The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
8 — Wednesday, January 19, 2022
Several years ago as a new student,
I was blessed with an “aha” moment
in recognizing an extension of my
personal identity. For me, the feel-
ing of incorporating terms and labels
that I was previously oblivious to, but
click immediately upon hearing them,
is unparalleled. A series of extensive
personal information forms, frequent
engagement with an affinity group, or
another spontaneous event can lead
to reconsidering and discovering ter-
minology that helps us better express
the identities that encompass our indi-
vidual being.
One such identity that isn’t imme-
diately apparent for select individuals,
including myself, is their first-genera-
tion college student status. First-gens
are typically known as students who
are the first in their families to attend
college. The criteria for some defini-
tions vary according to differences
in where one’s parent or guardian
received their degree or the level of
education obtained, like an associates
degree or a bachelor’s degree. The Uni-
versity of Michigan’s official definition
of first-generation college student —
which coincides with the definition
that most colleges have set forth — is
a student whose parents did not com-
plete a four-year college degree. On
the other hand, low-income college
students are generally defined accord-
ing to Pell Grant status, but similar
definitions are also based on assets and
institution-specific income thresholds.
First-gen students are likely to give
a variety of answers when asked about
when they first became cognizant of
their status. Some were aware of the
delineation of their identities prior to
applying to colleges, whereas others
were informed in the midst of their
higher education journey. FAFSA
applications, discussions with parents
about the future and a sense of bewil-
derment in a new environment can all
serve as factors that lead to this rev-
elation about how their identity is per-
ceived within institutions.
As I was transferring from my pre-
vious university, I was able to form
a foundational set of criteria that I
expected from my institutions to
facilitate a true sense of community
for first-generation students. Among
other things, I primarily sought a colle-
giate institution with consistent, dedi-
cated support and outreach towards
first-gens. Upon googling “umich first
gens,” I found the University of Michi-
gan to be much more robust compared
to other schools in terms of first-gen
specific resources, support and rec-
ognition. The First-Gen Gateway and
the Go Blue Guarantee were several
notable markers of the university’s
commitment and ongoing progress.
As I became more immersed in
the first-gen landscape, one term that
sprang up from time to time was FGLI.
FGLI stands for “first-generation, low-
income” and is generally pronounced
as either “fly,” “figly,” or the letters
enunciated individually. FGLI serves
as an umbrella term that not only
achieves brevity in the context of advo-
cacy and discourse, but also serves as a
point of reference for individuals who
identify as part of this community. The
term itself may seem trivial, but having
a qualitative phrase to affiliate with is
of paramount importance, especially
since first-gen and low-income iden-
tities are often left unrecognized or
overlooked entirely. Although many,
including myself, might take the Uni-
versity’s frequent advertising efforts
for granted, the absence of any effort
is abysmal and unfortunately the norm
at other collegiate institutions. Even a
granular “1ST GEN” sticker plastered
onto a laptop is a momentous mile-
stone and sign of progress. While the
visibility and recognition of FGLI stu-
dents through the perfunctory use and
presence of terms like FGLI, first-gens
and low-income makes me feel seen, it
is undeniably still a first step.
The adoption of these terms is by
no means an indicator that all is well.
The University has made considerable
progress in terms of accommodating
FGLI students, but there is still room
for improvement. Although there are
university-wide resources and sup-
port, there are only a few schools with-
in the institution that offer tailored
FGLI-specific resources. For example,
the College of Engineering maintains
its own dedicated set of resources for
its FGLI students, such as the First
Generation Engineers (1st Gen Engin)
club. These tailored resources — or the
absence of them — can make or break
a FGLI student’s experience within
their respective school.
Even the existence of the FGLI
identifier cannot resolve some discrep-
ancies on its own such as the sparse
FGLI representation and involvement
in professional and selective organiza-
tions. Moreover, some students may
choose not to self-identify as FGLI
or may feel that other components of
their identity are of greater salience to
them, leading them to place the FGLI
term and resources on their periphery.
I aptly dubbed last fall, my first
in-person semester as a University
of Michigan transfer student, the
semester of learning and unlearn-
ing. How do I operate living on
my own? What notions do I leave
behind in my metro Detroit sub-
urb? Which ideals and values are
significant to me, and to what
degree?
I unlearned the streets of my
childhood hometown. I learned
the ins and outs of my little cor-
ner on Forest Avenue. Some may
argue I unlearned good driving
by walking everywhere (I‘d argue
against that claim), and some may
(correctly) say that I learned the
perfect method of defrosting my
mom’s food. Beyond getting to
know myself and my campus more,
I’ve navigated critically unlearn-
ing my previous indifference to
problematic norms of wokeness
— namely current corporate diver-
sity initiatives. Before transferring
to the Ross School of Business, I
had nothing to do with the sphere
of business, so I just pointed and
laughed at its disingenuous social
awareness from a distance. But
once my immersion into the busi-
ness sphere truly began within my
first couple classes of the previous
semester at Ross, a disruptive seed
was planted into my mind that
watered and watered into fully
bloomed animosity, growing from
distinct phases of being bemused to
irked, to ultimately disillusioned.
The tipping point was when a shirt
was handed to me in the basement
of, ironically, the Trotter Multi-
cultural Center emblazoned with
big, bold, maize text that read “I
AM DEI.” What’s free is free, so
I took the shirt; it’s since become
a comfy bedtime staple. I wore it
once when my friend was over, and
with a mortified stare, she asked,
“You’re never going to wear that in
public, right?”
She was right. I knew I never
would— the words “I AM DEI”
immediately rang tone-deaf in a
way that I couldn’t quite articulate.
Tokenizing? Hasty? Grandiose?
Performative? The magnitude of
my discomfort at the shirt couldn’t
be summarized in a few words,
but served as a microcosm of my
irritation throughout the semes-
ter at being inundated with lingo,
jargon and pretty-little-nothings
about the overused yet under-
mined phrase “diversity, equity,
and inclusion,” always devoid of
any real action to address what
consistently has perpetuated rac-
ist oppression: global hypercapi-
talism.
It’s undeniable that an education
in business would showcase some
pitfalls of the modern synthesis
of business and wokeness. Dur-
ing the fall semester of my junior
year at Ross, students take the
highest concentration of required
courses in what’s dubbed the Ross
Integrative Semester, or RIS. Each
year, there are several preselected
RIS themes centered on creat-
ing business solutions with posi-
tive impact, and this fall’s themes
were inclusive learning; transpar-
ent and inclusive workspaces; and
support for physical and mental
wellness. Immediately within the
first couple weeks of class, there
was no question that attempts at
an image of social consciousness
were sprinkled throughout most,
if not all, of my courses — and
while they may possibly have been
well-intentioned, were rendered
ultimately feeble and insufficient.
Common terminology for assign-
ments included phrasing like:
“investigate a socially-conscious
venture,” “discuss the triple bot-
tom line” and “create a business
plan that addresses inclusivity
and transparency.” At face value, it
seems as though the Ross commu-
nity is a pioneer of “positive busi-
ness” — the often discussed, yet
infrequently realized utilization of
business principles and practices
to create solutions mitigating soci-
etal ills and promoting the great-
er good. Delving a little deeper
though, this facade is easily broken
by Ross’s lack of any tangible com-
mitment to racial equity. Ross, for
example, is one of the few schools
in the University that doesn’t
require a Race & Ethnicity course.
Instead, what we do have is a sin-
gle class period in a required Man-
agement & Organization course
devoted to (slightly, kinda, not
really) discussing Ava DuVernay’s
2016 documentary “13th.” The film
touches on a wide breadth of issues
related to the U.S.’s historical rac-
ism and oppression of the Black
community through the prison
system, and how it’s perpetuated
by the active role of business inter-
ests within the prison-industrial
complex. Thus, “13th” can help act
as a springboard for a genuine dis-
cussion, but our conversation on its
content was whittled down to 10
minutes of one class period. This
brief discussion, in my experience,
largely consisted of participation-
point comments like “I had no idea
the system was this bad!” and “it’s
just so shocking,” centering their
harrowed regret at past ignorance
instead of truly unpacking the role
that our goals as business students
play in societal issues the film
presents.
We quickly touched on the role
of business in the prison-industrial
complex for a couple minutes, and
this seemed to pass as proper DEI
learning to administrators, faculty
and some students.
First-Gen, Low-Income
(FGLI): An evolving term
The DEI Conundrum: An untold failure of
the American left
Design by Maya Sheth
GUSTAVO SACRAMENTO
MiC Columnist
ELIYA IMTIAZ
MiC Managing Editor
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Online Event | Tuesday, January 25, 2022 | 4:00 p.m.
An online lecture. For more information, visit
events.umich.edu/event/90122 or call 734.615.6667.
Epistemology and
Criminal Justice
Reform
Knowing
What’s at Stake
SARAH MOSS
William Wilhartz Professor of Philosophy
LSA LECTURE
Painting by Bethany Baker
Social Media or
Marketplace? A look at
Instagram’s Interface
While I hate to admit it,
checking my Instagram feed
has become a subconscious part
of my daily routine. From day
to day, the content is generally
similar — a few photo dumps,
posts from my favorite musi-
cians and maybe some funny
memes on my friends’ sto-
ries. One thing that especially
remains consistent is the copi-
ous amounts of ads I receive on
a daily basis. Every time I open
Instagram, I can guarantee
there will always be countless
products ready to be marketed
to me. This feels incredibly far
removed from the way Insta-
gram functioned when I first
downloaded the app at age 13.
My first encounter with Ins-
tagram was in 2014 when I cre-
ated my account as a middle
schooler who simply wanted
to share memes and fun photos
with friends. At the time, Ins-
tagram had minimal function-
ality; a user could really only
post one photo at a time and
share them through direct mes-
sages. Posting to my feed was
a trivial hobby that didn’t take
much thought or effort. Just
like all social media sites, Ins-
tagram has undergone a pleth-
ora of significant updates since
its initial launch, including an
infamous logo change in 2016,
and the ability to include mul-
tiple photos in a single post in
2018. The most notable change
in recent years was an update
in late 2020 that rearranged
the navigation bar to promote
Instagram’s video feed, Reels,
and their shopping page, Shop,
in place of the Compose and
Activity buttons. While this
may just seem like an annoy-
ing inconvenience to Instagram
users, there are underlying
implications about pushing an
eerily similar TikTok competi-
tor and a shopping page to the
front of the app.
As a company, changing their
interface is far more lucrative
for Instagram because it nudges
users to shop through their app
more than ever before. When
users buy goods from sellers
directly through the app, Ins-
tagram takes a 5% commission
from every single sale made on
their Shop. Meanwhile, Reels
have now become one of Ins-
tagram’s primary features as
a direct response to TikTok’s
ever-growing platform. TikTok
has roughly a billion monthly
users and Reels emerged as Ins-
tagram’s attempt to keep users
from fleeing their app entirely.
With the navigation bar update,
Reels is the centerpiece of the
app, with the Shop as its sec-
ondary feature. To even make
a post, a user must tap a small
button in the upper right cor-
ner of their feed or profile
tabs. Such an interface change
doesn’t seem fitting for what
Instagram is supposed to be: a
photo-sharing app. Complicat-
ing the photo-sharing process
in such a way implies that post-
ing your photos or videos is just
an afterthought compared to all
the superfluous new features.
UDOKA NWANSI
MiC Columnist
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Read more at MichiganDaily.com