The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com Michigan in Color 6 — Wednesday, April 13, 2022 A recent article published in The Michi- gan Review left many Michigan students appalled yet unsurprised. After digesting the manipulative and hateful content of the piece, we felt that it was necessary to address the author’s poor interpretation of Ameri- can racial dynamics and recycled conserva- tive talking points in order to debunk some fundamental issues that appear in common discourse. We need to talk about “reverse racism.” Reverse racism is first and foremost a myth. The concept also referred to as reverse discrimination, is the backward notion that color-conscious programs such as affirmative action that seek to address racial inequality are a form of anti-white racism. Not only is this concept completely ludicrous, it is also an immensely harmful ideology that actively sets back racial prog- ress. The current battleground of this discus- sion is the Trotter Multicultural Center here on Central Campus. In an attempt to drum up controversy, the author of the piece grossly mischaracterizes the purpose and history of the building in order to perpetu- ate the harmful narrative that marginalized students of Color are actively engaging in some sort of modern ‘reverse segregation’. For context, a Black graduate student sub- mitted a letter to the University of Michigan Administration expressing his frustration at “white student organizations kicking Black and brown students out of spaces within Trotter because their white organizations reserved the space.” Instead of understand- ing the historical and societal context of these events and coming away from the situ- ation with reflection or understanding, the author proceeded to react to the letter with an air of indignation and disgust. “It has become almost a cliche to say it at this point, but if a white advisor to CSG wrote a letter to the administration articu- lating his discomfort that there are too many black students in a campus space, he would be deemed unfit for office,” the article states. This is a demonstrably disingenuous per- spective of the events taking place in Trotter and is only a small example of the “reverse racist” rhetoric that permeates the article. The author’s apparent “gotcha” moment highlighted in this quote only serves to show how hopelessly delusional his perspectives on racism and race relations actually are. His purposeful ignorance of the historical context of segregation and domination of Black Americans at the hands of the white race is as disgusting as it is shallow. To no one’s surprise, the author has not and will continue to not have any repercus- sions for his racist assertions against the students who find a safe haven in Trotter. We do not mean to imply that the University should necessarily take action against this student for practicing his freedom of speech. However, we do mean to say that neither he nor other white students at this university have to deal with the emotional anguish that comes from the public release of such tone- deaf, insensitive and historically inaccurate information. How did we get here? How does the dom- inant racial group get to play the victim? For some, the concept of racism is very easy to grasp. Throughout our lives, we are taught that discrimination against another on the basis of their race is a practice that should be denounced and outright abolished. We hear about and learn of the historical figures who fought against racist oppression and paved the way for our modern society. We hear of their virtue and undying loyalty to social justice and humanity and celebrate their memory. Many historical figures, par- ticularly of the Civil Rights Movement, are rightfully lauded as heroes. We all know of the legacies of Dr. Mar- tin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, Malcolm X, Charles Houston, Harry T and Harriette Moore, among many others. Yet, for some reason, the author felt the need to twist the words of Dr. King in order to portray him- self, and white students by extension, as the victims of systemic racism. This is gross. We shouldn’t need to explain why this is prob- lematic, but we genuinely don’t think the author understands. So let’s engage in basic modern social theory. Racism and discrimination are not the two-way streets that the author implies. The historical domination, oppression, enslave- ment, rape and perverted bastardization of Black culture by the white race is the foun- dation of this country. The vestiges of that cultural dynamic permeate throughout every modern institution. Black students cannot segregate white students. This is simple. To insinuate that the author and other white students can be the victims of targeted racism is tantamount to claiming Black students have any sort of profound institutional authority. Not enough white people in Trotter Multicultural Center, white student claims A summer in the construction boots of my father The beauty of wilted flowers It was a ceremonial and cine- matic day in Santiago Papasquiaro, Durango. The streets were flooded with families observing the cere- monies taking place throughout the city. At every angle of our periph- eral, there were bandas playing corridos, food trucks selling elotes and raspados and a desfile full of mariachi bands accompanied with young women dressed in folklórico attire. We were making our way to the feria, which for many was the main attraction of the festivities. Though the cloudy weather may have discouraged many from being outside, there was no denying that the people of Santiago Papasquiaro were not going to miss the first day of their esteemed and most antici- pated fair. Since I was in the sixth grade, my family and I traveled to my par- ents’ hometown in Mexico every year. The month of July attracted not only a lot of domestic visitors, but a lot of other Mexican-Amer- ican families that had ties to the state of Durango. I felt immensely joyous to be standing on the soil where generations of my family had grown up. Except in 2016, I wasn’t real- ly there. I was in the middle of nowhere Montana. The date was July 16. The fright- ening noise of my phone’s alarm jolted me awake at 4:30 in the morning. Reality quickly sank in, and I was upset that I was not a part of the vibrant crowd march- ing down the streets of Santiago Papasquiaro. Rather than spend- ing the summer in Mexico visiting my abuelitas and primos, my dad insisted that my brother Oscar and I spend a couple of months with him in Montana to work at his con- struction site—the very opposite of Durango. The wind blew loudly through the many valleys and mountaintops of America’s ninth least populated state. Within those blue, green and gray valleys was scattered, sparse and rundown infrastructure. The very limited civilization seemed so insignifi- cant when contrasted to the vast- ness of the state’s nature. People displayed classic American cordi- ality, of course, but rarely the hos- pitality and colors I had witnessed in Mexico just a year prior. At 15 years old, the thought of making my own money seemed promising and offered some finan- cial freedom my peers were not afforded. After doing my own research on the up and coming state, I learned that many other construction workers ventured to the Great Plains state of Montana and made really good money. Hell, I was excited! Little did I know what I was getting myself into. After two months of working with my dad, I somehow failed to get used to the monotonous rou- tine he went through every morn- ing. The pesky alarm, pungent smell of the drywall and joint com- pound boxes scattered throughout our temporary apartment compet- ed with my overwhelming drowsi- ness from my lack of sleep. We had returned home from the construc- tion site at 1:30 a.m., a few hours prior, so it was extremely difficult for me to find some sort of motiva- tion to keep my eyes open. On the other hand, my dad had no problem with getting less than three hours of sleep. He somehow managed to wake up in a radiant mood every morning. Every other day, he would wake up earlier than the rest of the crew and buy us all donuts from the nearest 7-Eleven. It annoyed me so much in my tired grumpiness. How the hell did he do it? He urged Oscar and me to hurry because he did not want us to be late on our last day of work. My dad has worked in construc- tion for more than 30 years. In those three decades, he has mas- tered the craft of drywall finish- ing. Construction workers who specialize in this are referred to as tapers. Though the task of a taper is considered by many other con- struction workers to be one of the least physically demanding, the monotonous task of smearing joint compound across hundreds of dif- ferent units still felt extremely strenuous. I had no idea how my dad, at the age of 54, remained poised through these conditions. Although my dad is nearing the age in which he becomes eligible for the plethora of benefits all elderly Americans are entitled to, my dad’s citizenship status deems him ineli- gible of receiving these perks. Both of my parents are law- fully permanent residents. My dad first came to the United States in 1988. One of my uncles, who had migrated to the states before my dad, was in Chicago at the time and informed my dad of the rapidly expanding employment opportunities. Eventually, my dad returned to Mexico and got mar- ried to my mom. My parents both agreed that if they wanted to start a family, moving to the United States was the right thing to do because of the seemingly limitless upward mobility and the ultimate allure of the American Dream. In 1997, both of my parents crossed the Mexican-American border and headed back to Chicago. One year later, my parents moved from Chicago to Las Vegas because my dad was aware of the surplus of jobs available for con- struction workers there. But when the boom subsided in Las Vegas, my dad was forced to leave his workers union. Because of this, for a very long period of my life growing up, my dad struggled with keeping a stable job. Since I was in elementary school, my dad has traveled to other states expe- riencing similar booms to that of Las Vegas in order to find work. I can still remember the first time he went away when I first started the first grade. We were all weep- ing because, for the first time, my dad was going to be so far from us and we wouldn’t see him until the next summer. Neither of my parents were aware of the struggles they would blatantly face in trying to start a new family in a new country. Because of their citizenship status and lack of English proficiency, my parents have been hindered from the opportunity to live the life akin to that of the model white American family. Even to this day, my parents struggle with under- standing mainstream American lingo and etiquettes and thus have rarely formed relationships with anyone else that didn’t experience the same immigration experience as them. Nonetheless, my dad has put our entire family on his back. Growing up, my mother had to watch over me and my four siblings so it was very difficult for her to go out of her way to contribute to my fam- ily’s income. Because of this, my family relied solely on my dad to put food on the table. Although my dad would continuously get his checks postponed, work in the coldest and most rural states in the nation and work an arduous amount of time every day, he never overtly displayed his exhaustion or dismissed us as a result. He was truly inspirational. My time work- ing with him made me think of all the sacrifices he has made for the literal survival of my family. The location of our worksite was in Bozeman, but the apart- ment the rest of my dad’s work crew and I were staying at was in Belgrade. It takes 30 minutes to get from one city to the other and we were expected to arrive by 5 a.m. As brain fogged as I was, I swiftly slipped on my murky brown Wol- verine work boots, stained white Dickies, ripped white Hanes T-shirt and headed straight to my dad’s white 2001 Chevrolet Astro van to wait for the rest of the crew. The skies remained gloomy from the night storm’s heavy showers. Though it was the middle of the summer, it felt as if I was stuck in a time loop in Montana and every day was replicative of that one overcast morning. My dad, dressed in his all-white work uni- form, briskly maneuvered his way to the van. His silhouette, despite the backdrop of somber surround- ings and nasty weather, main- tained rhythmic footsteps trotting toward the van. Though my dad was noticeably older than the rest of the crew, there was something about his upbeat demeanor that made everyone else come off as downhearted. Oversized jackets, jumbled chargers, weird wall decor and half melted candles clutter my roommates’ and I’s already small apartment. A high-rise build- ing stands tall outside our large living room window, blocking off any daylight from flooding the apartment. Sitting among the clutter and the gloom is an orange-tinted vase. Growing out of the vase are soft, bright pet- als flowing from the stems of a set of pink carnations. The floral aroma fills the tiny living room it sits in, but in a subtle way. It is not strong enough to smell when you walk in, but noticeable as soon as you sit down on the old, dark couch right across from it. When you don’t directly look at them, the flowers easily blend into the clutter, but once you do, they catch your eye. They brighten the entire dark apartment, bringing in that touch of brightness the liv- ing room desperately needs every morning and afternoon. They add a layer of freshness that our dry, closed-off apartment can’t bring in since the windows are sealed shut. The freshness hits our faces when we come back from class later in the day, comforting us. Growing up, I never cared for flowers. If anything, I disliked them. I disliked how expensive bouquets from the florists were. I disliked the bees that came with them. I disliked how much effort people put into growing them, and I disliked how mad they’d get when my ball rolled into their flower patch. I disliked their names, since I could never pro- nounce them. I disliked how much work maintaining them was. But the biggest of all, I disliked how they’d always die so soon. My mother would always say they were a waste of money because of how quickly they would fall. When my family would buy her flowers, she’d get mad, telling us not to waste money. She’d only let us buy flowers to use when doing poojas as offerings to God. But for the personal decoration aspect, she would refuse to buy them. Instead, she brought up the idea of artificial flowers. She’d say they were just as pretty, and they last forever. So now our home is filled with tall glass vases hold- ing fake roses and fake tulips and fake hydrangeas and fake peo- nies, every fake flower the local craft stores had on sale. As I got older, I started dis- agreeing more with my mother, especially with her stance on flowers. I always kept my opinion to myself because I understood costs add up. The only times I got to pick out real flowers were for our poojas. We would rush to Nino’s on our way to the Bharati- ya Temple, and I would follow quickly behind my mother into the store, since we were already late to the scheduled pooja. We’d speed to the flower section. They always had a variety of beauti- ful flowers, every color that you could think of. They’d sometimes have roses, jasmine, sunflowers, lilies and mums, but they always had carnations, usually the pink ones. Carnations were our staple — the flower we would get almost every pooja. They were always the cheapest ones at the store and the most readily available. My brother and I would sit there in the car, cutting them off of their stems in preparation for pooja. If we did the pooja at home instead of the temple, we would sit at the dining table taking turns cutting them. I’d do the first half, and he’d do the second. Once pooja began, we would pick each petal off and offer it to god. I would sneak one of the flowers in my pocket or put it under my leg until after pooja. After coming home or leaving our pooja room, I’d keep it in my room until it almost completely disin- tegrated, because I didn’t know how to properly preserve them (and still don’t), or until it got lost. Eventually, my father took up gardening during quarantine. He’d buy packets and packets of seeds and plant them under a grow light, then transfer them outside once it got warm. He’d take me to Bordine’s, the nearest flower and plant shop, and let me help pick out the flower plants I liked. He never bought the ones I picked, but he let me give my input on the colors of the flowers he liked. We’d get hydrangeas, hibiscus, zinnias and three dif- ferent colors of roses. No carna- tions. Moving out of the house, I was given real flowers for the first time instead of the fake ones my mother loved, for my apartment. I came home all excited to put them in our vase. An instant smile grew wide on my face from how pretty the flowers were. Coin- cidently, they were pink carna- tions, my favorite. They reminded me of when I was younger and would sneak a few flowers from the bunch to keep in my room. The flowers did everything arti- ficial ones could never do. They brought in a calming aroma into the room, a feeling of fresh life, a splash of subtle color, brightening the room in every way fake ones couldn’t. But within two weeks or so, they died. Day by day, another flower would droop over to the side. A petal would fall, laying next to the vase on the black table. The feeling of freshness left the room along with any life left in those pretty flowers. They wilted and were done for. But I’d leave them in the vase, because I can never get myself to throw them out. To throw out something so beauti- ful and selfless felt wrong. The tiniest amount of life left in them still brightened the room, at least in my eyes. And thinking about it, there was something equally beautiful in the pile of fallen pet- als and drooping stems. How they still shine even with a pale hue that takes over each petal. How the pretty flower smell would remain even though it was so subtle. How they still caught everyone’s eyes once they saw the vase, but in a are they saving dead flowers way. There was some- thing beautiful in the way they’d fall after holding on for so long once they were cut from their plant, how they selflessly held on for so long just to make our lives more beautiful. How each flower would fall after giving every bit of life it had left, until it couldn’t hold on or give any more any lon- ger. The wilted flowers added some things to my life that the fresh ones couldn’t. It dropped petals for me to keep as a pretty col- lection. It made my roommates laugh a little every time they’d see it, filling our room with laughter which, in turn, brightened up the room. It was an incentive to go buy more flowers. And it was a reminder to appreciate the things in our life in the moment because eventually, they will wilt. And it was a message that the end itself is just as beautiful as the flowers first blooming still on the plant. Design by Zoe Zhang STEPHEN BUCKLEY & KAILANA DEJOIE MiC Columnists IRVING PEÑA MiC Columnist ROSHNI MOHAN MiC Columnist Read more at MichiganDaily.com Read more at MichiganDaily.com Courtesy of Kailana Dejoie