I am from the East Garfield
Park neighborhood on the west
side of Chicago, a community
struck by decades of disinvest-
ment and replete with closed
facilities. Blocks away from my
home is the high school that
witnessed my curiosity and
resentment for the world grow.
During my preteen years, dif-
ferences between my neigh-
borhood — where the median
income was close to the pover-
ty line — and the upper-income
neighborhoods
surrounding
downtown
Chicago
became
intensely difficult to ignore.
I never questioned my home
because its value was so much
more monumental than the
high-rise buildings I saw as
I journeyed downtown, but I
questioned what brought about
our closed facilities and the
absence of hope for change. I
was curious about the sources
of power that negatively struck
communities like East Garfield
Park. As my career interests
and life experiences fused in
high school, I was interested
in learning how I could bring
change to my community. Ulti-
mately, I concluded that a col-
lege education would lead me
to a professional career, and I
reveled in the idea that the uni-
versity I would attend would
be the perfect place for me to
pursue my dreams.
In March 2021, I was accept-
ed to the University of Michi-
gan. That was it — a dream
come true. I would attend one
of the most recognized uni-
versities in the country, and
I would be able to change the
forces of power in favor of my
neighbors and those to come.
Like many dreams, I was hum-
bled by the realities of it. Since
the day I arrived on campus,
I’ve become more convinced
that the dream I had was not
mine to make.
The University of Michi-
gan is 205 years old — older
than most public institutions
and cities around the country.
Before arriving on campus, the
need to acknowledge the Uni-
versity’s demographics never
roamed my thoughts. This uni-
versity had the same mission
as any other higher education
institution around the United
States: to provide a college
education. I chose the Univer-
sity of Michigan for its pres-
tige and promise of serving the
bright futures of its students.
As a first-generation college
student who had always relied
on unconditional and compre-
hensive support in my early
education, I lost hope in my
dream as I watched the Uni-
versity hide me in the shadows
of ‘we treat all students the
same.’ This dream was now
corrupted by the absence of
social-emotional support, the
frequency of encounters with
white privilege, and the inabil-
ity to feasibly advocate for
myself. The once-perfect place
to pursue my dreams became a
deception.
A couple of weeks ago, I was
invited to sit in a group con-
versation with a high-ranking
U-M administrator. The con-
versation had the goal of gaug-
ing the student life experiences
of representatives from a broad
range of student organizations.
Like in most rooms across this
university’s campus, I was one
of the few students of Color.
Monuments of tension and pro-
test began to build in my head.
My presence had too much at
stake, and I was eager to name
the numerous ways the Univer-
sity did not serve my friends
of Color and me. My inner dia-
logue constructed an essay, but
I could only say one thing: any
administrative efforts across
the University should be done
with students, and not for stu-
dents. Stakeholder engagement
is crucial for collaborative
and relevant decision-making.
I glanced at those present in
the room, and I couldn’t help
but go back to questioning
power. The power dynamics
in that room looked different
than the forces that economi-
cally corrupt and criminalize
East Garfield Park. The power
in that room hid behind state-
ments like “We always appre-
ciate student input,” but gave
little-to-no opportunities for
students to provide it. My posi-
tionality on this campus is the
source of that power. It feeds
itself through the presence of
every person enrolled across
the 19 colleges, but what hap-
pens when students come from
communities of broken dreams
and a pittance of hope? We are
incapable of giving it our ener-
gy, and it leaves us to think
that this place may not exist to
serve us. Quickly, we learn that
this place is just like any other
historic institution or force of
power that victimizes its sub-
jects. That to me is the failure
of this university.
Denial
“You know, I’m glad we did
this,” the blonde smiles coquett-
ishly. “I really vibed with your
profile.” She dips her spoon into
her dessert, a swirl of chocolate,
strawberry and vanilla melting
on the metal. Daniel grins from
across the dinner table and nods
at her.
“Yeah, I could tell from the
profile that you were just the girl
I was looking for,” he trails off,
searching his memory for her
name.
“Betty,” I interject.
“Betty!” Daniel quickly adds.
He shoves Neapolitan ice cream
into his mouth, sheepish. I laugh,
“Nice save!” His eyes narrow ever
so slightly.
“That’s sweet of you to say,”
Betty flushes red, a blush lightly
dusting her cheeks even in the
dimness of Daniel’s apartment.
In the candlelight, you could bet-
ter appreciate the gentleness
of her beauty. She was all soft
curves, breathless laughs and
quiet smiles. Contrasted with the
stark red and white hellscape that
is Tinder, Betty is simply an angel
descended from the algorithm
cloaked in Reformation. “Com-
pliment her dress. It’s expensive
as shit.” Daniel’s hand clenches
the spoon; Betty blinks oblivi-
ously. Daniel stammers, “You look
amazing in that dress.” I giggle,
a shadow hovering over the two
of them. “You obviously haven’t
gotten smoother since you ended
things.” Daniel flinches.
“What are you looking at?”
Betty’s head tilts as she tries to
discern the meaning behind Dan-
iel’s blank stare. “Nothing,” he
says dismissively. Betty rests her
hand against his bicep. “Lost in
thought?” she offers. He places
his palm on top of her hand. “Just
trying to enjoy the moment with
you.”
Bargaining
Daniel gestures to the couch
and asks her if she wants to watch
a movie. She politely nods; he puts
on “The Way We Were,” a classic
romance film. Both sit attentively
on the couch, churchlike in both
posture and distance. I rest myself
along the top of the couch in the
space between them, an imper-
fect triangle, and graze Daniel’s
shoulders as the couple in the
film sprint around in the sand.
“Remember swimming to the beach
from the boat? It was so far away
and we were both out of breath but
you swam all the way with me. Is
it because you wanted to? Or is it
because you wanted to come with
me? To be with me? You never told
me why. Your arm was turning
purple, crawling up your body, and
we couldn’t figure out why. That
was scary. But you still followed me
anyway. I know I never thanked
you for that, but I am now. Thank
you. Could we go back to that?”
Betty shivers delicately. Daniel
covers her with his arm, pulling
her closer. He rubs her shoulder.
“Do you want a blanket?” She
smiles adoringly at him, “I think
I’m fine now.”
Anger
The movie is close to over, but
the show is about to begin. Betty
yawns
conspiratorially,
“You
know, it’s getting awfully late.”
She runs her French-tipped nails
against his chest. “You’re welcome
to spend the night. I’m feeling
awfully lonely after that movie,”
Daniel says as he nuzzles his face
against her neck. I sit straight up.
“Look at you, playing Mr. Nice
Guy yet again. You just want to
get in her fucking pants, you piece
of shit.” He pauses his burrow-
ing, glaring in my direction before
continuing.
“Don’t do this. Please. Fuck.” I
pause. “What about me? That used
to be me on that couch. That was
our moment. This was ours. You
were mine. You’re still mine.”
Betty beams against his face
and lets out a full laugh.
Depression
“I’ll never stop haunting you the
way you haunted me.”
She kisses his cheek, “I guess I
might take you up on that offer.”
Pressing her forehead against
his, Betty looks adoringly into his
eyes. “Let’s go somewhere a little
bit more… intimate.”
Guiding Betty by the hand,
Daniel brings her to his room. The
lights are off and the moon is high,
gleaming onto the wooden floors
of his bedroom, turning Daniel
and Betty’s shadows into some
sort of two-headed monster. The
room is sparsely decorated — pale
white walls and white bed sheets.
It smells of sweat and regret, and
Daniel can’t sleep.
Acceptance
He stares at the ceiling. There,
in the stillness after, he finds me,
embraces me. But it’s time for me
to go.
Daniel turns, “Could you stay
here longer? I miss you.” Betty
stirs. I ghost my finger along the
bridge of his nose.
“You know I can’t stay.” My
shadow glides to the window, a
breeze pushes the doors open.
Daniel rises, pausing to look at
Betty once more. “You promised
you wouldn’t leave me.” I shake
my head.
I text too much. I’ve talked about
this before … but after averaging
roughly 4-5 hours of screen time
each week with iMessage manag-
ing to take up 3-4 of those hours, I
must mention it once again, cause,
clearly, I got a lot to say… in a multi-
tude of ways.
Indeed, my iMessage app does
duke it out with Twitter for the
top slot of my screen time on the
regular. For a while, I been won-
dering what about this particular
application seems to apprehend my
precious time so effortlessly. Now,
before I shoot the messenger, I
have some ideas.
In my original text on texting,
“Texts as Texts,” I talked about
how our texts could be seen as
digital yet sacred documentations
of soul in their capacity to immor-
talize our social experience on the
screen. Rather hastily, I likened
texting to the process of writ-
ing letters, which let us recall, as
Jungian psychotherapist Thomas
Moore maintains, serve as, “soul’s
organ of rumination rather than
the mind’s capacity for its under-
standing.” Though in thinking
more about our culture’s tendency
towards digital compulsion, vice
and egoistic concern, I wonder
whether this holds true. As Moore
puts forth, writing and sending
letters remains a highly ritualized
process, developing from page and
envelope to stamp and seal, not
before stealing away to mailbox,
mailman and recipient hand. So
can we really say such a prolonged
process of pondering is akin to any
text we might send?
Maybe check your last text and
get back to me, but I definitely do
believe that while the process may
not be the same, when done delib-
erately letter writing and texting
are still engaged in similar acts
of meditative reflection, artful
expression, prudent confidentiality
and profuse anticipation, as Moore
proclaims, and my mini-case study
on texts as texts will soon reveal.
But how often are we truly delib-
erate with our digital choices? I’ll
be the first to say that my texting at
times feels more blandly compul-
sive than authentically intentional.
Lately, I been feeling real flustered
about my neurotic texting tenden-
cies, in part I believe because I gen-
erally don’t spend too much time
on social media apps anymore, so
texting via iMessage has become
a big part of how I stay connected
with others.
After all, who in our personal
lives don’t we text? And since when
in its advent have we felt the need
not to text if at all? Even self-pro-
claimed “bad texters” take part in
this never-ending nexus of text
messaging by virtue of having a
phone…nobody in this modern era
is ever truly on their own. We are
always one text away. Nowadays,
one press of the send button allows
us to be in contact with anybody
who’s got our number whenever.
We are eternally accessible, irrev-
erently reachable, forever free to
say something to somebody, any-
thing to anybody, anywhere, at any
time.
Many of us have been texting
for nearly a decade or longer at this
point. I got my first phone at 13 but
texted via a messaging app on my
Kindle Fire in fifth grade for two
years prior. Over the last 10 years,
I’ve communicated via electronic
message with likely upwards of
thousands of people via iMessage,
Kik, GroupMe and other social
media apps with IM features.
When considering the cornucopia
of people we communicate with
in the digital sphere, it’s easy to
separate these experiences from
our analog lives. But the interac-
tions we partake in during texting
and other forms of electronic com-
munication imprint, not just on the
physical page, but energetically
upon our souls in the most subtle of
ways. Texting is intimate in totality
in that we divulge so deeply with
one specific person out of billions
upon billions. Amidst the meticu-
lous, careful crafting, backspac-
ing, erasing, deleting, re-typing,
re-thinking, re-drinking and now,
really we-thinking our message,
we find ourselves in a trance while
just trying to chat.
No mere message is mundane, so
text this next quote to a friend and
hit send: “Other people are estab-
lished inalienably in my memories
only if their names were entered in
the scrolls of my destiny from the
beginning so that encountering
them was at the same time a kind
of recollection,” as Carl Jung would
attest … at the sanctified site of the
Text, soaked in the holy waters of
revelation, we can recognize divin-
ity in the disclosure.
Nonetheless, we must re-call
that we can only manage an imag-
ined view of the recipient at any
time. We have no grasp of their
actual reality, their true thoughts
and feelings towards our texting.
Not only are we removed from the
Other when texting, but so typi-
cally do we find ourselves removed
from the Self as well. As the dialec-
tics of distanciation remove those
reading the text from ascertaining
the absolute meaning, we become
divorced from our own perception
of its meaning ourselves as time
marches on. Drunk or high texts
sent in a drastic haze can boggle
the mind for minutes, even months
to come later. The moment we send
a message, we lose sight of its sin-
cerity, the quality of character and
tone we’ve intended to portray at
that point in time. The time of day
a text is sent, the interval between
responses, the length of the mes-
sage received, in addition to its
morphological marks and syntacti-
cal structures may suggest certain
details about the emotional state
of both, the sender and receiv-
er, though even then we may be
deceived. Dutifully in those details,
however, does lay the devil, as tex-
ting tends to unveil much more
about ourselves than we might
realize. It may not be in the act of
sending and receiving itself, but
instead, in the act of reflecting on
our past texts, prior lived timelines
and previous modes of being, oper-
ating and exchanging with others.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
8 — Wednesday, December 7, 2022
This place was not made for us
LUZ MAYANCELA
MiC Columnist
Luz Mayancela/MiC
alcohol ink painting by teresa kovalak
Come see what we’ve made for you!
handmade
arts & crafts
by local artisans
juried market
Sundays 11am
-4pm
April ‘til Christmas
Ann Arbor Farmers Market
Pavilion, 315 Detroit St.
Facebook:
Sunday Artisan Market
Instagram:
TheSundayArtisanMarket
WebsIte:
SundayArtisanMarket.org
Texts as texts to…
KARIS CLARK
MiC Columnist
Ghosting
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Design by Erin Shi
KATHERINA ANDRADE
OZAETTA
MiC Senior Editor
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Read more at MichiganDaily.com