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