S T A T E M E N T
michigandaily.com — The Michigan Daily
Wednesday, March 29, 2023— 7
At the age of 16, from 4 to 5 p.m.
for the better part of two weeks, I
sat on a damp towel in Franklin,
Mass. reading aloud to some of
my cabin mates at an Armenian
summer
camp.
Like
many
summer camps, Camp Haiastan
was
relentlessly
regimented.
Part of that regimen consisted
of an hour of free swim in the
afternoons,
a
chlorine-coated
reprieve from the hours of playing
games under the sun’s scrutiny. In
the first few days of camp, I would
choose to swim with my cabin
mates, but most days I’d opt to
read Nicola Yoon’s “Everything,
Everything” on my towel. Some of
my cabin mates would sit with me,
and eventually, I began reading
out loud to them. As we weren’t
allowed to have phones, or any
technological devices, books and
letters had become our primary
forms of media. For those few
days, cut off from the rest of the
world, that towel, that book and
those girls felt like where my
world started and ended.
Even years after those sun-
soaked
afternoons
came
and
went, sandwiched by many years
before and after, they still stick
out as some of the most carefree
and special hours of my life.
Beyond
our
reading
sessions
during free swim, and despite
most of us not knowing each
other
extensively
beforehand,
there was something so special
about camp that drew my cabin
mates and I together within a day
or two of walking through the
door of our well-worn cabin for
the first time. On one of our first
nights at camp, preferring sharing
hushed conversation to adhering
to a scheduled bedtime, we all
gathered in a circle on the forest-
green wood floor of our cabin
with flashlights on after lights
out. A self-described oversharer,
I suggested we all go around the
circle and share our “life stories.”
At the time, it was just an
attempt for me to exchange
emotional
vulnerability
for
social connection. In retrospect,
I’m struck by how quickly we
were able to open up to each
other about some of life’s most
challenging
subjects.
Sitting
cross-legged
in
our
pajamas,
we discussed religion, fears of
becoming our parents, belonging
in the Armenian community,
sexuality, losing friends, body
image and so on for hours. In a
world that insists on the necessity
of women working against other
women, this circle embodied
female trust and camaraderie to
a degree that I haven’t seen since.
We passed around flashlights and
tissues, knowing that this wasn’t
something we’d ever get back.
From that night on, those girls —
almost all of whom I didn’t know
prior — became lifelines in places
I didn’t know I needed saving.
In addition to how naturally
my cabin seemed to click, summer
camp’s unique offering to do
things exclusively for one’s own
enjoyment also contributed to the
authenticity of our relationships.
Looking back, I’m surprised I
went to Camp Haiastan once — let
alone three times. The activities
there typically encourage either
athletic ability or a knowledge
of Armenian culture and history
— two things I have always felt
I particularly lack. Whether it
was understandably being the
last pick for someone’s dodgeball
team or stumbling through the
Lord’s Prayer in Armenian before
meals, being bad at the things I
was tasked with left me feeling
exposed. But once I realized
that this particular context of
vulnerability would only exist
for two weeks, my interest in
presenting a particular image
of myself to those around me
became limited. Particularly at
cultural summer camps, there’s
almost no evading feelings of
otherness in some way, and I know
several of my cabin mates shared
my disinterest in appealing to
ideals we’d never reach. And with
that commonality, we all met each
other where we were — not where
we were told we were supposed to
be.
For those two weeks, I was
energized by the transience of the
physical and mental spaces I was
in. There’s something distinctly
formative about living in the same
room as seven other girls and
knowing that you only have two
weeks together. I shared fears and
insecurities that normally took me
months, if not years, to be honest
with someone about, and watched
the girls around me do the same.
I said ‘yes’ to everything because
I knew the context I was living in
had a two-week expiration date.
I went out of my way to do things
that I wouldn’t normally do, and
so did a lot of the people around
me. My cabin mates and I adopted
the practice of saying every day
was “our day,” laying claim to
each hour as if it was ours alone.
I spent several nights staring into
the trees above me watching flying
squirrels jump from one branch
from the next. It was tradition to
stay up all night on the last day of
camp, and all I can remember from
that night now is watching the sky
above “picturesque Uncas Pond”
lighten in the early morning.
Watching the sun rise with my
cabin mates, I struggled to come
to terms with the fact that we were
all leaving and for the first time
questioned what would become of
these relationships that had all at
once become central in my life.
For many, nostalgia plays a
crucial
role
in
retrospective
perceptions of summer camp.
I’ve found that the most nostalgic
moments are often the most
unattainable. The more out of
reach a positive memory is, the
more we miss it. Summer camps
excel at maintaining this elusive
quality: I will simply never be
16 with a schedule consisting
exclusively of playing games I’m
bad at in rural Massachusetts,
and talking with new people from
different corners of the country
over cheese boregs again. Once
you sign out of a summer camp,
it’s back to the real world: the
microcosm of early mornings and
flashlights after dark collapses
just quickly as it was created.
While I don’t talk with any of
my cabin mates regularly now,
I see snippets of their lives on
social media and sometimes I
wonder if they think of the fudgy
ice creams from the camp store
or the five-minute showers or the
dance lessons or the midnight
conversations that I could have
sworn would never end. In writing
this, I’ve realized how much my
memory of this place and the
people I shared it with has faded.
I don’t think of Camp Haiastan
often, but when I do I am forced
to acknowledge how different I
am now. The confidence I once
had has been eroded by self-doubt;
the girlhood I once shared with
my seven cabin mates now feels
like
an
impossible
caricature
of youth. Despite knowing that
place and the person I was there
will perpetually be out of reach,
when I revisit memories of camp
I always have this quiet hope that
if I think about it long enough, it
won’t be gone — and that I’ll feel
that same sense of assumed trust
in the world and in myself again.
Design by Leilani Baylis-Washington
To be a 16-year old girl at summer camp
OLIVIA MOURADIAN
Statement Columnist
My first time writing an advice
column was without submitted
questions — just me, alone with
my computer, spitballing at the
screen. It was my senior year of
high school, my final column,
a
last-ditch
effort
to
leave
something timeless behind. I
remember splitting the column
into sections: on health, on
relationships,
on
wellness
in
general. It was broad but heartfelt
— maybe not as applicable to
others as I would’ve wanted — but
I remember thinking, It would be
cool to do this for real.
My second time writing an
advice column was a brief stint
last year on the Opinion section
of The Michigan Daily. Myself
and two other writers were hired
to answer submissions, except,
by the time the deadline came
around, we had received hardly
any questions to pen advice in
response to. At the end of the
semester, my recently-graduated
sister admitted to submitting
honest-ish submissions with her
friends so that we would have
something to reply to. I had a
small suspicion after getting a
submission about a roommate
who refused to watch anything
except curling during the 2022
Winter Olympics, but decided to
withhold my skepticism.
At that point, the advice gig
was coming to a close. The
columns fizzled out quickly, and
I wrote other pieces during that
semester to fill the time. When
the fall 2022 semester arrived,
I transferred to The Statement,
and my advice column prospects
dissipated along with the change.
But it wasn’t gone from my mind.
I
felt
like
I
had
failed.
Submissions never took off, and I
only answered about three or four
questions. It left me considering
the philosophy of advice itself:
What made me think I was
qualified for the position? Did
readers feel they could trust me?
What do we look for in an advice
column? How could I — how can
anyone — do this right?
My first experience with an
advice
column
was
through
American
Girl’s
monthly
magazine,
with
little
scoops
on
classroom
crushes
and
embarrassing
moments.
From
there, my tastes matured. Even
now, when I think of the classic
advice column, my mind turns to
’80s and early 2000s magazines
and online forum submissions,
like Reader’s Digest — women
writing to other women about
their husbands, boyfriends, diets
and bodies. But glossy print
magazines certainly weren’t the
OG advice columns.
The
first
English
advice
column was published in 17th
century England by John Dunton,
editor in chief of the Athenian
Mercury. According to writer
Carolina Ciucci of Book Riot,
London newspapers at the time
“answered letters about current
events and history, but Dunton
also entertained letters about
such disparate topics as botany
and premarital sex.”
Both men and women were
allowed to submit questions,
and Dunton created not only a
women’s section of the Mercury,
but
eventually
a
magazine
dedicated solely to women: the
Ladies Mercury. Though, this
avenue ultimately barred women
from conversations about the
“arts and sciences, history, the
world” and relegated them to “the
purely personal.”
For the next two centuries,
advice for women took the form of
conduct books. Unlike etiquette
books, which stressed manners
for young women, conduct books
intended to “mold the character
of a young woman and teach her
how to think, act, and speak in a
way that was both morally and
socially proper,” as clarified by
writer, Rachel Dodge, in a blog
post on Jane Austen’s World.
These books took the form of
manuals, letters and pamphlets.
Conduct books written by both
white men, and eventually white
women, reinforced gender roles
and
white
assimilation.
For
example, in “A Father’s Legacy to
His Daughters” by John Gregory,
he advises “modesty, which I
think so essential in your sex, will
naturally dispose you to be rather
silent in company, especially in a
large one … One may take a share
in conversation without uttering a
syllable.”
The advice column we know
today is closely aligned with
the work of Beatrice Fairfax,
a pseudonym for the late 19th
century
journalist
Marie
Manning. She created an outlet
where “people could write about
their personal troubles — love and
domestic — and receive unbiased
opinions.” The Fairfax column
was key in establishing this genre
of journalism, leading to iconic
columns just as Reader’s Digest
and Dear Abby.
While
the
advice
column
has developed from its original
habits rooted in white patriarchy,
the modern advice column is,
nevertheless,
poised
towards
a white, female, middle-class
audience. I think this history is
fundamental when considering
how to invite inclusivity and
diversity into submissions. What
sort of topics does the writer
express interest in discussing? If
their focus is narrow, are there
other writers covering the wide
spread of questions?
This history is also not without
consequence for men. It is not
that men, particularly white men,
were excluded from the genre,
but rather they initiated a level
of control that made them the
authorities of advice, especially
with the publishing of conduct
books. Over time, as women-only
sections developed and indulged
readers in frivolous matters, the
advice column as a whole took
on that reputation. I would argue
the advice column is not women-
dominated today because women
need the most advice, but because
men are conditioned to view
seeking out advice as a feminine
activity, if not a weakness.
We must also consider how
this
history
influences
the
writer.
What
gives
someone
the credibility to pen an advice
column? Is it many years and
experiences under their belt? Is it
a degree in sociology, psychology
or social work? How do you
account for differences in age,
gender, race, sexuality and so on?
As much as we may try to
imagine, there is no picture-
perfect
advice
columnist.
Credibility for an advice columnist
is different from the credibility
of a news journalist. Advice
relies on opinion and personal
experiences, and it’s much harder
to reflect one’s common sense and
empathy without facts and data as
evidence supporting their ability.
I would argue it is less about
experience or education and more
about character. This is not a
solution; degrees and experiences
can be reflective of intelligence
and wisdom, but even then, the
qualities that make someone good
at giving advice are intangible
and vary from person to person. I
believe empathy and the ability to
be honest about your perspective
and shortcomings make someone
an admirable advice columnist.
So what makes a good advice
column? What makes an opinion
good advice? If you can believe
it, I have some advice to give. I
hope my credibility comes across
through my previous attempts at
advice giving and recognition of
the problematic history of advice
writing in the English language.
Here is what I believe are the
basic necessities for a well-
written advice column:
Number one: An advice column
is not timeless. Rather, all advice is
timeless. The definition of advice
is “an opinion that someone
offers you about what you should
do or how you should act in a
particular situation.” In this case,
the advice you give is particular,
so it shouldn’t be aimed at fixing
all related issues. But at the
same time, good advice may be
abstracted and applied to other
problems by readers. So with that
said, even these suggestions are
subject to change.
Number
two:
Everyone
in
this exchange (the writer, the
asker, the third-party reader) is
vulnerable. These feelings are
exacerbated in a college setting,
and not just for men. I find one
of the struggles with asking for
advice among peers, especially in
a competitive college setting, is
the fear of seeming weaker or less
intelligent than others.
Design by Leah Hoogterp
Words from a failed advice columnist
ELIZABETH WOLFE
Statement Columnist
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Read more at MichiganDaily.com