Wednesday, January 25, 2023— 5
S T A T E M E N T
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Note: All names have been
changed, and stories have been
truncated
when
appropriate
to
avoid the possibility or implication
of repeating the message relevant in
each encounter.
As a student at the University
of Michigan, I’ve rarely witnessed
overt homophobia on campus,
though I know it exists. Still, I feel
inexplicably unsafe in most spaces
on campus. Sometimes, I even
slyly shuffle back into the closet
to protect myself (the morality
of which I cannot stop thinking
about). But why do I feel safer there?
It can’t be because of my clothes —
they’re not that cute.
There is a reason I constantly
bite the tongue that only wants to
defend my identity. The following
three instances, all of which
seemed relatively harmless at first,
upon closer examination revealed
deeper,
harsher
truths
about
how casual homophobia can still
corrode, and what steps we can take
to prevent it.
Backlighting
this
entire
narrative is French philosopher
Jean-Pierre
Faye’s
horseshoe
theory. Introduced in his 2002
book, “Le Siècle des idéologies”
(The Age of ideologies), Faye posits
that the far-left and far-right
ideologies are more similar than
the traditional left-right spectrum
suggests.
Though
horseshoe
theory generates lots of criticism
(and some praise), it will work to
frame my central point; on-campus
homophobia usually starts with
intentions of normalization, but
the execution swings it around the
horseshoe, resulting in some wholly
homophobic encounters.
To begin, I want to take you to
the East Quad basement. The pale
yellow walls coupled with the basic
school building lighting produces
an awful orange glow, but I want
you to ignore that. That innocuous
Monday evening, my freshman
friend group was studying at a
table in the main lounge, hunched
over our respective computer
screens.
After
making
some
progress, I predictably got up for
a dance break — Spotify shuffle
had blessed me with a Taylor Swift
song. Then my friend, a white,
straight
and
affluent
sorority
girl, looked me up and down and
proceeded to call me a “fairy.”
The
weirdest
part
of
this
encounter was that I genuinely
laughed. We all laughed, and then
documented the comment on our
list of “out of pocket” quotes. I still
find it funny now, just in a darker
way.
I do not think that what
happened here was malicious,
or that she meant to belittle my
identity, even though she did. I
think that ignorance allowed two
things to happen: an uneducated
use of offensive terms and a
humorous attempt to mimic my
own language.
With all the niceties stripped
away, the word “fairy,” when
directed
towards
someone
in
the LGBTQIA+ community, is a
slur. The reclamation of slurs by
targeted communities is a storied
endeavor. But a weird thing has
happened with homophobic slurs:
they have been adopted by all,
not just the offended community.
So when my friend called me a
“fairy,” I almost think she meant
it as a compliment — I think she
was happy I felt comfortable
expressing my identity around her,
and wanted to show she was just
as comfortable. But the execution
was jarring and corrosive.
She never made that mistake
again, and apologized profusely.
Nonetheless, it happened, and it
hurt.
Our next story involves a living
room on East University Avenue
and, predictably, a drinking game:
Kings. From the deck of cards
sloppily forming a circle around
a forgotten Whiteclaw, my friend
(let’s call her Mira) drew a king.
When you draw a king, you get to
make up a rule. Mira decided to
direct two straight men in the group
(let’s call them Dan and Caleb) to
kiss and slap Caleb’s butt every time
an odd-numbered card was drawn.
Without skipping a beat, Dan said
something to the effect of I would
love to, we’re basically already a
couple, as if gay romance and sex is
some kind of joke, or something to
claim as bait.
Again, Mira, Dan and Caleb did
not intend to belittle my identity,
even though they did. What
happened here was quite simple,
and possibly a good thing executed
poorly. I’m glad we feel comfortable
enough in our social circles to
allude to sexuality in a joking and
light manner. As I’m sure you know,
this hasn’t always been the case.
Now, however, my friend group
can talk about gay people, romance
and sex so casually — which is
fantastic. But for my community
to become the butt (like the one
Dan was instructed to slap) of jokes
made by straight people is not okay.
Pretending to be gay is not funny, it
is hurtful. And it happens too often.
For the third and final campus
encounter follow me to the G.G.
Brown Building. In this North
Campus building, a few feet from
the 1,500 pound Rubik’s Cube,
there is a table that routinely
occupies a group of me and my
class friends after our lecture. In
an effort to elevate our group to
friends sans the class label, we
began talking about our love and
sex lives. Feeling safe enough, I
started spilling about the triumphs
and tribulations of being gay on
our campus. As we went around
the circle, one of the guys tried to
launch into a monologue about
how he was struggling to meet
girls he liked. But before he got
too far, another girl in the group
chimed in:
“Aren’t you gay?”
It might take you a second to
understand what happened. It took
me 20 minutes and a Commuter
South ride. But my friend, despite
how well he played it off, was outed.
There were only six of us at that
table, so you might be inclined to
think something along the lines of
‘no big deal.’ But you would be dead
wrong. Coming out is something
so radically personal that to lose
agency over the decision of how,
when, where and whom to come
out to is truly heartbreaking.
Still, outing happens entirely
too often. Many people assume
that because I am gay, it’s okay to
out other people to me. But that’s
weird, right? I mean, if my friend
told me she was pregnant, no
special moral permission is given
for me to tell someone else this
reality just because the person I
told also happens to be pregnant.
Both being pregnant and being
gay is something that I would
call radically personal. Somehow,
people have lost that level of
respect for the agency one has over
speaking to their experiences, or
their identity. Again, why?
I keep wondering why these
encounters happen in a way that
makes me think the intentions are
good. Here goes my theory: I think
that my peers have tried so hard
to normalize being gay, that being
gay has lost the basic respect for
agency that all identities deserve.
SAMMY FONTE
Statement Columnist
On casual homophobia at the
University of Michigan
Part of the hardships that
many college students face while
away from home is the potent
sense of longing, perhaps for a
specific person, place or pet. Since
I stepped foot on the University
of
Michigan’s
campus,
there
was one thing in particular that
I truly missed: my cat. Yes, my
beloved cat, whose ruddy orange
fur would shed all over my black
leggings, whose gritty tongue
would drag all over my skin,
leaving it tingling with abrasions.
I never thought being away from
him would be so difficult, that I
would grow troubled by the way
my feet turn cold at night because
he cannot lay on my toes to warm
them, or that I would grow to
miss the chorus of his meows in
the morning as if he hasn’t eaten a
single day in his life.
It is in these moments that I
have wondered if he reciprocates
the same love that I have for him,
or if the attachment he has for me
is merely based on the fact that I
feed and shelter him. Is it truly
unconditional love?
Well, to form an attachment,
there
must
be
an
existing
behavioral
and
emotional
connection that strengthens over
time. Various research shows
that animals play a large role in
shaping a child’s social, cognitive
and mental development. This,
in turn, is facilitated by a type of
compassion and care that is unique
to pet-human relationships.
Furthermore,
there
is
a
kind of reciprocal relationship
between the two parties. The pet
looks to the human as someone
who makes sure their needs
are met, while the pet provides
companionship to their human.
And thus, animals often offer a
sense of unconditional love that
can be found hardly anywhere
else, and it is through them that
we often look for security and
comfort, especially in the midst of
hard times.
In seasons of change, such as
moving to a new state or being
at university for the first time,
we turn to our pets for a sense of
normalcy and consolation, and
in the absence of their comfort,
we start to feel uneasy. Pets
offer a kind of emotional support
that is seldom found in other
places, which is why we build an
attachment to them that lasts a
lifetime.
I’ve had my cat since I was six
years old. We essentially grew up
together, and I remember him as
a playful young kitty who always
got into mischief, whether it
was sneaking into the nooks and
crannies of our kitchen drawers
or scratching the fabric of our
couch into shreds. I would chase
him around the house when he
would get into his fits of frenzy,
running back and forth from the
hallway into the living room.
Whenever I came back home
in the afternoon, on equally
disappointing, frustrating, boring
and exciting days, he would be
there for me, and I for him. When
I was younger, I used to pray that
my cat would live forever. And at
the time, it seemed like he would.
The realization that he has been
in my life for more years than not,
and yet my love for him seems
like one that has lasted a lifetime
is oftentimes shocking. A part of
me doesn’t want to acknowledge
his age. He can’t be that old, no, he
isn’t that old. Because to me, he is
still that kitten, running around
in the house. And I am still that
girl, running after him.
During fall break, I finally saw
my cat after two months without
him. I was overjoyed at the
thought that I would finally be
with him again. While I had seen
him in pictures and the occasional
FaceTime, it wasn’t the same as in
real life.
But while at home for the first
few days, I noticed that my cat was
acting a little strange. He seemed
different, out of sorts. He moved
slowly, and when I tried to pet him
he would growl in frustration and
walk away. He no longer found
interest in playing with his toys,
and had a glazed look in his eyes
when I would throw his favorite
stuffed mouse, the one he always
used to eagerly chase after before.
I was unsure of whether it was the
new kitten or the new house that
was causing him to act this way,
but I couldn’t help but reminisce
about the way things used to
be. Not only because of what I
missed, but also because of what
I wanted to believe. I didn’t want
to believe that my cat was aging,
that he would never be the same
kitten that was carelessly running
back and forth in the hallway or
playing with his toys in the front
room. He was different.
CHINWE ONWERE
Statement Columnist
When your pet grows old
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Design by Tye Kalinovic
Walking out of the Chemistry
Building after finishing my last
final of the fall semester, I did
what could only be considered to
be, at the very least, necessary: I
fist-bumped myself. Pow! It’s a
little thing I do after every major,
minor
or
otherwise
irrelevant
accomplishment of mine. Made it to
class on North Campus at 1:29 p.m.
instead of the usual 1:34 p.m.? Bam!
Good hair day? Pow! Said hello to
someone in passing on the Diag
without sounding like a buffering
CD? H-h-hey, uh, what’s up? Put
‘er there! So as I dotted my i’s and
crossed my t’s on a tumultuous
final exam, I uncrossed my white-
knuckled fingers and gave myself
a final fist-bump. Okay, a few. Bam
bam bam bam bam!
That last exam marked the end
of mine, and about 8,000 other
freshmen students’ first semester
at the University of Michigan.
Not that it was a secret though, as
anyone who opened Instagram
that day would have seen the blur
of maize and blue “Semester recap!”
or “Photo dump from first sem!” or
the cheeky “1/8 done! (check mark
emoji)” posts.
One-eighth? Now I’m no STEM
major, but there was no way that
statistic was going to be remotely
correct for me. Try “9/16 (check
mark emoji!),” I chuckled to myself,
dryly, swiping out of the app and into
my camera roll to compile my own
cheeky little Instagram post. But the
irony still remained.
While many freshmen in college
were experiencing the horrors of
communal bathrooms and subpar
dining for the first time, I’d been
around this same block so many
times that it was second nature
to shove my feet in a pair of dingy
rubber shoes en route to the shower.
Being sent to boarding school at
13 years old definitely does that to
you. Or, as it was more eloquently
put to me at that age, enrolling
in a “college preparatory school”
teaches you those things, among
hopefully others. With the brightly
colored pamphlets and the promise
of “invaluable opportunities for
personal growth,” who was I to
argue? Having eight consecutive
semesters of on-campus living
prior to attending college afforded
me a very different viewpoint, what
some might call “an edge.” Though,
I’m not too sure if it’s a fist-bump
worthy epiphany.
After four years at boarding
school, my eyes un-widened and
my tail debushed, making the whole
transition to college feel like a simple
school transfer. And no one, unless
their school sucked, is excited about
transferring to another. I certainly
wasn’t. All that was waiting for me
at college was an all-too-clean slate
that I’d never asked for, and having
been hauled off to boarding school
at 13, it was no wonder that I hated
change. Surveys popularly claim
that adolescents who were sent to
boarding schools at a young age
often “face problems adjusting”
after feeling such intense feelings
of displacement and abandonment
upon moving out.
Being completely separated from
my family at 13 years old forced me
to become attached to this new
idea of “home” at boarding school,
especially given that I and other
boarding students did not have
the “mental capacity for creating
a coherent narrative out of these
events on (our) own, as (we were)
unable to process it” at such a young
age. The trip to college not only
ejected me from one home, but this
time, from two.
Getting ready to leave for college
and packing my clothes in boxes
labeled “BOARDING SCHOOL”
in a rough Sharpie scrawl, I was
reminded of the life I was leaving
behind, never to experience again.
I wasn’t just saying goodbye to a
school desk or locker that I’d etched
my crush’s initials on with a ruler; I
was saying goodbye to my home, my
family, my school. Goodbye to stifled
laughter and baking in the dorm
kitchen past lights-out, goodbye to
being forced to sing choral music,
of all things, at 8:00 a.m. every
Monday, goodbye to throwing eggs
at the boys’ dorm rooms on the other
side of campus, goodbye to it all.
I was trading the friends-turned-
family and the school-turned-home
for a strange new girl putting up
posters on the other side of my
likely cockroach-infested room in
Mary Markley Hall, a religious use
of Google Maps and various Greek
letters that made my head spin
when I tried to differentiate them.
Actually, it all made my head spin.
The idea of oscillating between
the two realities of boarding
school and home was a confusing
amalgamation at my young age, and
left me not completely fulfilled in
either place. Both were comfortable
in their own ways, and leaving two at
the same time for a place completely
unknown was just about the scariest
thing I could do. The back-and-
forth pattern of “returning home
as a stranger and then leaving
just as (I) settled back in (built) a
psychological pattern” for me in
which I feared change and shied
away from a college experience
that could potentially bring positive
change. I never trusted that I could
be fully comfortable somewhere,
since there was always an ominous
expiration date hanging over my
head; just how many “homes” could
I keep juggling?
IRENA TUTUNARI
Statement Columnist
How boarding school altered
my perception of the college
experience
Design by Arunika Shee
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Read more at MichiganDaily.com