7-Opinion
Opinion
Wednesday, January 27, 2021 — 11
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
ZOE ZHANG | CONTACT CARTOONIST AT ZOEZHANG@UMICH.EDU.
O
n the overcast day of
Nov. 22, 2020, like
most
occupants
of
the University of Michigan’s
residence halls, I stuffed my
belongings
into
cardboard
boxes and dragged them to my
mother’s car outside Bursley
Residence
Hall’s
entrance.
Once finished, I began the
journey back home.
Typically, college freshmen
would be distraught at the
prospect of leaving campus,
their friends and newfound
freedom.
However,
all
I
felt was relief. I especially
took comfort in the fact
that I wouldn’t be receiving
the
dreaded
daily
emails
informing me that my building
had multiple COVID-19 cases.
The emails came at about
10 a.m. Often, they arrived
during
classes,
with
the
“Notification
of
Positive
COVID-19 Case in Bursley”
subject
line
making
me
involuntarily
grimace
on
Zoom calls. While reading
the emails, I’d pray under my
breath for no more cases to be
found within my hall.
Every time I left my room
to get meals, I felt anxious
knowing the virus was found
at multiple locations in the
building. Even going to the
bathroom felt terrifying. If I
saw someone brushing their
teeth at the same time as me,
anxiety spiked. Wanting to
keep safe, I strictly adhered
to
COVID-19
restrictions,
making it difficult to get to
know people in my hall, which
made the entire experience
more taxing — it felt like
our health was in strangers’
hands.
According
to
the
University’s
Campus
Blueprint, there have been
687 reported cases in the
residence halls since March
8, 2020. Bursley Hall had 38
reported cases, while South
Quad Residence Hall and
Mary
Markley
Residence
Hall had 158 and 160 reported
cases, respectively.
Over the summer, when
I was deciding whether to
live on-campus in the fall,
it seemed obvious to stay in
the residence halls. Everyone
in my family was fighting
for space at home and online
classes felt incredibly taxing
from my childhood bedroom.
Although I was nervous about
COVID-19, I convinced myself
that
University
Housing’s
plans would be safe — I was
desperate
to
move
after
staying
in
isolation
with
my family for so long. If I
followed housing rules and
used enough hand sanitizer, I
would be fine. Right?
Wrong. The University’s
seeming lack of a public health
plan with little to no regular
COVID-19 testing caused a
public health disaster in the
residence halls, jeopardizing
students’
and
community
members’
physical
health.
In fact, another side effect
of the housing situation was
extremely
strained
mental
health, both for myself and
many other college students.
The
regular
freshman
feelings of loneliness and
confusion
were
magnified
— in a study conducted by
Texas
A&M
University,
71% of students indicated
increased stress and anxiety
due to a COVID-19 outbreak.
Such stress and anxiety can
only be exacerbated by being
confined to a tiny, enclosed
room while trying to finish
difficult online classes. LSA
freshman Ayden Makar notes
that “(residence hall life) was
often lonely … and it got much
worse once it got cold and
dark outside.”
While leaving my room
felt horrifying, staying inside
was the opposite — hollow. I
was completely alone — like
many others, I was assigned
to a double, but my intended
roommate chose to remain at
home. I spent my days entirely
by
myself,
hiding
away
from the chaos outside and
repeating my days in a hazy
blur. I spent all of my time
trying to pass difficult yet
intellectually
unstimulating
online classes. People only
existed on a screen. I was
lonely and unhappy.
Towards the end of the
fall semester, the University
announced that they wouldn’t
reopen residence halls for
the winter semester except
for students with necessary
circumstances.
Residence
halls would only be single
residences. Additionally, the
University finally decided to
start mandatory COVID-19
testing for all residents once
a week.
However,
their
efforts
were too little, too late. The
University
is
now
known
for its poor public health-
based decisions made by both
the administration and its
students that resulted in a
massive outbreak. Many first-
year students moved back
home with distrust in the
institution.
First-generation
and
low-income
students
will undoubtedly feel the
results of this emotionally
isolating
and
physically
dangerous
experience
the
most. According to a report
by Ruffalo Noel Levitz, a
higher education consulting
firm, COVID-19 has changed
the ability of at least 22% of
families to pay for college. Due
to the pandemic’s economic
effects,
many
people
are
struggling
to
provide
for
themselves,
let
alone
pay
hefty increased tuition and
room and board bills. More
families are in a financially
vulnerable
position,
and
when the college experience
received is of such low quality,
many feel discouraged from
going back to college.
Lastly,
the
“freshman
experience” is often discussed
as a shared experience where
people experience their first
taste
of
freedom,
attend
parties and start discovering
their identities. The current
freshman class won’t get to
enjoy this experience, and
our entire college experience
will be significantly changed
because of COVID-19 — to us,
the University of Michigan
has
started
to
symbolize
something
different.
The
Class
of
2024
knows
of
the University not for its
stellar
academics,
student
life or sports, but rather
its public health disasters,
poor treatment of Graduate
Student
Instructors
and
difficult online classes.
The
University
is
in
uncharted
territory,
and
their recent policies — or lack
thereof — have had terrible
effects. It’s impossible to rely
on the University to assure
one’s safety and well-being.
Now, it is the University’s
job to earn back student and
community trust by ensuring
that our health and mental
wellbeing is being addressed
and supported to their best
ability.
The aftershock of a
COVID-19 semester
MEERA KUMAR | COLUMNIST
Meera Kumar can be reached at
kmeera@umich.edu.
Design by Lauren Kuzee
A
s we enter the new year
of 2021, there is a unique
energy in the air. It feels
like the entire universe and cosmos
are
collaboratively
wishing
for
concerts, crowded planes to faraway
places
and
intimate
reunions
with loved ones devoid of this
overarching
fear
of
contraction
and spread of disease. With the
hope of widespread vaccinations
and eventual development of herd
immunity, this future has become a
much more tangible reality; escaping
the confinement of a quarantined,
TikTok-heavy summer of wishful
thinking, the new year resurrects
the possibility of a return to a pre-
COVID-19
yesterday,
or
better
yet, a COVID-19-free tomorrow.
This concurrence with a dawn of a
new year introduces something in
desperate need of analysis: New Year’s
resolutions.
New
Year’s
resolutions
are
commonly
considered
the
opportunity to change your way of
life; when a new year begins, it creates
a faux blank slate on which new
habits or hopes can be established.
A great majority of resolutions
are
wellness
or
fitness-related,
which sparks controversy among
some who argue that a goal to lose
weight or adopt a “healthy lifestyle”
is merely a manifestation of the
societally-perpetuated skinny ideal
— something that has been shoved
down our throats since the beginning
of time.
However, I argue that it is time
to normalize wanting to change
your habits as long as it is for a
justifiable reason far beyond that of
conforming to a societal standard.
Arguably even more important than
a person’s motivation is their chosen
methodology for achieving this goal.
Further, if it is a matter of choosing
healthier foods, striving to workout
and increasing daily hydration, that
should not be shunned by hardcore
#BodyPositivity
influencers.
However, if the chosen method even
minorly involves excessive restriction
or disordered eating, that reflects a far
different problem than just resolving
to lose weight.
While
#BodyPositivity
and
#Fitspiration aim to empower their
largely female audience to be proud
and confident in their own skin, there
lies severely harmful rhetoric within
the less prevalent communities like
#thinspiration or #proAna internet
bases. This must be underscored and
understood.
Thinspiration and Pro-Ana (pro-
anorexia) groups on the internet are
extremely harmful and social media
platforms like Instagram have taken
steps to ban hashtags and block posts
that perpetuate this movement.
However, the mere existence of these
communities represents deep-seated
problems that society has propagated
through many different vessels. The
problem lies here: #BodyPositivity
should be the freedom to choose how
to feel in your body. Stretch marks,
loose skin and all — it should not be a
matter of comparison to determine
your
self-worth.
Frankly,
the
underlying message is an important
reminder I have to give myself as
I traverse the artificial world of
Snapchat filters that reduce the size
of my nose and editing applications
that can clear any imperfections on
my skin.
While I would argue the majority
of #BodyPositivity members are
aligned
with
these
“healthier”
ideologies, there are members of this
community who judge and degrade
other women who post their weight
loss goals and results. They are told
that you cannot be body positive
and simultaneously want to change
something about yourself. This is
inherently untrue. Every time I
enter the gym, I do so with the goal
of gaining strength and endurance.
However, I would be lying if I said I
did not also leave the gym with the
hopes that my efforts will provide
me comfort in my clothes and a toned
appearance.
The
imperative
nature
of
differentiating between health and
aesthetics must be emphasized.
In a world where people strive to
look like celebrities, we must first
acknowledge that beauty media icons
like the Kardashians or Jenners did
not achieve the results we see on their
Instagram feed with merely a hard
workout or a good facial.
We cannot resolve to achieve
these results without recognizing
that they were obtained through
expensive
and
time-consuming
means. Having said this, there is
nothing wrong with getting plastic
surgery as long as it is medically
safe. This fits within my belief that
the ability to change something
is a part of what #BodyPositivity
really means. I strive to argue on
a moral basis that the ability to
change something about yourself is
not mutually exclusive from loving
who you are. It is human nature to
want to better yourself and it is your
choice alone how or if that applies to
you.
As we enter this new year, it is the
choice of each individual what they
opt to leave behind in 2020 and how
they choose to enter 2021. Whether
that means you are content as you
are, or you want to get Botox or you
want to swear off makeup altogether,
#BodyPositivity should allow and
encourage the freedom to choose. As
long as the methods taken are healthy
and the justification is for more than
conforming to a societal norm, why
should anybody else have a say?
T
his past summer marked
a period of time in which
support of the Black Lives
Matter movement reached a focal
point. We all saw the outpouring
of support on Twitter, Instagram
stories and news platforms, but fast
forward to today and Black Lives
Matter has simply become a slogan
for many young people.
Black and minority populations
in
the
United
States
have
historically been both oppressed
and suppressed. Many of these
injustices came to light during
the summer, leading many young
people to take to the streets and
demand
equality
—
especially
when it came to police brutality.
However, many people neglected
to acknowledge there was anything
deeper than the injustices these
groups face at the hands of the
police. While police brutality is an
important and legitimate part of the
structural racism in this country,
there are other factors that are just
as important.
Much of the overlooked inequity
lies in redlining, Jim Crow laws,
education policy, food deserts,
gentrification,
criminal
justice
discrepancies and, most currently,
COVID-19 and the treatment of
Black people within the American
health care system.
It is no secret that Black
people in this country have been
discriminated against in health
care due to various individual
biases and structural issues. A
study conducted by The Health
Care Financing Review found
that there have historically been
inequities in the health care system
which have contributed to systemic
racism,
highlighted
by
higher
rates of morbidity and mortality
among Black people than among
white people for most indicators of
physical health.
These
inequities
have
been
accentuated
by
the
ongoing
pandemic. Researchers at the Mayo
Clinic found that Black Americans
are 4.7 times more likely to be
infected with the coronavirus than
white Americans, putting them
at an increased risk of serious
illness or death, not to mention
disproportionately exposing them
to long term impacts and economic
insecurity. This increased risk
derives from the inequities in care
traditionally afforded to Black
patients versus white patients, such
as denying pain medication and
rushing through their care, as well
as the comparatively high rate of
Black Americans who suffer from
preexisting conditions.
Remember last summer when
your friends posted a black square
on their Instagram feeds to show
their support for the movement,
followed by maskless selfies with a
new friend every day? The irony is
evident.
The same people who would
preach about the importance
of protecting Black lives often
had no intention of taking any
substantive action to accomplish
that goal. Instead, they were putting
the people they purported to be
advocating for in grave danger.
Those who continue to disregard
the pandemic can no longer claim
to be allies to the movement when
they play a key role in perpetuating
structural racism in this country.
When we returned to school
in August, the problems only
worsened. It is no secret that
the University of Michigan has
struggled to contain the virus —
numerous articles have highlighted
the role of both students and the
University in this failure. Once
students came back to campus,
massive parties quickly ensued.
Under normal circumstances,
this would merely be another
weekend at the University. However,
this semester, those parties were
superspreader events which led
to a surge in cases, some of which
ended up permanently harming
members of our community. I’m
sure we can all name at least one
individual who posted “Black Lives
Matter” over the summer on their
Instagram story and then, just three
months later, posted pictures in a
jam-packed living room kicking
CDC guidelines to the curb in
exchange for a little bit of fun with
their friends. While they may not
suffer any hardship from the virus
themselves, many minorities in
the community do not have this
privilege and are more susceptible
to negative outcomes.
This begs the question, do
individuals actually support this
movement? Or is it merely a slogan
to them, one that they can flaunt so
they look good on social media? One
of the biggest actions individuals
can take right now, if they truly
believe that Black lives matter,
would be following CDC guidelines:
Stay
away
from
large
social
gatherings, wear a mask and allow
health care professionals to allocate
resources to the communities who
need it the most.
Since the advent of social media,
the prevalence of performative
activism
has
been
pervasive.
Because of this, the events this
summer rubbed me and many
others the wrong way. Performative
activism is loosely defined as being
an advocate on social media or in
conversation, but not following
through with those platitudes in
their actions.
It was almost universally agreed
upon among people our age that
police brutality and racism have
no place in this country. However,
when it was time for many to
finally step up for the minority
communities
disproportionately
affected by COVID-19 by following
CDC guidelines, they prioritized
themselves and their own pleasure
over the pain of others. This is
textbook performative activism and
selfishness.
It is time for people to realize that
when they disregard guidelines,
they are endangering human life,
deepening the racial divide in this
country and saying that Black lives,
in fact, do not matter to them — all
so they could get drunk in a dimly
lit room with people they will never
see again after four years.
The question one must ask
themselves is whether their support
for Black Americans stops when it
inconveniences them, or if they truly
intend to be an ally to a historically
marginalized community. If so,
then they should act accordingly.
Shubhum Giroti can be reached at
sgiroti@umich.edu.
If you genuinely care about BLM, follow CDC guidelines
SHUBHUM GIROTI | COLUMNIST
Jess D’Agostino can be reached at
jessdag@umich.edu.
Validate body positive change in 2021
JESS D’AGOSTINO | COLUMNIST