T H E O R R E N C . M O H L E R P R I Z E L E C T U R E
Should you require any accommodations to ensure equal access and opportunity related to this event please contact Stacy Tiburzi at 734-764-3440 or stibu@umich.edu.
Wednesday
Dec. 7, 2022 • 7 p.m.
Palmer Commons Forum Hall
100 Washtenaw Avenue
lsa.umich.edu/astro
Fiona A. Harrison
Kent and Joyce Kresa Leadership Chair of
the Division of Physics, Mathematics and
Astronomy at Caltech
Harold A. Rosen Professor of Physics at Caltech
and Principal Investigator for NASA’s Nuclear
Spectroscopic Telescope Array mission.
Trigger warning: This piece con-
tains depictions of acts of violence
including but not limited to sexual
assault and physical harm. Reader
discretion is advised.
I.
The first time I see the girls, I
am sitting in a café. I’ve settled on
a booth with faded floral covers to
claim as mine. I am conscious that
this choice was made out of a lack
of knowledge of anywhere else on
campus, but the booth will do for
now, until I find my way around or
until I make friends to find my way
around with. I think it is strange
that everyone feels lonely in their
first year of college but cannot be
comforted by the knowledge that
everyone feels lonely in their first
year of college. It still feels singu-
lar and directed like the result of
not sending a chain text message
to ten new people when instructed
to.
I read once that women cater
their social performances to the
male gaze even if this perfor-
mance is not purposeful. Like I
widen my eyes and swell air into
my lips while I stand in line to
order. In class, I tap my pen to my
lips in between annotations like I
am casually, sensually, pensive. In
rooms without men, I puff breath
into the gaze, ensuring its surviv-
al, hollowing my stomach into an
ice cream scooper and maintain-
ing a serene look of mysterious
allure. There is something special
about being a freshman girl that I
did not embrace in high school and
am determined to embrace now.
I met five of the girls first. Com-
ing into the café, they move like
mirages with the edges of their
bodies flickering out occasionally.
They walk with their arms linked
or their hands intertwined up to
the register with an airy qual-
ity that has always evaded my
adolescent existence. I pull at my
top. I don’t believe they are per-
forming, but I also read once that
not performing is a performance.
The idea of this makes my head
hurt because there are too many
theories on what it means to be a
girl. My breath is forced to slow.
As they leave with their food, one
girl, the one with black hair down
to her waist, catches my eye and
smiles at me like an old friend.
II.
My days and nights at school
are routine. I want to cry when I
am not invited to anything on the
weekends and I do not attend any-
thing I am invited to on the week-
ends. I pluck the hair between my
eyebrows. I theorize that a boy in
class has a crush on me. I smoke
too much. I think about calling
my mom, but never do. I text a girl
in my class to ask if she has done
the pre-lab. When she replies “not
yet,” but doesn’t ask to work on
it together, I cannot tell if I am
humiliated or relieved.
Days are distinguished only by
seeing the girls or not seeing them.
I cannot explain how I can dif-
ferentiate them from the general
student population, only that it is
simple and obvious. Sometimes I
see one walking through campus
alone or I see two at the smoothie
shop or I walk past their sorority
house and see them all through the
windows. It is exciting to be near
them. I study their movements,
their clothes, their facial expres-
sions or lack thereof, the way they
speak to each other and the way
they speak to others. I study how
everyone else studies the girls too.
I label awe, envy, lust, adoration
and curiosity in their stares, but
their eyes reveal things I cannot
name as well.
I am sitting in my booth in the
café when the black-haired girl
approaches me. She asks if she can
sit. My words stick in my throat,
and I am grateful when she sits
without a response. Her face is
round and soft, the texture of
caramel candies that can be pulled
apart and tasted in pieces.
I’m Mary. It’s nice to meet you.
I settle into the feeling of being
close to her because the last time
I felt this weightless was the first
time I learned to float. She is so
still when she sits, and I didn’t
know that it was possible for a per-
son to not fidget or flush. She tells
me that she has seen me around
campus. I blush because she has
taken note of me.
Three more girls have just come
in. Mary waves them over. The
blondest one introduces herself as
Delilah, leaning over to kiss me on
both cheeks as a greeting. The one
with the low, commanding voice
is Deborah. Rachel is dark blonde
and tanned and reminds me of the
fairy characters in a series I read
as a child. I think she must be the
prettiest girl I have ever seen. Not
as powerful in her beauty, per-
haps, as Deborah or as comforting
as Mary, but certainly the pretti-
est, in the most uncomplicated of
terms.
They ask if I would like to get
coffee this Friday. At coffee, they
ask if I would like to go out with
them tonight. They invite me to
their house, walking me up stairs
and past rows of rooms. I meet
a new girl at every turn. Each is
welcoming and cool and beauti-
ful. I think college is not so bad.
In Mary’s room, Rachel styles me
in her clothes. Shots are poured.
Secrets of boys and sex and dads
who don’t understand are passed
around. Mary doodles a wheat
field on my thigh. I swish the scene
around in my mouth, and I am
careful not to bite down.
At the frat, I am dancing. I jump
with my arms raised above me,
a permanent grin on my face. My
hair flies around me with gos-
samer wings. Each girl wants her
turn to dance with me, to go to the
bathroom with me, to introduce
me to a friend. I think college will
be the best years of my life. Mary
whispers to me that she can tell
I’m a Theta girl. I repeat the words
to myself. I could be a Theta girl.
III.
My life feels separated by before
and after these girls. Like coming
of age is behind me now. I won-
der if I am one of them. I wonder
if Mary was only telling me some-
thing that would make me happy.
7-Opinion
Michigan in Color
Wednesday, November 30, 2022 — 11
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Yash Aprameya/MiC
In Search of the Perfect Mango
Summer in the South Asian sub-
continent is a thrilling time. Diets
are forgotten, hardcore keto addicts
take cheat weeks and the search for
the perfect mango begins.
If you are Pakistani, you will
most likely have grown up with
an ingrained reverence or intense
craving for the king of all fruits: the
mango. Beginning in June, we anx-
iously await the ripening of Multani
mangos. Still, it isn’t until after the
monsoon rains hit that the sweet-
est mangoes make an appearance
and the real hunt begins. Overseas
Pakistanis will scour neighborhood
grocery stores while those at home
chase after their local fruit sellers.
Wrapped in netted foam, each
orange gem is carefully tucked into
place, ready to be devoured. For
just a moment, you can forget your
burdens and woes, and indulge in a
mango. It acts as a reminder; a little
piece of home delivered right to
your doorstep.
There’s the Chaunsa, known
for its exceptionally sweet rich-
ness. One must be quick not to
judge this book by its cover since
Chaunsas tend to have a fairly pale
yellow exterior. My earliest memo-
ries revolve around summertime
mango season: my grandparents
would arrive with suitcases filled
to the brim with Chaunsas. Soon,
every room in the house would be
infused with its fruity aroma.
People approach mangos the
same way they approach life. Take
the Sindri for example – a long,
oval-shaped delight, and my per-
sonal favorite. Eating this mango
with my family members is an
anticipated yearly ritual. The sim-
ple act of cutting fruit is a love lan-
guage in itself. My mother takes
care to sharply slice each side and
scoop out the mango with a spoon.
She is swift and methodical, taking
care to avoid any mess. My grand-
mother, on the other hand, is more
chaotic. She will violently squeeze
the mango, cut a small hole at the
top and suck the juice until every
last drop has been drawn. I learned
to appreciate the nuances of each
approach — most of all when I found
my own. Each Sindri molds itself to
suit one’s emotional needs — a space
where creation and tradition can
thrive alongside one another.
Then comes the long-reigning
Anwar Ratols. With their delicate
flavor, these pocket-sized prized
possessions are a fan favorite. One
bite into an Anwar Ratol and I am
transported back to a hot summer
afternoon playing cricket in the
streets with my cousins. With pierc-
ing rays of sun and beads of sweat on
each and every child’s forehead, our
egos fuel our urge to carry on. After
a while, we would run inside and
lose ourselves in an ice-cold mango
lassi: a work hard, play hard kind of
lifestyle.
Langras are travelers. They are
exported to Saudi Arabia, Europe
and everywhere in between. As
major players in the mango diplo-
macy between India and Pakistan,
Langras also act as a bridge con-
necting borders. These two coun-
tries, which are at odds when it
comes to political disputes and
sports tournaments, are strangely
bound together by this cultural phe-
nomenon.
There is something beautiful
about this shared experience — the
ability of a single fruit to shape tra-
ditions, cultivate palates and revive
childhood memories. While most
fruits in Western countries are
available all year round, Pakistanis
are held captive by the changing of
seasons. Bound by the natural cycle
of fruits that come and go each year,
we savor our moment in the sun.
The temporality of our time
together makes each bite just that
little bit more special. Then, when
October comes around, we are
forced to reconcile this bittersweet
sense of loss, and the clock begins
ticking in wait for next June.
NURAIYA MALIK
MiC Columnist
Sisterhood
CLAIRE GALLAGHER
MiC Columnist
Read more at MichiganDaily.com