The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
6 — Wednesday, March 30, 2022
Over the past two years, my vibrant
paintings have engulfed my once unem-
bellished bedroom wall. Each comes with
a unique color scheme: from a pale orange
canvas of Lisa Simpson to soulful butter-
flies flying across a lilac sky. To me, paint-
ing is a therapeutic release that I don’t find
in other spaces I use for comfort. While I
often use journaling as an outlet to orga-
nize my thoughts and track my personal
growth, I find that painting gives me the
ability to express my emotions and leave
the experience with a souvenir. I can trace
a memory back to every one of my pieces
and the emotions I experienced during its
creation. Adding onto my wall of paint-
ings has become an incentive for me to
experience a brief moment of euphoria and
pride for the art that I made with my own
vision. It quite literally allows me to bring
my thoughts into reality. When I paint, I
find freedom in mixing any color to cre-
ate another. My paintbrush is not capable
of creating anything but beauty, and I have
the ultimate autonomy of deciding how
to personalize my canvas. During 2020,
I used painting as a fluid art form; it was
the only aspect that I had control of when
every other part of my life was thrown in
disarray during the pandemic.
Since 2020, 17 members of my family
have tested positive for COVID-19, two of
whom have died, one of them being my
grandfather. My grandfather had lived in
the U.S. with my family since I was born,
and as a first-generation Asian American,
I saw him as one of my greatest blessings.
Having a figure like him present through-
out my life, I learned the importance of
humility, genuinity, strength and compas-
sion simply by observing him. Between his
conversations with everyone that entered
our home, the relationships he built with
my friends or how he said “God bless you”
every time he answered and ended a phone
call, my grandfather set the foundation for
my values that I still live by.
He also served as a bridge connecting
both of my cultures — American and Indi-
an. Since visiting India was only possible
every few years, I relied on my grandfather
to affirm my Indian identity. The universal
identity crisis that first-generation Ameri-
cans face is humbling and never-ending,
but having my grandfather around was
how I felt enough. With the inability to
grow up with my family in India, I held
onto my grandfather as a connection to
my culture. Practicing Telugu with him,
listening to his stories from his childhood
or even teaching him about Thanksgiving
and other American traditions gave me
a balance that I couldn’t find on my own.
Losing him meant losing my immediate
sense of cultural identity. When he passed
away, I struggled with losing someone so
sacred to my heart, as well as my under-
standing of who I was.
Grieving the death of a loved one is hard
in itself, but grieving someone through
a pandemic is a slap in the face. Going to
the grocery store, making plans with my
best friends or even stepping outside for a
walk has trapped me in an endless bubble
of fear. Will I encounter the virus today?
Will I see someone, who saw someone,
who tested positive? I hope I don’t expose
my family. Dealing with anxiety my whole
life, I’ve leaned on my friends for support
and surrounded myself with the things I
love to do when things get rough. But even
this form of comfort was taken away from
me. How was I supposed to do that when I
was in my room trying to do anatomy labs
over Google Meets and adjust to the pos-
sibility of encountering the virus if I left
my house? I was trapped in a state of con-
stant movement and change. I needed time
to stay still for just a moment to process
my grief, but instead, the pandemic intro-
duced so much disturbance in my life that
I simply didn’t have the energy to experi-
ence; I just had to get through each day.
While this was the ugliest time in my
life, it enabled me to create the most beau-
tiful art. I channeled my grief into paint-
ing as a way to cope with my new reality.
While painting was not an escape from the
burden I was bearing, it helped me under-
stand my situation better.
My grandfather’s passing taught me that
life is a lot like painting on a blank canvas.
We have an idea of what we want in life, but
the colors we are given rarely align with
our wishes. Regardless, we end up finding
ways to work with our circumstances to
create a masterpiece. This pandemic will
eventually come to an end (hopefully). The
mask mandates will lift (for a final time).
“Maskfishing” will no longer be an issue
for Gen Z to consider. Life will go back to
being somewhat normal. Maybe, even,
the lingering fear I face when leaving my
home will disappear as well. But the guilt
that plagues my mind will forever be a
part of me. The survivor’s guilt I have had
throughout this pandemic has been one of
the biggest roadblocks in my healing pro-
cess. I remember the long-awaited day I
got my vaccine. Despite my mortal fear
of needles, I was almost excited to get my
injection. I remember thinking that finally
I could hug my friends without having to
replay and worry about the interaction
later that night (though later that sense of
security would prove false). But I found
myself feeling empty. My first instinct was
to feel guilty for surviving the pandemic
while my grandfather wasn’t able to. I con-
stantly question why I’m able to enjoy the
things that were stripped away from the
victims of this virus and the families that
it ran through, and it makes me sick that I
can’t find an answer.
I write this piece with the newfound
realization that my survivor’s guilt is unde-
served. Society has failed our communities
so badly that we’ve convinced ourselves
that we are deserving of punishment even
when we are at our most vulnerable states.
This toxic notion pushes the idea that
we, as humans, have the duty to continue
pushing ourselves past awful situations in
order to prove our worth by being “resil-
ient” in the end. There is no finding beauty
in this situation, because beauty doesn’t
exist here. That’s why I found it so incred-
ible when I witnessed the people around
me create it even amidst the hell we were
going through.
Before the pandemic, my life was filled
with familiarity and structure within my
community at school and my town — from
my AP Chem lab table, the girl who held
the door open for me at 7:35 a.m., the Star-
bucks baristas who knew to brew a tall
salted caramel hot chocolate every time I
stumbled in with my backpack to my four
best friends who saw me every day after
school. The pandemic put my personal
issues into perspective as I heard stories
about the 400,000 families who also lost
a member to COVID-19, friends of mine
whose parents had lost their jobs and those
struggling with their mental health. I
finally grasped the idea that every commu-
nity member of my previously structured
life, from my favorite Starbucks barista to
my lab partner, was also forced to work
with a blank canvas. Social media became
a new place of unison for these members
of my community; I witnessed them post
updates on their health anxiety, how they
implemented family walks into their daily
routine or how they experimented with
new hobbies. It was during this time that
each of our individually complicated lives
became the most similar as we all sought
to “create art” amidst our personal strug-
gles.
My community showed me that in
pressing times like this pandemic, humans
have the same capacity to experience joy
as we do pain. What surprised me, though,
was how natural recovery seems to be.
Watching many of the people around me
being thrown into a realm of the unknown
and still making the most of their situation
showed me that while I am not obligated to
find the silver lining in all of my losses, it’s
pretty amazing that somehow I can. And
discovering this ability is when we begin to
create each of our own masterpieces.
Te voy a contar una historia…
Una historia de muchas lágrimas
Mis lágrimas y
Las lágrimas de mi familia
Una historia de mi vida
Una parte de mi vida
Que me va a tomar años para entender
Años, años y años
Pero
Es parte del viaje
Acompañeme
For the first time ever in my life, I embarked
on a trip 20 years in the making: I set foot into
the country of Mexico.
The country I dreamed of visiting since I
was a tree-climbing toddler, theater perform-
ing teenager and now an anxious, stressed out
young adult. Dreams that started in my child-
hood bedroom back in Wyoming, MI, created
in the twin bed with the Spider-Man sheets.
During my adulthood, I was still that small
Mexican boy with caramel skin and shaggy
hair that dreamt about visiting Mexico, living
with that childlike wonder and waiting for the
day I would see Mexico in all its glory…
What does Mexico look like?
What does Mexico smell like?
What does Mexico feel like?
Since I was a little kid, I always knew I
was Mexican. I spoke Spanish at home, I ate
Mom’s spicy enchiladas, I learned that my
parents were immigrants from Mexico and
how to navigate life under these circumstanc-
es. I went to quinceañeras, feeling the boom-
ing bass in my heart, and ate all the wonder
pan dulce. These things were normal to me
because it was all I knew, but this understand-
ing of my identity had always been something
in my peripheral mind.
I remember the day when I discovered how
much culture I truly held.
I was in third grade and it was like any other
day. During our usual snack break, I pulled
three items out of my lunch box: a banana,
Tajín y mi concha…
Three of my favorite foods in the entire world!
I peeled the banana, popped the cap off my
Tajín bottle, sprinkled the seasoning on the
top of the banana and took one big bite. Once
I finished eating the banana, I took another
bite of the chocolate concha. As I finished
my lunch, my teacher walked up behind me
to peer over my shoulder and with a curious
voice, she asked,
“What’s that?”
I shifted my body to quickly inform her,
“It’s a concha! And this is my Tajín! What,
you don’t know what this is?”
I was astonished that she didn’t know
what I was eating. This was my normal, and
I had to realize that other people didn’t eat
my “normal.” I remember little Pablo feeling
a bit perplexed, but also filled with a belly full
of pride. At an early age, I was proud of my
Mexican heritage and cherished the food I
brought to class. All the other kids were eat-
ing their lunchables, peanut butter jelly sand-
wiches and other classic American lunchtime
favorites, but there I was enjoying my favorite
foods….
Un platano
Un poquito de Tajín y
Una concha
Eso era mi lonche
There were even times before school where
I would join my mom in delivering lunch to my
dad during work…
Una torta con frijoles, Aguacate y
Una Coca-Cola
Eso era su lonche
Even with all this self-admiration I had
in third grade, growing up in America, there
were times when my Mexican identity was
questioned.
Growing up in the U.S., I thought to myself…
Am I Mexican enough?
What a silly question! But this silly question
stuck with me — especially when it came to
my Spanish speaking abilities.
I spoke Spanish at home with my parents
and in other settings when visiting our family
friends, but for the most part I primarily spoke
English. I’m the youngest out of my siblings,
and I always knew that my Spanish was not
the strongest out of the bunch.
In high school, some kids would tease me
and my Spanish by calling me a “gringo.” Now
the word gringo can have multiple meanings,
and it isn’t always used as an offensive word.
It can refer to a traveler, a person of foreign
birth, a person who doesn’t speak Spanish or
Hispanics that speak very little Spanish or
aren’t in touch with their Latino roots. Still,
I never liked being described as a gringo
because I knew personally that I was tapped
into my Mexican roots to the best of my abili-
ties. Though it was a surface level comment
that people would use against me, I would still
think to myself…
Am I Mexican enough?
Despite these incessant doubts about my
identity brought about by living in the U.S., the
dreams of visiting Mexico that were imagined
from my Spider-Man bed all those years ago
never faded.
And this spring, those childhood dreams
finally became a reality: I visited Mexico,
consequently gaining new confidence in my
native tongue, and more significantly, my
Mexican identity.
From the moment I entered the Benito
Juarez International Airport en la Ciudad de
México, I was in a country that felt so familiar
yet so different. My brain was trying to make
sense of where I was because I couldn’t believe
I had actually arrived. It was only four hours
earlier that I was back in the cold Chicago
dawn saying goodbye to my parents. Then in
the blink of an eye, I was waiting in the immi-
gration line to officially check into Mexico.
My Tío picked us up from the airport and
took us on a speedy tour of Mexico city in
his car. He insisted that we had to do a bit of
sightseeing before we headed to my Abuelita’s
casa. As we were swerving through traffic and
dodging the hectic drivers, he talked about the
history of Mexico City: how it was built on a
giant lake, the history of the ancient Aztec civ-
ilization and much much more. He was giving
me a whole history lesson and I was absolutely
loving it.
I was listening to every word he was saying
with the biggest smile across my face. While
he focused on getting us home in one piece,
talking as he was making turns and shifting
into different gears, my face was lit up, staring
and listening to him talk about Mexico with
such passion.
Our wall of paintings: healing through art
Bajo El Sol: A trip to Mexico 20 years in the making
Chinese girl eats dirty for 24 hours
SAHANA NANDIGAMA
MiC Columnist
JUAN PABLOS ANGEL MARCOS
MiC Columnist
As a product of the time I spent counting
my calories, weighing myself twice a day
and cutting out major food groups from
my diet, I could tell you a dozen different
ways to turn a rice cake into a slightly less
bland “meal” or how to make cauliflower
rice taste almost like the real deal. I could
tell you exactly how many calories are in
a serving of rice and exactly how many
grams of protein are in a cup of yogurt.
“Clean eating” dominated my Instagram
explore page and TikTok feed until I was
spending hours in the grocery store read-
ing ingredient lists and nutrition labels
every time I needed to buy something.
There’s a fixation on cleanliness that
dominates diet culture today. No longer
are we in the era of keto diets or fat-free
chips. Instead, we’re told to cook without
oil, to cut out dairy and gluten and pro-
cessed foods. To never drink alcohol and
to live and breathe green smoothies and
salad bowls. I tried, with great effort, to
achieve the aura of cleanliness and light
that seemed to saturate the women I fol-
lowed on social media, an aura that they
told me came from their diets. Clean eat-
ing told me to focus on protein, but only in
the form of chicken breast or tofu nuggets.
It told me that carbs make you fat — unless
it’s oatmeal or quinoa — and that oils and
sauces were my worst enemy. Most impor-
tantly, it told me that if I wanted to be like
the girls I followed, there was a select
group of food options I had to choose from
… and Chinese food was certainly not
included.
For context, my family’s primary love
language is food. On nights I was up late
studying in high school, my mother would
bring a plate of cut-up fresh fruit to my
room. My Ayi made me a homecooked
meal everyday after school from grades
K-12: xucài ròushí mian (pickled mus-
tard greens and pork noodle soup), jiozi
(dumplings) and yóufàn (savory sticky
rice), sunlàtng (hot and sour soup) and
xiobáicài (sauteed baby bok choy). Once
in ninth grade, I told her that I loved Asian
pears and now every year when they’re in
season, she buys me boxes and boxes of
them (I would never tell her that I don’t
really love them anymore). My grandmoth-
er has arthritis and can’t stand for too long
without needing to rest, but she still makes
me soup when I’m sick and mfn (sauteed
rice noodles) on the nights before I go back
to school because she heard that it’s my
favorite recipe of hers. I grew up on Chi-
nese food from my grandmother’s kitchen,
the restaurants Ayi’s sister worked at and
the supermarkets where I had thirty aun-
ties who would give me free mochi and
Choco-pies. For a family that struggles to
show affection in a conventional way, I’ve
never doubted that I am truly and deeply
loved, a sentiment communicated through
our sharing of food.
My family’s cooking has always been a
source of pride for me. I thought of them
as artists and musicians in the kitchen,
creating colorful, intricate dishes from the
simplest ingredients. When I was in third
grade, I promised my Ayi that when I grew
up and had my own money, I would buy
her her own restaurant so that everyone
could eat the food I loved so much. How-
ever, I quickly learned that others saw
my culture’s food not as something to be
revered, but something to be corrected.
In 2019, Arielle Haspel, a white health
and nutrition coach, opened her own Chi-
nese restaurant named “Lucky Lee’s” in
an attempt to do just that. The restaurant’s
logo was adorned with chopsticks and
a lotus flower painting decorated a wall
inside (points for cherry-picking what fits
her Orientalist aesthetic). When promot-
ing her restaurant, Haspel described her
vision as a ‘clean’ version of Chinese cui-
sine, one that would be accessible to her
and her food-sensitive clients. She boasted
that her lo mein would not make you feel
“bloated and icky” the next day because
her food would not be “too oily.” Blog posts
on Haspel’s page mentioned health-ifying
Chinese food that is usually “doused in
brown sauces” and makes your eyes puffy.
Upon facing backlash, Haspel defended
herself by asserting that her mantra of
clean eating is “all about finding a health-
ier alternative to your favorite indulgent
food,” regardless of what cuisine that food
was associated with. This pseudo-apology
for offending the Chinese community
failed to address how all of her “clean eat-
ing” marketing carried the glaringly obvi-
ous connotation that Chinese food in and
of itself is dirty and unhealthy. By default,
this response also failed to address the
historical association of whiteness with
cleanliness and Color with uncleanliness.
There’s nothing wrong with the concept
of a Chinese restaurant tailored to those
with dietary restrictions. Creating gluten-
free, dairy-free or nut-free options, among
others, is a great, inclusive idea. But you
know what? I actually don’t even want to
give Haspel that one, because my sister’s
favorite restaurant when we were kids
was a Chinese-owned, vegan Chinese res-
taurant. So it’s not an innovative idea then,
because shocker! Chinese food is more
than orange chicken and chow mein. My
frustration with this restaurant doesn’t
stem from a white woman opening a res-
taurant to serve another country’s cuisine,
either. Fuchsia Dunlop’s Chinese cook-
books are awesome and delicious. Instead,
my frustration stems from a white woman
implying that Chinese food has something
to be cured.
Haspel’s visions of “fixing” Chinese
food are hardly novel. Chinese food’s orig-
inal bogeyman, MSG, has been demonized
since the 60s. There is no scientific evi-
dence that MSG has negative health effects
and yet, the term Chinese Restaurant Syn-
drome was coined in 1969 to describe the
alleged burning and chest-pain inducing
effects of MSG. In the 1990s, the FDA con-
cluded that MSG is safe for consumption.
But still, MSG continues to be vilified in
the food industry and used to uphold the
image of Chinese food as unhealthy and
unclean. Anyway, MSG is in ranch dress-
ing which is like, the most American thing
I can think of.
To counter Haspel’s assertions about
Chinese food and its alleged bloating prop-
erties, as well as the xenophobic under-
tones of our society having a term called
“Chinese Restaurant Syndrome,” allow me
to walk you through a “what I eat in a day”
in the life of a K-12 me. While much of Chi-
nese cuisine might fall into whatever fad
diet is trending at the moment, it already
has universal health benefits that I’m glad
to be acquainted with in my everyday life.
CLAIRE GALLAGHER
MiC Columnist
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