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

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