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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