My passion for baking started at a
very young age. I can’t tell you about
the very first time I ever baked because
I quite honestly don’t remember, but I
do remember what became a weekly
ritual at my house starting when I was
about five years old. Every Sunday,
my dad and I spent our afternoons in
the kitchen whipping up some sort
of dessert. As he and I sped through
our tiny kitchen, my sisters blasted
Nancy Ajram (only one of the most
iconic Arabic singers) in the living
room while my brothers played video
games and my mother tried to remain
ahead of of the disaster the kitchen
would soon become. It was beautiful
chaos. We measured, whipped, mixed,
frosted and sprinkled our way through
our Sunday. But do not be fooled. After
all our efforts, we were always left
with nothing more than a prepared
Betty Crocker vanilla cake mix that
was topped with heaping amounts of
pink frosting and rainbow sprinkles.
But, in my five-year-old eyes, it was
worth more than the entire world.
My affinity for baking grew with me
throughout the years, and I often
think back to those Sunday afternoons
with feelings of nostalgia as I consider
what initially set my love for baking
into motion.
After informally taking orders
from customers all over Ann Arbor
for years, I launched my independent
baking business, Confections by Reem,
during the summer before my senior
year of high school. I was motivated
by a mixture of boredom and finally
pulled the trigger on something I
had wanted to do professionally for
years — but it was no smooth-sailing
journey. As any small-business owner
would, I experienced great highs but
also very low lows. There were times
when I absolutely thrived and reached
heights I never thought I could, and
there were times I failed. Over time,
I watched my order counts double,
triple and even lead me to book out
full weekends. Simultaneously, I
watched my social media presence
grow and gain more traction within
my community and beyond. These, as
well as countless other achievements,
were highs. However, things like
the occasional failed cake or various
attempts to navigate the complexity of
Instagram marketing with its forever-
changing algorithm seemed to drown
out all previous joy and pride.
Running my small business spurred
and intensified notions about myself
that I never knew I had. Through all
the roses and thorns, one persisted:
I never felt qualified or worthy to
be in my position. I didn’t feel like I
deserved the title of “entrepreneur”
or “small-business owner” and quite
honestly felt like my achievements
were more of a product of luck
rather than my own hard work. I
allowed my minor failures to define
my capabilities and refrained from
talking about my business to strangers
and even friends and family. But at
the same time, I also could not help
but question the paradox in my own
struggle: How could I be hyperaware
of the fact that I was doing so well with
my business yet still approach it with
so much self-doubt? Out of frustration,
I connected with other small-business
owners on Instagram, particularly
those who carried similar identities
as me and were in the same field as
me. By interacting with these like-
minded women of color and hearing
their experiences, I discovered that
my feelings were purely a result
of imposter syndrome. People of
color, some of who carry multiple
marginalized identities, are prone to
experiencing an increased sense of
imposter syndrome. Connecting with
these small-business owners helped
me understand these insecurities
but also motivated me to fight back
against them. I actively sought to
minimize the extent to which I allow
my imposter syndrome to stunt the
growth and potential of my business.
Easier said than done? Most definitely.
I would be lying if I said that my
impostorism has disappeared entirely
because every day is a constant battle.
I began by implementing small goals
in my everyday actions and thoughts.
While I initially found it challenging
to refer someone to my page, I now
shamelessly plug my business in any
social setting and rant about the work
I do to any person who is willing
to listen. And although I initially
struggled with delegating and asking
for help when I needed it, I now take
full advantage of any resource that I
cross paths with.
I take immense pride in the fact
that I am an entrepreneur of color.
By recognizing my self-worth and
my business’ potential, I regained
excitement to do what I do, and it has
even managed to spill over into other
spheres of my life.
6
Thursday, May 13, 2021
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
When I arrived in Ann Arbor
in January, I embarked on a quest
to survive my second semester of
college. Along my epic journey, I
faced powerful foes such as Calculus
2 and second year-level Japanese.
Night after night, I crossed swords
with Taylor polynomials and kanji
characters. Despite several defeats
over the course of the semester, I
vanquished my last final exams
and claimed the ultimate treasure,
an ancient relic I had long since
forgotten: free time. Immediately
after my Calc 2 final, I swiftly exited
Gradescope and navigated over to
Steam; it was time I enjoyed myself
with a good video game after months
of non-stop work. Combing through
my backlog of games, I stumbled
across “Omori,” a psychological
horror game set in a deceptively
bright and colorful, nostalgic, 8-bit
fantasy
world
brimming
with
amusing characters and heartfelt
moments.
I bought Omori just a few days
after its release after seeing a video
showing the game’s cute art style
on Tiktok. I had anticipated the
game’s horror elements from its
description on Steam; nevertheless
I was still a little shocked when
my player character began in a
sparse, eerie white room called
Whitespace. After poking around
the area and obtaining a knife as a
weapon, a door became accessible
and let me venture through the
world with other friendly characters
I met. The pastel world design
and charming characters were so
adorable that I pretty much forgot
that this was a horror game. And
because I was familiar with the
fairly simple combat system found
in other turn-based role-playing
games like “Pokémon,” I was
immediately
comfortable
with
Omori. As a result, I never wondered
why there was an inaccessible menu
option labelled “???” on the top-left
corner of my screen (Since I was still
in the tutorial, I figured this would
be a normal tool that would open up
to me later). And when my character
learned a combat skill bluntly
labelled “stab,” I never viewed it as
anything more than a basic element
One Friday morning, as I exited
my anatomy class, a tall brunette
with a black backpack nudged me
and asked, “Wait, you listen to The
Moth?” I was taken aback because
I was in fact listening to an episode
of “The Moth Radio Hour” podcast.
“The Moth” was founded in 1997 by
novelist George Dawes Green, “who
wanted to recreate in New York the
feeling of sultry summer evenings
in his native Georgia, when moths
were attracted to the light on the
porch where he and his friends
would gather to spin spellbinding
tales.” “The Moth” holds a variety
of events from “StorySLAMs,”
an open-mic setting where any
attendees can tell a story in front of
a small audience, to the “Mainstage,”
where tellers spend time with
producers from “The Moth” to
develop their stories and curate them
for a large audience. The podcast
features selected stories recorded at
those events with commentary from
the hosts as well as behind-the-scenes
details.
That day, The Moth’s logo was
visible on my phone — sparking
a conversation between us about
“The Moth,” our love for stories and
why storytelling is so important
to us. We spoke about our favorite
episodes and shared more podcast
recommendations with each other.
She loved the Ed Gavagan episodes,
where he speaks about a horrific
stabbing accident he went through
and its aftermath. I recommended to
her my favorites: Moran Cerf’s story
in “The Call” and Janna Levin’s
“Life on a Möbius Strip.” After that,
I would go on to attend different
StorySLAMs, become a Hall Of
Flame member, even pitch my own
story to “The Moth” and continue
listening till this day.
I have always been interested
in
people’s
stories
and
lived
experiences. To deal with my culture
shock after moving here from
Syria, my first steps of acclimating
consisted of observing people’s
behavior around me and writing
about things that seemed different,
new and strange to me. I remember
one of the first things that puzzled
me is how students behaved in the
classroom.
The Ominous Red Button
The Power of Storytelling
From Boxed Cakes to Confections
REEM HASSAN
MiC Columnist
ANDY NAKAMURA
MiC Columnist
LEENA SHARBA
MiC Columnist
Read more at michigandaily.com
Read more at michigandaily.com
Read more at michigandaily.com
Courtesy of Reem Hassan
Courtesy of Andrew Nakamura
MICHIGAN IN COLOR