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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