New year, new me: a common
phrase used to signify growth, or at
least the desire for it.
The
New
Year
brings
the
opportunity for everyone to work
on themselves, whether that means
working on their physical health, their
mentality, their spirituality, etc. In
2020, we collectively saw many signs
pointing to the urgent need for change
following the discovery of COVID-
19, one of them being discrimination
towards Asian people.
As many are aware, COVID-19
brought along more than just sickness.
It brought relentless xenophobic
“jokes,” hate crimes and violence
towards East Asians, especially since
it was enabled by public figures like
Donald Trump. Phrases like “At least
I don’t eat bats,” and terms like “kung-
flu” became much more commonly
used in the everyday American
language. These offensive comments
and actions have persisted because
of a historic denial of inherent racism
towards Asian-Americans.
The “model minority” myth,
created by white America to uphold a
racial hierarchy by pitting minorities
against each other, plays an inherent
role in anti-Asian racism, creating
great resentment against Asians
who are depicted as able to achieve
economic success and the sought-
after “American Dream.” In a Time
Magazine article, author Viet Thanh
Nguyen explains that this “model
minority” mindset sets the Asian-
American community apart from
other marginalized groups because
compared to those communities,
some Asian Americans receive more
benefits from American capitalism.
The “model minority” concept
is problematic because it creates
a hierarchy that allows for the
normalization of anti-Asian racism.
When an Asian person doesn’t fulfill
the standards perpetuated by this
mindset, such as the idea that they
are studious or they play certain
instruments, they are invariably
deemed “less Asian.” Being “less
Asian” denotes that they are white-
washed, not as involved in their ethnic
communities or just an ABG (Asian
baby girl/gangster) or ABB (Asian
baby boy). Not only does this rhetoric
harm the Asian community, but it also
fails to consider the barriers that limit
other minorities, further driving the
wedge between them and Asians.
2020 brought rhetoric that largely
placed COVID-19’s blame on Asians,
escalating racist remarks to threats
like, “Run them over,” or “We’re
going to kill you” With COVID-19’s
tenacious presence, persisting long
after it was predicted to, the Asian
community begs the question of
whether or not there will be change
in the society they interact with, or if
the hate will be maintained with or
beyond the virus.
As long as these racist rhetoric and
actions are the basis of how to treat
Asian Americans, the “new me” that
people hope for in 2021 should include
growth in the ways they act and what
they say.
Make it: “New year, educated me.”
(To learn about a new government
action being taken to combat this
racism, check out President Joe
Biden’s recent directive.)
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
8 — Wednesday, February 3, 2021
*Writer’s Note: I feel as if this
is definitively the last piece I will
ever write about grappling with my
brother’s illness as it’s time to make
peace. I believe its final resting place
is here at The Michigan Daily where
it will be afforded the dignity of being
heard by my editors. It will be read
by my friends Siri and Duaa C. and
my mother who dutifully give love
to every single piece I write. And for
that I am grateful.
I am 16 years old when I decide
that I will not be a mother. I am not
entirely certain I will ever possess
the qualities needed to be one and,
more so, because I understand
motherhood: what it means to be a
mother and to unequivocally love a
child so much so that the life they
lead becomes your own. And I
have thought often about this love,
a mother’s love, a love so muddy
and tangled, a love that knows no
creed or consequence, a love so
invariably tangible it renders itself
immune to any sort of concentrated
definability. It’s quite unlike high
school sweetheart love or puppy
dog love, man and car love or
backyard garden love. Because it is
a love that isn’t taught or learned,
a love that asks of no qualification
or merit, a love that isn’t newly
discovered after 3 months of night
classes at the local community
college or mastery of Symphony
No. 40 in A minor on the old
piano from a pawn shop in West
Lafayette, Ind., that was destined
to never be played again. Rather, it
is unquestioning, unflinching love,
routine and expected, visceral, like
the neighborhood cat named Max
that visits every Thursday to smell
the peonies without fail, or the
man in the moon. And because
of its enigmatic nature, I’d like
to think that a mother’s love
manifests in the most arbitrary
yet meaningful of ways. It is wet
bedsheets and burnt toast; bunny-
eared
shoelaces
and
I-Love-
Yous whispered into concrete;
handmade ceramic mugs from
art class that leak coffee, tea,
lemonade and perpetually slant
to the right; cherry pits spat
into grass; a pinky stuck to the
ring finger with peanut butter;
angry phone calls about overdue
books from Julie Lancaster at
the public library; and sometimes
it’s “Childhood Brain & Spinal
Cord
Tumors:
A
Guide
for
Family, Friends & Caregivers”
on the kitchen table and inky-
blue questions on how to love a
terminally ill child. And I know
because I’ve seen it in my own
mother.
In a hospital, my mother is
my brother’s first. She is Ryan’s
mother.
Ryan’s
mother
who
knows his height and weight.
Ryan’s mother who knows his
exact time and date of birth.
Ryan’s mother who knows he
prefers rooms that don’t overlook
Forest Hill Cemetery and rooms
with the TV remote attached to
an elastic cord and nurses that
angle their elbows just right when
injecting
Morphine,
Vicodin,
Vincristine. She is Ryan’s mother
who knows other things too,
like how meltdowns on the first
day of kindergarten, overturned
chairs and crayons snapped half,
slurred speech, crossed eyes,
monogrammed notes from other
mothers with suggestions for
expulsion and words like bully
and
disruption-to-the-class,
headaches so bad he flailed and
thrashed on the kitchen floor in
pain, were the doing of a brain
tumor in his cerebral cortex. And
more so, she is Ryan’s mother who
knew before anyone else, before
Dr. Green and Dr. Campbell,
before Dr. Schafer-Shapiro and Dr.
Reddy, before nurse practitioner
Jackie, before my father, before
me. And perhaps it’s because only
mothers are well versed in these
sorts of matters.
My brother had brain cancer
at 6 years old, though mind you,
cancer is the special sort of illness
that never leaves, it burrows
under the skin and fingernails,
in the tongues of shoes, behind
doorknobs and in back pockets,
in bubbles in the honey jar and
corduroys left to dry, and it
took my brother’s mind and my
mother’s soul and my father’s
heart with it and gave back love
and loss and shattered glass and
rust. And being a mother to a
son like my brother redefines
motherhood, strips it bare and raw,
flays it open on bathroom tile and
unpins, untucks, unties, reduces
it to its most carnal form, so that
motherhood
becomes
wiping
vomit off the Chinese buffet floor,
after the fourth, the fifth, the
sixth round of chemotherapy and
life becomes staggered. Staggered
around dates like Sept. 16, and
Oct. 12, and Nov. 6. Dates for blood
transfusions and appointments
where the doctor talks too fast
and the mind is too slow. And
mostly,
motherhood
becomes
acquainted with a certain kind
of grief. One far different from
tears cried over spilled milk, or
the death of the goldfish won at
the state fair after a three-month
stint in a plastic aquarium, or over
fractured wedding china after
the movers rough-handle the box
labeled fragile. Rather, it’s the
kind of grief that wraps under
and around the lungs, presses
hard down on the chest so that
the ribs begin to strain and crack,
and even one breath becomes the
most arduous task, it’s the kind
of grief that hollows into the pit
of the stomach and chips away
at the lining, leaving marred
holes, so that breakfast and
acid leak into the body and
sometimes it flashes so red hot
it burns the heart. It is heavy
and felt, thick and viscous,
and it covers the floor, and
the walls, and the windows,
and the loose spaces behind
the baseboards, trapping flies
and moths, wishes made on
shooting stars and the balls of
feet, Get-Well-Soon cards and
plastic forks with the prongs
broken off. And it’s the kind of
grief that only Rajia in Room 26
–– whose baby I held until his
heart gave out –– knows; and
Dominic Jackson’s mother ––
whose son lost so much blood
it stained the bedsheets clean
through,
splattering
shoes,
pooling out into the hall so that
the nurses’ station shut down
for the afternoon –– knows;
and the kind of grief that only
my oldest friend Asha –– who
lost her own mother to cancer
–– knows; it’s the kind of grief
that only my mother knows,
the kind of grief that only I
know. And above all, it’s the
kind of grief that pushes people
away, so that the phone calls
and pity playdates stop coming,
and aunts and uncles and
family friends go on vacations
to Northern Michigan or the
beach instead. The hospital
room begins to thin out and the
neighborhood mothers don’t
visit, and maybe it’s because
they cannot and will never
understand that in that room,
motherhood becomes ashes
and sweat and watching your
son die.
And in a hospital room,
when you are all that you have
left in this world, there comes
a certain sort of reckoning,
a grappling with mortality. I
have seen my brother choke
and gasp for air until he turned
blue, watched him seize and
scream and bleed. I have seen
my mother and father cry, felt
my spine take on weight, and
more than anything else, looked
death square in the eye and
watched it tug and pull at my
brother’s throat, bounce of the
walls and ceiling, knock into the
light fixture, leave irremovable
dents in plaster and violent
angry purple splatters that
never seemed to fade.
Should
the
tumor
ever
choose to grow again, my
brother will surely die and he
will take my mother with him,
and this time it will not grant
me the grace of God, mercy or
tact, love or care, and by that
virtue, perhaps my greatest
fear is not my own death, but
rather my brother’s. For what
is a sister without a brother or
a mother without a son.
*Content
warning:
this
piece
discusses sex trafficking and sexual
violence*
COVID-19
wasn’t
the
only
nightmare South Korea was dealing
with last March.
Going viral in late March 2020
was the “Nth Room,” a sexual crime
operation where women — and
underage girls — were blackmailed
into sexual slavery. These young
girls, often looking for ways to help
alleviate their financial burden, were
recruited by trafficking operators to
complete seemingly harmless and
miscellaneous jobs or assignments,
and attend conditional meetings
with
their
alleged
“sponsors”
who would send them money in
exchange for these deeds. These
interactions initially occurred on
social media services like Twitter
before conversations were moved to
Telegram— an encrypted messaging
app. Here, the recruiters asked for the
victims’ personal information, such as
their names, bank account numbers
and home addresses, claiming it was
needed to deposit money to their
accounts. The operators took this
information and proceeded to stalk,
blackmail and physically abuse these
women — and order them to do such to
themselves on video, via blackmail. All
of these exploitative videos were then
distributed by chatroom operators on
Telegram to viewers who had made
cryptocurrency transactions.
Because the administrative user
created eight groups on Telegram
using ordinal numbers (i.e., 1st room,
2nd room, etc.), the sexual crime case
became known to the public as the
“Nth Room” Case. Around 260,000
users were found in association with
the “Nth Room” and the more these
viewers paid, the more degrading
the content they received. The clips
distributed went well beyond the
nudity of these women; the women
were forced to commit violent and
extreme acts such as carving the word
“slave” onto their bodies with a knife
or harming their genitals.
Politicians
justified
the
participation of the 260,000 users.
Congressman
Jeong
Jeom-sik
remarked that viewers “enjoy these
videos alone for self-satisfaction,
so are we going to punish them for
that?” The South Korean Attorney
General Kim Oh-Soo blamed the
girls, claiming that “It’s normal for
teens to fool around on the computer,”
dismissing their criminality. They
weren’t the only politicians to express
such tone-deaf thoughts.
The general public was horrified.
Over 2.7 million people in Korea have
signed a Blue House Presidential
Petition—a national system of political
concern expressed via petition to the
government and Blue House officials
— requesting that the government
reveal the identities of the traffickers
and the viewers, which challenged the
country’s norm of protecting criminal
anonymity. Afterwards, 24-year-old
Cho Joo-bin was identified as one of
the chatroom administrators in late
March, while evidence in mid-April
revealed 18-year-old Kang Hoon as
an underage accomplice. There’s also
another petition where over 2 million
people have requested that all 260,000
viewers’ identities be revealed.
But this isn’t enough: Korea must
finally reflect upon its normalization
of female objectification, which was
made evident in the handling of the
“Nth Room” Case.
As a Korean girl who moved to
America in 2010, I was ashamed of
my motherland; these appalling
comments from Korea’s political
leaders only reminded me of the
difference
in
progress
between
the modern American and Korean
feminist movements. Unlike the more
progressive Western feminist agenda,
I’ve found that Korea’s deep-rooted
history of Confucian values are often
a justification for the subjugation of
women.
It’s
offensive
that
Korean
law doesn’t acknowledge child
pornography as sexual abuse or
exploitation, but rather as illegally-
produced films. Korean law is
too lenient on all sexual crimes,
which explains the proliferation of
digital sex crimes, such as spy cam
pornography and cyberbullying.
Compared to sentencing in the
U.S. for sex offenders that’s
roughly 10 to 30 years in prison,
sentencing for sex offenders in
Korea is a slap in the face, as those
who possess child pornography
can only get jailed up to a year
or pay a fine of 20 million won
($18,111.68). In 2018, Son Jung-
woo received a mere 18-month
sentence for operating one of the
world’s largest child pornography
sites, and South Korea even denied
the extradition request by the U.S.
in August 2020. Without harsher
sentencing, how will perpetrators
come to understand the severity
of their crimes? How will victims
get justice? Until then, victims will
never feel encouraged to share
their stories.
Furthermore,
Korea
should
change its outlook on sex, which
is still a taboo topic. Korea is a
sexually repressive country; porn is
banned, and the topic of sex is rarely
discussed by families, schools or
even the media. In order to change
its attitude towards sexuality, Korea
needs to improve its sexual education
programs in schools and normalize
discussions about sex for students. In
cultures where sex is taboo, people
may repress their normal sexual
urges so much so that it festers into
something worse.
Read more at
MichiganDaily.com
Make giving back the law
Reflecting on the “Nth Room” Case: Why South Korea needs a new feminist wave
New year, old jokes
You’ve Made Your Views Clear,
Now It’s My Turn
Warren Buffett has a net worth
of $73.5 billion. Jeff Bezos’ has one
of $179 billion, Bill Gates has one of
$111 billion and Mark Zuckerberg
has one of $85 billion. If each of these
individuals gave only 2% of their
income to charity, that would be
more than $28 billion raised. That
could be used towards overlooked
domestic issues like homelessness,
poverty and water sanitation. This
absurd amount of money is confined
to only four people. Imagine,
America, if the top five percent of
earners, those who make more than
$309,348 annually, were mandated
to donate 2% of their income to the
government that would be allocated
towards improving the poverty rate.
Everyone must pay taxes, but the top
5% of earners should give an extra
2% that should be used specifically
for improving domestic destitution.
It’s time for Americans to take
responsibility for giving back to their
community — an effort I believe
should be mandated by law.
It’s clear that many people with an
excessive amount of wealth loathe to
donate much of their money. In the
middle of the COVID-19 pandemic,
America’s wealthiest individuals
chipped in with less than 0.1%
(combined) of their money for relief.
Jeff Bezos donated around $125
million. To us, that sounds like a huge
contribution, but when proportioned
to his amassed wealth, it equates to
approximately $85 for the average
American worker. It should be an
expectation that when you have such
excess of wealth, at least 2% should
be spent towards supporting people
living below the poverty line. This
would ensure that society’s wealth
circulates, and that the rich do not
become excessively rich while the
poor do not become excessively
poorer, working to eradicate wealthy
America’s hoarding problem. Bezos
himself is the perfect example when
it comes to discussing the system of
how the rich continue to progress
even as the poor continue to struggle.
In the duration of this pandemic,
Bezos saw his wealth increase by
approximately $48 billion. In the
third quarter of 2020, the top 1%
owned 31% of the country’s wealth.
If giving back were mandated
under the law, the amount of money
collected can be put towards more
practical domestic predicaments,
which society believes would take
hundreds of billions of dollars to
eradicate. After all, according to
the United States Department of
Housing and Urban Development,
eradicating
homelessness
would
cost around $20 billion –– slightly
less than the amount of money
Americans spend each year on
Christmas decorations alone.
We have become so accustomed
to living in a country with problems
that should not exist in the first
place. Many of our domestic issues
are just considered part of the norm.
For instance, when we think about
homelessness, we all acknowledge it.
But we don’t reflect on what America
would be like if the entire issue was
eliminated. However, the answers to
these problems are within our reach,
far from being impossible. It seems
impractical, yes, but solutions exist.
In comparison to other countries,
America is far behind when it comes
to improving the lives of citizens in
poverty. Take Finland, for example.
Through Finland’s Housing First
effort, the country has managed to
eradicate nearly all homelessness.
If we take the collective sum of
everyone’s monetary contributions,
Americans could be the leaders of
social improvement. If America’s
billionaires are not charitable by
nature, it should be acceptable to
everyone else that America can
begin to take steps forward towards
making progressive change, even if it
means forcing billionaires to open
their giant pockets.
SARAH AKAABOUNE
MiC Columnist
SYEDA RIZVI
MiC Columnist
HANNAH NGUYEN
MiC Senior Editor
On Jan. 6, you planned and
executed an insurrection on the U.S.
Capitol. You wore shirts with slogans
and logos threatening to further
divide an already violently divided
nation. You fought against, and threw
a fire extinguisher at police officers,
while flying the symbol you claim
represents that their lives matter.
You carried the American flag, while
you threatened legislators that were
trying to defend the freedom and
democracy the flag represents. You
stole mail, a computer and a podium.
You broke windows and ripped
apart signs of the People’s House.
You destroyed the offices of elected
officials — and for what? To prove a
point? Because you don’t agree with
the results of the election?
We’ve been through this before,
too many times. For centuries, white
supremacists have voiced their
hatred and power by claiming they
are defending the American flag,
while in reality they are disgracing
it. That disrespect is blatantly hung
over our heads in the form of the
Confederate
flag,
the
ultimate
un-American symbol, to counter
every plea for human rights. It was
clear when you held that flag while
strolling through the halls of the
Capitol, that the only thing you were
trying to defend was your racism.
Since you have made your emotions so
violently clear, I’m going to talk about
how I feel, and you are going to listen.
I’ve gone through so many
emotions since that day. I’ve been
disappointed even though I’ve learned
to expect nothing less from America.
I’ve laughed this situation off because
I’ve become so desensitized to the
trials of living in this country. I have
had moments of confusion trying to
figure out how this whole situation
happened, but I am quickly brought
back to reality when I acknowledge
that these kinds of actions are in fact
American, even though politicians
and some in the mainstream media
say it isn’t. I’m frustrated because
Black people are killed just for
existing. When we peacefully protest,
we are arrested, tear-gassed and hit
with rubber bullets. You walk into the
Capitol with guns while threatening
to hang the vice president, and get to
pose for pictures with police officers.
I feel hopeless because I’m constantly
given proof of why I should be afraid
of the country I live in. I never knew
how far you would take it, but on Jan.
6, you made it clear just how far you
are willing to go. I’m crushed because
it seems like so much work has been
done to try and make America a
welcoming place for everyone, but
the cries for justice go in one ear and
out the other, and are constantly
dismissed and ridiculed by the very
people who need to hear them.
How can this hatred be so
customary that you are willing to lose
your lives and risk those of others?
Why are human rights a political
topic that we have to fight for over
and over again? Every time we take
one step forward, we fall ten steps
back. How can we expect anything
to change, when you –– and those I
once thought I could trust amongst
you –– are fighting to uphold racism,
sexism and countless other harmful
principles that are causing people to
unfairly lose their lives? This shouldn’t
be a problem. But it is. Seeing how
violently divided the country is, it’s
clear that you believe these disgusting
ideas wholeheartedly. What will it
take to show you that your beliefs are
harmful? Why don’t you understand
that white lives have never been at
stake? White lives won’t be sacrificed
with the results of this election. But
everytime you suit up in your MAGA
gear and take out your rifle, the lives
of marginalized communities around
you are at stake. But that doesn’t
matter to you, does it?
Reflections on Motherhood
MARIA PATTON
MiC Columnist
RACHAEL KONG
MiC Columnist