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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