The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
14 — Wednesday, April 21, 2021
statement
Lost at Michigan: a reflection of my
transition from rural to university life
O
n the evening of Wednesday,
Dec. 16, 2016, I lounged in my
old bedroom, exhausted from a
particularly grueling competitive cheer
practice, mindlessly scrolling through
my phone after yet another day of going
through the motions. Just after 8 p.m., I
refreshed my Gmail, only expecting to
delete more emails from various stores
— hello, Victoria’s Secret and Forever21
— who flooded my inbox with promo-
tions each day. Then, suddenly, there
it was. An email with the subject line:
“Your University of Michigan Admis-
sions Decision.” Without even opening
the email, I glanced at the first few words,
written just under the subject line, that
read: “CONGRATULATIONS Elayna —
You’re IN!”
Startled and in utter shock, I jumped
out of bed, sprinted out of my room and
down the stairs to the living room — slip-
ping multiple times in my socks on our
wood floors — and ran up to my older
sister. Wordlessly, I shoved my phone in
her face as I stood in front of her, speech-
less and in tears, attempting to catch my
breath. My parents looked at us in bewil-
derment, wondering what could possibly
be on that phone screen. My sister, real-
izing I was at a loss for words, filled them
in: “She got in!”
I got in.
I was quite apathetic throughout the
entire college application process. My
sister had matriculated to the University
as well, but generally, attending a large,
four-year university was an exception to
the rule in our little 2,000-person home-
town. For the most part, members of our
tiny graduating classes found themselves
attending local community colleges or
small state schools, going to trade school
or entering full-time work on fam-
ily farms, in factories or local real estate.
Many would stay in the town, or at least
the county, for the rest of their lives, find-
ing success and happiness in their homes,
families and work.
The academics at our high school were
tailored for this. A squat, one-story build-
ing shaped like a square with two small
wings, Bronson Jr./Sr. High School did
its very best to breed success for its stu-
dents. Housing grades six through 12,
with a generous estimate of 475 total stu-
dents, the school was chronically under-
funded. Our textbooks dated back to the
early ‘90s and monstrous box televisions
still hung from the ceilings in the corner
of the classrooms, most of which still had
chalkboards. We didn’t have any official
International Baccalaureate or Advanced
Placement programs; our sole AP class
— AP U.S. History — couldn’t even be
listed as an AP course on our transcripts,
reputedly due to financial reasons, and
we didn’t have calculus or biochemistry
either. Seniors spent half the year taking
a class on U.S. government and the other
taking what was meant to be economics,
but our teacher chose to focus on person-
al finance instead. This was a reasonable
choice given that these skills are much
more practical — therefore more likely
to be used by most students after gradua-
tion — as compared to a high school-level
understanding of macroeconomic con-
cepts.
Many of my friends and family mem-
bers, along with my entire community
back in Bronson, found happiness and
success by utilizing this education, find-
ing work that they enjoyed and that
allowed them to support their families.
They not only embrace but thrive in their
small-town, humble lifestyles, building
friendships and tight-knit community
bonds that last for generations. My com-
munity loves living in a place that feels
familiar and intimate — where everybody
literally knows everybody.
But, deep down, I always knew the
small-town life wasn’t meant for me. I
wanted to do something more. I didn’t
know what “more” was, but I knew I
had the potential to do it, and I knew I
couldn’t find it in Bronson, Mich.
This has always been a source of guilt —
the idea that the lives my family and com-
munity members lived somehow weren’t
good enough for me. After announcing
that I would be attending the University,
I knew some members of the community
would immediately label me as preten-
tious and arrogant — but it wasn’t about
them. They found their own versions of
success, and I am immensely proud of
them for that. But my imagination was
big, my desire to learn was bigger, and
my feelings of being trapped inside such
a small box were suffocating.
As I started to think about attending
college, I had little hope that I would
achieve my ever-lofty goals. I was aware
that my education hardly compared to
that of students from even the neighbor-
ing towns, let alone that of students from
fancy private schools. My standardized
test scores were in the top tier of my high
school but in the bottom tier of the Uni-
versity’s average admissions. If it hadn’t
been for the handful of Bronson gradu-
ates who had successfully matriculated
to highly-ranked universities before me,
including my sister, and the support I
received from my parents and a few key
family members, I probably never would
have applied.
But I did. And I got in.
I truly never could have predicted
what the next four years had in store for
me. Despite my general awareness of how
far behind I’d be in comparison to my
future peers, I thought the dual enroll-
ment courses I took at a local commu-
nity college would help prepare me for
the increased academic rigor. I thought
that it would be easy to find friends and a
community on such a large campus, given
that there were literally tens of thousands
of students to meet. I genuinely believed
that after leaving the town that I never
felt I belonged in for a place like Ann
Arbor, I would find myself, my people and
my passion quickly.
I was incredibly naive.
T
he very first hurdle I faced was
the realization that all of the
dual enrollment credits I had
taken during high school were worth-
less — the credits couldn’t transfer
because the classes I took at the com-
munity college weren’t on the Univer-
sity’s “approved” list. In order to appeal
this decision, I was expected to obtain
the syllabi from those courses and inde-
pendently petition the professors of the
congruent classes at the University to
approve them. This is an outrageous
and intimidating ask of a young, ter-
rified freshman facing such a drastic
transition, already aware of the gaps
in her academic preparation. Anxious
and intimidated, I didn’t even bother
to try, knowing that the outcome was
less than likely to be fruitful. Instead, I
accepted my fate and surrendered near-
ly an entire semester’s worth of credits.
I was reminded of this every semester
as I tried to enroll for courses, always
last in line due to having fewer credits
under my belt than my peers in the same
year as me.
With this happening in just the first
few weeks of college, my feelings of
inadequacy were underscored and came
to define my freshman year at the Uni-
versity. My first semester was a blur of
social anxiety, academic hardship and
imposter syndrome. From the moment I
opened my acceptance email, some part
of me truly felt that my admission to the
University was a fluke. I thought I wasn’t
smart enough to be here and that all of
my peers were far more enlightened and
intelligent than I was. I felt that I could
never succeed in a place like this. These
feelings made the thought of opening up
to my peers terrifying.
At home, I was always one of the “smart
ones.” But suddenly, everyone around me
at the University was talking about their
IB diplomas and listing the entry-level
courses they would skip because of their
academic backgrounds. At the same time,
I was struggling to keep up in those entry-
level courses, as the professors frequently
skipped over material they assumed I
learned in high school. I was so insecure
about whether I even deserved my place
at this university that I thought that if I
talked to my new classmates and dorm
neighbors, they’d figure out that I wasn’t
actually smart at all.
Between unawareness and a simple
lack of resources, the University didn’t
help much with this transition. I didn’t
technically qualify as a first-generation
student because my mom and stepdad
earned their degrees online during my
childhood, so the community and the
resources for first-generation students
weren’t available to me. There’s no pro-
gram on campus that specifically seeks to
aid students who are expected to teach
themselves class material that professors
assumed I had learned. I was too embar-
rassed to admit what I felt was my stu-
pidity during office hours, so I had two
options: seek out tutoring or deal with it.
I couldn’t afford tutoring, so I was left to
fend for myself.
Eventually, I started to adjust. During
the second semester of my freshman year,
I finally found a small, like-minded group
of friends with similar academic experi-
ences who made the transition a bit easi-
er. Slowly but surely, I taught myself how
to study, how to write papers and how to
teach myself all of the material that pro-
fessors skipped over. I really started to
wish my high school economics teacher
had placed more of an emphasis on those
macroeconomic concepts. Still, I pushed
through, even when I spent countless
hours in the UgLi studying for an exam
that I ultimately performed poorly on
despite my best efforts and great desire to
understand the material.
I later learned that my lack of academ-
ic preparedness wasn’t the only factor
contributing to the hardship I’ve faced
at the University. Just two months ago,
as a second-semester senior, I was diag-
nosed with attention deficit hyperactiv-
ity disorder — meaning that I endured
nearly the entirety of my undergraduate
career undiagnosed and untreated for
something that makes learning so much
more difficult. Those times that I barely
even managed to finish timed exams that
I spent countless hours studying for, and
that everyone else finished much more
quickly, suddenly made a lot more sense.
I applied and chose to attend this uni-
versity because I wanted to learn and I
wanted to be challenged. I thought that
the hardship I was facing was exactly
what I had asked for. To an extent, it was.
But I wasn’t supposed to face it alone.
And it wasn’t supposed to be as hard as
it was.
M
y acceptance into the School
of Public Health saved me
from giving up on my academ-
ic goals. As soon as I was able to dive into
a field of study that I was deeply passion-
ate about, I finally found myself perform-
ing better academically. The support I’ve
received in this program from my advi-
sors, professors and peers is invaluable.
As my undergraduate career comes to
a close, I’ve managed to earn University
Honors and obtained my first 4.0 semes-
ter grade point average in Fall 2020.
These accomplishments feel so small to
students who came in prepared, but for
me and my family, I may as well have won
an Olympic gold medal.
Still, looking back, I can’t help but
wonder how my academic experience
would have been different had there been
resources available for students like me.
It was hard to find people with similar
backgrounds because I was too embar-
rassed to talk about my struggles — and
they probably were, too. For those of us
who don’t technically fall into those first-
generation college student categories, or
who attended a high school like mine, it’s
incredibly intimidating to talk about our
experiences without having feelings of
inadequacy take over.
I felt all of those feelings, in addition
to pure loneliness, for so much of my
undergraduate career. It took until my
senior year to truly feel that I belong here.
Nobody should have to feel that way.
If you’re reading this and my story
resonates with you in any way: you’re not
alone. I wish that there was some cohesive
community on campus for students like us,
but unfortunately, there isn’t. Until there
is, please remember: You belong here. You
were admitted because you deserve to be
here. You’re intelligent, competent, pow-
erful and worthy. Go to office hours and
don’t be afraid to ask for help. And, most of
all, please don’t give up.
BY ELAYNA SWIFT, STATEMENT CONTRIBUTOR
ILLUSTRATION BY EILEEN KELLY