
as well as my wealthier peers in school. This
was an issue I knew I’d face going into my
freshman year of college, yet there were few
resources to help me prepare for what would
become a major stressor in my college life.
To afford the University of Michigan I
applied for over 30 different scholarships. I
was granted 20 of them, including the Michi-
gan Competitive Grant. I reapply to some of
these scholarships each year and some ex-
tend through all four years of schooling. It
is through these scholarships that I was able
to afford my spot in Bursley Residence Hall
my freshman year. For sophomore year, I ap-
plied to live in the Inter-Cooperative Council
(ICC) because it was the cheapest housing
option I was aware of at the time. It certainly
wasn’t my first housing choice.
I had a few friends offer for me to live at
their house, but most of the prices they were
mentioning were $850 or more a month, not
including utilities, in the Kerrytown area of
Ann Arbor. It agitated me that they could
mention rent so casually. It was almost as
if they didn’t have to think twice about it —
probably because they didn’t.
There was absolutely no way I could af-
ford the price of rent they were offering me,
so I settled for the slightly-messy, overly
populated cooperative house on South Cam-
pus. I loved living there, but I felt a sense of
shame when I’d bring my upper-class friends
over because my house wasn’t as nice as their
high-rise apartments.
I distinctly remember one of them com-
menting on how dirty my house was com-
pared to theirs. We were walking to my bed-
room when they passed my kitchen, rife with
unwashed dishes and leftover food on the
counters. “Wow, I can’t believe you live like
this,” they had said. I couldn’t help but think:
Well, if I could afford to live in a cleaner envi-
ronment, I would. I hated this feeling of em-
barrassment, but it’s something I have grown
all too accustomed to as a lower-income
student. Farrell explained experiencing the
same feeling here on campus.
“It wasn’t until my second semester fresh-
man year until I started to really see it (the
income disparity on campus),” Farrell said. “I
was surrounded by people who could afford
so many things on the drop of a hat.”
This year, with the thoughtful maneu-
vering of my friends, I am paying incredibly
cheap rent in a house in Kerrytown. Yet, I
still have to work at least 15 hours a week to
pay my rent, which is minor compared to
the three jobs I worked my sophomore year.
Then, there were weeks when I was clock-
ing in 40 hours between jobs in order to af-
ford rent as well as groceries, phone bills and
school supplies. Now, I babysit two kids for
$20 an hour, but the frustration toward my
peers who don’t work at all still persists. Ev-
ery time I pay my rent for the month, I feel
like I should get some type of award, or at
least a congratulations.
I don’t think I’ve ever not thought twice
about any purchase I’ve made. Nor do I think
I ever will. And as difficult as it is, I do take an
immense amount of pride in the fact that I am
entirely independent of my parents, much like
Farrell and other low-income students. This is
a huge feat, one that I will never let anyone or
myself diminish. It’s a significant obstacle and
it’s not something we get praised for enough.
So, if you’re like me and the struggle to pay
your rent is consistent, then I offer you this:
Congratulations. You did it. Affordable hous-
ing is a fight that I and many other low-income
people have been grappling with our entire
lives. I feel a sense of hope with proposals like
Proposal C surfacing on our ballots: hope for a
future when paying my rent isn’t a tireless bat-
tle, a future when a call from my landlord isn’t
something to fear and a future when all low-
income people do not feel the overwhelming
burden of finding a safe, supported home.
ILLUSTRATIONS
BY EILEEN KELLY
CONGRATULATIONS: YOU
PAID YOUR RENT!
ALIX CURNOW,
STATEMENT COLUMNIST
Read more at
MichiganDaily.com