The home my family and I have 
forged and nurtured is a remnant 
of our histories. When I was a kid, 
my parents chastised me when I 
spoke English in the house, told me 
the occasional ancient Korean myth 
during story time, fed me jjigae 
and banchan, and when I grew 
older, taught me about our past, 
especially Korea’s turbulent and 
oppressive 20th century (including 
the dictatorship, coup and military 
regime they grew up under). They 
ensured that, though I may be a 
gyopo, I would remain committed 
to my roots. I grew up in the Korean 
immigrant community, spending 
Friday nights at whichever first-
generation 
parents 
hosted 
that 
weekend, moms chatting over coffee, 
dads playing poker and drinking 
beer and their kids and I chasing 
each other around and pretending 
to cast random spells from the 
“Harry Potter” series on each other. 
And I grew up observing how my 
parents’ 
marginalization 
was 
markedly different from my own 
as a native English speaker, when 
their accent wasn’t “respectable” 

enough to some; my mom sometimes 
jostling me awake from a nap by 
shoving the landline in my face 
and gesturing frantically when 
in need of translation, while you 
could practically hear the bank 
teller or insurance representative 
— whomever it was at the time — 
rolling their eyes through the signal.
The home I grew up in was 
intrinsically 
an 
immigrant 
household: my parents, by turns 
naturally and very intentionally, 
enshrined my Korean identity and 
the memory of their displacement 
in my being and sense of selfhood. 
And now most of my friends, the 
people I gravitate to, are children 
of immigrants like me. I consider 
my support for immigrant justice to 
number among the few beliefs that 
glue me together, but recently I was 
forced to confront, for the first time, 
the fact that I had never once actively 
pondered with any intention and 
time even one of the many reasons 
why I stand with immigrants of all 
nations.
I realized this on November 
2, when the Student Community 
of 
Progressive 
Empowerment 
(SCOPE), a University of Michigan 
student 
organization 
dedicated 
to 
advocacy 
and 
support 
for 

immigrants 
and 
undocumented 
students, held a day of action at the 
Shapiro Undergraduate Library in 
collaboration with the U-M Beta 
Omicron chapter of Lambda Theta 
Alpha Latin Sorority, to promote 
their “I Stand With Immigrants” 
initiative. I lingered awkwardly at 
their table for a couple minutes that 
felt much longer, when finally a couple 
SCOPE volunteers approached me. 
They greeted me with warmth and 
entreated me to fill out an index card 
for their posting wall in response to 
the prompt “I stand with immigrants 
because…”
My 
support 
for 
immigrants 
has always been an automatic 
and 
instinctive 
conviction, 
one 
which requires no debate or second 
thoughts — so the question of why 
I stand with immigrants took me 
aback.
I feel similarly born into the 
question of why write? To put pen to 
paper has always been a ritual for 
me — one which I have often taken 
for granted. As an eight-year-old, I 
used to write endless “novels” that 
were essentially poorly plagiarized 
amalgamations of whatever fantasy 
or science fiction series I was 
consuming at the moment — horrible 
dystopian time travel thrillers about 
plucky white women with dumb 
names like Eliza Hunt — until my 
right hand cramped and the flesh 
where it met my pen was flushed and 
stamped with the BIC logo, and my 
mom insisted I set my binder down. 
And when I learned how to write 
Korean at the age of seven, I tried, 
briefly and also wildly unsuccessfully, 
to write stories in the hangeul 
characters. I wrote one about a 나나 
나나, or “tree monster,” that had barely 
any premise beyond the fact that I 
thought the phrase 나나 나나 (“namu 
gwaemul”) sounded cool in my head. 

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

To write myself into existence

Graduation Edition 2023 — 9

 Read more at MichiganDaily.com

Michigan in Color

A letter to my future self

JESSICA KWON
2022 MiC Managing Editor

It 
was 
a 
ceremonial 
and 
cinematic 
day 
in 
Santiago 
Papasquiaro, 
Durango. 
The 
streets were flooded with families 
observing the ceremonies taking 
place throughout the city. At 
every angle of our peripheral, 
there 
were 
bandas 
playing 
corridos, food trucks selling elotes 
and raspados and a desfile full 
of mariachi bands accompanied 
with young women dressed in 
folklórico attire. We were making 
our way to the feria, which for 
many was the main attraction of 
the festivities. Though the cloudy 
weather may have discouraged 
many from being outside, there 
was no denying that the people of 
Santiago Papasquiaro were not 
going to miss the first day of their 
esteemed and most anticipated 
fair. 
Since I was in the sixth grade, 
my family and I traveled to my 
parents’ hometown in Mexico 
every year. The month of July 
attracted not only a lot of 
domestic visitors, but a lot of 
other Mexican-American families 
that had ties to the state of 
Durango. I felt immensely joyous 
to be standing on the soil where 
generations of my family had 
grown up.
Except in 2016, I wasn’t really 

there. I was in the middle of 
nowhere Montana.
The date was July 16. The 
frightening noise of my phone’s 
alarm jolted me awake at 4:30 
in the morning. Reality quickly 
sank in, and I was upset that 
I was not a part of the vibrant 
crowd marching down the streets 
of Santiago Papasquiaro. Rather 
than spending the summer in 
Mexico visiting my abuelitas and 
primos, my dad insisted that my 
brother Oscar and I spend a couple 
of months with him in Montana to 
work at his construction site—the 
very opposite of Durango. The 
wind blew loudly through the 
many valleys and mountaintops 
of America’s ninth least populated 
state. Within those blue, green and 
gray valleys was scattered, sparse 
and rundown infrastructure. The 
very limited civilization seemed 
so insignificant when contrasted 
to the vastness of the state’s 
nature. People displayed classic 
American cordiality, of course, 
but rarely the hospitality and 
colors I had witnessed in Mexico 
just a year prior. 
At 15 years old, the thought of 
making my own money seemed 
promising 
and 
offered 
some 
financial freedom my peers were 
not afforded. After doing my own 
research on the up and coming 
state, I learned that many other 
construction workers ventured 
to the Great Plains state of 

Montana and made really good 
money. Hell, I was excited! Little 
did I know what I was getting 
myself into.
After two months of working 
with my dad, I somehow failed 
to get used to the monotonous 
routine he went through every 
morning. 
The 
pesky 
alarm, 
pungent smell of the drywall and 
joint compound boxes scattered 
throughout 
our 
temporary 
apartment competed with my 
overwhelming drowsiness from 
my lack of sleep. We had returned 
home from the construction site 
at 1:30 a.m., a few hours prior, so 
it was extremely difficult for me 
to find some sort of motivation to 
keep my eyes open. 
On the other hand, my dad had 
no problem with getting less than 
three hours of sleep. He somehow 
managed to wake up in a radiant 
mood every morning. Every other 
day, he would wake up earlier 
than the rest of the crew and buy 
us all donuts from the nearest 
7-Eleven. It annoyed me so much 
in my tired grumpiness. How the 
hell did he do it? He urged Oscar 
and me to hurry because he did 
not want us to be late on our last 
day of work.
My 
dad 
has 
worked 
in 
construction for more than 30 
years. In those three decades, he 
has mastered the craft of drywall 
finishing. Construction workers 
who specialize in this are referred 
to as tapers. Though the task of a 
taper is considered by many other 
construction workers to be one of 
the least physically demanding, 
the monotonous task of smearing 
joint compound across hundreds of 
different units still felt extremely 
strenuous. I had no idea how my 
dad, at the age of 54, remained 
poised through these conditions. 
Although my dad is nearing the 
age in which he becomes eligible 
for the plethora of benefits all 
elderly Americans are entitled to, 
my dad’s citizenship status deems 
him ineligible of receiving these 
perks.

A summer in the construction boots of 
my father

IRVING PEA
MiC Columnist

Sitting in a Detroit cafe, I’m 
currently typing away as I listen to 
a trio of middle-aged men jokingly 
bicker about their orders getting 
switched. “I ordered the cheese!” 
“No, I swear it was me!” A pause as 
they continue chewing. 
The silence breaks: “We’re good 
though.” And laughter commences. 
I may be wrong, but something 
tells me that they’ve been friends for 
a while, a thought that puts a smile on 
my face as I sip my coffee, continue 
to type away and wait for my dad to 
pick me up from the A2D2 bus. 
This year is the final one of my 
undergraduate career, and it seems 
like every passing day brings me 
closer and closer to a reality that 
simultaneously excites me but also 
frightens me: change. As a senior still 
recruiting for a full-time career (pity 
me!!!!), there’s a lot of ambiguity 
about what next year will look like. 
I have my goals: purposeful work, 
the Big Apple and frequent trips 
back home. Translating those goals 
into specificity is what’s proven to be 
difficult, and there’s an undeniable 
sense of anxiety in thinking about 
what will last after this hurricane 
of change takes place — what will 
remain in the eye of the storm? This 
train of thought isn’t necessarily 
comforting, which brings me to you. 
Or me, I should say. How are we? 
Let’s say it’s us 10 years from now. 
We’re at 31, letting everyone who’ll 
listen know that “actually, your 
thirties are the new twenties!”
Did we get that J.D.? Have we 
started the family? Do we see Sara, 
Rubab, Mama and Papa almost 
every other day? I wonder if we’ve 
grown tired of New York at some 
point, the city that we swore up and 
down since age 11 was made for us; 
the city that we knowingly nod about 

when 
someone 
says, “You just 
give New York 
vibes.”
InshAllah, 
there are some 
things that I know 
are true, simply 
because 
we’ll 
work 
to 
make 
them so. I’ll have 
my space and still 
see the Imtiaz clan 
frequently. I’ll get 
my J.D., because 
we told ourselves 
we would. Potlucks with Inaya and 
Mits may look different, but I know 
we’ll somehow find a way to bring 
an item from the classic menu every 
time. My friend Kat wrote about 
perceiving time in a non-linear sense, 
and, as always, her words have left 
an impact on me long after I initially 
read them. Apprehension of being on 
the precipice of capital A adulthood 
is understandable, but I’m trying 
to think that, barring unforeseen 
circumstances, we can always find a 
sense of stasis in any future universe. 
In a weird way, because I can see the 
future in this way, I’m determined 
to make it happen. So in writing to 
us, I know that maybe things aren’t 
picture perfect, rose-colored glasses, 
but I do know that things are. I think 
therefore I am, a really novel thought, 
right? Regardless, given that reality, 
we can keep on keeping on. 
Suddenly, the record scratches. 
I know we’ll have these cycles 
though. I wonder if we’ll still use 
every word beyond the it-word. Sad, 
melancholic, dejected (a personal 
fav), despondent, going on and on 
until the thesaurus.com suggestions 
expire. The reality remains that life 
will probably still be difficult as it will 
still be beautiful. We’ll call Marie in 
the wee hours of the night, and trade 
theories as to why it is that we think 
so much. Hopefully by then we won’t 

be so embarrassed of that fact. 
Still, you and I will probably scoff 
at “Everything happens for the best,” 
and immediately correct it with 
“Everything happens.” The only 
control is yourself and your faith. 
Currently, I’ve come to learn that life 
hits us with various circumstances, 
good and bad. We aren’t guaranteed 
the Good Life, but we’re guaranteed 
life, the basis of which we can forge 
our reality from. Does that mentality 
change throughout the years for us? 
I’m sure the pendulum still swings 
back and forth, teetering between 
chasing what we want and accepting 
our reality. Shit, you’re just 31 — 
we’re still figuring it out. 
In that sense, life is like people. 
Sixth-grade debate class had us argue 
the pressing question on Schoology 
posts, “Are humans inherently good 
or inherently bad?” We’d type away 
until meeting the minimum of three 
sentences and maximum of five, 
some arguing we’re born angelic, 
others claiming we’re naturally evil. 
Like some (not many) things, the 
answer is probably in the middle: 
we have the capacity to be both 
good and bad. And internalizing this 
perspective of free-will morality has 
helped me reframe any pessimism 
of how life sometimes just sucks. 

ELIYA IMTIAZ
2022 MiC Managing Editor

Attending a 9 a.m. lecture. 
Setting up a table at the Posting 
Wall. Printing out a last-minute 
essay. Gathering for a student 
organization meeting after hours. 
As students at the University of 
Michigan, we spend so much of 
our time in Angell Hall, but how 
many of us actually know who 
James Burrill Angell is and what 
his legacy entails? Learned pieces 
of the University’s history seem to 
be met exclusively with shock and 
disappointment from students, 
faculty and alumni, and my 
moral outrage is growing weary. 
As a third-year student, each 
passing term’s revelations have 
left me with more to consider 
in regards to my relationship to 
this institution and its roots. I 
feel tainted with remorse for the 
countless survivors of sexual 
misconduct denied their due 
justice. I stand in solidarity with 
the unmet needs of the Graduate 
Employees’ 
Organization 
and the Lecturers’ Employee 
Organization from an inadequate 
reopening plan. I remain appalled 
by the historically racist and 
exploitative practices of the Order 
of Angell, an exclusive senior 
honor society that disbanded 
just this past spring. Most of 
all, I am frustrated at the lack 
of accountability taken by the 
administration to address an 
imperfect history of the Leaders 
and the Best.
Over the course of the past 
month, 
members 
from 
my 
organization 
South 
Asian 
Awareness 
Network 
came 
together with organizers from 
the 
United 
Asian 
American 
Organizations, Central Student 
Government and LSA Student 
Government 
to 
discuss 
the 
legacy 
of 
former 
University 
President James B. Angell and the 
memorialization of his name to 
one of the highest-traffic student 
buildings 
on 
campus. 
Each 
week’s meetings worked toward 
brainstorming and planning a 
response to appropriately address 

his legacy. Here’s what we came 
up with: a CSG resolution draft 
calling for the removal of Angell’s 
name 
from 
the 
University 
building, a teach-in and dialogue 
surrounding 
the 
present-day 
implications of Angell’s history, 
and a cultural fashion show on the 
steps of Angell Hall in celebration 
and reclamation of a space that 
the late president himself may not 
have expected our presence in. 
For context, Angell held a 
38-year term as the president 
of the University and was a 
nationally 
recognized 
leader 
in higher education, bringing 
in record number enrollments 
and increasing accessibility for 
many students. In addition to 
his presidency, Angell served 
as a U.S. ambassador to China 
during which he re-negotiated 
the Burlingame Treaty. While 
this treaty endorsed immigration 
at the high point of U.S.-China 
relations, the Treaty of Angell 
recognized the U.S. government’s 
power to regulate the immigration 
of 
Chinese 
laborers 
due 
to 
domestic economic tension. As 
American Culture professor Ian 
Shin explained during the mid-
November teach-in, Angell signed 
on to this treaty out of a sense of 
public duty as opposed to actual 
support for exclusion. Regardless 
of his initial hesitations to sign, 
the Treaty of Angell paved the 
way for the passage of the Chinese 
Exclusion Act of 1882, one of the 
most racist immigration bills in 

American 
history. 
Regardless 
of his intent to bring students 
on campus together, the secret 
society 
Order 
of 
Angell 
— 
formerly known as Michigamua 
— eventually became known 
for its profane appropriation of 
Native American culture and 
its notoriously racist and elitist 
nature. President James B. Angell 
may have been a moral centrist, 
but the consequences of his 
neutrality leave a permanent mark 
on the University’s history. Is this 
someone worth memorializing?
On 
Nov. 
17, 
2021, 
CSG’s 
ongoing resolution passed for 
the renaming of the University 
building Angell Hall and Angell 
Scholar Award. While I consider 
this a necessary step in the right 
direction, I can’t help but admit to 
a qualm I’ve had since the teach-
in. As Professor Shin encouraged 
us to consider the various ways 
we may address the problematic 
legacies of historical figures, he 
gave an example of a previous 
name removal at the University: 
the North University Building was 
originally named after University 
President Clarence Cook (C.C.) 
Little in 1968, up until 2018. Little 
held a brief, unaccomplished term 
as University president from 1925 
to 1929. He was a geneticist who 
actively promoted eugenics, the 
sterilization of the “unfit,” and 
called for immigration restriction 
and 
anti-miscegenation 
laws. 

Addressing Angell

EASHETA SHAH
MiC Columnist

Jessica Kwon/MiC

 Read more at MichiganDaily.com

Eliya Imtiaz/MiC

Zoe Zhang/MiC
 Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Design by SoJung Ham

 Read more at MichiganDaily.com

ARTS

over the

YEARS

SEPTEMBER 1 — A Michigan in Color 
Manifesto: “We urge all readers 
to continue to learn and unlearn. 
Continue to question the systems that 
we are voluntarily and involuntarily 
a part of. Continue to readjust your 
lens when a new angle is presented — 
having the difficult conversations along 
with the joyful ones.”

FEBRUARY 1 — From the joint desk of Michigan 
in Color and Groundcover News: Michigan in 
Color and Groundcover News present a special 
collaboration, intended to raise awareness about 
Washtenaw County’s unhoused community and 
their experiences, and forge a connection with 
the U-M community.

FEBRUARY 1 — The Black Hair Series: With the 
mission to showcase the “multifaceted nature of 
Black hair,” 16 Black U-M students, alongside two 
barbers and hairstylists, are interviewed, recorded 
and photographed to gain insight on their own 
stories and personal hair journeys.

2021

MAY 18 — Michigan in Color Collective Statement on 
Palestine: “The Michigan in Color community strives 
to emphasize and embody how the pursuit for justice 
and liberty anywhere in the world will never be in 
vain. We will continue the struggle for freedom until 
every human, in every corner of the globe, is free.” 

APRIL 6 — A statement from MiC on anti-Asian 
violence: “Moving forward, the Michigan in Color 
team will continue to commit itself to being 
diligent about speaking out against systemic and 
interpersonal oppression in a timely and truthful 
manner. We owe it to the communities we serve to 
write and report meticulously on the issues as they 
unfold.”

MiC
over the
YEARS

2022
2023
2020

Queer in Color — Michigan in Color releases 
Queer in Color, a space to amplify Queer 
students of color voices through forms of 
creative expression. All work featured in Queer 
in Color is created by Queer MiC members or 
collaborators. 

NOVEMBER 2: Michigan in Color hosts its 
first annual Open MiC Night on the Diag — 
On October 5, Michigan in Color hosts its 
first arts expo, showcasing the talents of many 
students of Color. The night includes a variety of 
art forms including music, dance, spoken word, 
stand up comedy and a static art display.

