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.