S T A T E M E N T
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Wednesday, September 14, 2022 — 7
OSCAR NOLLETTE-
PATULSKI
Statement Correspondent
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
When I was in my junior year of
high school, I, like many in-state
students, drove a couple of hours
to Ann Arbor to take a tour of the
University of Michigan. Sprinkled
among other digestible one-liners
about the school, our tour guide
proclaimed that at the University,
even “off-campus” housing was
still essentially “on-campus.” To
emphasize this, she pointed across
South University Avenue, where
just steps from the Diag sat high
rise apartments and homes filled
with students modeling how I
could be living in a few years.
Eventually moving into East
Quad a mere two years later, I
whole-heartedly bought into the
tour guide’s characterization of
student housing. Many off-campus
residences were actually closer
to classes in Mason Hall than my
own on-campus dorm room. My
second-year bedroom was only
two blocks away from my first, and
currently, my commute to class
consists of a brisk 10 minute walk
through Kerrytown.
Although the University does
not publish statistics on what per-
centage of students commute to
Ann Arbor, the Office of Under-
graduate
Admissions
reports
“just about all first-year students
decide to live on campus.” How-
ever, catch-all statements such as
these overlook those who don’t fit
the University’s seemingly simple
criteria, leading to broad and unin-
formed conversations about how
some undergraduates live and
work.
What is objective is that the
walkable convenience I, and many
other students, enjoy comes at a
cost. The Ann Arbor Metro area
has the highest fair-market rent
prices in Michigan and rent here
Going the distance: The complexities of commuting to campus
is more expensive than 93% of
areas
nationally.
Nevertheless,
for many students still financially
dependent on family members, the
choice between a convenient loca-
tion and financial stability is not
one at all –– especially given the
University’s extraordinarily high
median income among enrollees’
families. But for some, compro-
mises must be made, and home
becomes a place far from Hatcher
Graduate Library’s shadow.
At its best, commuting is
empowering, bringing indepen-
dence and freedom from constant
university stressors. But at its
worst, it’s isolating, time-consum-
ing and harmful to the academic
and social relationships crucial to
a conventional college experience.
Though there are many motiva-
tions to live off campus, many U-M
undergraduates cite finances as
the leading factor that puts them
beyond Ann Arbor’s city limits.
LSA senior Jesus Galvez lived
in an on-campus residence hall his
freshman year
before making
the
decision
to
move
to
Ypsilanti
for
the remainder
of his under-
graduate
degree.
“My family
often doesn’t
have the time
or money to
come see me,
so I have to be
able to afford
a vehicle … I
found that it
was easier to
live elsewhere
so that I can
have a vehicle
and commute
to see (them),”
said Galvez.
And when
one’s childhood home is relatively
close by, that can be an appealing
living option for some. LSA senior
Buraq Oral opted to continue living
with his parents in Canton after
high school graduation.
“I was at home in Canton
because I would be helping with
(my mom’s) business … and it was
just much cheaper commuting into
U of M,” Oral said. “My freshman
year I had a huge argument with
my mom about whether or not I
should live on campus and she won
out because mom’s always right,
you know.”
Despite living in close quarters
with his parents, Oral was still able
to find his own independence as a
new student. Banding with other
commuting classmates, he car-
pooled with friends for the 25-min-
ute drive into Ann Arbor.
“My freshman year I would pick
up one of my best friends and we
would commute together so the
car ride was really fun. It would
be us just vibing the music … It was
honestly a good experience.”
And depending on one’s meth-
od of transport, academic multi-
tasking is possible in addition to
enjoying the social element of the
commute. LSA senior Dante Ygle-
sias spends part of his multi-modal
routine completing assignments
when he doesn’t have to drive.
“I’ll drive to the park-and-ride
on Plymouth Road and then I’ll
take the plus-40-minute bus to
campus. That way I’ll (do) work on
the bus.”
LSA senior Casey Guilds simi-
larly utilizes their downtime on
their morning commute. Although
Guilds lives near downtown Ann
Arbor and the U-M campus, they
utilize the Ann Arbor Transpor-
tation Authority’s routes 4 and 25
traveling to and from their job as
a lifeguard in Pittsfield Township,
as they cannot drive due to a dis-
ability.
“It’s good for me to relax,”
Guilds said. “It’s nice to listen to
a podcast episode and since the
route goes right to Meijer, I can do
two trips in one: to work and also to
do grocery shopping.”
Despite the apparent benefits
of their moments in transit, many
describe their bus commute as
far from perfect. Guilds’ journey
includes a 20-minute walk after
the lengthy bus ride due to the
relative lack of fixed route service
southwest of I-94. TheRide does
offer FlexRide on-demand service
in the area, but it has limited hours
of operation and no service on
weekends.
“There are some days where I
wake up and my pain is really bad …
and I’m really struggling to weigh
the option of walking those 20
minutes,” Guilds said. “I could buy
an Uber … (I have to decide) which
one is more worth it, my body or
my money?”
LSA junior Justin Green also
found difficulty in getting over the
initial hurdle of deciphering Ann
Arbor’s bus systems.
“(The buses) use … you could
call them ‘code
names’ for dif-
ferent
places
to go to. If you
don’t
know
the
acronyms
and things like
that,
you’re
gonna get your-
self lost” said
Green.
Downtown
construction
added to the
learning curve,
with removed
and
relocated
stops
causing
confusion.
Neverthe-
less,
commut-
ing by bus poses
major benefits
on the finan-
cial front, with
Green citing it
as another cost-cutting measure.
Yglesias praises his lack of parking
costs by using the bus in combina-
tion with the free park-and-ride.
“I don’t have to pay for parking
downtown … parking (was) killing
me,” said Yglesias.
Currently, on-street parking
rates run at $2.20 per hour Mon-
day through Saturday during day-
time hours, and parking structures
charge $1.20. Given the incremen-
tal nature of these parking costs,
every minute spent on campus
counts for those commuting by car,
and a sense of efficiency takes hold
of one’s actions, limiting the possi-
bility for spontaneity.
“For me, time is money. The
more that I park downtown, the
more I pay for parking and the
more trips I make, (and) the more I
have to spend on gas,” Galvez said.
“Whether or not I spend that with
friends or I spend it studying, since
I only have so much time down-
town it’s something that I try to
plan very wisely.”
For a semester or year-long
option, the U-M Logistics, Trans-
portation
and
Parking
office
markets the Student Orange and
Student Yellow/After Hours park-
ing permits for undergraduate
commuters, with a cost of $84 for
the Student Orange and $237 for
the Student Yellow per calendar
year. However, only those with
class standing of junior and above
can purchase these permits. Addi-
tionally, the lots that are available
to the permit-holders are located
on the outskirts of campus and an
extra bus ride is required to get to
most academic buildings.
Faced with the one-two punch
of both added cost and an addi-
tional leg of travel, none of the
interviewed commuters opted to
purchase any of the U-M permits,
and instead devised their own ad-
hoc methods.
CHINWE ONWERE
Statement Columnist
The Hatred
I used to hate myself.
There are particular parts of
ourselves that we feel disdain
toward. The way your forehead
creases when you smile, the stub-
born blackheads you can’t remove
or the tiny bumps on the ridges of
your teeth. We all have these dis-
likes, and we all have things we so
desperately want to change. For
me, I felt inner rage toward one
thing:
My hair.
Yes, my hair was the reason I
hated myself. When I was eleven
years old, I looked in the mirror,
and the nappy mess grew larger
and uglier before my eyes. The
tears that threatened to flood
my eyes were met with an anger
and infuriation that rose from
the depths of my being. I tried to
pin my kinky hair with clips so it
could at least have the appearance
of being longer than its shrunken-
up state. I devised a concoction
of thick hair butter, Eco Style gel
and Cantu leave-in conditioner so
my hair would fit the standards
of being loosely curled. Yet, with-
out fail, it would bunch right back
up in its undefined, frizzy, kinky,
coily state. I loathed myself for
being simply myself.
The Beginning
To be honest, I never really
thought of my hair when I was
younger.
As
a
rambunctious
4-year-old, the state of my hair
was the least of my troubles. I was
more concerned with having my
daily dose of chocolate milk and
weekly fix of PBS’s “Word Girl.”
Yet, it was special days known
as “wash-days” on which I
noticed how painful and exhaus-
tive the process of doing my hair
could be.
“Chinwe, it’s time to do your
hair!” my mother yelled, muffled
by the sound of water running
from the sink in large, steaming
billows.
I winced, already preparing
myself for what was to come as I
The hatred of my hair
shuffled my way to the bathroom.
My mother scrubbed the heavily
viscous shampoo that smelled of
mint, scratching her fingernails
deeply in my scalp as the soap
cascaded down my hair and into
my eyes, temporarily blinding me.
After, I sat between her legs as she
tore the comb through my wet,
thick hair, black clumps falling to
the ground like snow. I heard the
rips, tugs and snaps as my hair
fell, my eyes beginning to gloss.
“Please stop!” I wailed, salty
tears streaming down the cor-
ners of my eyes and snot dribbling
down my face.
We moved to the living room
to finish the exhaustive process.
There I sat, criss-crossed on the
carpet floor with the hum of PBS
Kids harmonizing with my heavy
sniffles. As my mom twisted my
hair and clipped little butterfly
barrettes at the end, I began to
experience the feelings of resent-
ment that came along with my
hair. The uncomfortableness of
wash days morphed from me
hating the mere situation to me
hating the cause of that situation
— my identity.
Grade School
When I started first grade, I
became distinctly aware that I
was “different”.
Part of this difference mani-
fested itself not only through my
skin color but also through my
hair, something the other first
graders made sure that I knew.
As I walked in with two puffs
on either side of my head, my
predominantly
white
peers
were amazed at the fact that my
strands seemed to defy gravity.
“Your hair is so soft!” a peer
would say, coming up from
behind me to pat it gently with
their two hands. Others would
stick their fingers and pull
on my strands, mouth
agape in wonder when
it would spring back
to its perky glory.
And while oth-
ers
would
prance
around
my
head
and insert their fin-
gers into my mane, I
began to envy my straight-haired
classmates. After coming home, I
would put a long black shirt over
my head, imagining myself in an
ideal world — a world where I had
long straight hair, a world where
I could move my hair freely like
the girls who stuck their heads
out car windows, a world where I
could possibly love my curls.
A Change
During her visit for the holi-
days when I was 12, my nana
revealed she had recently discov-
ered the world of natural haircare
and as a result, had her hair in
beautiful twists. I was consumed
by this new idea, spending my
time reading and watching videos
of Black individuals with afros,
twists, locs and braids that had
the same hair texture as mine.
One day during the break, she
gently combed my hair from ends
to roots, lightly spritzing it with
water.
My hair seemed to be given
new life; it was healthier, shinier
and had movement. And as I con-
tinued to see others embracing
their hair, wearing it freely with-
out hesitation, I began to do the
same. The day after my nana
twisted my hair, I took
the twists out,
raking my
hands
gently through my curls to cre-
ate a fro. Instead of resentment,
I found a sense of peace, of love
and tranquility in doing my hair.
I had finally grown to no longer
hating myself. In fact, I began to
love who I was, from head to toe.
Reflection
The journey of self-love is
never a consistent or finite one.
The feeling that I had after my
nana did my hair definitely
did not continue for the rest of
middle school and beyond. The
social stigma surrounding Black
hair and the topic of desirability,
especially for dark skin women,
still deeply affects me.
This is especially true within
the workplace and educational
systems. Coily hair and locs
are still viewed as ‘unkempt’
and ‘unprofessional’ by many
employers, which not only harms
the individual, but also disre-
gards the deep history of Black
hair. A study done by DOVE
reported that 80% of Black
women are likely to change their
hair to another style to comply
with social and academic pres-
sures. Another study done by the
Perception
Insti-
tute
reported
that
Black
women
experi-
ence high
levels of
anxiety when it comes to dealing
with their hair.
From the Civil Rights move-
ment in the 1960s to the enslave-
ment of Black individuals, our
hair was a way to curate a sense
of freedom during times when
we were denied it. Black activists
wore large afros to signify their
march against inequality and
enslaved people braided corn-
rows to act like maps so they
could find their way to freedom.
The societal struggle with
appearance is further compli-
cated by the fact that hair encom-
passes identity, expression and
creativity. Within the Black com-
munity, hair can be one of the big-
gest ways we express ourselves,
express our culture and connect
with our roots. Barring us from
wearing the hair on our heads is
repulsive. To tell us to straighten
our hair to be presentable, in
order for us to move from assis-
tants to executives, in order for
us to be treated with genuine dig-
nity, can never and will never be
right.
Hence, in March 2022, the
House passed the CROWN Act,
which prohibits race-based hair
discrimination in both profes-
sional and educational opportu-
nities. Sponsored and drafted by
California senator Holly Mitchell,
a woman of Color, this act is one
step forward in helping to dis-
band the prejudices assigned to
POCs and African Americans. It is
meant for that Black girl with the
large afro who dreams of becom-
ing a doctor and the boy with the
long locs who wants to become a
chef. It is meant for the Black
mother with cornrows who
works double shifts at the
hospital. It is meant for
me: a Black 18-year-
old who has strug-
gled with her
identity and
love of her
hair since
she
was
young.
Even
during
times
when I was not in pain doing my
hair back when I was a 4-year-
old, I would still cry, because I
thought I had to live in this real-
ity forever. For years, I thought
that the frustrations that my hair
had tortured me with were some
type of curse.
However, now I know this
was entirely false — the prior
hatred of my hair has led me to
dive deeper into the stem of that
hate. Was it really my hair that
I hated? Or was it the fact that I
felt abnormal and isolated in my
predominantly white spaces? I
have come to realize that the lat-
ter is the case and that the hatred
of my outer appearance stemmed
from an inner conflict of self-
worth and validation. No, my hair
wasn’t a curse but rather a gift; it
has shown me that to love your-
self, you must first fully accept
who you are.
Deciding to Free the Frizz
Over two years ago, I decided
to twist my hair up and start my
loc journey. Maybe it was the
quarantine boredom, but more
so it was the desire to have a low-
maintenance hairstyle that was
also something I could achieve
naturally.
The first few months are often
referred to as the ‘ugly stage’
due to the abundance of frizz
and matting that happens. Dur-
ing that stage, I wore a variety of
headscarves and wraps to cover
up the ‘madness’ that was on top
of my head. However, during the
summertime, my head began to
sweat with the culmination of the
heavy fabric and my thick hair.
Unable to take any more per-
spiration, I decided to ditch the
scarf and wear my hair out. A
little bit above my ears, my locs
stuck out in every direction,
frizzy and short.
Yet, in all that it was, I had
grown to appreciate it, during
both the good and bad hair days.
For the frizz was truly — and
authentically — myself. And for
that, I learned to love it.
Statement Columnist Chinwe
Onwere can be reached at chin-
weo@umich.edu.
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