Wednesday, April 13, 2022 — 7
Michigan in Color
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
I’ve always loved birthdays, whether they
were mine or somebody else’s. The thought
of gathering to celebrate the life of somebody
you love has always been an exciting part
of every year. But when my own birthday
creeps its way around the calendar, I always
find myself reflecting on my life experiences.
When I realized that on March 22, 2022, I
would be turning 20 years old, I was almost
shocked. Of course, I knew that it would hap-
pen eventually — one more year around the
sun calls for turning one year older — but
turning 20 always seemed so distant. This
year, my birthday didn’t feel as exciting as
it used to before — instead, it felt daunting,
and I dreaded leaving behind the shelter that
came with being a teenager.
Turning 20 made me anxious. To some,
leaving the “teen years” feels like emerg-
ing into adulthood with open arms. For me,
dropping the “-teen” at the end of my age felt
like the clock had sped up too fast for me to
catch up to. I try to reflect on my teen years
with a certain fondness; not to say that they
were all painless, but they allowed me to
harbor a great deal of wisdom and growth
at such young ages. I remember turning 15
and hardly being able to wait for my 16th
birthday, the birthday that society harps on
as being an emergence into your true teenage
years. I remember feeling nervous, but eager-
ly awaiting the expectations of newfound
independence, like driving (even though I
didn’t do much of it), staying out later and
being taken more seriously by the adults in
my life.
While my younger self had thought that
this would be the peak of my young adult-
hood, I had merely entered a year filled with
the insecurity and stress that came with
being an emerging junior in high school.
At the time, I was entangled in the all-con-
suming feeling of not being good enough —
whether that be over my top choice college
(which, spoiler alert, I now attend), or the
friend group I was floating through, or the
courses I was taking. I felt as though I was
in constant competition with a standard
that I could never reach: perfection. Every-
body seemed to worry about being “popu-
lar” or getting the best grades or test scores.
As a generally anxious person, I always felt
as though these superficial standards were
impossible to meet. Nobody is liked by every-
one, and not everybody can receive straight
As or a 1600 on their SAT. And certainly,
people can’t always acquire all three of those
traits. Even while being well-aware of this,
I had tried my hardest to climb to the top of
every ladder. Although I wasn’t a perfection-
ist, I was constantly surrounded by the stress
of being perfect and doing more than what
was expected in order to soar far beyond the
walls of my small high school. Little did I
know, feeling like I am “not enough” is a bat-
tle that even my 20-year-old self struggles to
overcome long after graduating high school.
I want to say that since coming to college,
my imposter syndrome has gotten both bet-
ter and worse. Although I am more mature
and secure in myself, I still battle with the
ever-present fear of not being where I “need
to be.” Coming from a high school that is
composed of an overwhelmingly Arab stu-
dent body, where most students are not met
with the opportunity of moving away for col-
lege or even attending a university like the
University of Michigan, I face a new struggle
of assimilating into a Predominantly White
Institution (PWI) as an underrepresented
student of Color. Dealing with these compli-
cated, ever-present experiences has shown
me that the journey of growing up is not a
straight road. The complex twists and turns
of turning older are bittersweet, and they
make learning and reflecting on my identity
that much more important.
Quickly, I learned that being 16 was no
match for turning 18. I would go on to gradu-
ate high school at the top of my class, attend
college at my dream school, move onto cam-
pus and leave the town I had worked so des-
perately to escape. Because I came from a
school as small as my own — with a graduat-
ing class of 88 people, which I attended from
kindergarten throughout my senior year — I
was eager to leave the familiar walls and go
on to much more. Even though I didn’t get
straight As in high school, or anywhere near
a 1600 SAT score, it taught me that my goals
are obtainable if I am passionate or dedicated
enough to a cause. I learned that perfection
isn’t always expected and that “perfection” is
taught as a fear response to “not being good
enough,” a struggle that I have since then
learned that most people are battling. Even
though my 18th birthday was two years ago,
that year defined what I set out to be for the
rest of my life: entirely my own. Since then,
I consider the last two years to be my most
pivotal years of growth. I would hold the
world in the palm of my hands and stare at
it through my rose-colored lenses, marching
through the streets of Ann Arbor as if noth-
ing in the world could get in the way of my
goals, passions or self-proclaimed expecta-
tions. Although I continually deal with anxi-
ety around self-assurance, becoming 18 was
remarkably important to shifting how I view
myself and developing my identity.
Over this last year of being 19, the founda-
tion of confidence and security I had begun
to build was met with the weight of trying
to proudly showcase my Lebanese, Muslim
identity at a PWI. This created a different
level of emotional turmoil that I had never
experienced before in my sheltered, small
town of predominantly Arabs and Mus-
lims. I also held the fears of not being able
to achieve my academic and personal goals,
not only because of my own barriers but
because of barriers that were placed upon me
by systems and people who may never even
know me. While I had some experience with
being “othered” prior to this, I channeled my
anxiety into becoming more introspective;
I allowed my hardships to drive me to be
passionate and loud about causes that were
important to displaying my identity.
At 19, I realized that every year of life
comes with its own set of ups and downs,
but instead of trying to escape them, I have
learned to embrace them for what they give
me in return. Experience. Maturity. Grati-
tude. Empathy. When I look back at my
16-year-old self — the anxious teenager who
worried so much about what her life would
become, if her friends truly liked her, what
college she would go to — I see a girl who
stressed too much, who worked to please
the people in her life, who gave herself up to
help others, who worked herself more than
her capacity. I think of myself, who still does
these things, and feel so much love for the
girl who tries so hard to just be.
Let’s get one thing straight: Serena Wil-
liams is the greatest tennis player of all
time. This is a hill I’ll stand tall on any day.
She broke barriers in her field, winning 23
Grand Slam titles and four Olympic gold
medals. Not to mention, she won the Aus-
tralian Opeejlesr social lives. Similarly, my
father pushed my brothers and me to be
academically successful, to keep in touch
with our culture and to always have fun.
He understood the importance of keeping
the balance in life, navigating work and
fun. In addition, he encouraged us to find
fun within our work. When we were in
elementary school, our father encouraged
us to play outside and hang out with our
friends every day. He also made sure we
spent time during the day practicing and
memorizing our multiplication tables. My
father turned these multiplication tables
into games to play in the car. A memory my
father shares of him and my older brother
is that every time they would drive some-
where together, my father would ask a ran-
dom multiplication question like “what’s
six times seven?” and see how quick my
brother could answer, turning our aca-
demic work into a game we could have fun
with.
Richard Williams did the same for his
children. The film shows that he made
sure his children practiced tennis every
day and got their homework done every
night for school. During matches, he
reminded his daughters that the only thing
they were there to do was to have fun. Out-
side of tennis and school, he encouraged
them to watch movies, sing together and,
at one point in the film, he even took them
on vacation to Disneyworld. He allowed
his children to be children and have a fun
childhood while also pushing them to be
academically and athletically the best.
Richard Williams made it clear in the
film that all he wanted was for his children
to live a better life than he lived. He told
his daughters that he was never respect-
ed growing up, but that they would be
respected. My father has the same aspira-
tions for his children, in that he wishes for
us to live a better life than he did. My father
moved to the United States from India,
leaving behind his family, his friends and
the life he grew up knowing. He migrated
to a country in which he knew no one and
had to overwork a job he would get under-
paid for, all while learning to speak a brand
new language. He made countless sacrific-
es just to ensure his children would have
an easier time navigating the world.
In the film, Richard brought Venus and
Serena home from a rainy night practice
one night. They were welcomed by police
cars outside their house and officers inside.
The officers explained that their neighbor
had filed a complaint that the family was
being too rough on their daughters. Dur-
ing the scene, one official asked Richard,
“Isn’t it too late for practice, don’t the
kids have school work?” Brandy, Rich-
ard’s wife, jumped in and said, “They do
their homework,” and explained how her
daughters are first in their class. Richard
explained to the officers that they’re hard
on their kids because they “have to be to
keep them off these streets,” referring to
their poverty-stricken and crime-ridden
neighborhood in their hometown, Comp-
ton. I’m privileged enough to say that I’ve
never had to interact with the jarring and
audacious police force in the same way
that the Williams family had to as depicted
in this film. However, the notion of a third
party over-stepping into their family’s per-
sonal lives and decision-making felt a bit
familiar, although in a different context.
There was an incident where a teacher
at my middle school called my parents one
night. This particular teacher was leading
an information session on standardized
tests.
I nervously walked into the room where
the information session was being held. I
caught the glances of all the other older
students in the room and immediately felt
my body shrivel up. There was a teacher
at the front of the classroom with a stack
of papers on a desk, and a line of students
in front of her. I quietly stood in line and
twiddled my thumbs, avoiding eye contact
with the other students before I eventually
made it to the teacher and her desk.
“Hi there, what’s your name?”
“Smarani.”
The teacher immediately looked puz-
zled. I could feel the students behind me
in line becoming impatient as the teacher
squinted her eyes, shuffling through her
papers before eventually pulling them
closer to her. I tried to look over to see
what the papers were and caught a glimpse
of what looked like a roster of some sort,
showing a list of a bunch of students’ first
and last names.
“The last name is Komanduri, K-O-
M-A-N-D-U-R-I,” I added. I figured the
roster was alphabetized by last name and
hoped I could speed up the process for the
teacher.
She still looked confused, and I felt my
palms clam up more and more.
“Alright, go ahead and have a seat.”
I quietly let out a sigh of relief and made
my way to the back of the classroom and
allowed my heartbeat to return to a normal
pace after having it beat out of my chest.
As the session wrapped up, and I fran-
tically gathered my things to leave, the
teacher stopped me.
“Oh, sweetie, could you hang back for a
sec?”
I slowly paced over to her desk as all
the other students made their way out
the door, taking a final quick glance in my
direction hoping to also hear or see why
the teacher asked me to stay back.
After what felt like ages of waiting, the
teacher finally asked, “so you’re in sixth
grade?”
“Yes.” Even with just my one word
response, I heard my raspy voice tremble
with fear.
“Hmm, okay, so that’s why your name
isn’t on the roster here. This is a list of all
of the eighth graders.”
I was instantly relieved. I let out a soft
nervous chuckle before turning to leave.
Before I could do so, the teacher followed
up with one last request.
“Could you just give me your parents’
phone numbers?”
My eyebrows furrowed, and my mouth
slightly opened.
How often do teachers ask for your
parents’ phone numbers? And either way,
don’t they have access to them already?
Isn’t there a directory for this sort of thing?
Although I was hesitant, I didn’t want
to pick a bone with a random teacher I’d
never met.
“Like, our house phone number?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
I proceeded to monotonously recite
our house phone number as the teacher
scribbled it down on some white space at
the top of the roster she was clutching onto
before the meeting. Later that evening, my
parents told me that they had received a
call from that teacher.
My parents didn’t go into detail about
the conversation that transpired, but they
gave me the overview:
They exchanged pleasantries before
the teacher jumped right into the meat of
the conversation. This teacher said right
away how she was confused as to why I
was attending the information session as
a sixth grader. My parents explained that
they believed – and I believed – that I was
ready to take a standardized test just for
the experience. There was nothing in it
for me other than the fact that I felt that
I was ready. She immediately started to
explain to us how she thought our parents
were pushing us too hard. She said some-
thing along the lines of: “I don’t know why
your people push your kids so hard.” And
then continued, “my parents never pushed
us that hard, and look at us — both my
brother and I are extremely successful in
our lives. I’m a teacher, and my brother is
in the Army.”
My parents thanked her for calling and
sharing her thoughts. They couldn’t help
but simply laugh off the call. We didn’t even
know where to start when she referred to
our family as “your people,” insinuating a
more sinister meaning. It’s a common ste-
reotype — misconception, rather — that
Desi parents force their children into cer-
tain activities. In my case, this couldn’t be
further from the truth. My parents have
never forced me to do anything, let alone
force me to go to an information session on
standardized tests. To have a fully-grown
adult woman use these microaggressions
against our family is something I still have
a difficult time processing. She thought
that she had the right to dictate how our
family runs things in our house. My par-
ents have aspirations for us that they’ve
made countless sacrifices for, and for
someone on the outside to come tell us that
this shouldn’t be the way we run things
was infuriating.
A farewell to my -teens
My father, my king
YASMINE ELKHARSSA
MiC Columnist
SMARANI KOMANDURI
MiC Columnist
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Design by Grace Filblin
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You see the title. You see the text.
And if you’re busy, move onto what’s
next. You might briefly skim, scan or
scroll as many of us pay thousands
to do with our college coursework.
Nonetheless, if you do decide to read,
for whatever sake, how long will it
take? How closely will you try to com-
prehend, and to what end?
Our world is ravaged by an unyield-
ing sense of urgency. So much so that
reading four pages of text can feel like
running four miles. But, then again,
perhaps we are running. Running out
of time, as we often claim to be. Yet
how can you run out of that which
you cannot see? Nor fully conceive? A
myriad of machinations has led to this
modern-day sensation of haste yet
ultimately it is the forces of late-stage
capitalism and their spiritually defi-
cient demarcations that have damned
us to a life of hurry and hustle.
Time and time again, the clock has
been a ticking tool of capital. It is
nearly impossible to envisage a time
before modern mechanized clock
time. From birth to death, we clutch
tightly onto our clocks — our timepiec-
es and wristwatches, calendars and
schedules. According to philosophy
scholar Teresa I. Reed, the uniformi-
ty of clock time, aside from enabling
the measurement of natural scien-
tific processes, has allowed for the
synchronization of a series of human
endeavors from school and labor, poli-
tics and religious affairs, sports and
entertainment and beyond. In today’s
time, the clock’s all-encompassing
objectivity orders us to live a life in
service to labor. To Reed, against
the terrifying ticking of the clock it
is evident that Capital becomes our
God when “efficiency is the greatest
virtue.” In our over-productive secu-
lar society, there is simply no time for
the sacred which entreats us to con-
template the eternal. The competitive,
commodity-fetishizing nature of late-
stage capitalism and its ever-increas-
ing imperatives to shorten labor time
of production create ongoing conflicts
and crises in the name of profit.
Even our interaction time with
each other is centered around com-
modity consumption. Our social lives
are filled with costly commercial-
ized entertainment: driving, dining,
drinking and drugs. As Cuban-French
revolutionary Paul Lafargue claims,
capitalism has manufactured within
us as consumers an “excitement of
appetites” and “creation of fictitious
needs.”
Of course, mechanized clock time
does have its basis in the seasonal
and biological changes of celestial
and human bodies and the rhythms
of day and night. The system of days,
weeks and months is derived from the
many ancient creation myths of the
seven-day periods which correlate
with celestial orbit and lunar cycles.
As this orbit is eccentric (not always
uniform) and subject to deviation, it
becomes clear that our standardized
system of time measurement is far
from fact, far from exact. Yet it is not
the function nor within the scope of
clock time to accurately reflect the
natural universe. Instead, it is largely
used in society as a social mechanism
to enact structural homogeneity.
Historian J. David Lewis and soci-
ology scholar Andrew J. Weigert
assert that social time, as it’s been
structured by clock time, carries with
it a certain quality of “embeddedness,
stratification, and synchronicity.” It is
embedded in the sense that we have a
general expectation for how we inter-
act with others during different time
frames and the disruption of these
expectations (transportation delays
or transaction mishaps) can carry
drastic implications. This sense of
social time is embedded insofar as it is
imposed upon us by the organization-
al structures of today which adhere
to rigid patterns and procedures.
To Lewis and Weigert, the immense
schedulization of our daily activities
(such as school and work) with pre-
cise time frames which ignore social
and psychological realities stifles cre-
ativity and spontaneity and restricts
us from living with fluidity. With
clock time’s shortened finite units,
we are constantly racing against the
clock, running out of time. Lewis and
Weigert state that “we not only expect
rigorous temporal control of events
but positively value it, as is evident
from the anger and frustration felt
when scheduled events are delayed,
postponed, or cancelled.” Clearly, we
remain suckers of the clock.
Suck my clock
KARIS CLARK
MiC Columnist
Design by Maya Sheth
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