My friend Jill is sitting behind 
me at a library table as the sun gets 
closer to setting in the distance, just 
past the lake, surrounded by a haze 
of trees that serve as a reminder that 
we are in the middle of nowhere.
We’re supposed to be reading 
something for class, and I remark 
that the author has continually 
connected the idea of femininity 
with the ability to give birth. That 
is not how I’ve ever experienced 
femininity, I tell Jill. When she 
asks me how I have experienced 
femininity, I’m forced to answer.
I came out as queer when I was 
13. My friends were coming out 
as trans at the same time. I have 
thought about my gender just as 
long as I knew I had a choice in the 
matter. I knew gender identity was 
fluid, I knew I didn’t have to choose, 
and yet even now, when I fill out 
my gender identity on a Google 
form or have to write it on a name 
tag, I always write, “she/her.” And 
I always come back to the place 
where I started: I am a girl. I am a 
woman. I always will be.
But Jill doesn’t accept that 
answer. She wants to know why I’m 
so confident that I’m a woman. So I 
gave it to her. I tell her it is a lot of 
little things that accumulate into 
one big thing.
My confidence in my femininity 
comes from the feeling I get when 
my nails are long and painted 
pink, when I can drum them on 
the countertops. It comes from the 
way I feel when I’m dancing to The 
Beatles or Halsey or Hozier. From 
the way green looks against my olive 
skin and the sultry way my breasts 
move with my torso when I’m 
walking, running, dancing, talking. 
It comes from the way I feel when 
my shoulders are slumped up to my 
ears, and the way my hair tickles the 
space between my shoulder blades 

when I’m in a bikini, specifically my 
favorite orange one.
It comes from my masculinity, 
too, the way I look in muscle tank 
tops and the way I feel when I flex 
my arms, when I chest bump my 
friends or when I got my wolf-cut. 
From the way I look at other people 
who identify as women and feel this 
tug between our two hearts like a 
string. From the way I stare at them 
and think Wow, women are just so 
beautiful.
I tell Jill most of this, and ask if 
this is a good answer. She tells me 
it is very poetic, and that I should 
write that down. And so I do.
***
The above piece was a journal 
entry I wrote in late August, 
following 
a 
very 
provocative 
interaction that happened during 
my time at the University of 
Michigan 
Biological 
Station 
(UMBS) — a University-operated 
research and teaching facility, 
located 
in 
Pellston, 
northern 
Michigan, available to all U-M 
students and to researchers across 
the country. I was taking an English 
class out there, and as you can tell, I 
fashioned myself quite the poet.
During my time at the Bio 
Station, or Bug Camp, or “the 
Station,” or UMBS, or whatever 
you’d like to call it, I thought a lot 
about femininity. A little bit because 
of the environment and a little bit 
because of texts we were reading — 
specifically Robin Wall Kimmerer’s 
“Braiding Sweetgrass,” a book 
about science and native ways of 
thinking that touches on ideas and 
concepts of femininity. Primarily, 
however, it was because femininity 
was a central idea of my final 
project, which examined how we 
might expand both femininity and 
gender expression at the station.
On the day I presented this 
project, I stood in front of my peers 
and professors and talked about how 
the history of the Bio Station and 
the culture that was subsequently 

cultivated there created what I had 
concluded through interviews and 
qualitative research was a “male-
dominated” space.
This 
was 
strange, 
because 
the Bio Station, according to 
unpublished 
data 
collected 
by 
UMBS researchers, featured more 
and more women and gender-
nonconforming people on campus. 
The data showed that since 2017, 
most terms at UMBS have included 
more women-identifying people 
than men-identifying people on 
campus, and since 2019 there 
has been at least one gender-
nonconforming person on campus 
per semester.
These 
statistics 
led 
me 
to 
a very important question: If 
demographics 
were 
changing, 
why did the space still feel male 
dominated?
A couple of things contributed 
to this. First, the history of the 
University site — at UMBS in 
the ’40s and ’50s, there were two 
distinct sections of camp whose 
names are still used on campus 
to refer to the various sections 
of 
campus: 
“Ladysville” 
and 
“Mansville.” “Ladysville” consisted 
of the cabins formally understood 
to be the “women’s cabins,” and 
“Mansville” referred to the former 
“men’s cabins.” The two sections 
stand on opposite sides of camp, 
and while people of all genders now 
occupy cabins beside each other, the 
names persist.
I found the current dichotomy 
problematic for two reasons: One, 
it is wholly exclusive of those who 
don’t fall into either category, and 
two, Ladysville is significantly 
smaller than Mansville. I also found 
that in the earlier days of camp, 
women generally did not occupy 
faculty roles, primarily serving as 
kitchen or cleaning staff. The only 
woman on faculty in those early 
days was the “Dean of Women,” 
in charge of the affairs of female 
students.

And then there were irrefutable 
points that I found on campus while 
I was staying there. The fact that 
there was no building on UMBS’s 
campus named after a woman or 
a gender-nonconforming person, 
at least not one that I could find. 
Many were named after men. My 
classroom specifically was named 
“Hungerford” after a prominent 
male scientist, which was the 
similar case for other buildings 
on campus, like “Creaser” and 
“Nichols.”
Then there was the fact that 
feminine hygiene products and 
traditional 
tools 
of 
feminine 
expression, such as skirts, dresses, 
make-up or other products, were 
left off of the packing list that was 
sent to me.
The crux of my final conclusion 
was this: The station’s history, in 
combination with lasting gender 
norms, demonstrated to students 
that 
femininity 
and 
gender 
expression don’t have a sizable 

place on UMBS’s campus. Yet there 
was still a dominating sense of 
masculinity on campus, even if it 
wasn’t statistically demonstrated.
A fellow Bio Station student 
said in one of our classes that 
demographic or cultural change 
alone often doesn’t matter when a 
space is trying to be more inclusive 
of traditionally underrepresented 
groups. Only when we combine 
both demographic and cultural 
reform can we create an inclusive, 
welcoming 
environment 
for 
those who have not found those 
environments 
everywhere. 
By 
identifying 
moments 
of 
male 
dominance, 
the 
UMBS 
could 
shift its culture, and create an 
environment that communicates 
that people of all gender identities 
have a space on campus.
Staring out at a crystal blue lake, 
underneath a cool gray sky, I smiled 
as I finished my presentation with a 
small but warm round of applause. 
I felt good about myself. I felt like 

I had made a real change, like the 
people that were sitting in front 
of me were hearing me, not just 
listening.
And then I packed up all my 
things from the station and went 
home.
A week later it was Welcome 
Week in Ann Arbor, and I was 
sitting on a roof underneath a deep, 
starry sky, and I got to thinking 
about UMBS again. Multiple nights 
while I was at camp, my roommate, 
Sabrina, and I ventured outdoors 
in our pajamas. Sometimes with 
friends, often alone, we walked the 
dirt roads that made up the camp, 
sat by the lake and stared up at the 
stars. I thought it was simply insane 
just how dark the stars were out 
there, in Pellston, and just how light 
they were here, with all of the lights 
from the many frat houses and 
house parties bleeding out into the 
darkness.

My love affair with white 
coats began when I was a 
teenager. I was obsessed with 
medical dramas like “Grey’s 
Anatomy” and “Untold Stories 
of the E.R.” Although “Grey’s 
Anatomy” 
was 
a 
fictional 
dream world of high-powered 
careers and attractive doctors, 
I couldn’t help but long for 
the glamorous life of surgeons 
portrayed on the screen. The 
blue scrubs, driven women and 
intense surgeries were enough 
to make me consider medicine 
as a career path. 
At the time, I was a 17-year-
old soon-to-be college student, 
grasping for anything that made 
me feel like I had a concrete 
plan for my future. So, in high 
school, 
I 
accompanied 
my 
interest in the medical field 
with a course load dominated by 
STEM classes and the biological 
sciences, 
later 
applying 
to 
schools as a pre-med major 
to fulfill my younger dreams. 
What I didn’t know then was 
that my path into studying 
medicine would be brought to 
a halt; the COVID-19 pandemic 
created a new kind of medical 
drama that fractured dreams of 
my own.
As cases grew and panic 
rose, hospitals and medical 
offices altered their practices of 
standard care. I witnessed this 
firsthand when working at the 
front desk at a doctor’s office — 
we used plexiglass to separate 
ourselves from patients and 
were required to wear masks 
for the entirety of each shift, 
which was typically not an 
expectation 
for 
front 
desk 
personnel before March 2020. 
While these protective barriers 
may become unnecessary in the 
future, masks are an essential 
accessory in most healthcare 
professions. 
As a person who experiences 
degenerative 
hearing 
loss, 
masks eliminate one of my 

most valuable tools: lip reading. 
Although I managed to work 
with patients as a receptionist 
for three summers, I struggled 
exponentially as my hearing 
worsened over that time — 
making 
safe 
communication 
with 
patients 
in 
my 
last 
months at the front desk nearly 
impossible. I soon realized that 
if I wished to pursue a career as 
a doctor or surgeon, I needed to 
sacrifice my familiar lifestyle. 
In my professional future, I 
would require accommodations, 
like a personal sign language 
translator, 
to 
allow 
me 
to 
converse 
with 
patients 
and 
other professionals in hospital 
settings. While inconvenient, 
it’s not impossible. However, the 
realization pushed me to adjust 
my expectations of the future 
and question my priorities as a 
student. My dream of becoming 
a doctor was in its final season 
(unlike 
the 
never-ending 
“Grey’s 
Anatomy” 
series), 
creating a new academic reality 
that is anything but isolated.
College 
(in 
the 
most 
philosophical and cliché sense) 
is a journey of self-discovery and 
individuality — a journey that is 
subject to change that may or 
may not be within one’s control. 
Like most freshmen, I explored 
a variety of subjects in the 
first semester of my freshman 
year: language, foreign studies, 
writing, English literature and, 
of course, biology.
The pre-med identity I once 
envisioned for myself no longer 
fit the person I was becoming 
— the wide breadth of classes 
I was taking provided that 
much-needed affirmation. The 
forever-changing reality of my 
hearing loss was an element 
of my life I had difficulty 
accepting.
However, amid my budding 
adulthood as a college student, 
I’ve taken on the philosophy 
that my hearing loss can be 
part of me without becoming 
the 
defining 
factor 
of 
my 
personality. 
Accepting 
my 
condition as an element of 

my identity allowed me to 
more deeply explore my long-
standing passion for writing 
and literature. 
Now, as a former pre-med 
student turned English and 
economics major, I have a 
unique understanding of the 
notorious, 
indecisive 
college 
student. 
In 
my 
personal 
experience, my external and 
internal identities are closely 
intertwined with my preferred 
major. My fondness for English 
is undoubtedly a derivative of 
my learning style — visual and 
textual information rather than 
auditory 
presentation. 
And 
my willingness to learn about 
economics likely stems from my 
father’s professional interest in 
finance. Yet, the two subjects 
also cater to my personality 
as someone who longs for a 
creative outlet but also values 
logic and reasoning.
And while it’s true that many 
of us are in constant limbo when 
facing career-related decisions, 
some 
undergraduates 
have 
continued to pursue the dreams 
they 
chose 
for 
themselves 
as high school students. I 
decided to search out these 

undergraduates, to hear more 
about how they clasped onto the 
teenage ambitions I grew out of 
years ago. 
Business sophomore Dominic 
Lucido described the childhood 
experiences that led to him 
pursuing 
an 
undergraduate 
business degree.
“Growing up, I was always 
around business,” Lucido said. 
“My dad owns a small real estate 
company, and my mom is in 
advertising and sales. So, from 
a young age, I was ingrained in 
a business mentality, and I feel 
like that’s what originally set 
me on a path to the Ross School 
of Business.”
When coming to campus, 
Lucido 
was 
surrounded 
by 
other like-minded students. He 
described how his expectations 
and 
professional 
aspirations 
soon aligned.
“Seeing my interest extend 
beyond my own goals and 
desires assured me that business 
was the right path,” Lucido said. 
“It would, one day, allow me to 
make a positive impact, bigger 
than myself.”
Though Lucido was secure in 
his passion for business, he still 

faced moments of doubt that 
made him question his place 
at the Business School, and 
consequently, his identity as a 
student. 
“As a junior and senior in 
high school, it feels like you’re 
pigeonholed 
into 
narrowing 
down one career path or major 
early on,” Lucido explained. 
“They want you to have it 
all figured out before you’re 
even there. I realized that 
you can’t spend your whole 
college experience with your 
head down, worrying about 
your grades and future. It’s 
important to meet other people 
and have new experiences.” 
Engineering 
sophomore 
Susan 
Xi, 
a 
biomedical 
engineering 
student 
at 
the 
University of Michigan, has also 
experienced moments within 
her discipline that challenged 
her 
understanding 
of 
her 
identity. 
As a kid, Xi always enjoyed 
her math and science classes. 
From a young age, she knew she 
wanted to study engineering, 
along with other courses in 
STEM subjects. As a freshman, 
she was curious about the 

different 
career 
possibilities 
a degree from the school of 
engineering could offer. 
“Coming 
into 
college, 
I 
thought I was going to pursue a 
Ph.D., staying within academia 
and doing research,” Xi said. 
“That’s what my parents did, 
and what I always planned 
to do. But after looking into 
different 
opportunities 
and 
clubs, I realized that there 
was a lot of industry work out 
there that would better suit my 
interests.” 
Once Xi learned more about 
her 
passions 
and 
alternate 
career paths, she could see 
herself potentially veering from 
her original plans and exploring 
other options within biomedical 
engineering. 
“I kind of want to look into 
the business side of biomedical 
engineering,” Xi said. “There 
is a lot of start-up culture in 
this industry, and I want to 
learn a little more about that 
… But in terms of my passions, 
biology, 
tissue 
engineering 
and regenerative medicine are 
definitely my focus.”
***
From leaving home for the 
first time to making it out of 
freshman year alive, we’ve all 
experienced different moments 
of 
assurance, 
curiosity 
and 
doubt during this monumental 
time 
in 
our 
personal 
and 
professional 
lives. 
Changing 
identities affect our passions, 
and passion is essential to 
understanding 
our 
evolving 
identities. 
I know my fellow “Grey’s 
Anatomy” fans were pulling 
their hair out each time Dr. Ben 
Warren (Dr. Bailey’s husband) 
changed 
his 
career 
from 
anesthesiologist 
to 
surgeon 
to 
firefighter. 
But 
there’s 
something to be said about this 
fictional character’s bravery. I 
encourage each of us to be brave 
in this life and honor the newest 
versions of ourselves.
Statement Columnist Reese 
Martin 
can 
be 
reached 
at 
rkmartin@umich.edu. 

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
6 — Wednesday, September 21, 2022
S T A T E M E N T

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

RILEY HODDER
Statement Correspondent

Tales from the Biological Station: Femininity and gender 
expression

A major mistake

REESE MARTIN
Statement Columnist

Design by Francie Ahrens

Design by Meghana Tummala