The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Wednesday, March 10, 2021 — 5
Raise the federal minimum wage
This past summer, I worked at an Amazon
fulfillment center. With an “appealing”
starting wage of $15 an hour, I forced myself
to work 10-hour days beginning at 7 a.m. for
four days straight, every week. This was an
attempt to make as much money as possible
before heading back to college in the fall. I
worked with hundreds of workers operating
forklifts, box cutters, tape guns and pallet
jacks. Though the work takes a toll on
your physical health, the $15 hourly
wage and the ease of picking
up shifts attract many people
to the facility. I was just a
broke college kid trying to
save up some spending
cash for the fall, but the
majority of the workers
were mothers, fathers,
grandmothers
and
grandfathers
working
to make ends meet. The
federal minimum wage
has remained unchanged
for over 10 years at $7.25 an
hour, and it is essential that
this minimum be increased to
$15 an hour.
These
blue-collar
head-of-
households were some of the hardest
working and nicest people I have met.
Yet, working 40 hours a week at $15 per
hour only brings home a bi-weekly check
of $1,200. And that’s before taxes. As the
cost of living continues to rise and more
people cannot afford basic necessities
such as housing and food, large trillion-
dollar corporations continue to underpay
their workers while constantly receiving
tax cuts from the federal government.
My coworkers at Amazon represent
people who were lucky enough to score
a “high-paying” job, while many other
Americans continue to work for even more
substandard wages.
Our federal government seems to have
been heavily founded on the principles of
Economics 101such as minimal regulation of
the free market and “trickle-down” economic
policy in an effort to spur economic growth.
This economic theory refers to the idea that
reducing taxes on wealthy corporations will
stimulate business investment and therefore
economic growth. But giving huge tax cuts
to these large corporations like Amazon
has only made the rich richer and the poor
poorer. In fact, when looking at Reagan-era
tax cuts for the rich, the real gross domestic
product growth rate — a statistic showing
how much a nation’s GDP grows from one
year
to
another,
as
adjusted for
inflation
— fell to negative levels in 1991, following the
end of his presidency. Similarly, following
this series of tax cuts, the American working
class experienced a decrease in hourly wage
following a second round of corporate tax
cuts in the 1980s. In that same vein, this
trend continues today. Instead of mandating
a basic living wage, our government has
decided that they work for corporations and
their definitions of “economy” instead of
their constituents. The rich have never had
to worry about facing eviction or where their
next meal was going to come from and have
instead worried about where to distribute
their next tax cut: toward an increased net
worth or to neoliberal campaign support.
Meanwhile, millions of working-class people
have to work long and tiring hours for most of
their life just to afford a roof over their heads
and food on their table.
The lack of a higher federal minimum
wage
also
negatively
affects
already
marginalized communities. Approximately
42% — almost half of all U.S. workers — make
less than $15 an hour. Of the 42%, people of
color and women disproportionately hold
jobs paying less than a $15 per hour wage.
Federally uplifting the poor, especially
those who are people of color, will create
huge
opportunities
for
upward
mobilization
—
something
already proven to be difficult
for minorities. Increasing
wages will better economic
disparities
and
racial
disparities by reducing
the
disproportionate
number of poor people
of color. A study done
by
the
Economic
Policy
Institute
found
that
raising
the minimum wage
to $15 would affect
38.1% of Black workers
and 33.4% of Hispanic
workers by creating the
opportunity for them to
earn raises, compared to
approximately 23% of White
workers receiving raises. Thus,
this policy can begin to bridge
the economic wage gap existing across
racial lines.
A federal minimum wage of $15 is not the
only thing to be done to diminish economic
inequality. Though more states have begun
investing in the working class, the federal
government has yet enacted a living wage
for its working people. Increasing wages
to $15 is key to ensuring an affordable
living situation and will drive the economy
upwards, advancing the welfare of the
American people. The strong and hard-
working mothers, fathers, grandmothers
and grandfathers I knew at Amazon were
a small representation of working-class
Americans. I know that any industry which
pays below $15 has the same dedicated
individuals who are in deserving need of a
raise so that they can finally begin to live a
more comfortable life.
HUGO QUINTANA
MiC Columnist
“The rich have never had to worry
about facing eviction or where their
next meal was going to come from
and have instead worried about
where to distribute their next tax
cut: toward an increased net worth
or to neoliberal campaign support.
Meanwhile, millions of working-
class people have to work long and
tiring hours for most of their life just
to afford a roof over their heads and
food on their table.”
Scallion pancakes on Sunday
Every Sunday without fail, my mom
and I gather around the kitchen island and
make (cong yóu bing), or Chinese scallion
pancakes together. The flaky layers and
simple ingredients combine to create an
aromatic and easy-to-make dish!
Ingredients (makes 2 scallion pancakes):
1.) 2 cups all-purpose flour
2.) ½ cup boiling water, 1 cup room
temperature water
3.) 2 bunches of scallions, thinly sliced
4.) 1 tablespoon salt and extra to taste
5.) 2 tablespoons olive oil
Step 1: Making the dough
Combine the flour, water (both boiling
and room temperature) and 1 teaspoon
of salt together in a large bowl — order of
ingredients added doesn’t matter! Use your
hands to knead the dough for eight minutes,
or until the combination forms a wet dough.
Cover the bowl with a towel or cling film, and
let the dough rest for around 2 hours.
Step 2: Assembling the pancake
Take the dough out of the bowl and split
it into two even parts. Set aside one half,
and place the other half on a lightly floured
rolling board. Coat all sides of the dough
with flour, and use a rolling pin to flatten the
dough into a thin layer, keeping a circular
shape. Sprinkle a couple pinches of salt across
the surface of the dough.
Once the dough is shaped, use the back
of a spoon or a cooking brush to spread a
thin layer of olive oil on the open surface of
the dough. The oil should cover most of the
dough, but be sure to not let it spill over the
edges! Then, spread your scallions evenly
across the surface of the dough.
Step 3: Forming the pancake
Starting from the bottom edge, tightly
roll the dough into a coil. Once the coil is
formed, twist and press it into a spiral shape,
firmly pressing the tail end of the coil into the
middle of the spiral so it seals properly. Then,
use your rolling pin to shape the dough back
into a moderately thin circular shape.
Repeat the assembly steps with the other
half of dough.
Step 4: Cooking the pancake
Pour a tablespoon of olive oil into a cast iron
skillet on medium-low heat and let it sit for a
couple of minutes. Then, place one pancake
into the pan and cover it with a lid. The stove
should be on medium-low heat throughout.
Each side should take around five minutes to
cook, but be sure to continuously monitor the
pancake to ensure it doesn’t burn. Once you
see the surface form a golden brown color and/
or start to form bubbles, it’s time to flip. Repeat
with the other pancake, and serve warm!
MARINA SUN
MiC Columnist
Tarab: music’s mystical ecstasy
There are many words that are impossible
to translate directly to English; their existence
in one language and absence in another makes
it difficult to ascribe a particular meaning to
them. Tarab is one of those words. Loosely
translated to “enchantment,” tarab is an Arabic
word describing a deep, stirring musical
performance that launches the audience into
a trance-like state of ecstasy. The creation of
tarab by an artist or musical piece is difficult
to pinpoint. Whether it be a result of poignant,
lilting vocals, mesmerizing riffs, stirring
instrumentals or profound lyrics, these
seemingly mystical components culminate to
create an experience of mesmerization, a world
in which all that exists is the music and the
intense bodily response one has to hearing it.
When discussing the cultural presence
of tarab in Arabic music, Umm Kulthum is
almost always used as the pinnacle of such a
phenomenon. An Egyptian diva who rose to
fame in the mid-to-late 1900s, Umm Kulthum
was known to bewitch her audience, rousing
their souls in her entrancing live performances.
With a powerful singing voice and intensive
training in Quranic recitation, Kulthum held
a firm command over her tone, unwavering
and expertly controlled as it swelled into
triumphant notes or dwindling cries. Her live
performances can best be characterized as
a conversation between Umm Kulthum, her
musicians and her listeners. The audience is
deeply immersed by the divinity of her vocals
and the way they blend seamlessly with the
powerful instrumentals backing her, sending
the crowd into a delirious fit of cries and
shouts. The spectators are steeped in rapture,
and with every powerful waver of her voice
or deliberately drawn-out note, they respond
with unrestrained enthusiasm — a holy
sermon between a preacher and her listeners.
Umm Kulthum’s live performances, and the
tarab which she so expertly cultivated among
her listeners, are rooted in a sense of ambiguity.
Such profound bodily experiences engage with
one’s mind, body and soul, and that power is
difficult to articulate. No words I could muster
would ever seem to do justice to the bewitching
performances of Umm Kulthum and the
seemingly supernatural force that fell over her
listeners. Tarab as an experience, in traditional
Arabic music and beyond, harbors that same
sense of mystery. Because tarab is difficult to
translate and is typically connotated with Arab
musical performances, it feels like any attempt
to neatly confine tarab to a short English
definition falls short.
Perhaps the experience of tarab is not
meant to be translated or systematized at all
— it must be felt. After all, the indescribably
deep connection that one can have with music
is a universal part of the human experience;
the out-of-body euphoria that music can
evoke is one that transcends the simplicity of
language. As a lover of music, I know that I’ve
experienced the peculiar magic of tarab in
ways that cannot adequately be described by
words. You too can probably recall a moment
in which that ineffable force has stirred you,
whether it be unsuspecting tears welling in
your eyes or an explosive, nameless sensation
rising in the pit of your stomach. Maybe it’s the
song that comes on in the car and hurls you
into a fit of screams with your friends as you
all pour every ounce of your strength into the
lyrics. It might even be the quiet lull of your
favorite Frank Ocean song, heard with eyes
shut and body still, unraveling you through its
celestial beauty.
The beauty of tarab is heightened by its
lack of simplicity; it is more than a superficial
engagement with the production or lyrics,
rather it is a complete surrendering to the
nameless, spiritual exaltation that this type
of music demands. Though the conditions
of tarab are difficult to explain, it moves us
all in a way that does not need to be entirely
understood. In its enigmatic nature lies a
comforting sanctity: a shared, almost holy
experience that connects us all.
YASMINE SLIMANI
MiC Columnist
Returning home to Kerala, my home
state in India, is as exhilarating today as it
was the first time when my parents brought
our young family from America. I was five
years old. I remember incessantly pestering
my mother, asking, “Are we there yet?”
Annoyed, she handed me a brochure with
pictures of Kerala that captivated me. The
greenery and the lakes were a stark contrast
to what I witnessed in Atlanta. Instead of the
brochure keeping me pacified for some time,
like my mother hoped it would, it evoked
more questions than answers: “Does this
place have a school where they don’t give
homework?” and my personal favorite, “Why
is it called God’s Own Country?” Finally, my
mother found something she could quiet
me with. She asked me to close my eyes
and believe that we were indeed going to
God’s Own Country. Even now, every flight
home carries with it the same evergreen
brochure highlighting Kerala’s natural
splendor and tourist attractions along with
our grandiose slogan in big proud letters,
“God’s Own Country.” (Tourism accounts for
10% of its revenue but 24% of the state’s total
employment). It always brings a smile to my
face, as I may not believe in God anymore but
I do believe in God’s Own Country.
The first striking thing about Kerala is its
peculiar color of green that dominates our
coconut trees. I can’t claim that I’ve traveled
the world extensively, but having seen most of
India I can claim that no other place has our
green. Kerala, geographically, is just north of
the equator, but it’s in the peninsular part of
India bordered by the Indian Ocean and the
Arabian Sea creating an optimal climate I
sorely miss at times in the cold of Ann Arbor.
It would seem that the sunlight and the
moisture — much like the ebony and ivory in
a piano creating a symphony — interacted to
create a sunkissed green that shimmers with
dew drops. Every Thursday in school, I had
the best view to witness our gifts of nature.
My school was built prior to stringent
ecological laws passing in Kerala. So, in
the middle of the hustle and bustle of our
relatively big city, there’s an expansive
forest accompanied by a lake that offers a
spellbinding view from the school library
on the top floor. Every Thursday, we’d have
to sit in the library for an hour, but no book
in the library quite interested me like the
view outside the window. I was captivated
by it. I remember towards the end of tenth
grade, on a particularly melancholy day, I
was making my way to the library. I had just
become aware of the fact that I’d be leaving
Kerala for the last two years of high school.
I knew that soon I’d have to say goodbye to
friends who I’d met in the third grade and
who knew me inside and out. I’d have to say
goodbye to teachers who watched me grow
up and, more importantly, helped me grow
up. And so I made my way to the library —
which was empty at the time — so that I could
collect my thoughts. A wave of nostalgia
hit me. The normally stern librarian saw
something serious was going on in the back of
my mind and let me in as long as I kept quiet.
I sat in the same spot I had for years, but on a
Friday and in the evening when the sun was
setting. The sunset that day was captivating.
An eclectic combination of different colors
layered upon one another. There was yellow
light emanating from the sun that gave way
to orange that gave way to a neon-like pink
capped off by a sky blue trying its hardest to
stave off the night. The lake was more than
happy to become the sky’s canvas, and the
green of the forest had an orange sheen that
seemed to make the light bounce off of it. I
remember trying to create a save file of that
image in my head, Alok don’t forget this, Alok
don’t forget this. It was the second time in
my life that I implored myself to never forget
what I was witnessing.
The first time was earlier in 10th grade
when I visited my ancestral home in
Thodupuzha, which directly translates to
“the touch of a river.” A huge district in Kerala,
Thodupuzha is a compilation of uninhabited
forested hills, streams, lakes and a sleepy
town which makes it a trekker’s paradise.
It was on visits there that I interacted with
nature in its rawest form without a defined
path and numerous dilemmas along the
way with no phone signal to bail us out.
While hanging out with my cousins and
their friends, we got wind of a cool place
we hadn’t yet explored. Apparently, there
was a waterfall at the start of a stream that
joined the river that was secluded and set
to become our spot. I continuously relented
against visiting it, not trusting my ability to
swim and anxious of dying from a waterfall
fall. Huh, waterfall fall would get me on
the news, I thought (and it’s a fun thing to
say). Armed with a sudden stoicism about
impending death, we made our way to the
stream. Tarred roads gave way to concrete
ones which gave way to mud roads that made
the car rattle. Finally, we reached the point
where we couldn’t continue on, as there was
no pathway. So we got out of the car and
made our way through a forested area with
an inviting canopy. I call it inviting as it let
just enough light so we could see each other,
and it brought a coolness along with it that
made me want to snuggle in a warm blanket.
The acned, frail dude who suggested the
location assured us that we’d find the spot
just around two corners. He wasn’t lying
when he said two corners, but he didn’t do
us any favors by omitting how long the two
corners were. To our shock, we found a
relatively flat terrain getting steeper, and we
realized we were at the foot of a hill which
nearly depleted our morale and would have
made us consider going back had we not
looked back and realized that the way back
was long as well. We persevered and got to
the bottom of the hill, and we realized we
would have to walk upstream before we got
to the waterfall. The once-formidable stream
had lulled in the summertime as it glided
along in no rush to meet its river. We could
now see the waterfall in its entirety, and
it was microscopic compared to the stock
image in my brain (of Niagara Falls), but it
was still big enough to make us question the
sanity in our plans to get near it. Our guide
assured us there was a spot behind the
waterfall that we could stand behind where
it would be perfectly safe. So, we made our
way through the bushy coast of the stream
until we reached a point where we had to
get into the water. Eventually, we got around
the side of the waterfall. There was a sizable
gap between the rest of the stream and the
waterfall due to the rock structure. I joined
the audacious members of the group who
were standing under the plunge, and the
water felt like a cold compress massage, or
as if the shower had a 50% spike in its water
pressure. With great trepidation, we made
our way to the front of the waterfall, and I
was asked to look up. The water here seemed
to be devoid of any constraints or concerns.
Design by Marina Sun
God’s own country
ALOK ABHILASH
MiC Columnist
Design by Yasmine Slimani
AZHAR P./Daily
Read more at
MichiganDaily.com