blurry memories
of sleepy car rides home
with everyone asleep
but dad and me
he points to the moon
and says to me,
if you look at the moon
it looks back at you
can you spot it?
he asks
it can always spot you
he tells me tales of when he was young
clouds of smoke would fill the sky
and leave the night with darkness
monsters lurked in the trees
the city lay asleep
but he was wide awake
not one star to light the way
but the moon always did
he tells me about his bike rides at night
coming home later than he should
he would look at the moon
and they would return together
safe and sound
he tells me how he thought
there couldn’t be just one moon
after all,
how could only one moon always know
his every move?
he had me convinced
and still does,
for my child-like mind
finds comfort
that in the scary darkness
the moon will light my path
now as i walk
to my home away from home
i glance up at the moon
just every now and then
and i can’t help but wonder
is he looking at the moon too?
As my 20th birthday creeps around the
corner, I’m grappling with a lingering feeling
of whiplash. Time has been racing by and I’m
short of breath trying to keep up. It feels as
if it was just yesterday that I was celebrating
my 18th birthday in my basement with my
friends back home. But the clock doesn’t slow
down for anyone. Even though the days feel
painfully slow, time passes by quickly when
you’re living through a global pandemic. This
has also meant downing more hard-to-swal-
low pills than I had accounted for. Neverthe-
less, in approaching this threshold into a new
chapter of my life, I’ve had time to reflect
on the past and the future, as daunting as
it seems. The growing pains have not been
easy, but they’re a rite of passage through any
significant life transition.
For me, growing up is realizing that most of
the time, life isn’t going to be like the movies.
It’s so easy for me to get caught up in the overly
romanticized depictions of adolescence that
saturate the media. Spending a lot of time
engaging with such media while growing
up had me wondering when I was going to
finally have my quintessential coming-of-
age moment — something akin to the iconic
tunnel scene from “The Perks of Being a
Wallflower” where Emma Watson gracefully
stands up in the trunk of a moving pick-up
truck under the city lights of the Fort Pitt
Tunnel, or the scene in “Lady Bird” where
Lucas Hedges and Saoirse Ronan are joyously
running through a vineyard. There was a
point at which I had to realize that, in most
aspects, my experiences won’t be the same
as the main characters in my favorite movies.
A lot of the time, life feels less like the idyllic,
rose-tinted, peaceful drive scenes of an A24
film and much more like an experimental
film: shaky, unpredictable and confounding.
Still, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and last
spring made that very clear to me.
In March 2020, my friends and I were
trying on our graduation gowns and
planning for what was supposed to be the
quintessential prom night. By the next
month, these milestones were taken from us
in the blink of an eye, leaving us all feeling
cheated by the world.
Fortunately, at the end of our school year, I
got the chance to end my own pity party. On
our graduation day, rather than tuning into
an unceremonious virtual commencement
ceremony, I spoke at a local Black Lives
Matter vigil during the peak of national
protests. I got to speak about local social
injustices in our hometown and organize
with community members to plan future
initiatives to promote racial equity. Even
though my senior year didn’t conclude how I
expected it to, I got to be a part of something
bigger than myself last summer. Since then,
I’ve found much more long-lasting joy in
letting go of unrealistic expectations for how
my life is “supposed” to look. I now appreciate
any time spent with loved ones more than
ever, whether we’re riding the train on an
adventure through the city or just laying
around binge-watching “Gossip Girl.”
Growing up is coming to terms with the
fact that not all of my closest friendships
will last forever. Whether we drift apart
naturally or harshly cut off all contact, some
friendships are just bound to end. After
such an abrupt ending to my high school
experience, this was made even more clear
to me. I’ve had unfortunate falling-outs with
people I once considered to be my ride-or-
dies. This is just a testament to the truth that
at such a time in my life, when everybody is
moving in different directions, relationships
can be very impermanent. Even people that
I’ve held close to my heart can be gone as
quickly as they came. While this was one of
the hardest pills to swallow, I’ve learned the
importance of appreciating moments with
the people around me for as long as I can and
not spending too much time grieving faded
friendships.
Growing up is also realizing that I don’t
always have to act grown. I don’t think
I’ll ever fully grow out of my youth.
And that’s okay. Though it isn’t
always
easy
when
scrolling
through the latest news headlines,
I’d hate to ever reach a point at
which I’ve become entirely jaded
by the world. Still, I think being
able to silence my inner cynic at
times is a necessity to maintain
some peace of mind. For a while,
I thought that one day I’d wake
up and all at once be launched
into adulthood. I figured that
when the clock struck midnight
on my 18th birthday, I would
instantly be a grown-up. Yet 18
felt the same as 17, except with the
ability to vote and finally own my
own Costco card.
Even now as I’m reaching 20, I don’t
feel too far removed from who I was
two years ago. My friends and I still
like to send each other stupid memes
and make funny TikToks. Now, I just
have to schedule time every now and then
to file my taxes or tweak my resumé for
a job application. The transition is much
more gradual than I thought it would be.
It’s as if I’m indefinitely teetering on the
line between childhood and adulthood.
Maybe I’ll be balancing on this line for a
while, but I’m slowly beginning to find
comfort in this “in-between” phase,
especially with the knowledge that my
peers feel the same way. I surely don’t
have everything figured out yet, but really,
who does?
Navigating this turbulent crossroad
between
adolescence
and
adulthood
is anything but easy. It has been full of
winding roads, sharp turns and dead ends.
But I wouldn’t want the ride to be any
other way. I’m surrounded by friends and
family that I love very deeply, and I am
better equipped now than ever to handle
any curveball thrown my way. Usually,
my birthdays are a bittersweet time for
me. While it’s a time for celebration, it also
means an increasing load of responsibility
and having to confront my fears of the
future. But this time around, I’m
trying to face my 20th solar
return with confidence that all
things will work themselves
out for the better. Cheers
to growing older,
in
all
of
its
perplexing
glory.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Wednesday, September 22, 2021 — 7
Growing pains
UDOKA NWANSI
MiC Columnist
Core memories in poems
amma opens the top drawer
of the dresser that’s older than i am
and pulls out a chain
it lays twisted but not tangled
it glitters but does not sparkle
it is old yet it feels so new
for i have never seen it
but i know already
i love it
the chain wraps around her hand
waiting to be worn around my neck
amma hands it to me reluctantly
she urges me to not lose it
are you too young for this?
she thinks out loud
but gives it to me anyway
and i wear it proud
the moon and my father
Design by
Sophia Kamien
the necklace and my mother
proud of my mother
who spent her first paycheck on this gold
proud of my mother
who wore this gold when she got married
proud of my mother
who immigrated to the states with this gold
proud of my mother
who is always so proud of me
always wear it inside your shirt
she fearfully says to me
you can’t lose it
she cautions me again
i’ve worn it for seven years now
and i always will
because for the first time
i think to myself
maybe something gold can stay
By Meghan Dodaballapur, MiC Columnist
Every now and then, I need to remind
myself why I write.
Especially on days where I sit in front
of an empty Google Doc for hours on end.
Lately, that’s been every day. Days in sun-
lit coffee shops and cafes where my fingers
hover over the keyboard as I contemplate
which thoughts should make it to the page.
No, this one might be too corny. Maybe
this one, but I can’t find the perfect words.
Then there are late nights in the library
where the only button I can seem to click
is “delete.”
I wish it were as easy as sitting at a desk
for two hours and walking away with
a draft at the very least. Instead, I find
myself up at three in the morning typing
away loose thoughts in the Notes app.
Sometimes the sun sets into a beautiful
pink as the perfect song (probably by Steve
Lacy) begins to play, making all the words
seem to come out just right. Most times,
however, a successful day of writing looks
like spacing out in calculus and squeezing
out a dramatic line or two, like “I miss
you, just not the way you made me feel,” in
between scribbles of sinusoidal functions.
And yet most often, the pressure of having
six hours left to a deadline and iced chai
lattes are truly what get me writing.
By the time I’ve hit submit, I am
convinced I’m a shitty writer. I think about
8-year-old Zafirah telling anyone who
would listen that I was going to be a writer. I
remember how my mom nervously laughed
every time I went into detail about traveling
the world and writing stories along the
way. I didn’t get it then,
but now I nervously
laugh at the thought
of it too. She worried
about me living off a
writer’s salary, while
I now contemplate if
I can even become a
writer. I am sure there
are long lists of tips and
tricks
on
improving
one’s writing process
— talking through one’s
ideas, planning ahead,
reading a whole lot
more and so forth. But
writing doesn’t exactly
work like that for me.
I can’t exactly plan
how each piece will
take a part of me with
it. Writing in its simplest form is a way to
get my voice and thoughts on paper. To
write everything down allows the moment
to live on forever. It calls for honesty and
vulnerability, all while internalizing the
inherent demand to sound great. And once
it’s all out on paper and I see things I didn’t
before, I start to understand my emotions
and
experiences
with
a
heightened
awareness. This clarity that comes from
writing is a double-edged sword. While it
brings peace and growth, it also replaces
blissful ignorance with the pains of self-
awareness. So after the grueling process
behind each piece, I have to ask myself —
why do I write?
I love writing, I do. I love writing long
birthday cards, reminding others of
how appreciated they are with run-on
sentences and lots of adverbs, and dotting
my I’s with hearts in
lengthy love letters. I
love writing about my
plans for the day on
pastel post-it notes or
filling a blank page with
entire dreams for the
future. I love writing
with authenticity and
excitement, hoping my
voice and emotion are
heard clearly. I write
like this because I
remember how it felt
to read as a kid. The
way
authors
could
craft whole beings and
worlds
with
words
was magical to me.
Books
presented
an
opportunity
to
live
and learn through others. Even more
special was how a string of words could
easily make my heart jump. I aspire to be a
writer who can make their reader feel. I’m
especially thankful that I have the means
to become that writer through Michigan
in Color.
But the truth is I write for myself before
I do for anyone else. I write to remember
all the delicate and pretty moments of life.
I scribble down all the epiphanies, daily
updates, growing pains and fears in a little
blue book. I write to capture all that I feel
onto a page or several. I want to be able to
flip back and revisit these memories fondly
through my words. I reread them months
later with the foresight I didn’t have then,
adding new reflections in the margins.
I write to understand myself better as I
continue to grow and live life to its fullest
extent.
So it’s okay if things are too corny or
don’t sound entirely perfect because I write
for me. And with the hope that my writing
leaves the reader with a familiar memory
or feeling. Right now, I’m writing this piece
knowing I’ll revisit it a few weeks from
now. It’s to remind myself that through
writer’s block and shitty writing, it’s always
a beautiful thing to give my thoughts a
space to live.
Why I write
ZAFIRAH RAHMAN
MiC Columnist
Design by Zafirah Rahman