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

