100%

Scanned image of the page. Keyboard directions: use + to zoom in, - to zoom out, arrow keys to pan inside the viewer.

Page Options

Download this Issue

Share

Something wrong?

Something wrong with this page? Report problem.

Rights / Permissions

This collection, digitized in collaboration with the Michigan Daily and the Board for Student Publications, contains materials that are protected by copyright law. Access to these materials is provided for non-profit educational and research purposes. If you use an item from this collection, it is your responsibility to consider the work's copyright status and obtain any required permission.

April 07, 2021 - Image 4

Resource type:
Text
Publication:
The Michigan Daily

Disclaimer: Computer generated plain text may have errors. Read more about this.

The first time I became aware

of my body, I was 12 years old at an
outdoor water park. I sat in an inflated
tube, swaying back and forth in an
obnoxiously loud wave pool with my
sister and friends. It was a perfect day
until it wasn’t. At one moment, my sister
and friends had been taken elsewhere by
the manufactured tide and I sat swaying
along, enjoying the blazing sun on my
face and the cool of the water on my feet.
I was then approached by two white
teenage boys, who I first thought were
mistaking me for someone else. One of
them looks at me, stifles a chuckle and
eloquently slurs:

“Hey, I just wanted to let you know

my boy over here thinks you’re hot.”

The boys erupted into a fit of laughter

and swam away, likely never to think of
that moment again. They were to move on
in the world, unaware of the effect of their
words on the women they encounter,
unaware of its effects on me. But I sat
there, suddenly aware of the layers of extra
fabric clinging to my skin, embarrassed
and choked by the polyester hijab that
circled my face; suddenly aware of how
ridiculous I must have looked for two
white boys to approach me and jokingly
tell me they thought I looked “hot.” In that
moment, what was a perfect day turned
into a demarcation of when I first became
uncomfortable being a visibly Muslim
woman in a country that valued women
based on their appearance. I didn’t tell
anyone about this — not my sisters, not my
friends. I just wanted to shrivel up like my
pruned feet in that wave pool, never to be
seen again by anyone.

Since then, I’ve always known

my body, a woman’s body, a Muslim
woman’s body, to be a complicated thing.
And I don’t mean that in a feminist,
body-positive way, though I am both of
those things. What I mean is, a woman’s
body sometimes feels like a free-for-all, a
legislated playground that starts to feel
like less of a body and more of a foreign
object that does not feel in line with the
rest of one’s being.

After that moment, I tried to minimize

the parts of me that made me visibly
Muslim. I no longer prayed in public and
sometimes opted for a hoodie instead
of a hijab. When I was in high school, I
became obsessed with makeup because
it was the only part of my appearance
that I could control. Every paycheck that
I got from my cashier job at the dreaded
local supermarket went straight to Ulta
and Sephora. I would watch tutorials
and wake up two hours early for school
just to cover my face in extravagant
paints and powders, to look like someone
I wanted to present to the world. When
my mom criticized my makeup addiction
and questioned who I was putting in all
that extra effort for, I shot back with the
quintessential response: “I’m doing it
for me.” And like many women, I think
I started to believe it. I started to believe
that my desire to make myself more

desirable stemmed from myself and
was uninfluenced by external factors
and opinions. To an extent, women do
perform these things for themselves. It
is a form of self-preservation to take care
of oneself, to put meticulous care and
effort into carefully coordinated outfits,
perfectly manicured nails, curled and
coated eyelashes. But I couldn’t help
but wonder if at some point, for some
women, did this desire stop being a
form of self-preservation and become a
manifestation of social expectations?

Some time in high school I was

introduced to white feminism, which at
the time I thought was just feminism, not
thinking about the ways it often excluded
women who looked like me. Feminism
told me I should wear what I want, date
who I want, do what I want and I loved
it. I championed the agenda to my Arab
and Muslim family, who told me not to

be like those Godless Amerkaan who
showed their bodies and slept around and
didn’t care about their family’s reputation.
Feminism told me all women were equal
and that our choices were only ours to
make. It talked about freeing the nipple
and empowering women to strip down,
but did nothing to empower women who
chose to cover up. It talked about free
access to abortion in America, but not
about forced sterilizations and sexual
assault in refugee camps. It talked down
on women I knew and loved, women
like my mother and my aunts and my
grandmother who chose to stay at home
and raise children, raise villages, which
was a world of work in itself. It told me to
make my own choices, but didn’t tell me
what to make of the women who did not
have access to the same choices. It didn’t
tell me how to balance expressing my
individuality and owning my body while
remaining respectful to my culture and
true to my faith.

Becoming comfortable in my skin

is a process. For Muslim women,
expectations of what one should be are
drastically different for women who
choose to wear the hijab versus those
who don’t. In the Muslim faith, hijab is a
commandment of God when a girl comes
of age, as are praying, fasting, giving to
charity, etc. However, like everything
else in life and religion, every choice is
a personal one and everyone’s journey
is different. Nonetheless, by putting
themselves on display, women who
choose to wear the hijab are exposing
themselves to the unwarranted and
relentless ideals imposed on them by two
competing sides — Western society and
the Muslim community.

On one end, we are being told by

Western society: You are oppressed, and
in order to liberate yourself, you must reject
the restrictive notions imposed upon you
by your community. But this liberation
comes at a price: We will set you free, but
at the same time, we will make you want
to change everything about yourself that
makes you “other.” Your Arab nose, your
thick curly hair. We will eat up the parts
of your culture we deem worthy. Your
delicious food, your exotic dancing.
We will don hijabs on scantily clad

models on runways but scoff in pity
when it’s a part of your everyday life.
Almost every Arab woman I know has
either gotten or talked about getting
plastic surgery. Nose jobs and face lifts,
keratin hair treatments, thinned and
tattooed eyebrows. And the discourse
surrounding these treatments is mostly
positive and uplifting. It is a woman’s
choice what to do with her body. Yes, but
to what extent is it really that woman’s
choice when notions of what she should
look like are ingrained into her from the
moment she is old enough to switch on
the television?

On the other end, our body is an open-

ended discussion for Muslim and Arab
men, who drown out the sound of their
own shortcomings with the sound of us
messing up. They tell us our clothes are
not modest enough and simultaneously
shame us for not being “open-minded
enough” and willing to bend our rules for
their own pleasure. Elder women look at
you in disgust in the grocery line because
the strands falling out of your loosened
silk hijab tell them I am American before
I am Muslim, before I am Arab, before I
am anything.

I’ll give you an example. Last summer,

after returning from my study abroad
program, I was working at a small
Yemeni restaurant near my house. One
day, I was serving a table of older men,
dressed in abayas and turbans who
looked at me a little too long when I
brought them their appetizers. I ignored
the feeling I got — that pit-in-the-bottom-
of-your-stomach feeling that makes you
feel like you are on display, that sudden
awareness of body — and continued
doing my job, even when I saw the men
stop my coworker to whisper something
in her ear as she walked by. Later on that
night, my sister, who is closer friends
with my coworker, told me what those
men said: They wanted my coworker to
tell me that my shirt was too short, that
a hijabi like me should dress better in a
place like this where men come and are
free to look. She was too shy to tell me in
the restaurant and I’m glad she didn’t.

When I first put on my hijab at 9 years

old, I was not thinking about these things.
I was not thinking about my physical
appearance or how I would go on to be
perceived in the world. I wasn’t thinking
about how the deliberate covering of
my body would lead to an undeliberate
uncovering of my identity in every room
I walked through — that I would be
judged as Muslim first, human second.
I didn’t think about the humiliation I
would feel at that waterpark and how
subsequently, swimming — something I
used to love and enjoy— would become
something I dreaded and avoided. I was
thinking: My mom and my sister wear it.
I love my mom and my sister. I love God,
and he wants me to wear it. And I never
regretted it, never saw it as anything
other than an extension of my identity, a
testament to my faith in God, until that
day at the waterpark. After that, it became
something that clearly announced me
as “other,” something boys would never
find attractive, something my American
peers would never understand or accept. I
worried they would think I was somehow
less educated, somehow less American
than them, somehow more docile and
less assertive and more passive. I don’t
remember my first experience with
discrimination in America; at this point
these instances have blended into a myriad
of little moments, microaggressions and
blatant remarks, but I can tell you about
the first time I became aware that my
body was not always something that
would feel like mine.

To most, identity politics are known

as a garnering of support for a political
figure or platform that represents
specific
demographics,
whether

that be race, religion, gender, etc. In
recent years, the relevancy of identity
politics has increased as diversity in
government has become much more
important now than ever before. For
example, the pool of 2020 Democratic
presidential nominees was the most
diverse the party has ever had. We
have gotten to a point where identity
markers have started to be seen as a
form of virtue signaling. More often
than not, someone is assumed to be a
good person just because they belong
to one or more marginalized groups.
This strips the nuances of an individual
and automatically assigns them a
certain amount of morality based upon
a few characteristics. While uplifting
members of minority groups in politics
is beneficial for representation, it can
be harmful when it’s done without
knowing a politician’s background
and platform. Representation alone

isn’t enough if a politician’s policies are
harmful to their constituents.

Take Lori Lightfoot, mayor of

Chicago, for example. Her campaign
was groundbreaking because she was
a frontrunner to be the first gay, Black
mayor of Chicago. However, while she
was making headlines and gaining
popularity because of this, many
overlooked her background as a federal
prosecutor and voted for her solely
because of the facets of her identity,
rather than the specific policies that
she stands for. Consequently, her
missteps as mayor have not been
condemned nearly enough. In the

most recent poll taken of her approval
rating by Wirepoints last October, her
approval still stands at over 60%. In
February 2021, she spent $281.5 million
in federal COVID-19 relief funds on the
Chicago Police Department payroll,
even though she had proposed a
reduction in their budget back in 2020.
In addition to this, she also refused
to reduce the funding of the police
force within Chicago Public Schools
despite calls for her to disinvest in
the CPD. While Lightfoot continues
to maintain that she is only trying to
do what is best for Chicagoans, her
actions do anything but. After violent

clashes between the police and Black
Lives Matter protesters last summer
in Chicago, it seemed to me and others
that a positive step towards reconciling
the tension between civilians and
the police force would be to reduce
their ability to inflict harm on citizens
by defunding their operations and
reallocating funds to social services
and community programs. Instead,
Lightfoot put even more money into
the CPD, enabling them to continue
their aggressive tactics.

Another example of the harms

of identity politics is current Vice
President Kamala Harris. While it
may be groundbreaking that she is our
first female, Black and South Asian
Vice President, her faults in her past
as a “tough-on-crime” prosecutor are
often ignored. In 2010, she sponsored
a state truancy law as a part of her
Truancy Project, which was designed
to promote consistent attendance for
young people in grade school. While the
intent to reduce truancy in schools may
have been well placed, the execution
in
the
form
of
criminalization

was
extremely
harmful.
The

implementation of this law led to the
arrests of several parents, most of

them being Black mothers, because
their
children
were
consistently

absent from school due to outside
circumstances like lack of access
to food, resources or safe housing.
Rather than focusing on combating the
factors that may contribute to a lack of
attendance in school, Harris resorted
to unnecessarily severe punishment.
Parents were unjustly arrested with
little to no consideration for their
domestic situations. Approximately
two in five children ages two years
and older whose parents have been
arrested endure significant emotional
and behavioral problems, which is
roughly twice the rate when compared
to children in the general population.
From announcing her campaign for
presidency on Martin Luther King
Jr. Day to playing Tupac at her book
signings, Harris seemed to publicly
align herself with her Blackness
through not-so-subtle cultural cues
all
throughout
her
presidential

campaign. This comes across as
highly performative because of her
past in facilitating mass incarceration
within Black communities. Despite
her
obvious
pandering,
Harris

still garnered support from Black

Americans
after
joining
Biden’s

campaign as the vice presidential
nominee, which surely helped in
their election in Nov. 2020. Even as
vice president, she is still inflicting
harm on entire communities. Since
Inauguration Day in January, the
Biden-Harris
administration
has

been issuing drone strikes in Syria,
physically harming countless civilians.
It is important to not assume such high
morality of politicians — or anyone
for that matter — just because of the
marginalized groups that they fall into.

On a personal level, I had to take

a step back and figure out when
heavily relying on identity politics was
clouding my political alliances. I, like
many others, would love to have more
representation in government from
people who look like me, especially
considering that the abilities of highly
competent politicians like Stacey
Abrams are often overlooked because
they belong to minority identities.
However, we have to keep reminding
ourselves that not all representation is
good representation and that research
into a politician’s platform and
background should always be done
before giving them our full support.

As a person of color, any type of application,

whether it be college, job or internship applications
are always equipped with stress, self-doubt and
insecurity. I feel alone in academic and social
settings at the University of Michigan, with about
55% of the student population being white and the
median family income being a staggering $154,000
for the Fall 2020 undergraduate population. I, as a
minority student who does not have the privilege
of wealth nor whiteness, have had to endure a
college experience overrun by feelings of imposter
syndrome. Here at the University, I constantly feel
the pressure of social and economic factors like race
and social class that lead me to lose belief in myself
academically and professionally. I dream to go to law
school and become a lawyer, which I know will force
me to exist within more intimidating environments
of professionalism, whiteness and years of enhanced
feelings of being an imposter.

Interacting with students in my sociology,

political science and public policy classes has
resulted in very interesting yet uncomfortable
conversations. It seems like almost every student
has been interning for their local congressman
since high school and have parents who own their
own law firm. Comparing my background and
experiences to others, the overwhelming sense of
competition makes me anxious and worried about
my future at the University and beyond due to my
lack of experience compared to my peers. When it
comes to discussions surrounding internships or any
other professional opportunity, the number of white
students who seem to have been handed positions
because of their family’s privilege is honestly
astounding.

This past January, I started my application to the

Ford School of Public Policy. Even before the start of
my freshman year, I already knew I wanted to apply
to this program come the winter of my sophomore
year, and I worked my ass off both academically
and professionally to try to secure an acceptance. I
completed the prerequisites courses early, pursued
internships that aligned
with my political interests
and became an involved
student at the University to
solidify that public policy
was my passion while
proving to admissions that
I was a dedicated student.
I thought what I was doing
would be enough and that
I would stand out among
hundreds
of
applicants

all competing for a spot
in the 70- to 80-person
cohort. But when talking
to other students who
had the same dream of
attending the Public Policy
School, it seemed that their experiences, grades and
accomplishments were much more prestigious than
mine. And when it was time to start my application, I
needed to think of something that made me different
from the rest of the applicants. There was an easy
conclusion: my ethnicity. I am a Latino student at
the University; I am a part of the mere 6.98% of the
undergraduate population that is Latinx.

Diversity has been proven to be beneficial in the

classroom. Whether it’s ethnicity, socioeconomic
class or religion that sets individual students apart,
learning in diverse environments improves students’
cognitive skills and critical thinking. By boosting
an individual’s abilities and intellect, diverse
classrooms nurture further academic success and
innovation. More diverse classrooms not only make
me feel more comfortable, but they also create an
open space for dialogue regarding important issues
affecting various cultures and ethnicities. I knew my
ethnicity would benefit the Public Policy School’s
cohort, but I did not want to wonder if I had only
been accepted for the sake of the school’s diversity
numbers. My imposter syndrome made me feel that
my experiences and grades would not be enough
for the acceptance email that I’ve been dreaming of
since I learned about the Public Policy School.

I had to come to accept that a majority of the

students applying, on paper, most likely appeared to
admissions as identical. So many of us are pre-law,

political science majors waiting on an acceptance to
the Public Policy School. Most of us are politically
active and involved in related organizations on
campus, and some of us naively believe we can
become president one day. Due to this, I knew the
one place I could truly stand out would be in the
application essays. It felt like the three 300- to 400-
word essays would determine my future.

After filling out basic demographic information in

the early part of the online application, it was finally
time to view the essay prompts. Unsurprisingly, the
first one was the staple “diversity essay.”

This year’s prompt started out by informing

the applicants about how research has shown
that diverse work groups are better at solving
problems. They noted, however, that working in
such groups can present considerable challenges
to students who struggle to work with others from
different backgrounds. The question then asked the
applicants to write about an experience working in a
diverse setting and specifically asked that the essay
be focused around the challenges of working with
differences. The final part of the prompt questioned
the applicants to discuss in what ways one could
improve on how productive and respectful they
were to others of a different background.

Though I was expecting at least one essay to

prompt me about my background, this question was
the most difficult one to write, taking me weeks of
constant drafting and editing. I think it’s important
for admissions committees to ask questions which
allow students to vulnerably talk about their
identities, but when it comes to this specific question,
it seemed that the committee was only trying to
see how white students have been able to interact
in diverse settings. Instead of just asking about an
experience in working in a diverse community, they
asked about how the environment was challenging.
After rereading the prompt over and over, I began
to get angry. In what environment at the University
have I had the opportunity to even work in a diverse
setting? To me, this question asked, “How, as a
person of color, have you faced challenges working in
a diverse environment despite never being in one?”
I’m almost always one of about three Latinx students
in 300-person lectures, the only person of color in

discussion sections and
one of four brown students
crossing the entire Diag,
the center of the University.
In all of my group projects
and breakout rooms, I
often find myself having to
settle without having my
ideas appreciated, being
talked over and feeling
stupid. I wish I had the
opportunity to work in
a diverse group setting
so that I could finally be
listened to, not doubted or
ignored, but that is simply
not the reality here at the
University.

I reflected on the final part of the aforementioned

prompt: “Are there things you wish you had done
differently or might do differently in the future
to work more respectfully and productively with
people who differ from you?” No, but this question
caters to white students who trample the minority
students at this school, creating a welcoming
prompt for them to ease their way into. When
talking to older friends in the Public Policy School
who helped edit my essay, we all agreed that this
prompt seemed to be purposefully phrased so
that admissions would be able to see which white
students were “woke” in appreciating diversity
and understanding its importance. These students
are obviously necessary for a holistically diverse
environment, but the ease of being able to discuss
working with people of different backgrounds
provides advantages to white applicants over
actual students who would contribute to a diverse
cohort. I am a person of color who has solely been
in majority-white environments, I could not think
of a time where I faced a challenge working across
differences, because I have rarely been presented
with differences in my work environments. A
challenge I have to constantly deal with is not
being valued as a thinker and student within the
classroom. It’s not my duty to respectfully and
productively work with students who can’t see past
my skin color.

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
4 — Wednesday, April 7, 2021

The “diversity” question

HUGO QUINTANA

MiC Columnist

Seeing through myself

When do identity politics get harmful?

UDOKA NWANSI

MiC Columnist

MAYA MOKH
MiC Contributor

Design by Ahmad Kady

Design by Brianna Manzor

Read more at
MichiganDaily.com

A challenge I have to

constantly deal with is not

being valued as a thinker

and student within the

classroom. It’s not my

duty to respectfully and

productively work with

students who can’t see past

my skin color.

Back to Top

© 2024 Regents of the University of Michigan