Wednesday, December 1, 2021 — 7
Michigan in Color
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

Attending a 9 a.m. lecture. Setting up a 
table at the Posting Wall. Printing out a last-
minute essay. Gathering for a student organi-
zation meeting after hours. As students at the 
University of Michigan, we spend so much of 
our time in Angell Hall, but how many of us 
actually know who James Burrill Angell is 
and what his legacy entails? Learned pieces 
of the University’s history seem to be met 
exclusively with shock and disappointment 
from students, faculty and alumni, and my 
moral outrage is growing weary. As a third-
year student, each passing term’s revela-
tions have left me with more to consider in 
regards to my relationship to this institution 
and its roots. I feel tainted with remorse for 
the countless survivors of sexual misconduct 
denied their due justice. I stand in solidar-
ity with the unmet needs of the Graduate 
Employees’ Organization and the Lecturers’ 
Employee Organization from an inadequate 
reopening plan. I remain appalled by the 
historically racist and exploitative practices 
of the Order of Angell, an exclusive senior 
honor society that disbanded just this past 
spring. Most of all, I am frustrated at the lack 
of accountability taken by the administration 
to address an imperfect history of the Lead-
ers and the Best.
Over the course of the past month, mem-
bers from my organization South Asian 
Awareness Network came together with 
organizers from the United Asian American 
Organizations, Central Student Government 
and LSA Student Government to discuss the 
legacy of former University President James 
B. Angell and the memorialization of his 
name to one of the highest-traffic student 
buildings on campus. Each week’s meetings 
worked toward brainstorming and planning 
a response to appropriately address his legacy. 
Here’s what we came up with: a CSG resolu-
tion draft calling for the removal of Angell’s 

name from the University building, a teach-
in and dialogue surrounding the present-day 
implications of Angell’s history, and a cultural 
fashion show on the steps of Angell Hall in 
celebration and reclamation of a space that the 
late president himself may not have expected 
our presence in. 
For context, Angell held a 38-year term 
as the president of the University and was a 
nationally recognized leader in higher edu-
cation, bringing in record number enroll-
ments and increasing accessibility for many 
students. In addition to his presidency, Angell 
served as a U.S. ambassador to China during 
which he re-negotiated the Burlingame Trea-
ty. While this treaty endorsed immigration 
at the high point of U.S.-China relations, the 
Treaty of Angell recognized the U.S. govern-
ment’s power to regulate the immigration of 
Chinese laborers due to domestic economic 
tension. As American Culture professor Ian 
Shin explained during the mid-November 
teach-in, Angell signed on to this treaty out 
of a sense of public duty as opposed to actual 
support for exclusion. Regardless of his initial 
hesitations to sign, the Treaty of Angell paved 
the way for the passage of the Chinese Exclu-
sion Act of 1882, one of the most racist immi-
gration bills in American history. Regardless 
of his intent to bring students on campus 
together, the secret society Order of Angell — 
formerly known as Michigamua — eventually 
became known for its profane appropriation 
of Native American culture and its notorious-
ly racist and elitist nature. President James B. 
Angell may have been a moral centrist, but the 
consequences of his neutrality leave a perma-
nent mark on the University’s history. Is this 
someone worth memorializing?
On Nov. 17, 2021, CSG’s ongoing resolu-
tion passed for the renaming of the Univer-
sity building Angell Hall and Angell Scholar 
Award. While I consider this a necessary step 
in the right direction, I can’t help but admit to 
a qualm I’ve had since the teach-in. 

700 square feet. That is how much space 
I had for the first 18 years of my life. 700 
square feet consisted of one full bathroom, 
a connected kitchen and living room, a bed-
room and a master bedroom that was only 
a few feet longer — split among five people. 
The members of apartment 2F included my 
busy dad, doting mom, brat of a little sister, 
smiley baby brother and myself.
700 square feet forces you to be creative. 
My dad was able to strategically fit a baby’s 

crib, a file cabinet and a three-piece furniture 
set in one bedroom while leaving a single 
strip of floor space for praying. Sticky, humid 
New York summers also meant investing 
and placing wall fans, window fans, stand-
ing fans and tower fans in each room. Those 
700 square feet taught my sister how to pick 
the bathroom lock when I would hog up 
the only private space in our home. When 
friends or family came over, we slept laterally 
to fit as many people onto a bed as possible, 
with our feet hanging off as we grew taller. 
My mom shopped for furniture with stor-
age units, and even stacked our drawers to 
make for more room. Naturally, nothing was 
set. There were no designated 
rooms. My socks and computer 
desk floated around the living 
room or wherever they fit best 
at the time. My sister and I slept 
wherever there was a bed. Nei-
ther of us claimed a room as we 
had guests flow in and out of 2F 
for weeks to months at a time. I 
learned how to fall asleep any-
where, to keep earbuds with me 
always and most importantly: 
to not be confined to my 700 
square feet. 
My parents kept 
my siblings and me 
busy 

and out of the house with school, after-
school programs and every weekend at 
madrasa. But these in themselves all felt 
like work and chores — not a true escape 
from my bottom bunk. I craved being out-
side without reason. I yearned for mindless 
walks and car rides. I satisfied this need 
every time my mom went out, practically 
begging her to let me join in on her errands. 
I’d happily hop in the car on a Sunday morn-
ing to play music and offer mindless chatter. 
Any aunties who’d join would give animat-
ed gasps each time they found me sitting in 
the backseat, but I soon became a regular 
member on these trips. The route followed 
the order of errands: first to put in orders at 
the butcher shop, then random shops and 
stalls with things to return and only buy if 
there was a good deal and finally returning 
back to the butcher and local supermarkets 
for frozen groceries. I was of no use on these 
trips as I enjoyed eating Costco samples, 
wandering through the stores eyeing items 
and — at my best — reminding my mom to 
pick up some cilantro. I mainly liked the 
potential of convincing my mom to pull into 
the McDonald’s drive-thru or stop at a halal 
cart before getting back home. I was unsuc-
cessful most times. Instead, she let me pick 
up light snacks or chocolate at the register 
— a little treat for doing nothing but being 
outside with her. I’d set my straw-
berry-kiwi Snapple and two-for-$1 
potato chips on the counter while 
my mom added, “Take 5, please.”
Take 5. It can be interpreted as 
“take a break” or even the Reese’s 

“Take 5” chocolate bar. But it was under-
stood as a one-dollar, small scratch-away 
lottery ticket. The bright yellow and magenta 
card could always be found in my mom’s 
purse or kitchen countertop. It’s an easy 
game to play: scratch away and get three of 
the same number to win that amount in dol-
lars. Most commonly, my mom would win 
back the one dollar she’d initially spent on the 
lotto ticket. This mostly no-loss trend made 
it harmless fun. There were only a few times 
she won anything upwards of five dollars, 
which would be enough to cover my little 
snacks. The greatest amount you can win is 
$5,555. It was not a lot but it was definitely 
something. A lump sum to ease the pressure 
at home. Something to make our measly 700 
square feet feel lavish. I imagined the $5,555 
being put to good use to buy more McDon-
ald’s Happy Meals long into the future. In 
hindsight, I realize $5,555 runs out quickly. 
This weekend, I finally understood the 
significance of Take 5. The high pressures 
of raising three kids in Queens, N.Y. have 
dissolved as my mom now settles into a 
quiet, suburban lifestyle. The image of her 
sipping hot tea in our backyard before tend-
ing to her small garden fits so well that I’ve 
forgotten how she’d scratch the lotto ticket 
against the deli wall with a rusting penny. 
There’s no more running rushed errands, 
scrambling for parking or navigating a 
700-square-foot living space. There seems 
to be no more need for Take 5 or lotto tick-
ets. But this past weekend, I learned I was 
wrong when my mom asked my dad to pick 
up a Take 5 for her. It was then that I real-

ized the goal was never to win $5,555 (but 
that would have been nice). Instead, it was to 
try and test one’s luck. It may bring an extra 
ten or fifteen bucks, or you lose a dollar. Like 
many other immigrants, faith in luck is one 
of the things my mom held on to in starting 
a new life where she knew no one. In mov-
ing across the globe with nothing but hope 
and luck, you have to trust that things will 
work out. That’s a much bigger gamble to 
make than playing Take 5. My mom con-
tinues to fall back on pure luck, except now 
by scratching three-like amounts [COPY: 
is this phrase referring to the three same 
numbers you have to get? maybe rephrase 
this if that’s not what it’s referring to] to see 
how lucky she might be. 
My childhood home might be dubbed 
as “not so lucky” by others. But I never felt 
unfortunate, even if my mom lost a dollar 
that day on Take 5. I never felt that way at all 
in our 700 square feet. It’s easy to say I felt 
content because that’s all I’d ever known. 
But it was my parents who truly made me 
feel lucky. I was lucky that my mom stocked 
our snack cabinet with Ferrero-Rochers in 
secret after telling my sister and me “no” at 
the store. My dad fulfilled our dreams by 
somehow making space for a five-foot-tall 
aquarium with tens of neon-colored fish. 
We were lucky to have our yellowish-white 
fridge covered in magnets from our vaca-
tions, family photos and messy art projects. 
Our cozy apartment 2F may not be classified 
as a house, but my parents definitely made it 
a home. Every square foot was somewhere I 
felt lucky to be. 

My paint-chipped garage slowly unhinges 
its gaping jaw to swallow my father’s car whole. 
Clad in my only fitting black collared shirt and 
a pair of athletic shorts, I walk down the stairs 
to meet my dad, still wearing his aloha shirt and 
black slacks from work. We smile at each other 
before climbing into his car. The half-hour drive 
passes by silently until we reach our destina-
tion. “We’re a little early, do you want to get a 
snack to kill time?” “Of course,” I enthusiasti-
cally answer. My dad navigates to a nearby 7-11, 
where I check out with a warm spam musubi 
and a refreshing can of Thai tea in hand. I don’t 
want to be disrespectful, so I wolf down both 
before we return to our destination. My dad 
laughs at my remarkable eating speed, and I 
chuckle in response as he pulls into the park-
ing lot. We park across from my mom, who is 
just getting out of her car as well. We greet each 
other and then follow the familiar laughter 
echoing out of the funeral home. 
I knew this day was coming long before 
I learned of my aunty’s passing the previous 
month. Of course, death can claim anyone at 
any moment, but I only really thought about 
it in my own life after my aunty’s stroke a few 
years earlier. My grandparents would take 
my sister and I to her house sometimes when 
my parents had to work. We would spend 
the afternoon taking her dog on a walk to the 
market up the street and strolling through 
the aisles of the small store. I knew she liked 
to travel, and my dad told me she had been to 
Japan a few times. She was one of few in our 

family who actually went back to our ances-
tral home country, and I regret not asking her 
about her memories of Japan now. As a young 
child, I never thought to ask her about her life 
before I was born. We weren’t that close since 
and as I grew older I only saw her at occasional 
family gatherings. I didn’t even know her full 
name until I saw the nameplate in her hospi-
tal room. I always just called her “Aunty K” 
as everyone else in my family did. “K” wasn’t 
even her first initial.
She also wasn’t actually my aunt. Techni-
cally she was my grandmother’s sister, but I 
always felt more comfortable just calling her 
“aunty,” just like my dad’s sister and his moth-
er’s other sister’s daughter and his dad’s sister’s 
husband’s two daughters, all of whom sit in the 
metal folding chairs of the mortuary. I bounce 
around the room to chat with all of my rela-
tives, whom I haven’t seen since the start of the 
pandemic. They are brimming with questions 
about my major and my first year of college. 
My other aunty’s infectious laughter echoes 
around the room as I talk about my steady diet 
of dining hall chicken tenders and fries. I don’t 
tell her — don’t tell anyone — that I ate almost 
every meal alone in my dorm room. Beneath 
their masks, I can tell that everyone was smil-
ing, and especially with death looming over us, I 
don’t want to ruin the mood. I eventually nestle 
into a seat between my grandma and my dad 
before the funeral director comes out to start 
the ceremony.
We skip the eulogy. While the gong rings 
through my eardrums, the monk recites a Bud-
dhist prayer in a language I can’t even identify, 
much less understand. We all bow our heads 
and close our eyes in prayer. I can’t read the 

musings of my family members’ minds as we 
sat in silence. At the end of the funeral, we all 
make an incense offering. One by one, my fam-
ily members walk up to the podium and move 
a few incense chips from their box into the fire. 
We each slightly bow our heads and clasp our 
hands together in a moment of silence before 
returning to our seats.
When it’s my turn, I don’t know what I 
should pray for. After so many hospital visits 
and silent car rides down the long hill down 
from the hospital to the city, I had long since 
accepted that this fate was inevitable. My aunty 
would want us to be happy despite her absence. 
And so I am happy, or at least I am as happy 
as one could be at a funeral. This preemptive 
grieving had saved me the anguish of suddenly 
trying to process the void she had left behind in 
the short month between her passing and the 

funeral. I turn around and walk back to my seat, 
facing the rest of my family. Their eyes all point 
in different directions, some are closed, some 
aim at the ground and others stare directly at 
me. Those eyes have seen my aunty’s face long 
before I was born. I wonder what thoughts 
and memories churn behind their pupils. But 
I can at least guess that they too have privately 
mourned before now, because when the funeral 
is finished, we all leave dry-eyed. 
This wasn’t the first time I thought about 
losing my family. Ever since ninth grade, when 
I knew I was gay, I’ve been thinking about the 
consequences of my coming out. My family and 
I have come to a nonverbal peace agreement 
since we’ve grown. It’s been years since shout-
ing voices had endlessly bounced off the walls of 
the house. In their place, quietness fills up every 
inch of the house. The stillness of the air seeps 

into my throat and arrests my vocal cords. But 
I prefer this silent suffocation to choked back 
tears. The fleeting silence makes the threat of 
bereavement loom even more menacingly over 
my household. I don’t want to risk undermin-
ing all the effort we’ve put in over the years, 
yet I cannot live a lie forever. Thus I grieve the 
comfort we share knowing that I will eventu-
ally shatter this fragile reality we’ve shaped for 
ourselves.
In the Buddhist faith, death results in rebirth 
until we can escape the cycle and achieve 
enlightenment. I find comfort in knowing that 
we may get unlimited opportunities to keep 
learning and growing. Although the compari-
son isn’t one-to-one, if the revelation of my true 
self does kill our family’s relationship as we 
know it, I hope that household can be recon-
structed and tried again.

Addressing Angell

Preemptive Grieving

ZAFIRAH RAHMAN
MiC Columnist

EASHETA SHAH
MiC Columnist

ANDREW NAKAMURA
MiC Columnist

Neptune stations direct 
in its ruling house, the twelfth 
house of the subconscious. Now 
is the time to look inward for mo-
tivation and creative inspiration. 
However, don’t get sidetracked by 
your own mind; keep a list of pri-
orities and stick to them before 
starting any new projects.

With Neptune in your 
eleventh house of friendships, 
you may start to over-romanticize 
being in a group. Of course, it is 
natural to yearn for inclusion; 
however, peer pressure could also 
force you to conform to everyone 
else’s standards. Neptune has 
the tendency to make us over-
romanticize people, but you need 
to remain true to 
your own feelings.

When Neptune stations 
direct in your tenth house of career 
ambitions, your work life may sud-
denly become jumbled as projected 
plans don’t pan out the way you had 
intended. However, adaptability is 
a Gemini’s specialty, so just stay on 
your toes and keep in mind alternate 
paths you can take. Ever the social 
butterfly, Geminis often form new 
connections just as quickly as 
they lose old ones.

With Neptune in your 
ninth house of philosophy, you 
may suddenly have grand ideas 
about travel and educational 
pursuits. Now is a great time to 
chase this heightened motivation. 
However, it can be easy to become 
swept up in the fantasy of travel 
or grandiose intellectual 
pursuits.

When Neptune stations 
direct in your sixth house of orga-
nization, you may have great ideas 
about reorganizing your schedule 
or your space. This is a great time 
to think of new plans, but be careful 
that you don’t over-commit yourself 
or begin a reckless renovation 
process. The new moon and solar 
eclipse in your third house of com-
munication and intelligence
 is asking you to take
 a moment alone.
With Neptune in your 
fifth house of creation, you may 
come to some incredible creative 
breakthroughs. Now is the time to 
harness this positive energy and use 
it to create something you’re passion-
ate about. The new moon and solar 
eclipse in your second house of mate-
rialism may cause you to reapproach 
your relationship with money. You 
should examine your expenses and 
aim to eliminate anything that 
isn’t necessary.

When Neptune stations 
direct in your eighth house of 
death and rebirth, your ideal aspira-
tions may not pan out exactly the 
way you had hoped. Leos can get 
especially frustrated when they don’t 
get what they want, and this can 
further hinder their opportunities 
to move past their obstacles. When 
your dreams are crushed, don’t dwell 
on the disrupted past, but 
instead look toward an even 
brighter future.

With Neptune in your 
seventh house of partnerships, 
you may need to re-evaluate 
some of your relationships. 
Neptune can cause us to see 
people as better than they really 
are. Virgos are great at observing 
small details, and this is the time 
to be critical. If certain partner-
ships are causing you distress, 
there is no need to continue 
silently tolerating the harm 
they’ve caused you.

When Neptune stations di-
rect in your fourth house of home 
and family, you may suddenly have 
new ideas to rearrange your living 
space. However, Sagittarius’s typi-
cal carefree attitude combined with 
Neptune’s fantastical influence 
may cause you to act recklessly. 
Before making any major changes 
to your home, be sure you think 
carefully about every decision you 
make. The light of the new moon 
shines upon your sign.

This is an intense week for 
you. Your ruling planet, Neptune, sta-
tions direct in your sign and your first 
house of self-identity. This is a great 
opportunity to generate new creative 
ideas and you may come to a sudden 
emotional breakthrough. However, 
your extremely active imagination 
can cause issues as well. You may 
tend to over-romanticize opportuni-
ties or people, which can cause you to 
overlook underlying issues.

When Neptune stations 
direct in your second house of 
materialism, be wary of frivolous 
purchases. Neptune can cause 
us to see the world through 
rose-tinted glasses, and this can 
be especially dangerous when it 
comes to money. Now is not the 
time to splurge since it is easy to 
overspend.

With Neptune in your third 
house of communication, you 
may view conversations and intel-
lectual pursuits through a much 
more optimistic lens than usual. 
This can be more relieving, but you 
must also approach your studies 
critically as well. If you’re passion-
ate about a certain interest, don’t 
settle for “good enough”; strive to 
be as proficient as possible.

by A n d y N a k a m u r a

YOUR WEEKLY
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