Growing up as a latchkey kid, I’d 

often squirm my way out of revealing 
where I lived to others. Instead, I’d lie. 
I’d tell friends I already had a ride or 
that it was no big deal for me to walk 
back home. I’d do or say anything to 
obfuscate details of where I lived and 
divert people away from seeing my 
dilapidated house. The faded blue 
paint that coated the wooden panels 
was slowly chipping away, just like 
my self-esteem. Needless to say, I 
was petrified at the idea of inviting a 
friend inside my house. My home was 
typically organized and clean, but 
my kitchen housed a small intrusion 
of cockroaches that refused to be 
exterminated, 
despite 
numerous 

attempts. Ultimately, I did not want 
my peers to pity me and think I lived 

in a state of squalor.

On a similar note, I have memories 

from my childhood of when my mom, 
older sister and I would frequently 
take buses to get around. Although 
bus fares are cheap, the routes are not 
optimal in suburban areas given the 
indirect paths and the large swathes 
of land that remained untouched. 
As a result, portions of our trips 
— whether they be for dentist 
appointments at remote office spaces 
or shopping at distant outlet stores — 
would entail walking along stretches 
of highway to reach disjointed 
bus stops. This was especially 
cumbersome in the scorching heat 
of the summer sun. Drenched in 
both sweat and embarrassment, I 
wondered whether drivers zipping 
past us were judging us momentarily. 
I frequently worried that a peer from 
school would recognize me as they 
sped past me in their parents’ car.

These anecdotes highlight some 

of the spaces I’ve occupied in the 
past. The spaces that each of us 

individually traverse, occupy and 
have access to are often influenced 
by a myriad of factors. Through my 

writing, I’ve attempted to express 
and capture some of these differences 
by sharing personal experiences and 

connecting them to broader themes, 
primarily ones related to social class. 
One tool that helps illustrate these 

differences from a macro point of 
view is the Opportunity Atlas website 
(I highly suggest checking it out and 
tinkering with the filters). These 
social settings, or milieus, can each 
be described by the visual aesthetics, 
physical composition and ephemeral 
events that occur within a respective 
space. 

Contrary to my last name, I am 

not from the capital of California! 
Yet, 
sometimes 
my 
personal 

introductions are followed up by 
people merrily asking if I’m actually 
from 
Sacramento. 
These 
light-

hearted interactions never cease to 
amuse others and myself, and I bet 
these instances will continue to arise 
in the future. However, a fair number 
of Wolverines are surprised when 
I inform them that I’m from New 
Jersey.

Wednesday, June 22, 2022 — 7
Michigan in Color
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

From Freehold to UMich: the role of social class in our 

physical spaces

GUSTAVO SACRAMENTO 

MiC Columnist

One day about nine years ago, I was 

at after-school daycare — basically 
the gym where many students 
stayed if their parents were unable to 
pick them up right away. We would 
usually have recess outside and study 
hall time inside as we waited for our 
parents to walk through the doors. 
However, we did something new 
that day: A “get to know each other” 
activity where everyone had to write 
a couple of facts about themselves on 
a notecard. I remember that I wrote 
a couple of true, but surprising, facts 
about myself. I thought that this 
notecard would remain between me 
and two or three other students, but 
unbeknownst to me, that particular 
day made a huge impact on my life 
and how I perceived myself forever.

After filling out the notecard, I sat 

in a tiny blue chair in the middle of 
the gym, chatting with my friends 
around me. We were waiting to 
go outside for recess, play on the 
playground and do what kids usually 
do. To my surprise, the daycare 
organizer walked to the front of the 
room with the notecards in hand. 
She started reading the cards one by 
one and asked kids around the room 
to guess who wrote each card. Sweat 
ran down my forehead as she grew 
closer and closer to mine.

Then, she read my card: “I have 

four fingers and three toes.”

Even now, thinking back to that 

time, I felt so embarrassed and 
shocked that I can’t even remember 
the emotions running through my 
body. Audible gasps filled the gym, 
and I felt my face getting really hot. 
My friends glanced at me with worry 
before one of them volunteered my 
name to move the activity on.

I had always been proud of 

myself for achieving so much — 
playing instruments, taking art 
classes, swimming, attending soccer 
practice, defending my place as the 
fastest typer in my grade — while 
essentially living the life of a normal 
kid. When we were finally let out for 
recess, a group of girls younger than 

me approached me and went so far 
as to call me “alien.” At that moment, 
none of my achievements mattered. 
The feeling of shame enveloped 
my 
body. 
Luckily, 
my 
friends 

immediately came to my defense.

When I entered middle school, I 

held this memory very close when 
I interacted with others. I thought 
a lot about which hand to raise in 
class, always covering my left hand 

with my sleeve. As a result, I became 
more withdrawn and introverted, 
contradicting the nickname of the 
“social butterfly” that I had earned 
in elementary school. I was too 
scared to let people see my hand, 
lest someone call me an alien again. 

A pianist with a secret

DAISEY YU 
MiC Columnist

I was 16 years old the first time I 

really listened to it. It was soft, but 
in the first 20 seconds, the sharp 
strumming of the guitar and the 
piano chords sliced through the 
jumble of thoughts in my head, soon 
rendering the song the only thing I 
could focus on. The first 20 seconds 
cleared a direct path to every part of 
my brain, preparing it for the song 
that would soon become a staple 
in my life. And for those next four 
minutes and 55 seconds, nothing 
mattered but this song.

…
“Fade Into You” by Mazzy Star 

was released in 1993 as a part of their 
album, So Tonight That I Might 
See. It’s an alternative/indie song 
filled with dream pop undertones. 
Everything 
about 
the 
song 
is 

beautiful, especially its vagueness; it 
feels as if Hope Sandoval, the band’s 
lyricist and lead singer, wanted you 
to create its significance, making it 
twice as meaningful every time you 
listen. It’s a song that will always 
relate to you no matter what stage of 
life you are at. 

To many, it’s a love song. It’s the 

song people add to their Instagram 
stories 
when 
they 
soft-launch 

their boyfriends or play in the 
background of their TikToks while 

talking 
about 
their 
significant 

others or serenade each other with 
at karaoke after one too many mixed 
drinks. And these interpretations 
make sense because it sounds like 
a love song. The music is sweet, 
the perfect sound to awkwardly 
rock back and forth to at your high 
school dance, stepping on your 
partner’s feet while maintaining an 
extreme amount of unbreakable eye 
contact. Sandoval’s voice is subtle, 
yet flooded with infatuation. It 
slowly drowns and suffocates you 
with love and sweetness every time 
you hear it, enough to start to truly 
feel it yourself.

But with every listen you learn 

more and more from the vague 
lyrics, and you come to realize 
the song can be about the ending 
of an unrequited love. It can be 
a realization of how one-sided 
this deep longing actually was, 
or how it was not truly love but a 
scary obsession. With this new 
perspective, my favorite line — “a 
million smiles cover your heart” — 
may not refer to how beautiful the 
partner’s love is, but how fake and 
deceitful it actually was. Or how 
the lyric and title “Fade Into You” 
may not mean to become one soul 
with the person you love, but to lose 
every part of yourself that made you 
who you are.

Fade into you

ROSHNI MOHAN 

MiC Columnist

Read more at michigandaily.com
Read more at michigandaily.com

Priya Ganji/TMD

Abby Schreck /TMD

Read more at michigandaily.com

