As spring flowers bloom, the Office of Multi-Ethnic Student Affairs has been offering an April full of opportunities to celebrate Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month. With the second week of April focusing on the Pacific Islander community, MESA hosted this year’s annual Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month Gala at the Michigan Union this past Monday. Boasting a diverse lineup performing in celebration of the two communities, the event drew statewide collaboration from various university organizations including but not limited to the University of Michigan’s Spectrum Center, Minorities in Agriculture, Natural Resources and Related Sciences, and the Michigan Student Power Alliance.

Rackham student Wren Palmer, a board member of the Oceania Student Association and performer at the gala, expressed her excitement at how the gala allowed performers to share the culture of Pacific Islander students and create a welcoming atmosphere.

“For us, (the gala means) being included in a label that often uses our name but doesn’t offer us space, so we are really happy that they reached out to collaborate with us,” Palmer said. 

Before 2021, when the OSA registered as an official student organization, the University of Michigan also did not have a student group to represent individuals from the Pacific Islands and Oceania. To LSA sophomore Carly Salazar, a fellow performer, the gala served as an opportunity to give attendees a taste of her heritage.

“I am just excited for us to have a space to be able to share our culture and connect with other Pacific Islander students, not just here at (the University of Michigan), but across the state of Michigan,” Salazar said. “We just really want to create this welcoming atmosphere for them, show them that the PI voice is here at the University of Michigan, that we do matter, and that we do have our own space.”

After a land acknowledgment statement, as well as opening remarks reminding attendees of the importance of supporting the Pacific Islander community, the performance section of the gala started off with LSA junior Sanya Bhatia singing Hindi film song “Iktara” from the movie “Wake Up Sid.” The soothing, deep voice of the singer paired delightfully with the romantic message conveyed by the lyrics.

After Bhatia’s mesmerizing performance, the OSA danced to the song “Ulupalakua.” The hula, a traditional Hawaiian dance performed in the pāʻū (wrapped skirt), provided attendees with an opportunity to understand the many dimensions of Pacific dance traditions as performers danced barefoot and inserted chants throughout the song.

A series of Asian American student organizations also performed to celebrate their community’s rich heritage, influence and contributions. rXn, a dance group under the University’s Chinese Student Association, performed both traditional Chinese dance and modern American hip hop, featuring an array of props including swords, umbrellas, fans and flags. 58 Greene A Capella, an all-gender a cappella group, also introduced an enjoyable musical experience with the song “Fallin’.”

Following the acapella group’s vocal melodies, Music, Theatre & Dance alum Smarani Komanduri sang a song from the movie “Nenunnanani.” To close off the performance section, the Vietnamese Student Association sent a traditional Medley group to dance to the songs “Lắng Nghe Tim Em” and “Ghen.” A version of this dance was performed for the VSA’s annual cultural show “Dem Viet Nam” earlier this year, and attendees had a chance to see the dance again in which performers waved fans and ribbons throughout their dance.

The gala ended with an awards ceremony recognizing the efforts of Asian American and Pacific Islander students, staff and organizations to raise awareness of their respective communities, along with opportunities for photo ops and mingling. After the end of the event, organizers Public Health and LSA junior Amber Wei and LSA Senior Dalena Hoang spoke on their philosophy behind the event they had planned. 

“We seek to acknowledge the regional, historical, linguistic, religious, ethnic and cultural differences present in the term AA&PI,” Wei stated. “Support for the PI community is essential, and as we continue to learn from each other, we hope to honor, uplift and amplify the Pacific Islander as a separate community from the Asian American community.”

As an audience member, I could instantly recognize the efforts that MESA and its staff were making toward generational change and healing. In particular, seeing audience members hailing from diverse ethnicities and cultures, as well as the strong passion of students who planned the event, made the experience all the more rewarding and special. 

MiC Columnist So Jin Jung can be reached at sojinj@umich.edu.

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The Sunday morning of Sept. 15, 1963 was Youth Day at the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Ala. Dr. Sarah Collins Rudolph described it as a joyous morning buzzing with excitement and children’s laughter as she and four other little girls went to the basement of the church to freshen up. These four little girls were her sister, Addie Mae Collins, and best friends Denise McNair, Carole Robertson and Cynthia Wesley. While down in that basement of a place that was meant to be safe and sacred, Rudolph recalls hearing a “big BOOM.” She called out for her sister Addie Mae again and again to no response, then everything went black.

It was only days later while recovering in the hospital, now blind in her left eye, that Rudolph was informed that she was carried out of that basement through the hole left by the bomb by a bishop as the only survivor. The lives of her sister Addie Mae and friends Denise, Carole and Cynthia were taken that day due to a hateful attack by four members of the Ku Klux Klan. The city of Birmingham, Ala. was forever changed as a resurgence of protests and strikes broke out. 

This was the scene portrayed in a powerful dance performed by “Music, Theatre & Dance senior Brooke Taylor and members of the Black Scholars in Dance organization titled “For the Five.” Audience members were frozen in their seats as Music, Theatre & Dance sophomore Nile Andah provided vocals, accompanied by LSA senior Favour Kerobo on the piano, began to sing “Pass me not, O gentle Savior / Hear my humble cry / While on others Thou art calling / Do not pass me by” and the five women on stage danced the sentiments of that horrid day in Birmingham, Ala.

Akash Dewan/MiC

Akash Dewan/MiC

The mood of the piece continuously shifted from childlike joy and innocence to sorrow and loss. Taylor, at various points, seemed to lose herself in the playfulness of each girl’s dance, whether that be through laughter or skipping or swinging hand in hand until she was dragged back into the harsh reality of what had happened and the tears on stage were more than real.

Akash Dewan/MiC

The final scene of this performance still holds residence in my mind. Four dancers all dressed in white (representing the four girls that were murdered) wave goodbye to Taylor, who was representing Sarah Collins Rudolph, as the chorus of the hymn “Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior” bellows over the room. As the lights cut out at the end of the number, the room is silent except for sounds of sniffling. Even backstage, where I was located, the other performers could not help themselves from crying. 

As the dancers leave the stage, Nile Andah finishes the chorus of “Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior“. Akash Dewan/MiC

This was just the beginning of an evening full of emotional performances in honor of Rudolph, who was in attendance along with her husband. The event was planned, organized, and orchestrated by Taylor. 

Taylor watched a news story last May on Channel 7 Action News where Oakland University honored Mrs. Collins Rudolph as the sole survivor of the 16th Street Baptist Church Bombing with an honorary doctorate in nursing. This inspired Taylor to organize a concert in Rudolph’s honor. She was shocked to learn of the survivor, the fifth little Black girl in that church basement. 

“There’s so much Black History that is not in the textbooks, that we are not taught about, and it’s really a shame,” Taylor said. “It just opened my eyes to all the historical moments and pieces of history that I don’t know.” 

This realization sparked something in Taylor which led her to get in contact with Sarah Collins Rudolph’s husband. She told George Rudolph about her vision of bringing him and his wife to the University of Michigan through art and dance.

Dr. Rudolph receives a standing ovation as she enters the theater. Akash Dewan/MiC

Thus, “An Evening for Sarah: A concert in honor of the civil rights activist and survivor of the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing, Sarah Collins Rudolph” came to fruition. 

To start the evening off, U-M dance professor Robin Wilson cleared the space through an African derived ritual called “Libations,” where one pours water into a plant as they honor and recognize their ancestors before them.

Robin Wilson performs a “Libations” ritual to open the show, accompanied by Marwan Amen-Ra on the drums. Akash Dewan/MiC

“This libation, this pouring of water into the earth, is a way to clear the space, to cool our hearts, to open our minds,” Wilson said. Throughout the libations, Marwan Amen-Ra played the drums and audience members called out the names of loved ones who have passed. All to the sound of a resounding Asé.

Following the “For the Five” dance tribute, I performed a poem entitled “A Poem for Sarah.” This poem was dedicated to the young Sarah Collins and all the other former Black girls in the room who were forced to grow up way before they should have needed to. I was incredibly grateful for this opportunity to share my words with a Civil Rights activist and survivor, and I didn’t take that opportunity lightly but I was also writing for me. I was writing for the little Black girl that I used to be who needed to hear the words “You’re Beautiful” and “I’m Sorry.” While on that stage, it felt like it was just me and Mrs. Rudolph, like we were two Black girls who understood each other.

Sarah Oguntomilade recites her poem, titled “A Poem for Sarah.” Akash Dewan/MiC

Dancers Tristen Cook, Megan Makulski, Brianna Muawad and Abigail Simmons of The Oakland University Dance Repertory performed a striking piece called Paths. Akash Dewan/MiC

Marsae Mitchell then performed a beautiful spoken word piece while Njeri Rutherford accompanied her words with an interpretive dance entitled “Golden Our.” Akash Dewan/MiC

Kate Louissaint then performed a stunning tap dance number to the song “Avec Le Temps” (With Time). Akash Dewan/MiC

Jack Williams III had the crowd swaying their shoulders and singing along, while he performed “What’s Going On?” With Kara Rosenborough dancing en pointe. Akash Dewan/MiC

Performers from the upcoming musical “The Bubbly Black Girl Sheds Her Chameleon Skin” performed the musical number “Smile, Smile,” which portrayed a scene in which a father attempts to console his daughter following the horrific aftermath of the 16th Street Baptist Church Bombing. The musical is set to be performed at the Arthur Miller Theatre on Feb. 25. Akash Dewan/MiC

The DR’s Laboratory, led by Donovan Rogers, closed the show with a vibrant performance of Beyonce’s “Freedom” which had the entire crowd on their feet. Akash Dewan/MiC

At the culmination of the concert, the Black Scholars in Dance organization recognized Rudolph once again. Taylor, the organization’s founder, presented her with an award that said, “We honor you as a hero, whose voice was once silenced, but now was heard and inspires a whole new generation.” 

Dr. Rudolph receives her award from the Black scholars in Dance organization and embraces Brooke Taylor. Akash Dewan/MiC

Then, Rudolph sat down for a question and answer session. During this time, she recounted the day of the bombing and the events to follow. As an audience member myself, I hung on to her each and every word.

Dr. Rudolph answers questions from the audience. Akash Dewan/MiC

She recalled holding a lot of anger in her heart in the years following the death of her sister and friends and the loss of her eye. She was not given any counseling before being sent back to school. She has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and would “freak out” whenever she heard a loud noise. This PTSD would ultimately stop her from pursuing her dream of nursing school. To this day, she still has not received restitution from the state of Alabama. To make matters worse, it took 39 years for all of the men responsible for the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing to be prosecuted and held responsible for their crimes. 

Yet, through her words and responses to people’s questions, it was beyond evident how important Rudolph’s faith in God was in her journey, a faith that eventually led her to forgive the men that did this to her. She spoke about how the anger she was holding felt like a sickness in her body and that she couldn’t continue holding onto that much hatred, for her own sake. It wasn’t until she was prayed over at a church service years later that she felt free of that burden of hate and the weight of the anger in her heart. She believes that it was God’s plan for her to survive and be a testimony of what happened that morning of Sept. 15 1963.

It was also during this question and answer session that a representative of Oakland University announced that there will soon be a nursing scholarship in honor of Rudolph. 

The evening was a moment in Black History that was more than needed on this campus. It truly exemplified the intersection between art and activism. I am more than honored to have been a part of it, and I am more than grateful for artivists like Brooke Taylor. I have never met someone just as committed to their art as they are to social justice and Black remembrance. She is truly a community builder if I’ve ever met one. 

Brooke Taylor gives her closing remarks at the end of the show. Akash Dewan/MiC

“I consider myself an artivist, which is an artist and an activist,” Taylor said. “I think that means that whatever I do, when I’m creating art, I strive to tell a story and to really intersect activism with my art…I wanted to do my last year at the University of Michigan right by honoring a Civil Rights Hero and survivor of a bombing that many people aren’t aware about and they definitely should be.”

MiC Senior Editor Sarah Oguntomilade can be reached at soguntom@umich.edu

MiC Head of Photography Akash Dewan can be reached at abdewan@umich.edu

The post An evening for Sarah appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

This past weekend marked the commencement of the 21st annual South Asian Awareness Network conference, or SAANference. This year’s theme was “Beyond Borders: Confronting Division and Forging Unity” — aimed at facing the existing “borders” and divisions that penetrate the South Asian diaspora. Speakers and participants spent the weekend identifying these “borders” and drawing upon the divisions between South Asian communities that often lead to deep-rooted cleavages. SAANference chose to bridge such gaps by bringing to light topics such as gender-based violence, anti-capitalism in the South Asian community and the curation of South Asian history. 

The 2023 conference started off Friday with keynote speaker Nadia Ahmad, an associate law professor at Barry University and environmental justice advocate. Prof. Ahmad opened up the conference with a topic that truly encapsulated the urgency to move dialogues beyond “borders” by discussing the prevalence of environmental injustice and the necessity for global solidarity. She had attempted to discuss the 2022 floodings in Pakistan at a previous conference and found the experience particularly emotionally draining due to her personal connection and the lack of understanding from her audience.

“I found myself crying because I was in a room with nobody that looks like me, and they just didn’t get it,” Ahmad said.

In an interview after her speech, she touched on the importance of the SAANference theme. Prof. Ahmad called for solidarity within South Asia to tackle the issue of climate change in light of socioeconomically disadvantaged groups being impacted severely by these crises.

“Moving beyond borders is especially important when specific populations bear the brunt of these crises,” Ahmad said.

Participants, families, SAAN members and speakers all gathered for lunch in Angell Hall on Saturday for Day 2 of the conference. After a meal full of South Asian dishes, participants were split into two different “tracks” so different groups could experience different speakers and workshops. Workshops included discussing topics ranging from South Asian gender-based violence to Anti-Blackness in the South Asian community.

Our first workshop was with Amrita Doshi and Nashi Gunasekara from South Asian Allies Rising (SOAR), an organization founded by South Asian women around two years ago to tackle gender-based violence. Their workshop began with a clip from “Bend it Like Beckham,” a movie that was one of the first South Asian representations we saw in Western media. This clip portrayed a Punjabi family much like my own, albeit slightly exaggerated with outdated dialogue. After watching the clip, participants were asked to identify all the South Asian cultural norms they saw. Surprisingly, we identified around 30 stereotypes within the short three-minute clip relating to colorism, sexism and divorce stigma. 

When asked about how such cultural norms interact with their own forms of parenting, parents contemplated whether or not they have truly abandoned these stigmas. A mother in the audience who had identified divorce stigma as a topic from the clip said, “I can’t imagine carrying the pressure of being a divorcee for myself, so how could I want that for my daughter?”

Doshi and Gunasekara deconstructed the discussion of the clip and prompted the audience to explore how such cultural norms create obstacles in our community when tackling gender-based violence. 

“A recent study in the New York state region found that 85% of South Asians aged 18-34 have experienced some form of sexual assault,” said Gunasekara. “Someone next to you right now may be included in that especially if you consider underreporting.” 

As Doshi and Gunasekara discussed this statistic, the audience fell silent and everyone glanced at each other, startled by the observation that had just been brought up. The speakers then called for action and went through various long-term non-carceral solutions for gender-based violence that their organization is exploring. At the end of their presentation, Doshi prompted the audience to imagine what our community would like with these changes. 

“If you can imagine that community in your minds, then that image is something we can create together,” Doshi stated. 

In an interview with The Michigan Daily after the presentation, Doshi and Gunasekara brought the topic of gender-based violence back to the SAANference theme. 

Doshi and Gunasekara touched on an idea that would continuously be brought up by other speakers. Borders aren’t just the physical lines we see, but also the barriers that we socially construct together. Doshi said that “borders are also barriers, and when we look at gender-based violence, we see barriers across the whole field: cultural barriers, systemic barriers, barriers across conversations and behaviors.”

Manan Desai, an associate professor in the Department of American Culture at the University of Michigan initiated the second workshop of the day about “recovering South Asian American Histories.” Prof. Desai has spoken at various SAAN conferences in the past. Desai attended his first SAAN conference in 2005 as an undergraduate student at the University. 

He spoke on his journey in building archival research for South Asian history with the South Asian American Digital Archive. After speaking to multiple challenges and barriers in creating archival resources, Desai touched on two important projects his team developed. The Roadtrips project and Our Stories textbook were the culmination of efforts to surpass barriers in curating South Asian history. Desai pushed the audience to think about how we are represented in history and in our educational settings. 

Rajika Bhandari, an expert on international higher education and author of the memoir “America Calling: A Foreign Student in a Country of Possibility,” continued the conversation of barriers within the space of education through her workshop “Different Journeys, Shared Experiences: South Asian International and Immigrant Students.” She finds the topic of international students especially relevant to the South Asian community since Indian students are the second largest group of international students in the U.S. When exploring the more general theme of borders and barriers, Bandari said, “I was pushed to think about the divides and silos we create between two different communities on a campus.” These two groups are immigrant South Asian students and South Asian American students. Bandari explored the shared experiences and differences between these two groups in her workshop, concluding that the “one true barrier is immigration.” 

Bandari explored the ways in which immigrant students congregate and the divisions within our diaspora. When she asked her audience if anyone was an international student, there was only one individual who raised their hand. 

She looked at her audience and asked, “On a campus with these many international students and at a conference meant for South Asians I wonder where those students are?”

The last speaker of the day was Sangay Mishra, an associate professor at Drew University who explored the concepts of race, religion and belonging within the South Asian diaspora in post-9/11 America. Prof. Mishra’s talk was unique in that he examined the many distinct narratives that encompass the overarching Asian American experience. For instance, he showed us a survey that reflected whom the American public considers “Asian” or “Asian American.” Strangely enough, there was a stark difference in proportions: many perceived Japanese people, Chinese people and Koreans to be Asian American, while much fewer viewed Pakistanis and Indians as such. 

With American society vilifying Muslims after the 9/11 attacks, the Asian American diaspora was left with deep fissures instead of unified mobility. Prof. Mishra compared instances of racial lumping of Muslims after 9/11 to the case of Vincent Chen — a Chinese American worker killed in a racially motivated assault in 1982 — to question whether racialization can really lead to group unification on a larger scale. Prof. Mishra’s research highlighted voting as a point at which Asian Americans converge. This group forms one of the largest demographics voting in favor of Democrats, a trend that highlights political mobilization as a form of solidarity within the larger Asian American diaspora.

When asked about which types of solidarity he believes to be most valuable in addressing and tackling these divisions, Prof. Mishra stated that “all these problems require different identifications,” and that “broad-based solidarity that is inclusive of all these identities” is essential. I found it fascinating to compare the interesting paradox of internal cleavages — such as religion, national origin, language, and caste — to Prof. ] Mishra’s notion of unified ethnoracial mobilization. 

Within our facilitation workshops, we began to unravel the distinct divisions that South Asian Americans are made to confront — many of which we didn’t realize we dealt with until this discussion. Someone brought up the ways in which he, as an Indian, tends to simplify his name for Starbucks baristas. Another girl spoke of the rare instances of excitement as a child when she would see a name resembling her own in school textbooks. A father recalled being stereotyped as either a “techie” or a “taxi driver” when moving between Canada and the U.S. By the end of the workshops, we were able to recognize and openly tackle the unique difficulties South Asian Americans confront in a society ridden with misinformed stereotypes and a lack of representation. It was a reminder that histories of exclusion can also be what bind the Asian American diaspora in solidarity. 

MiC Assistant Editor Shania Baweja can be reached at shaniab@umich.edu. MiC Columnist Nuraiya Malik can be reached at nuraiya@umich.edu.

The post Reflection on SAANference: shifting borders and barriers in the South Asian diaspora appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

As-Salaam-Alaikum

Wa-Alaikum-Salaam

The auditorium—recently buzzing with greetings and jovial conversations—fell pin-drop silent, intent on hanging on Dr. Omar Suleiman’s words. Imam Suleiman’s résumé is more than impressive: Muslim scholar, civil rights leader, writer and public speaker. He currently works as a professor at Southern Methodist University and founder of the Yaqeen Institute for Islamic Research. 

At a luncheon prior to his speech, Suleiman moved from table to table, taking the time to engage with each attendee in thoughtful conversation. He was taking so much time talking to each individual that I began sweating through my shirt in anticipation of our interview—the interview he graciously remained behind for, even when his schedule required him to be elsewhere. Suleiman’s powerful calmness was unmistakable during the interview as he talked so passionately while maintaining an even-keeled demeanor.  

During the interview and the subsequent speaker event, Suleiman emphasized Islamic theology as a source for liberation, using the Quran as the basis for his social justice values. He pointed to many liberation movements and leaders’ attraction to Islam because of the Prophet Mouhammad’s (Peace Be Upon Him) explicit anti-racist and anti-oppression rhetoric. From Malcolm X to Angela Davis to Muhammad Ali, countless Muslim activists have led the fight for civil rights in our country. 

Suleiman expressed the importance for justice movements to support all oppressed groups. He drew upon the Honorable Malcolm X’s philosophy of recognizing the Black Americans’ plight within the context of all forms of oppression worldwide, not being afraid that incorporating other movements would dilute their own. A self-described student of Malcolm X, Suleiman quoted him when exploring Islam’s focus on justice.

“The Quran compelled the Muslim to take a stand on the side of those whose human rights are violated no matter the religious persuasion of the victims,” Suleiman said. “Islam is a religion which concerns itself with the human rights of all mankind despite race, color or creed. It recognizes all as part of one human family.” 

A universal struggle against oppression is embodied in Martin Luther King’s words, “oppression anywhere is a threat to freedom anywhere.” This philosophy has played a role in many effective social rights movements, from Fred Hampton’s “Rainbow Coalition” to the Black Feminist Movement. However, Suleiman highlights this notion has been surprisingly rare in justice movements throughout the ages. From the women’s suffrage movement’s exclusion of Black Americans to the Mynmmar’s freedom movement’s oppression of Muslim minorities, many such movements ignore the plights of other marginalized groups and even support their oppression. Even today, many oppressed groups argue over whose plight is the most important instead of viewing their oppression as a singular issue. 

Coming from a Palestinian household and as a child of refugees, Suleiman grew up with a responsibility to fight against Palestinian oppression as well as a connection to other oppressed groups. His family housed refugees displaced by the Bosnian genocide and was active in local civil rights issues, building the foundation for Suleiman’s global mindset.

Working towards a universal struggle for liberation, Suleiman strives to build coalitions across religious divides. During our interview, he talked about how “polarization is one of the greatest threats to a civilization,” causing people to isolate and “work in their own corners.” Suleiman emphasized that there are issues that cut across all identities, especially around exploitation and poverty. He approaches coalition-building by bringing different groups to the table and working together to champion commonly-held issues. He says these groups can form strong bonds by working together on these challenges.

Like Malcolm X, Suleiman emphasizes viewing oppression through a global lens. One issue he focused on during his speech was the intersectionality between climate change and oppression. Inside the United States’s privileged bubble, the connection may not be apparent, but Dr. Suleiman highlighted that climate change will continue to displace an increasing number of people around the world and create competition over increasingly scarce resources. He predicts these conditions will lead to increased oppression worldwide. His prediction aligns with the Institute for Economics & Peace’s prediction of 1.2 billion refugees by 2050 due to climate change and natural disasters. Michelle Bachelet, U.N. High Commissioner for Human Rights, wrote: “As environmental threats intensify, they will constitute the biggest challenge to human rights in our era.” Suleiman contextualized his claim with his personal experience during Hurricane Katrina. The New Orleans native led a group to assist with the city’s recovery and saw how the natural disaster had disproportionately affected oppressed groups in the area.

Global oppression cannot be fully encapsulated without including Palestine. Suleiman described Palestine as “a filter to test a person’s commitment to human dignity” that “many people who pontificate on every human rights issue will suddenly go silent or worse.” His speech further laid out the grim reality of the ongoing oppression. 

“Ninety-seven percent of water in Gaza is undrinkable,” Suleiman said. “Seventy-five percent of its people are food insecure. An estimated 91% of its children suffer from PTSD.” These statistics don’t account for the consistent acts of violence and systemic oppression Palestinians face today. 

Suleiman laid out advice for students in the fight for equality. Most importantly, he emphasized the importance of courage and implored students to not be intimidated. He called on students to not only be charitable but to also challenge the underlying policies and stay steadfast when people turn against them for doing so. 

While Suleiman focused mainly on how one should conduct oneself to advance justice and human rights, he did address the mindset of oppressors. I will leave you with another Malcolm X quote Suleiman shared. I think it’s incredibly pertinent to the structural and systematic inequality we see in our country, to the countless migrants displaced from their homes, as well as to countries ravaged by colonialism and imperialism. 

“You clip the bird’s wing and then blame it for not flying as high as you.” 

Assalamualaikum Warahmatullahi

MiC Columnist Kuvin Satyadev can be reached at kuvins@umich.edu.

The post Lesson from Dr. Omar Suleiman appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

Why aren’t they shared? My hypothesis: they don’t feed into the reverence of unfaltering perfection, safe decisions, money and status. Because they don’t support parents being munnari deivam, your “first god.” Because they don’t involve a “risqué” change from engineer to doctor — they are about switching from Zoloft to Lexapro. They’re embodiments of subjects that are more comfortable left unsaid.

That’s where my cousin’s tale comes in — to fill in these gaps. 

Suja Akka has a tall, commanding presence. Her hugs make it feel like the world can’t touch you.

At 16, Suja Akka was diagnosed with depression. She says if her older self had been present, she would have recognized the signs years prior. But it was the quintessential motif: ignorant parents who are unable to understand how to deal with mental illness. Mental health falls under many labels in our family: a sickness, an excuse, a weakness. Therefore, her battles were shrouded in silence — a shameful secret. 

At the same time, her parents were divorcing. Divorce during the ’90s was unheard of in our Indian community (and, to a point, still is). Her parents’ divorce was the first in our extended U.S. family — another challenge met with silence in our community. Another taboo topic that Akka had to cope with alone. As the divorce unfolded, her parents grew neglectful. Parents who used to ban her from dates and homecoming suddenly didn’t care what she did. They didn’t know which colleges she had applied to or how she was doing in life. 

To make matters worse, her amma channeled her own anger towards Akka, tormenting her at home, castigating and demeaning her. She would find any little reason to unleash her anger on Akka, especially when she had the gall to show an ounce of personality. When Suja Akka finally started standing up for herself against these unwarranted attacks and yelling back, her Amma gave her uncles and grandparents an ultimatum: stop talking to Suja or stop talking to me. Did they defend the girl going through unimaginable battles? No. Suja Akka was unceremoniously thrown out of her grandparents’ house where she had lived. A friend had to pick her up from the curb. She was no longer invited to family gatherings. There would be no Thanksgivings, no Christmases, no phone calls or check-ins for many years to come.

With these weights pressing down on her, she was still going through college, trying to find out what she wanted to do with her life. She was lost and alone with no one to support or protect her, fighting a war with depression that she couldn’t even mention to friends or family.

It would have been easy for her to pass on the pain inflicted on her by the previous generation to the next. I have seen it too often in my community. Unresolved trauma breeding new trauma. Scarred children who grow up to act just like their parents.

They say “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” but Suja Akka is the mango that broke the cycle of generational trauma. 

Now as a parent herself, Suja Akka takes meticulous care not to let her pain color her children’s experiences. She endeavors daily not to follow in her absent parents’ lead, nor revert to the typical authoritative role. I’ve received many tearful calls when she feels that she’s failed to do so. She is supportive and empathetic. Despite all she’s been through, she treats her kids with unrelenting patience and love. Even through all this, she strives to be better. She is constantly evaluating and reevaluating her parenting techniques, beating herself up over every mistake made, no matter how little. 

She’s broken the customary mold of Indian parents I’ve seen. As I mentioned before, Desi parents are considered almost god-like. The origins of this phenomenon can be traced all the way back to 3 BCE. Avvaiyar, a Tamil poet and philosopher that significantly influenced Tamil culture, wrote, “Annaiyum pithavum munnari deivam” — Amma and Appa are the first gods.

Throughout my childhood, my own amma would use munnari deivam as the justification for her actions. God-like parents are reflected in the current omnipresent Indian parent. A figure that creates your goals, defines your values and makes decisions for you — from the degree you choose, to where you live, to the hobbies you pursue. However, Akka plays the role of the supporter, not a leader. She doesn’t restrict the bounds of her children’s lives; she helps them explore them. 

If one of her sons starts to talk about space, the next week he has books about meteors and the solar system and a project plan to build a solar system model. Akka helps fuel and nurture whatever new interest or hobby they have, and her zeal doesn’t diminish with each new one. Her house is filled with projects she does with her kids: a paper airplane target, a house made out of cardboard and a velcro tree for her youngest to decorate. 

She’s always mindful of each of her kids’ individual personalities and emotions. She has already identified and helped one of her sons deal with his own anxiety. She’s thinking of different ways she can support him. She put him in therapy in elementary school, while other parents in my family still question the validity of therapy when their kids are having panic attacks in college.

During a late-night tea session, we reflected on the bittersweet experience of watching her kids grow up. Seeing them flourish unencumbered is a reminder of positive parenting that we didn’t have. A portal into an alternate reality where we grew up being supported. 

Intertwined with her progressive parenting style is Akka’s mental health journey, which, like most others, is never truly over. But Suja Akka has been dedicated and determined to properly learn how to cope with her mental illness. She was one of the first in the family to go to therapy and receive medicine. When I was in crisis, Suja Akka was the one who stepped up for me, even though she has three kids and lives halfway across the country. She called me every day at my worst. Holding my hand through the process, she slowly convinced me to see a therapist and a psychiatrist. If it wasn’t for her bravery and compassion, I very well might not be here today. And I know she’s played this role for so many others. In a community where it seems like there’s nowhere to turn, she steps up for people and illuminates a new path.

Not only has Akka challenged our family pedagogy on mental health, but she’s also challenged our definition of fulfillment. Akka bounced around after college, trying to find her place. For four years she wandered, working odd jobs. Eventually, she started working in a mental health unit in the hospital. As she describes it, she was overcome by a need to help the patients. She empathized with the unwarranted isolation of her patients that were ostracized from society. She understood the dark and arduous path of battling mental illness. And she dove headfirst into helping others. She found social workers to shadow, and realized their work filled her with passion. The girl who once had been kicked out of college went to grad school — at the University of Michigan no less — earned her Master’s and eventually ended up in Baltimore as a social worker herself.  

Social work isn’t even on the list in the hierarchy of Acceptable Indian Jobs. Why? Social workers, infamously and unfairly, are underpaid. An Indian uncle may ask you, “Why in the world would you be a social worker?”

That didn’t sway Suja Akka. As she describes it, she had finally found her place. Helping people in Baltimore, her passion drove her — the low pay didn’t matter. Her work filled her with energy, and when she talks about it now her face still lights up. You can hear the palpable fervor in her voice. The fulfillment.

To be clear, the Indian community did not maliciously create these traditional ideals to cage us; they were born of necessity and reinforced by racialized U.S. policy. Our community was constructed through immigration legislation in the image of the “Model Minority Myth” — to be highly skilled and educated. The only avenue for life in America for my community was pursuing high-skilled careers, making safe decisions and putting work above their own mental and physical health. During the ’80s and ’90s, America offered opportunities and a quality of life not achievable in Tamil Nadu, in great part due to British colonization. Consequently, perfection was critical to securing their and future generations’ place in this new country. There was no safety net for older generations. Few, if any, people were willing to give them second chances if they slipped up. Our parents had to be virtually perfect to be accepted and succeed within the white American system. They didn’t have room to take risks. Barriers and pitfalls already littered the safest paths. Taking extra risks on top of that was unconscionable. Most of all, money and status measured whether they had made it.

However, these values have become a lifestyle instead of a means of survival. They have been cemented as laws of success, even though the realities of our community are changing. Suja Akka’s story shows that the traditions are antiquated.

Success and fulfillment don’t have to be measured by money and status. They can be found elsewhere — through a passion, being a great parent or where ever you want to find them. And “perfection” doesn’t yield them either. Having depression or anxiety isn’t a deficiency or indicator of potential failure. You can be mentally ill and successful. Falling down doesn’t mean that you can’t stand back up. You can make mistakes and still make them. Risks aren’t bad. They, instead, could be essential to finding one’s way through life. 

Suja Akka constantly allowed me to feel comfortable standing outside my family’s norms, assuring me that my life can be full of taboos and “wrongs,” but that has nothing to do with how my future will turn out. In a culture that espouses a uniform path, she’s made sure I know that unconventional isn’t equivalent to misguided. 

The inclusion of Akka’s stories redefines South Asian success and fulfillment; it strikes at the core of outdated ideas on mental health, parenting and success. This article does not mean those who follow the traditional paths are villains of the black sheep’s stories. It means the oddballs can be the heroes too. I, personally, don’t know when my own success will come. But I can confidently stride down my unorthodox path because I see a pair of footsteps ahead. If you can relate, follow along with me.

MiC Columnist Kuvin Satyadev can be reached at kuvins@umich.edu.

The post My Brown Heroes: Part I appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

Lights, Camera, Action! As the sun started to set, crowds of students gathered on the Diag to watch their friends and peers light up the makeshift stage on the front steps of Hatcher Graduate Library. Students took the liberty of bringing their own blankets and snacks in preparation for the show. On Oct. 5, Michigan in Color hosted its first-ever annual Open MiC Night, a public event intended to showcase the talent of performers of Color on campus.

Before the show started, the Diag was already brimming with an excited audience. MiC Managing Editor Eliya Imtiaz, a Business senior, opened the event. She emphasized the importance of showcasing student artwork.

“We wanted to do Open MiC Night to amplify the talents of students of Color on campus and showcase that Michigan in Color, and to a larger extent. The Michigan Daily is for and by the students that it reports and covers,” Imtiaz said. “MiC is increasingly focusing more on multimedia and this event gave us a perfect opportunity to share the artistry of everyday students.”

Before starting the show, audience members were encouraged to check out the student organizations (Asian American High School Conference, South Asian Awareness Network (SAAN) and Thai Student Association) tabling around the iconic Block ‘M.’ These clubs promoted themselves to potential new members and spread their organizations’ missions.

SAAN is a South Asian identity-based social justice coalition that hosts trailblazing social justice advocates at its annual conference. Easheta Shah, Public Health senior and SAAN community relations chair, thought the event was a great way to interact with University of Michigan students. 

“I really hope (Open MiC Night) becomes an annual thing,” she said. “I think it’s really great to see so much community.”

In addition, the Thai Student Association advertised for their show, Thai Night, an annual festivity with exhibits and Thai food to celebrate their culture.

At 7:30 p.m., the performances began. Performers had the unique opportunity to showcase their talents, ranging from comedy skits to monologues to song and dance.

The show started with a stand-up comedy routine by LSA sophomore Joe Gailey. He said he felt like the event provided a judgment-free space for performers to escape the typical confines found in other places on campus. Gailey also said he was also grateful for the stage time that the event provided so people could share their craft. 

“Growing up, I was always feeling like I don’t (relate) as much as other very prominent Asian comedians that are out there, so kind of bridging the gap is something I am still trying to work on,” Gailey said.

During intermission, students explored the static art displays showcased along the edge of the Diag. Art & Design junior Nina Walker’s mixed media piece included a self-portrait to express the internal pressures she set on herself as she navigates adulthood post-pandemic.

“As a nontraditional artist, I was glad to share my work in a space where my pieces could truly be understood and appreciated,” Walker said. “I got to feel famous for the night. It felt nice to have my art on display in such a unique environment.”

Following an intermission, Business junior Roman Rhone performed two pieces on his steel drums: “The Girl is Mine” by Michael Jackson featuring Paul McCartney and a self-composed piece. Rhone said he finds the history of the steel drum empowering. Enslaved people in the Caribbean island of Trinidad created steel drums out of oil barrels after colonists prevented them from playing on normal drums. Rhone connected this resilience to the purpose of Open MiC Night.

“You can make beauty out of where you come from, so that’s why I enjoy playing here and sharing this space with everyone,” Rhone said. “It made me remember how much I love playing.”

LSA junior Kendall Grayson said it was beautiful to see students appreciating the art and talents of people of Color on campus during the show.

“It really shows all the love these people have for each other,” Grayson said. “It is not often when you get to see other people of Color represented in forms of art like this. I feel represented and reflected in the art that’s on the stage.”

Open MiC Night provided a unique atmosphere for spotlighting performers of Color and giving them an outlet to display their talents in a comfortable environment. Michigan in Color wants to thank all the performers and individuals who made this night so special. In the future, we hope to make this an annual event for student organizations to recruit new members and provide a space for performers of Color to showcase their art at the heart of campus. Thank you to everyone who showed up and to those who didn’t, we hope to see you next time!

MiC Assistant Editor Deven Parikh can be reached at pdeven@umich.edu.

The post Michigan in Color hosts its first annual Open MiC Night on the Diag appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

In the final week of August, I once again was able to step under the historic street lights of Mexico City and wake up in my Abuela’s house. During that week, my skin generously soaked in the sun that spilled over the sky and onto the mountains and homes of Jiutepec and Mexico City. That final week, those seven days, those 168 hours, was the time that I was looking forward to the most from the moment I learned I was going to be able to visit family in Mexico again. I would say to myself, 

“When will I come back?” 

“There’s so much more to learn.” 

I don’t think I’ll get tired of telling myself these things in between trips to and from Mexico.

I would be able to return after completing my summer internship, and this second trip to Mexico was full of family time and exploration — way more than the first time I visited. When my primo picked me up from the airport, he immediately took me through the slippery streets of Mexico City on a drizzling night to have some of his favorite street tacos. And let me tell you, those tacos did not disappoint. 

Stretched out on the tight sidewalk with an awning and an umbrella, the taco vendors had their music bumping from the speaker, muffling the conversations taking place from behind the greased grill. On the tight sidewalk stood a group of friends talking while they ate their tacos al pastor, and a couple shared a hug while they paid for their meal. 

Once I got my first plate of Suadero tacos and added cilantro, cebolla y limon, I eyed the two salsas sitting gently next to each other on the grill. Before reaching over and grabbing them, Pikin warned me that the salsa verde was very spicy, thinking that that would stop me from trying. It didn’t, and man do I tell you: these were the most delicious tacos I’ve ever had. The soft crispy handmade tortilla was the perfect home for the meat, cilantro and cebolla to rest. And the mix of the limon and salsa verde created a sour kick that left my tongue calling for a drink. 

This memory of the tacos I ate with my primo on my first night in Mexico City is something that I have brought with me back to the states. Pikin was kind enough to drive at one in the morning to show us his favorite taco spot, and he even bought some cervezas to drink at his apartment. Now that I’m back in Ann Arbor, I think about this night a lot, and how there are still no restaurants here that bring me that immense amount of joy.

I found myself holding on tightly to memories like these once I returned to the states from Mexico and was thrown right back into the adult responsibilities of being a college senior. I wish that my trip could have lasted a little longer, but the pending semester ate away at this thing we call time. Despite being hungry for more Mexican adventures, I needed to return home. And once I got back to my hometown of Wyoming, Mich. on an early, early Saturday morning, I only had three hours to sleep and another three hours to pack my things before my inevitable move back to Ann Arbor. After a quick rest, my mom, sister and I packed the truck with suitcases and boxes and off we went. 

During the two hour drive from Wyoming to Ann Arbor, I shared the stories of my time in Mexico with my Mom, and she also shared some of her own stories about what it was like growing up there. 

Some stories I will keep for myself, and some stories will be told another day. 

Not all stories need to be shared; they are personal pieces of ourselves and we have full autonomy to share as much as we like with the world. But listening to them does bring me joy and, in a sense, revives me. 

Whenever I feel stuck in a rut, I think back to the wonderful memories that lurk in my brain and fill me with life. I’m reminded of Mexico and all the people that I know who are connected to it, like my friends and family. 

As I have said before: Mexico is the reason that I am breathing. I truly believe that. 

There’s so much history that I have yet to unearth from within myself; through writing, I’m weaving loosened threads together and tightening my soul. I am proud to call myself a Mexican artist and a Mexican writer.   

Hispanic Heritage Month is soon coming to a close and I want to celebrate the beautiful voices of my friends who are Mexican. It’s a chance for them to be involved in the writing process because as a writer, I can offer a collaborative experience where I can give a voice to someone who wants it. I’m not the only Mexican voice on campus; while there are a few of us on this campus, there are millions of us worldwide outside this predominantly white institution bubble we call Ann Arbor and the University of Michigan. 

Thank you Aliyah, Angel and Lesley for your time and energy. 

This is what they had to say… 

__ 

I met with Angel late in the morning on the Diag. I had sent him a Google Calendar invite for our meeting at 11:30 a.m. and as I was finishing up some homework in the Fishbowl, Angel texted me at 11:14 a.m. telling me that he was already at our meeting place. I shut off my computer and ran out of Haven Hall to meet Angel, but I would soon retreat back to Haven Hall to avoid the incoming drizzle — I didn’t want Angel to get wet! I turned on my voice memo app as students began to fill the hallways and had my full attention to Angel. 

To people who don’t know him well, Angel is a senior at Michigan and is in the Ross School of Business and hails from a very special place in Southwest Detroit, also known as Mexicantown. Some of the earliest Mexican families settled down in downtown Detroit in the 1920s. When I asked Angel what it was like growing up in Southwest Detroit, he quickly broke into a smile. 

“It was a lot of fun growing up in Southwest Detroit! It’s a very immigrant-based community in which chances are your next-door neighbor is first-gen or also Latino. … There’s so much color on the walls, on the street and there’s such a vibrant history. It has an energy to it. It was a lot of fun strolling up and down the streets with your friends, maybe with five bucks in your pocket trying to see how it’ll work. And being a Latino there, it’s kind of home, I don’t know if I can say this but – we’re like the white people there! It’s nice being around fellow Latinos and to know that your neighbors would offer to feed you, everything … and I haven’t had coffee yet so excuse me if my words are slurring!”

Even if Angel was slurring his words due to the lack of coffee, I didn’t notice because I understood him. Growing up, he was always comfortable growing up in Southwest Detroit due to the strong ties with the Latino community. This was something I noticed when I lived in Detroit two summers ago. When I explored Southwest Detroit, the sugary panaderías filled the streets along with murals, Latin imagery and colors.  

I also asked Angel if he could share one of his favorite memories growing up in Southwest Detroit. 

“Bro, Quinceañeras! When we were all at that age of 13 to whatever, man it was so much fun. Me and my friends would sneak into random Quinceañeras in the neighborhood. There are these two venues in Detroit that everyone went to. Every week there would be a Quinceañera there and my friends and I would always sneak in. We would go to just dance and have fun and just to be surrounded by friends. There’s great music, great food and there was always amazing company overall and maybe this is irresponsible for me to say but I would always tell my mom that I would have a ride back but I never did! Always knowing that the fun is going to end and [that] you got to turn on that responsibility switch was a rush.” 

As Angel told me this memory, I was laughing and smiling the whole time. I could just picture the venue and imagine the kids running around while family members drank and danced through the night.

__ 

I spoke with Aliyah in the basement of East Quad after I attended my second ever ACLU meeting on a chilly Monday evening. I tried to find the quietest spot in the freshmen-infested building and as soon as I did, I opened up my laptop and began recording our Zoom meeting. Aliyah is from Grand Rapids, Mich., and she’s studying graphic design at Grand Valley State University. Aliyah has been a friend of mine since high school and I wanted to talk to her for this piece because she is so far away, and I find myself thinking about my friends back home constantly throughout the school year. 

Aliyah calls Grand Rapids her home because it’s where she grew up, but she made sure to say that home is wherever she feels most comfortable, and that’s usually with her family.

“I guess home could be anywhere. Because the way I look at it, you wanna feel safe. You wanna feel secure. And you wanna feel loved, so if I feel all those things around people who aren’t my family, then that’s like a second home. I feel those things around my immediate family, and that’s like that’s my main home.”

It was nice to be reminded that home can be a feeling and that it doesn’t always have to be a physical space. Home is where you feel secure and loved. 

Aliyah also spoke about growing up in Grand Rapids as a Latina hailing from a family of immigrants. She’s always prided herself on this, and when she’s in a room and notices that she’s the only Latina there, she will make it known and demand that her voice is heard. 

“I’ve always prided myself growing up as … a brown woman because I just know that there are so many disadvantages, not even just because of the way the system works, but by the way that people look at you. Growing up, I’ve definitely felt that because of the stereotypes and all that stuff. I think as I’ve gotten older, I’ve definitely learned to be more confident with who I am.” 

I’ve been around Aliyah for many years and I’ve always loved her confidence and the energy she brings into a room. Thinking back to our marching band days in high school, Aliyah would be the loudest one on the field, leading her clarinet section during Monday night rehearsals. And during our water breaks, we would be on the sideline teasing each other. She’d poke fun at my love for Kendrick Lamar and I’d poke fun at her height. We would just stand there giggling while we waited for our inevitable return to the football field.

__

I finally got to talk to Lesley on a windy Wednesday afternoon after a week of assignments and sudden schedule shifts. We sat on the ledges next to the Kinesiology building, passing my phone back and forth to make sure the wind was not ruining our audio recording. I only had 30 precious minutes to talk to Lesley before she had to go to a virtual training session for a conference she’s going to attend later in the year. 

Lesley is a senior in LSA majoring in political science and sociology and minoring in Latino/a studies, and she calls Syracuse, Ind., her home. But, similar to Aliyah, Lesley feels most at home when she’s with family. Currently a lot of her family resides in Sacramento, Calif., so even if she doesn’t live there, she still considers it home. During our conversation, I asked Lesley what she misses most about home when she’s in Ann Arbor.

“I really miss eating my mom’s freshly-made tortillas. … Every time that I go home, I always ask her to make fresh tortillas or any Mexican dish, like some Caldo de Pollo or her Tinga, which I think is the best. I miss the cuisine and the food. Here in Ann Arbor it’s really hard for us to go out and buy stuff, especially if you don’t have a car. I have to say that I missed the food and I just also miss being around my family. I really love my little brother and my little sister, and I’ve tried my best to instill Mexican values in them because my parents did that for me and my brother growing up. So I try doing that when I’m at home. Every time I go back home, I’m always talking to them in Spanish and showing them memes in Spanish.” 

Lesley talked to me about being Latina on campus and told me that she was nervous about coming to Michigan since she had little exposure to communities outside of her immediate family when she was growing up in Indiana. Because of this, she didn’t know if she was going to fit in with other Latinx students once she arrived on campus. She was also worried about leaving her predominantly white town in Indiana to attend a predominantly white institution in Michigan. However, she quickly realized that she did fit in when she found the University’s Latinx community through the student organization La Casa. Even if she still misses that feeling of home, the Latino community that she has found on campus makes her feel secure and loved, and she can say that she is proud to be Latina on campus.

I met Lesley back in our Summer Bridge days and once the fall semester started, we were both living in West Quad (thanks to the Michigan Community Scholars Program). Later in our second year, we would also be working together on La Casa’s E-Board. I’ve gotten to know Lesley over these last four years here at Michigan and she’s always been someone I can talk to and catch up with. I can also safely say that she’s the only Mexicana that I know who comes from Indiana. For one of my last questions, I asked Lesley what her favorite memory growing up was. 

“It has to be when my abuelita was still alive. She was really into Artesania Mexicana and she loved to make flowers out of clay, and she would make the handbags and the tote bags out of recycled plastic bags. My girl was a sustainable queen even before it became so popular and glamorized!! And she believed in me. I was seven or eight years old and I would sit there and I’d watch her and everything she would do was just so colorful and so vibrant and represented to me everything that it meant to be a Mexican woman. I would sit there and watch her and once I reached the age of ten she would say, ‘Ven mija, ven pa’ca,’ ‘Help me! Do this and this.’ And slowly I learned how to crochet and do these clay flowers and handbags. That’s a memory that will always stay with me because my grandma has now passed and I feel like I should have listened to her and I should have been more present in the moment. … I could have passed on that tradition and legacy for my grandma because now no one in my family knows how to do any of that. I always hold onto that memory because my grandma really loved me.” 

Lesley’s stories about her grandma show the importance of caring for our elders and respecting the women in our lives within Mexican culture. This is something that Angel and Aliyah both spoke on as well. There’s so much to learn from our grandparents, and there are so many traditions and customs that they may have passed down to us that we must keep alive through our words and memories. We must make sure that our loved ones are never forgotten and that their legacy impacts generations to come, in Mexico, in the United States or wherever any of us end up.

__

Angel, Aliyah, Lesley and I will always be connected to Mexico. 

Through the food we eat,

the music we listen to, 

the family we love, 

the art we produce

and the stories we tell. 

Let it be known that our roots run deep.

MiC Columnist Juan Pablo Angel Marcos can be reached at marcosj@umich.edu.

The post Bajo El Sol: Las historias que nos conectan appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

The following story contains potentially triggering accounts and mentions of sexual assault.

The University of Michigan made Jonathan Vaughn a man. And being a man is a complicated matter because manhood is the sort of thing that takes just as much as it gives. It can be unrelenting and unreasonable, hard to understand and discern, hard to tame and forgive, while also being equally as fragile and painfully soft, fraught with grief and anger and love. And Vaughn knows love, more than anything else, because he is a Michigan Man. A Michigan Man is an everlasting title, it fights back, kicks back, yells back, it endures in life and death, in good health and sickness, it knows conscience and consequence, honesty and humility, and mostly, to be a Michigan Man is to know love. All kinds of love: tough love and mean love, in-your-face love, forever love and careful love and ugly love, but love all the same. 

And love matters to a man like Vaughn because he is a father, and there are people out in the world that know him only as Uncle Jon and nothing else. He’s the kind of person that tells you to keep the change and will save your place in line and will hold the door open for a million and one people all in one go. He’s the kind of person who keeps a bank he eternally fills with all acts of love, with big flashy love and small feisty love, so that the balance never falls below zero, stowed away somewhere deep within himself. And because Vaughn and thousands of other people are survivors of sexual assault at the hands of the late Dr. Robert Anderson, and when you are a victim of abuse, when you understand all the ways in which trauma can profoundly snap a body clean in half, all the ways it can make arms and legs and minds and selves come undone, love, keeping it and collecting it and living in it, becomes of the utmost importance. Because oftentimes, love is the only thing we have left, and the only thing that can ever help us heal and recover. 

Vaughn was recruited to play for the University of Michigan football team as a running back in 1989, his senior year, from McCluer North High School in Florissant, Missouri, and even back then, it seemed clear he had always been destined to be an athlete. He thought like one, looked like one, fought like one. But it was at the University where he learned how to truly be an athlete, where he learned that it was a sense of being that lies in something far more than a derivation of the physical body, that it was not just quick reflexes, keen senses, a strong arm or too powerful a kick, but that it was a way of living, so much so, that in time, it became the only way of living. During our interviews, Vaughn speaks fondly about his time on the team, and at the University. It was a reprieve from Missouri, from his abusive father, from the small patch of dirt in the field behind his house where he played soccer every day, from where he learned violence and shame and what it meant to no longer feel safe in your own body for the first time. And evidently, the University of Michigan became home, was home, is still home, in the way that his mother was home or his brother was home or friends and fellow survivors Chuck Christian and Tad Deluca and Trinea Gonczar were home. Vaughn was the first in his lineage to be a part of a team in this way, to be a Michigan Man.

He was “excited, proud and challenged to represent, it was a rite of passage, a privilege to play for Michigan football,” Vaughn later explained to me. To become known only through his sacrifice, through his practice and performance on the team became the very foundation of his identity. Game days at The University of Michigan were merciless and frigid, denying all basic forms of relief, prolonging an eternal state of discomfort. And if you spent long enough out there on that field with Vaughn, you’d know the turf would start to grate in an infuriatingly special way, the crowd would become so impossibly loud that your ears would hurt for days on end, your helmet and your shoulder and knee pads would become agonizingly heavy even when and where they never had been, sweat would leak into every insufferably small crevice, and that was simply the way things were and would always be because this was college football. And football, most particularly college football, was special in that it was meant to be played in a way that fractured the body into all kinds of pieces, that broke down the individual for the sake of one cohesive unit, because only those that endured, only those that stayed would be champions. And Vaughn chose to stay. Staying meant an eventual NFL draft, staying meant pursuing the education his mother had always wanted him to have, and eventually, staying also meant becoming a survivor of sexual abuse over and over at the doing of Dr. Robert Anderson.

Anderson was hired in 1966 as a physician at University Health System (UHS). He was UHS director from 1968 to 1980 and transferred to the athletic department after resigning in 1981. Anderson was a practicing physician until 1999 and remained a faculty member at the University of Michigan until 2003. He died in 2008. Last May, an independent report released by law firm WilmerHale, also hired by the University, concluded a year-long investigation into sexual abuse allegations against Anderson and found that the hundreds of accusations against him over a span of 37 years proved to be widely corroborated and credible. In practice, Anderson typically engaged in misconduct by carrying out intrusive procedures often “perceived as unnecessary, performed inappropriately, or both” in the name of meaningful and legitimate medical care, according to the report. Many of Anderson’s victims belonged to at-risk and disadvantaged populations, and thus, they were far less likely to report Anderson’s abuse. During his tenure at the athletic department, Anderson frequently targeted student-athletes like Vaughn, who often referred to Anderson as “Handy Andy,” “Dr. Handerson,” and “Dr. Drop Your Drawers Anderson.” In 1975, Thomas “Tad” Deluca, a former member of the wrestling team and survivor of Anderson’s abuse, wrote in a letter to his wrestling coach, Bill Johannesen, “something is wrong with Dr. Anderson. Regardless of what you were there for, he asks that you ‘drop your drawers’ and cough.” Deluca says he was kicked off the wrestling team and subsequently lost his scholarship a short time after. Additionally, the report found “no evidence that Mr. Johannesen looked into Mr. Deluca’s complaint about Dr. Anderson” and ultimately concluded that although the information individuals like Johannesen received “varied in directness and specificity, Dr. Anderson’s misconduct may have been detected earlier and brought to an end if they had considered, understood, investigated, or elevated what they heard.”

In the years since Anderson was publicly named in allegations of sexual abuse, dozens of lawsuits were filed against the University in federal court, including two class action lawsuits. Class action lawsuits treat individuals as a unified entity and are principally aimed at prosecuting the University on behalf of all survivors of Anderson, allowing for a certain degree of privacy, and therefore, in legal proceedings, plaintiffs are commonly referred to as John and Jane Doe, respectively. Except for Vaughn. The night before Vaughn chose to go public with his involvement in the case, he spent hours pacing back and forth in front of his bathroom mirror, wringing his hands, braving wave after wave of panic attacks, his mouth dry, vision blurry, chest too tight, in pieces over whether it really was the right thing to do. For more than 30 years, Vaughn hadn’t thought about the University of Michigan. Vaughn never knew that Anderson’s invasive exams were assault and abuse, that they occurred without his consent, that they were direly unnecessary. “I didn’t even know what a prostate exam was at 18” he says, because at 18 years old, the only thing he ever did know was that his mother had waged a ruthless and merciless war with breast cancer and that he might just be next. And John Doe is a nameless, faceless, voiceless victim, the world knows nothing else other than this fact, it cannot see John Doe’s anger or fear, his clogged shower drains and unpaid bills, his family vacations and fights over the front seat, chipped glass and leaky faucets, his dented bumpers and dead grass, the world cannot see the mundane pins and needles, strains and everyday grievances that make us human in John Doe. The world cannot see love or the roaming, raging, reeling, tangled undefinable mess we carry that is our pain in John Doe, but it can in Jon Vaughn. And this was why Vaughn ultimately relinquished his anonymity.  “It was a need to help people, an Ah-hah moment, I wanted to control my own narrative and understand the moniker of John Doe, and it’s what saved my life…to be identified.”  as he describes his comfort with braving the backlash of this decision, the scarlet letter he would eternally carry, the death threats he says he received, the doubts in his credibility and conviction, and more than anything else, he endured because Anderson took his voice and his body at 18, and he wasn’t going to let it happen again at 50. “Excuse my language” he told me, “But I looked at myself in the mirror that night and said I’m not no fucking John Doe, I’m Jon Vaughn” 

By Fall 2021, Vaughn’s involvement with the case had expanded to a full-fledged protest. In October, he planned to camp out on South University Avenue in front of the University President’s House for 100 days or until the president and Board of Regents engaged in face-to-face dialogue with Vaughn and other survivors of Anderson. They never did. For a long time, campus was peppered with HAIL TO THE VICTIMS signs, T-shirts and pins, a play on the University of Michigan’s fight song, “Hail to the Victors,” most commonly heard at football games and other sporting events. Vaughn came up with “Hail to the Victims” in the car on the way to a Board of Regents meeting in September with Chuck Christian, fellow survivor and former Michigan football player. And that was the way things were with Vaughn’s protest — it came to life on car rides and in living rooms and kitchen tables, over dinner and breakfast. Vaughn flew into Ann Arbor from Dallas on a one-way ticket, with only a backpack, his laptop and an iPad. Everything about the protest had this same sort of carefully planned and yet unplanned air — inviting, warm, the kind of thing you knew was bred from the hands of so many people. It seemed to be overflowing with love because it was the work of a collective, of the people, of survivors. 

Signs for the protest site were made on Tad Deluca’s living room floor, with phrases like “EVERYONE KNEW,” and “36 Years of Serial Rape,” underlined over and over in blue Sharpie and laid out to dry on every imaginable surface — against a fruit bowl, some against the kitchen table and odd chairs here and there. Deluca was a teacher and had no shortage of markers, crayons, poster boards and the kind of undying, forever sticky tape that could endure the rain and wind and, eventually, the harsh Michigan snow Vaughn would soon have to brave. A blank sign propped up against Deluca’s couch read “SUPPORT THE SURVIVORS PLEASE SIGN,” a sign that in a matter of weeks would become full with signatures and initials, sometimes hearts and smiley faces too. Someone once scrawled “KINDNESS MATTERS” in big bold letters in the corner. Passerby would begin signing the edges too. One of Vaughn’s most important possessions at the protest site was not in its entirety a thing, per se, but a blue line redrawn diligently every time it began to fade in the sun or when it rained or snowed.

“This,” he gestures to me on one side of the line with his right hand “is U of M,” and “this,” he gestures with his left hand on the other side of the line pointing towards the flattened grass on the curb where his tent, chairs, signs and tables were, “is the city of Ann Arbor. I’ve been reading up really carefully on city laws.”

From just October to November, Vaughn’s protest site seemed to double in size and influence — free buttons and shirts displayed in boxes and tables began to run out just as quickly as they were restocked, a cardboard heart painted with HAIL TO THE VICTIMS across the middle fluttered in the wind among other signs caught in the brambles of a nearby bush. More students often stopped by than not, some just to learn, but others to chat with Christian or Deluca or Vaughn if they were around, and sometimes they’d shake their hands, lean in and get real close, angle their bodies in the way someone who was fixing to set a thick, heavy secret loose would. Other times they’d drop what looked like envelopes or pages and pages of jagged-edge notebook paper covered in smudged blue ink in a mailbox right outside of Vaughn’s tent, with 815 ½ printed in big blue block letters on the side, a small slice of the school and the University President House’s address, which was 815 South University Avenue. Hundreds of students a day, thousands a week, shared their experiences of sexual assault and abuse with them. Survivors spent nights at the protest site in rotating shifts in support of Vaughn, flying in from all over the country, many of them survivors of Anderson, others survivors of Larry Nassar at Michigan State or Richard Strauss at Ohio State, but all survivors nonetheless. Vaughn had no camping or outdoors experience. He spent most nights with his head up against the sloping cement where the curb met the street, in a tent that fit only the bare bones of his belongings. His sleep was uncomfortable and fragmented because South University Avenue was one of the busiest streets on campus, and all hours of the day were filled with loud, rowdy students, revving engines, the never-ending hum of building generators and the odd aggressive bark of a too-small dog here and there. As fall bled into winter, Vaughn switched from a tent in favor of a steel trailer with a heater and extra space in the microwave for cans and oranges and socks and all the sorts of things we can never seem to find a steady home for. He hung up Christmas lights and another sign that read “STUDENTS + SURVIVORS STAND EQUAL,” and passersby began signing that too.

The protest site was treasured amongst students and faculty because, in time, it morphed into a community driven work of art, kept alive by love because it made people feel safe, and it was one of the most deeply tangible reminders of accountability and vulnerability that no one could ever seem to get past. But, as time wore on, Vaughn’s health began to slowly deteriorate. He suffered from hypertensive episodes and had to adjust his diet and caloric intake to accommodate life in a 12-by-12-foot space. People would bang so hard on his door they’d startle him awake in the middle of the night, and sometimes they were drunk and couldn’t tell the difference between a fire hydrant and a pole, but sometimes they really weren’t. In December, Vaughn found a cancerous lump the size of a sweet potato in his thyroid. But undergoing surgery to remove it and subsequent treatment was nearly an impossible option because after Anderson, the hospital had become a terrifying place. Vaughn’s fellow friend and survivor Christian shared the same fear and had also forgone medical treatment for so long that his cancer had become terminal. As Vaughn wavered, stagnated about entering a doctor’s office for the first time in a long time, Christian took him by the shoulders, looked him square in the eye and told him, “Don’t be me, Jon … Don’t be me.”

Trinea Gonczar is one of Vaughn’s greatest friends. She took care of Vaughn after his surgery, as he recovered and began a new journey, though this time, with his sickness.Vaughn speaks warmly and often of Gonczar. “She is so compassionate, intelligent, hopeful and optimistic… I am so impressed by how she articulates and works through her trauma”  amongst many of the other ways Vaughn regularly describes Gonczar.  It’s easy to see why he likes her so much. She has a kind face, a softness about her, the sort of person you’d ask to show you the way if you were ever lost, the sort of person who’d gather your papers if the wind tore them from you, the sort of person who gives love for free. She tells Vaughn to stay in the light as often as he can because Gonczar and Vaughn are cut from the same cloth, they are both overcomers, believers, defenders and, also, survivors. Gonczar endured nearly a lifetime of sexual abuse as a gymnast at the hands of Larry Nassar. She also has a steely-eyed gaze and speaks with conviction in the same way Vaughn does, she knows the weight of her words in the way so many people don’t, how they feel in her mouth, how they sound and how far they’ll go. In her 2018 impact statement against Nassar, she leaned into the microphone, took a deep breath, locked eyes with Nassar across the room and said, “What have you done … What have you done,” and through tears, she bit down hard on the word “done.” Vaughn references this moment many times. It stuck with him, how she was able to confront Nassar in a way he could never with Anderson, but it was Gonczar’s pain he understood most, the knowing that something or someone you so dearly loved, that you trusted, had been the source, especially after the University took his protest site down, including the mailbox, a few days before his 52nd birthday. It was a move that shocked him, hurt him, and it was why he chained himself to a tree in response for 17 and a half hours, one minute for every victim of Anderson. “I just wanted my voice to be heard, our voice to be heard” he said, and it’s the first and last time I heard his voice nearly crack.

One of the first things Vaughn does when I call him over the phone is send me the first chapter of his upcoming book with the American Bar Association. He can’t seem to decide on the title, whether it should be “Piercing the Veil,” or maybe something louder or more stubborn. He can’t decide whether he should get straight to the point or whether his book should be one of those one-worder’s instead, like Joyce’s “Ulysses” or Morrisson’s “Beloved,” because people tend to remember those far more easily, after all. I tell him I like “Piercing the Veil” the best. Vaughn is trusting, openly plain in this way, willing to field titles for his work from someone he had just met, willing to share his next steps and visions, his feelings, his pain, unreserved and so candidly; it’s the mark of someone with so much at stake and, equally, nothing to hide. Vaughn uses words like “victim” and “abuse” so brazenly that at first, they made me flinch. He is not afraid of what being a victim entails the way so many of us are, of its inherent messiness and meanness, of the imbalance in power it implies, of how someone had to be hurt and someone had to do the hurting, of the way it sounds, of how it snags the tongue and claws the air, how it demands to be seen. Victim is a word that can be thrown around, the way Vaughn does, stomped on, spat out, worn and unworn, tied and then untied, because it only fits for so long. Vaughn inherently understood what took me more than a decade to ever truly understand — victimhood is not forever, in time we become survivors, instead. “You can’t be a survivor if you’ve never been a victim, and you can never give testimony if you’ve never been given the test,” Vaughn explains.

Vaughn searches for quotes often, they keep him sane, he says. He reads some of them carefully out loud, things like, “The further a society drifts from the truth the more it will hate those that speak it,” and another one from Steve Jobs that says, “Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes, the ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules, and they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them.” He saves them to his gallery for later, and he chooses the ones that speak to him most, he says, though the things that oftentimes speak to us the most are the things that say the most about who we are. To be in the public eye in the way Vaughn is, to become known for so much of your trauma, can be exhausting, draining, scary at times but, mostly, alienating. Reckoning with abuse, understanding the entirety of it, why our bodies no longer feel like home, is a lonely matter because things like sexual assault are a community’s doing, a community’s responsibility, but rarely ever does a community feel its burden or shame.

Vaughn protested out of love, nearly died out of love, because he loves this school, because he built this school, because he loves its students, because he loves what it made him, and love is tough and love is hard and sometimes love means exposing half a century of cover-ups when no one else could, love means making sure what happened to him and Christian and Deluca and thousands of others never happens again, by any means necessary, even if it demands his life. The issue of sexual assault and misconduct is so much bigger than the University of Michigan and the school eventually settled with Vaughn and the rest of Anderson’s victims for $490 million. But Michigan is not the first and certainly will not be the last school to be embroiled in such a scandal — for Vaughn, it was only the catalyst but no longer the focus. Because abuse, misconduct and assault span far greater, far wider, far deeper, far bigger than Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Vaughn is loyal to a fault, witty without meaning to be, he is kind and overwhelmingly patient, he likes to say he builds the parachute on the way out of the plane, crosses the bridge when he finally gets to it, writes his story as he goes. In college, he was a general studies major with an emphasis on business and African American studies, he always loved history, he played the trumpet and piano, and he was fiercely good at them both, he wanted to move to Europe to play soccer one day and watched “The Oprah Winfrey Show” with his mother. She was the strongest person he ever knew. He belongs to a cigar club just because and plays golf on the weekends. He holds the University of Michigan career-yards-per-attempt record and played for the New England Patriots, Seattle Seahawks and Kansas City Chiefs over the course of his career. He is a survivor of Dr. Robert Anderson, but also a Michigan Man, an advocate, a father, an author, a man that knows love, a man that understands what it means to rebuild oneself again and again, and man so deeply attempting to heal.

If you or someone you know is dealing with the effects of sexual assault, you can call 1-800-656-4673 to reach RAINN’s 24-hour national sexual assault hotline for help or utilize the support services provided by The Sexual Assault Prevention and Awareness Center at the University of Michigan. 

The Michigan Daily’s previous and upcoming coverage on Jonathan Vaughn and The Robert Anderson Story can be found here.

MiC Senior Editor Sarah Akaaboune can be reached at sarahaka@umich.edu

The post Jonathan Vaughn: a portrait of healing appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

Blackness is a performance. After all — when your own precious existence is predicated on navigating a wretched world hellbent on expropriating, appropriating and commodifying your culture, breaking down your very being and super-imposing onto you a warped way of seeing, listening, learning and loving which must rigidly fit into the fickle ideological confines of capitalist exploitation and the white power structure lest face the fatal repercussions — what else is there to do? So, we perform our ritualistic routines and norms, (off)putting on a show and showering ourselves with applause. But this performance is no Broadway bringing-down-the-house showstopping number. No, instead, it is the encumbering code-switching, body-twitching, whiteness-simulating, internalized-hating, self-loathing, denial and debating of whether or not we are worthy or not of rising above the narratives white supremacy and capitalism have inculcated into our craniums. Yes, in many different forms, we have all performed this navigational act of negrohood niceties, adhering anxiously to the respectability politics of politeness… still simulating whiteness. Yet, at some point, in our lives, en route to liberation, if we’re lucky or afforded the proper amount of divine inspiration, we’re able to transcend these determining dictates of demonic decorum, the status quo and hegemonic whiteness. 

Blackness, in its most authentic of forms, is a performance which does exactly this by reaching into the depths of our souls, finding solace in salvation and the Source, courage and complete reverence for our Creator. It is the trance-inducing dance, song and drum rituals of the Motherland, the Negro spirituals of antebellum Amerikkka and the modern music styles of soul, jazz, gospel, disco, doo-wop, bebop, funk, house, hip hop, reggae, rock and roll, R&B, rap… I could go on. And while we all may come from a multitude of backgrounds and beliefs, faiths and feelings, we are united in our continuous, collective struggle to make meaning of our lives and legacies which have endured endless strife. 

The performing arts remain at the heart of these trials and tribulations for radical change. At the site of performance, we break down the barriers that condition and characterize us to conform to roles of complacency. We write our own narratives of and engage in “everyday rituals of resistance.” We search within to act out. We sing to bring joy, juxtaposition and justice, dance to delight, to disturb and to fight for what’s right in a range of modes and mediums. Many may deride the dedication we give to our artistic crafts, denouncing them as inconsequential, unimportant and unnecessary. I am not surprised. As we have a malignant attitude toward the metaphysical, a disdainful disbelief in that which we cannot see, it goes to follow that some folks might reject the influence performance has on our psyche. You cannot touch laughter and love, beauty and pain, contemplation and creativity — yet these are all basic needs in which the performing arts provide ample nourishment. 

In order to reflect upon how Black performance at the University of Michigan has been allowed to meet these needs which the performing arts seek to satisfy, I interviewed nine Black artists across different artistic disciplines and demographics. These artists of the Afrikan diaspora, featured below, provided insight on their own artistic journeys as well as their experiences on campus in creative spaces. Their words and work remind us that Blackness is not a monolith but a multi-faceted mode of being to be embraced in an abundance of means. 

A full version of this multimedia interview series will be available soon in the next drop of The Miseducation Project.

Jackson K. Perry (he/him) Freshman – Music, Theatre, and Dance – Musical Theatre

How do your identities (thinking along the lines of race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, religious faith, political affiliation, class status) situate themselves in your artistic medium? 

Perry cited the grooves and groundedness of Black art — its funky and melodic rhythms which percolate throughout all American culture and maintain deep Afrikan roots — as what makes it so great. He claimed there is an immense “pressure to be great” when thinking back to our Black predecessors of before. To him, there is liberation to be found in the Afro-Carribean styles of dance which focus on the “freedom and flow coming from within.” It is what the movement does to you that matters and ultimately allows us to heal. Perry also mentioned the struggle of being a Black Queer artist in the face of stereotypes which often reduce Black Queer men to caricatured and flamboyant characters of comedic relief. He noted the need to navigate the characters he portrays with a sense of fluidity. In MUSKET’s Once On This Island, being able to imbue his character of Pape Ge (demon of Death) with a certain queer-codedness allowed him to be authentic in portraying the role, filling in the gaps of fiction and culture, as the part was derived from the real Haitian Ioa Guédé. In preparation for this role, Jackson discussed his desire to honor the historical Guédé and perform the part in a manner in which Death was not feared, but revered.

How has the state of Black performance and artistry changed over your time on campus? Where do you see the power and politics of identity and play in your artistic endeavors on campus?

Looking back on his first year, Perry provided many highlights including witnessing the Alpha Phi Alpha Stroll Off, seeing Maya Sistruk as Queenie in the Musical Theatre Department’s production of The Wild Party, seeing Sammie Estralle’s Two Mile Hollow, seeing Rude Mechanicals’ “Choir Boy,” and partaking in the Color Cabaret to name a few. He says there is an abundance of opportunities for Black artists to create, which is in part be due to societal demands but also because of the enduring initiative of Black artists to make space.

What does it mean to be Black, booked and busy?

“Draining.”

Donovan Rogers (he/him) Sophomore – Music, Theatre, and Dance – Acting

What is your artistic journey?

Growing up in Southfield, Mich., Donovan Rogers, nephew of Claudette Robinson, recounts one of his most formative experiences in the arts as seeing an advertisement for The Lion King on Broadway. Inspired by the Black representation in the musical, Donovan rigorously studied the show at age 8 with the hopes of auditioning for the production. Although he was not able to land the role, he began to train at the internationally acclaimed Mosaic Youth Theatre in Detroit. From age 8 to 18, Rogers participated in a variety of profound artistic experiences, notably working Off-Broadway at the Public Theatre in New York with Jeffrey Sellers and performing with Josh Grobin, as well as performing in residency theatrical works at the Detroit Film Theatre. Through Mosaic, Rogers met Robin Myrick, who introduced him to MPULSE at the University in which he felt as if he was a “fish-out-of-water” having been mostly exposed to original work based on Detroit youth. Despite his professional training, Rogers had to adjust to learn more about the college process and the “Ivy Leagues of Theatres” in prep for auditions. In his senior year, he worked with Tony Award winner (Theatre Education) Marilyn McCormick, who gave him the guidance he needed to get into various prestigious performance programs. At Mosaic he was vocally trained in everything from “Bach to Beyoncé.” Additionally, Rogers conducted first-hand research interviewing ~20 Black students and alumni from the most represented colleges on Broadway in which 100% of those surveyed “agreed that their faculties were racially homogeneous and white” and that “60% agreed their homogenously white faculties unfairly treated minorities.” Having this knowledge, Rogers came to campus prepared to get involved in the struggle for institutionalizing social change efforts in the department. Growing up and to this day, Rogers partakes in vocal music, acting, dance/movement, directing, writing for the stage and screen, and producing. In the future he is anticipating adding value, changing, re-forming and innovating theatrical platforms through his production-process company DR’S Laboratory. Rogers claimed that it is “less about the discipline done and more so about the aspect of seeing a vision and creating an artistic process where that vision is manifested physically.” He asserted that artistic inspiration is a God-given gift that allows us to alter the socio-cultural landscape of the platforms we inhabit. 

How has the state of Black performance and artistry changed over your time on campus? Where have you seen the power and politics of identity and play in your artistic endeavors on campus?

“I believe in the concept of Sankofa,” Rogers stated. “Sankofa means to go back and get, and it really shows that things are a cycle.” To Rogers, despite the advocacy of Black artists in the past (citing renowned alumni Dominique Morisseau as an example), we still have to create our own spaces in order to subsist. He insists that in racial climate post-2020, “in order for an institution like the University of Michigan to uphold their moral marketability they are forced to create these illusions of social justice.” Rogers delineated accessibility and DEI initiatives as not a true divestment from white supremacy in the sense that there has not been a displacement of white people in power who have caused harm. Instead, he posits that the initiatives have made professors who commit harm less accountable. “Problematic professors can use accessibility and DEI initiatives to learn to use their privilege more ethically to maintain their positions instead of giving up their positions to deserving professors of color,” Rogers expressed. Additionally, Rogers cited the problems of misrepresentation and tokenization as plaguing the theatrical departments. He made the distinctions between the two, noting misrepresentation as “misplacing already underrepresented characters and stories that we tell supports the prejudice that marginalized people are not valued enough to tell their own stories.” Rogers described tokenization as “mandating the very few students of Color within the department to only play race roles, reinforcing the dangerous notion of a single narrative.” Rogers also discussed working with Ruby Perez on the Long Term Accountability Plan and the theatre strike demands for Fall 2020, in which they advocated for social change efforts such as season selection committees, color-conscious casting committees and decolonized curricula. Rogers eventually started to realize that, “I’m saying so much but at what cost? Am I really winning this fight if I’m getting so hurt in the process?” He reconciled the desire to continue fighting for change while also being beyond burnt out. Combatting this, Rogers stepped back from department affairs to this year, instead founding and artistically directing the DR’s Laboratory, a process-production company with the goal of “creating, researching and developing equitable processes to create Black productions.” His first module was his Choreo-Poem,  “Into The Light of the Dark Black Night,” an allusion to The Beatles song “Blackbird,” “metaphorizing heartbroken Black men as Blackbirds re-learning how to fly.” Rogers drew upon themes of Yoruba culture, Afrofuturism and The Nap Ministry’s notion of rest as radical resistance to touch on the traumas unrelated to racism and socioeconomics which Black men face, specifically regarding romance. In the Black Space Workshop rehearsal space, he utilized Black dance anthropologist Katherine Dunham’s meditations which were based in “cultural holistic methods across the Afrikan diaspora. In the process, he would bring blankets and pillows and play Nap Ministry affirmations. He ultimately strives to usher focus away from the perfectionist quantitative approach to theatre-making and move toward a more qualitative approach emphasizing fluidity and safety.

What does it mean to be Black, booked and busy?

“Black Excellence can be as exhausting as it is activating.” Personally, to Rogers, to be Black, booked and busy means doing the mind, body and soul work internally in order to be mindful of the mission God has placed him on to positively impact the platforms he has access to. 

Brooke Alexandria Taylor (she/her) Junior – Music, Theatre, and Dance – Dance

What is your artistic journey?

From West Bloomfield, Mich., Brooke Taylor has been dancing for about 18 years since she was three years old. Taylor grew up dancing at a competitive studio becoming well-versed in tap, ballet, jazz, modern and more. She said she grew up with the intention of dancing to show off, but since coming to campus she has taken a different direction with her art, focused now on the intention and story behind her movements and the intersection of dance and activism as a form of protest. She organized a protest called drive-in for justice out of a desire for her grandmother to participate in protest in a safe way. Music, Theatre, and Dance junior Simone Clotile sang while Taylor danced to her song. Adding in spoken word and keynote speakers, the event allowed Taylor to see more wholly how art and activism combine. She planned another artistic protest on South State Street in 2020, dubbed as Dance for Floyd, in which dance protestors flooded the streets improvising to the sound of a drum for 8 minutes and 46 seconds. She also recounted another formative moment in which she choreographed a piece titled “Dear Elijah,” paying tribute to the late Elijah McClain. Today, Taylor desires to dance with deep intention. She wants to educate audience members on what it means to be a Black dancer. And to her, to be a Black dancer means to “embody resistance and struggle and make it look beautiful, knowing I am representing not just myself.” She delineated dance as one of the means in which Black folks found solace during slavery, a testament to its vital importance. To Taylor, being a Black dancer means to move as a means of survival. As a Christian, she believes she was created to dance, and that it is her God-given purpose. Before and after dancing, she thanks God for making her a dancer and prays that “my dancing will be a testimony to how good He is.” Recently, Taylor landed a role dancing in Tyler Perry’s Jazz Man’s Blues. In the future, she plans to go to grad school at New York University to study dance education. She hopes to one day dance on Broadway. 

How has the state of Black performance and artistry changed over your time on campus? Where do you see the power and politics of identity at play in your artistic endeavors on campus?

Taylor recounts feeling alone in the dance department as a freshman, having been part of only a handful of Black dancers. She described the pressures to make comparisons of herself to other dancers as well as the fear that she might be dancing differently. She also claimed that virtual training on Zoom allowed her to become more comfortable with her own skin through solitude. Recently, Taylor created an organization called Black Scholars in Dance which seeks to unite Black dancers not only in the dance school, but the University as a whole. Currently, BSID facilitates classes at the Detroit School of the Arts, teaching students what it means to be a Black scholar in dance. Taylor was also a choreographer for “Once On This Island.” She cited the decision that had to be made in whether to allow for a person of Color cast or a primarily Black cast only, and how to be truthful to the story, the creative team decided with the latter. Taylor talked about her experience in the 2022 Dance Department’s Forward Facing, having conversations with the cast about the piece “The Hive of Escapades and Adaptations” in which they emulated the COVID-19 pandemic and the deaths. Taylor took initiative to hold dialogues on Black death on stage, especially as it relates to the pandemic. Ultimately, she states that “dancers and choreographers should consider who gets the right to tell what story.”

What does it mean to be Black, booked and busy? 

“Come on three Bs. To be Black, booked and busy is for people to recognize that Black people deserved to be recognized and deserved to be paid while doing it… and excellence.” 

Andrew Otchere (he/him) Junior – Music, Theatre, and Dance – Acting

What is your favorite aspect of the artistic process? Where does your artistic inspiration come from? 

One of his favorite aspects of the artistic process is the autonomy he is given as a writer, director or actor, especially over the authenticity of language and the natural tongue. In thinking of his recent short film project “Branch Out” Otchere asserted that he enjoys the “limitlessness of film” as a medium and its capacity to reach a wide audience. His inspiration is derived from personal experiences as well as the stories he hears from his friends and family. 

How do your identities (thinking along the lines of race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, religious faith, political affiliation, class status) situate themselves in your artistic medium?

Otchere believes that over time, much of the Black work on campus occurring in collaborative spaces has been independent due to barriers of entry. He says it is difficult to create an authentic portrayal due to the power structures inherent at predominantly white institutions. Authenticity to Otchere means specificity. He says the more nuanced something is, the more universal it can be. 

What does it mean to be Black, booked and busy? 

“Unapologetic.”

Sammie Estrella (she/her) Senior – Music, Theatre, and Dance – Directing

What has your artistic journey been? 

As Afro-Latina, Dominican and Puerto Rican, Sammie Estrella’s artistic journey has been one of identity exploration as well. While growing up in a multi-linguistic, bilingual household, she asserted that “movement, music and food” were major means to communicate in her household. A lover of photography, textiles and poetry, Estrella says that she developed a poetic approach to the world as a result of the romantic nature of her Caribbean background. Estrella began taking acting classes in the seventh grade, but cited difficulties affording them as a hindrance. She ended up instead auditioning for high school drama club productions and then ended up directing an homage to a performing arts educator who was unfairly fired in an ableist incident. In the future, Estrella is moving to New York with plans to produce or direct, as well as organize and write. 

How has the state of Black performance and artistry changed over your time on campus? Where do you see the power and politics of identity at play in your artistic endeavors on campus?

Estrella cited the difficulties of being the only Black director in her program year when first coming to campus. She says that she has witnessed a more intersectional approach to diversity post-2020. However, she also mentioned that she believes people do not know how to engage properly with Black work or intersectional work. Estrella claimed that we are in the process of learning and re-learning “where capitalism and urgency and product has been prioritized over rest and love and having fun.” She asserted that it is not enough for us to just see skin tones on a stage and that we must look more critically at works of students of Color. Thinking about “Once On This Island,” as initial director of the show, Estrella felt as if the needs of intersectionality were not met, as a result of our tendency to Americanize artistic works. She claims, “there is a unity of having people who look like you but that beyond just being in the space we have to look at core values.” Largely, Estrella believed the MUSKET producers were not fully prepared to produce or market a Black narrative and fell into the trap of seeing Blackness as a monolith. She claimed that before stepping down, she felt the pressure in trying to dismantle the hierarchal aspects of directing while still retaining her role. From a University Productions perspective, she cited having a pleasurable experience working on “Godspell” with Telly Leung and “A Beautiful Country.” She also had a fruitful experience assistant directing Passover, and working on her own projects, “Two Mile Hollow” and “Cabaréy.” For “Two Mile Hollow” Estrella wanted to put on an all-BIPOC show that focussed on joy. She focused the project on “BIPOC Breath and Being” — allowing People of Color to fully connect to their emotions in the space. 

What does it mean to be Black, booked and busy? 

“I think it’s really beautiful and really exciting if done well.” Estrella said she hears the phrase mostly used in a celebratory way, and that in this “tricky transitional time” she hopes Black artists can find time to prioritize rest. 

MJ Handsome (she/they) Senior – Music, Theatre, and Dance – Acting

MJ Handsome (she/they) Senior – Music, Theatre, and Dance – Acting

How do your identities (thinking along the lines of race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, religious faith, political affiliation, class status) situate themselves in your artistic medium? 

As a writer, Handsome’s interest was piqued by her reading of spy thrillers, supernatural, and sci-fi stories. She claimed that there is a long way to go in terms of giving people of Color adequate representation in more science fiction and related mediums. Being Black and Queer, Handsome asserted that they haven’t been able to explore their identity in an artistic setting with my Black Space “Giddy Up!” workshop being the first time they were able to remotely explore that intersection. She also plans to perform a Queer piece for the Acting Showcase. As a writer, she is simply tired of straight relationships as well as the proliferation of interracial Black and white relationships. She desires to explore more Queer Black relationships in her work, as well as interracial relationships between Black and non-Black people of Color. Handsome also mentioned that reducing the stigma of homophobia and anti-queerness within the Black community is also of pivotal importance in allowing Queer artists to fully express themselves.

How has the state of Black performance and artistry changed over your time on campus? Where do you see the power and politics of identity at play in your artistic endeavors on campus?

“The changes have been minuscule and it’s disappointing.” Handsome recounts the staggering sense of imposter syndrome which remains with students of Color on campus. She claimed that the most fulfillment from Black artistry has been from her peers — creating space and taking an initiative of their own by not caring about what white folks are thinking about them and their abilities. 

What does it mean to be Black, booked and busy? 

“Knowing to say no.” To Handsome, there is also a distinction between being booked and busy and booked and burnt out. Handsome claimed that she has not stopped being in something for more than two weeks during the entire year, but that Black artists feel the need to constantly push themselves and prove their artistry. “If you burn yourself out, who does that prove?” Handsome poses. Feeling greatly fulfilled doing a smaller number of profound projects, such as portraying the lead in Music, Theatre, and Dance senior Dana Pierangeli’s “Growing Pains,” is what keeps her satisfied. “We as Black artists need to start seeing the benefits of saying no to things … if it’s meant for you it will come back to you.”

Kendall Young (she/her) Senior – Music, Theatre, and Dance – Acting

How do your identities (thinking along the lines of race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, religious faith, political affiliation, class status) situate themselves in your artistic medium? 

Young claimed that she brings all her identities to the table when she engages with any form of artistry. She cited the continuous struggle of holding multiple marginalized identities. Young recounts her experience writing “Plot Beneath My Feet,” a ten-minute play and Kennedy Center Regional Finalist, which was a response to gentrification in her neighborhood — an imagined conversation with someone buying the property. In her piece, “A Little Light,” she reflects on the socio-emotional state of Black men in her family and their relationship to masculinity.

How has the state of Black performance and artistry changed over your time on campus? Where do you see the power and politics of identity at play in your artistic endeavors on campus?

Young recounts her first experience on campus, in which one of the University Productions of her freshman year, Music, Theatre, and Dance professor and playwright Jose’s Casas’ play “Flint” was not given the same level of attention and interest as the largely white cast of “Love and Information.” She claimed there is an assumption that for shows with traditionally white characters, students of Color will not be cast unless the role calls for it. We discussed the differences between color blind and color conscious casting. She claimed that with shows which emphasize color-conscious casting, such as the double-edged sword that is “Hamilton,” it’s important to consider whether we want agency over narrative or historicity. She also claimed that being culturally conscious in the space is of the utmost importance and that during her short-lived time as dramaturgy for “Once On This Island,” a show taking place in a fictionalized Haiti, there was a need to come to terms with the lack of Caribbean descent or ancestry within the all-Black American cast. Young cited her decision to leave the project as a result of comments made in the room which caused hurt on many different sides. Along with director Sammie Estrella, who brought her on to work as a dramaturgy, Young departed from the project, over creative differences in terms of how to accurately and dramatically depict race and color in the show. Young claimed that MUSKET, which had a mostly white production staff, could have done a better job in holding up their end of the bargain in mitigating and mediating the conflict. On a more personal scale, Young recites the instances of power and politics of identity in how artistic educators respond to her work, often characterizing it under the stereotypical guise of the “Strong Black Woman” hyper-fixating on the “strength” and “groundedness” of her portrayals. 

What does it mean to be Black, booked and busy? 

“Stressed.” Young claimed that students of Color are in high demand for University Productions because there are so few, but the educational administrative experience can make it not as fulfilling as participating in theatre spaces. She says that it is concerning to her that there seems to be a growing sentiment of policing theatre students’ involvement in shows outside of University Productions.

Sophia Raines (she/her) Senior – Film, Television, and Media – Screenwriting 

What is your favorite aspect of the artistic process? Where does your artistic inspiration come from?

Raines loves letting loose and allowing the stories to write themselves and take control in the process. She cited the importance of taking the “silliest ideas seriously” in cultivating her narratives and enjoys finding the intricacies of characters, doing the character work to string together dialogue, drama and tensions in a way that works. Character work, to Raines, involves finding out what makes a character tick, what their flaws, fears and anxieties are, how they react, and what their backstory is. In constructing characters, she looks for contrary things that can work together, “what you can bring together that seems unlikely but works.” Her inspiration comes from personal experience and the ideas which spin in her head. 

How has the state of Black performance and artistry changed over your time on campus? Where do you see the power and politics of identity at play in your artistic endeavors on campus?

Raines spotlights the Black Film Society, which has helped connect Black filmmakers and screenwriters on campus. Raines is excited by the independent works of Black film artists of late: Music, Theatre, and Dance junior Andrew Otchere’s “Branch Out,” Music, Theatre, and Dance junior Timmy Thompson’s “Undeclared,” and her own “PWI.” On April 22, the three filmmakers plan to host a screening of all their films at Trotter. Raines’s short film will also be screened on May 2. On campus, she believes that Blackness, at the moment, is a fad. She claimed that colorblind casting choices can be as hindering as they are helpful. As an example, she cited the casting of Maya Sistrunk as Queenie in the Musical Theatre Department’s production of “The Wild Party” as choosing a Black woman to play a traditionally white role, which ultimately falls short when considering the racism rooted in the text. She also stated her frustration with not having enough Black people on board to direct and be on production teams as well as the complete absence of Black professors in the film program. 

What does it mean to be Black, booked and busy? 

“Mentally exhausting.” Raines recounts her experience in constantly being bombarded by re-traumatizing narratives about what it means to be Black in the face of adversity. She says it is tiring constantly being compelled to turn racial experiences into art forms, and that when it comes time to portray important stories, folks with privilege do not feel that exhaustion as acutely in their bodies as marginalized peoples do. 

Dominic Dorset (he/him) Senior – Music, Theatre, and Dance – Musical Theatre

What has your artistic journey been? 

“Everything for me started with piano lessons in second grade.” Dominic Dorset cited piano as his center and foundation for performance. He also took dance and singing lessons, training in ballet and opera. Growing up, he participated in school plays and community theatre, played violin in the orchestra and was a practicing musician in a fiddle band. His recent experience music directing for “Once On This Island” allowed him to grow in his artistic and educational experience,  undertaking the heavy job of teaching the music to the cast. As a music director, Dorset described the importance of balancing the demands of teaching the notes as well as the intention behind the notes, how the music serves the story and how musical motifs and symbols are present in the piece. Dorset plans to move to New York to be an actor. He would like to be on the stage and behind the camera, and hopes to one day originate a role or do something someone hasn’t done yet. He also cited the immense financial burden that comes with being an aspiring artist in New York. 

How has the state of Black performance and artistry changed over your time on campus? Where do you see the power and politics of identity at play in your artistic endeavors on campus?

Prior to 2020, Dorset maintained that Black performance was present but not mainstream. He claimed that artists of Color this year have taken a lot of initiative to create community and spaces for all people of Color to inhabit — Rude Mechanicals’ “Choir Boy,” the Color Cabaret, and “Once On This Island.” He says that “the stories people are choosing to tell and who’s in charge of telling those stories” has shifted over time to be more representative of different backgrounds. He says that the Musical Theatre Department, minus Department Chair Michael McElroy, is all white and that this whiteness limits the canon, the array of professional perspectives and production possibilities within the space. He says that in the post-2020 racial climate, it seems some professors “feel as if they are walking on eggshells” but that they are at least more “receptive and willing to listen.” He feels passionate that Afrikan traditional dance and Katherine Dunham technique and other Black styles of dance are not valued or given the respect they deserve in the curriculum. He also stated that there is a necessity for understanding the history of Musical Theatre, which does have roots in vaudeville, minstrelsy and racial oppression. 

What does it mean to be Black, booked and busy?

“One, it’s wonderful because our stories are being featured. On the other hand, it feels like a fetish or a fad. ‘To be BIPOC is to be in.’ I’ve been told by casting agents, ‘you’ll do fine because Blackness is in right now.’” Dorset claimed that this year people of Color in particular have been spread very thin, rarely having any days off because of the high demand and desire to take part in projects which accurately represent them.

Karis Clark (he/him) Junior – School of Education (Playwriting Minor)

How do your identities (thinking along the lines of race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, religious faith, political affiliation, class status) situate themselves in your artistic medium? 

I identify as a Black, bisexual, working-class, Pan-Africanist, Christian male. And there is practically no representation for me in theatrical spaces. Black Queer males are rarely depicted in stories where they are multi-facteted, de-centered from whiteness and radical. Trying to blend these identities together and synthesize some sort of artistic work out of it can be challenging, especially when you aren’t surrounded by many people on the day-to-day who share them as well, one of the many downfalls of going to a predominantly white (and wealthy) institution. As Amiri Baraka once stated, “The Black artist’s role in America is to engage in the destruction of America as he knows it.” The revolutionary Pan-Africanist in me wants to create works centered in Afro-futurism that critique the capitalist system and ideological structures without being too on the nose or discreet about it. In my writing I take the phrase “another world is possible” literally, imagining new worlds and realms for my people to exist fluidly, dynamically and authentically and not in relation to whiteness. I’m tired of us centering whiteness when discussing racism. Or centering heterosexuality when discussing queerness. In the Blank Space Workshop of my play “Giddy Up!” I sought to do the antithesis of this, by creating an all-Black Afro-futuristic world with ample diversity of sexuality, class, religious faith and political orientation, all the while exploring Wild-Western conventions in a comedic and entertaining manner and also providing critical and thoughtful commentary of our modern-day Earthly affairs without inhabiting it. 

How has the state of Black performance and artistry changed over your time on campus? Where do you see the power and politics of identity at play in your artistic endeavors on campus?

 The theatre department’s canon, curriculum and season selection choices, historically have served to prepare students soley for entering mainstream and commercial spaces. Even student theatre organizations — MUSKET, Rude Mechanicals, Basement Arts and Blank Space to name a few — while working towards creating more equitable spaces, still maintain executive boards and producer teams which are majority, if not all-white. This school year, Basement Arts mainstage season of 10 shows had practically no people of Color on any of their creative teams. Many student theatre organizations remain ardently exclusive to SMTD majors, making it increasingly challenging for students outside the school to be involved. After 2.5 years, I ultimately left the theatre department due to my dissatisfaction with the widespread whiteness and notions of neoliberalism present. The critical and cultural analysis of many of the pieces we covered or the plays I witnessed often fell flat. Despite leaving, I’ve still strived to stay immersed in theatre spaces. Being a part of ComCo Improv Troupe these past two years has been a literal dream come true. It is a space of love, of courage, of emotional intimacy and vulnerability within, on and off the stage. It is also a space in which I’ve learned and continue to learn how to situate myself and my marginalized identities in an empty improvisational expanse in which identity is often only inferred, assumed, implied but always present in a scene, in which we’re allowed to transcend the determination of our identities in everyday life, and in which our body is the site and main vehicle for of our performance. These considerations all have profound consequences, yet can be especially tricky to navigate across socio-linguistic and cultural barriers in a space that is mostly white and straight. Nonetheless, I’m eternally grateful that ComCo is a truly simultaneously safe and bold space, in which we transgress the boundaries of our being through our collective trust and confidence in each other. 

So…what does it mean to be Black, booked and busy?

Is it a blessing or a curse? Of course, under the framework of late-stage capitalism, Black, booked and busy can easily echo the harrowing super-exploitation of slavery and the Jim Crow era. We work twice as hard and receive half of the recognition as our privileged peers. We book our schedules up to the brim, having little room for rest. In thinking about the artist and the ego, we often are unaware of our own tendencies to transform every aspect of our existence into a commodity. In trying to create spaces for Black faces, we can’t let our art fall into superficial places. That isn’t to say we shouldn’t seek out opportunities and get involved. We have a rich Black community of resistance and persistence on this campus. Sometimes, we grind, not to be a cog of capital, but to capitalize on the cognitive, socio-emotional and spiritual benefits which the communal art-making experience begets. 

Nearly all of the Black artists — many, if not most of whom, as it is important to note, identify as Queer — that I interviewed discussed how critical their relationship with God was in their art-making. Taking the time to reflect on where our inspiration comes from, thinking critically about what the Source of our infinite imagination and creative ingenuity, eventually leads us on the path in which we have no choice but to ponder the Divine. In our increasingly secular, material society, sustaining this spiritual connection can be especially tough, but as many of the artists in these interviews can attest, in the midst of art-making, the flow state we create can feel seamless, transcendent, even holy. Coming back down to Earth, there have evidently been areas of growth in the campus creative climate, as well as obvious areas in need of dire improvement. Changes may come, few and far between, in these systems. We may progress and regress. It is important to remember that the University of Michigan, as an institution founded on elitism and exclusion, requires both to sustain itself. Can we ever truly have diversity, equity and inclusion in a school designed to be exclusive, inequitable and homogeneous? Can we actually access the space needed within this antagonistic academic apparatus to tell truthful and authentic Black stories? Do we know what an authentic Black story is? Do we know what Blackness is? These are the questions on the horizon that the artistic works of our near-future world must answer. In the meantime, in the midst of our busy schedules, our auditions and rehearsals, read and run-thrus, invited dresses and pre-show stresses, it might do us well to rest. To relax. To reflect. And to rejoice… after all, we are Black, booked and blessed.

MiC Columnist Karis Clark can be reached at kariscl@umich.edu.

MiC Photographer Akash Dewan can be reached at abdewan@umich.edu.

The post Black, booked and blessed appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

A double-edged spear was situated so seamlessly parallel to my face as I stood practically unnerved by its presence. Immensely immersed in the present — distracted by a diverse set of sounds, many of which erupted from the same source, belonging to the same contraption as this weapon of war — I couldn’t help but forget the fatal sight right before my eyes. Yet Zimbabwean interdisciplinary artist Masimba Hwati, in his ongoing quest to combine sound and sculpture, brings together the auditory and the visual in a remarkably novel manner.

Hwati’s latest work, the Ngoromera, now featured at the University of Michigan Museum of Art (UMMA) as a part of the African Art collection: We Write to You About Africa, remains one of his many means of multi-modally enriching our sensory experience. This sound sculpture, suspended from the ceiling, steel at both ends, reeling you in with the trust that it is no trivial trumpet, is lumped together with a couple of chimes, bells, brass bugles and a barrage of golf balls which are only as beguiling as the brash, exuberant reverberations from which it originates. A mouthpiece and a small sound processor facilitate this experience of sensational experimentation. In performance, the Ngoromera, which translates “to struggle or contend with opposing force; to fight” vibrates with a bold, brazen vigor. With a drummer manipulating the piece’s tempo and a saxophonist instigating conflict in their dissonance, Hwati’s sound ultimately conveys a crass kind of coherence in its discordance, instigating conflict. The three storytellers, caught in the midst of a collective musical improvisation experience, take us to an altered state of consciousness through a narrative of struggle and strife denoted by the ebbs and flows of the performance’s dynamics. It is here that we hear and witness what Hwati dubs as “everyday rituals of resistance.”

In a lecture prior to his performance, Hwati describes how thinking critically about the nature of sound can allow us to understand the crucial role it plays in our lives: the micropolitics of listening, the right to loudness along ideological lines (who is allowed to be loud) and the notions of negotiation and navigation all come into play when considering how sound shapes not only our societal structures but our individual experience. We can witness this occur spontaneously in the many instances of collective musical improvisation where — as seen in the performance of Hwati and Co. at the show — the melding of minds enables all musicians involved to operate as one. They negotiate with each other, not with spoken word, but instrumental sounds, jointly navigating on a journey through space and time, tempo and rhythm, volume and verve. 

Within the scope of the sculpture, we can see how the Ngoromera acts as a site (and sound) of negotiation and navigation as well. The integration of the brass instruments, often associated with European military conquests, in tandem with the tokens from Zimbabwean culture speak to a “negotiation of power” that repurposes and redefines the essence of the objects. Hwati regards sculpture as intersecting ritual and sound. The energy of an object, as informed by its cultural, socio-political and historical connotations and relations dictates our disposition towards the thing itself. Hwati invites us to listen with our whole being and consider the ways in which we are trained to hear sound.

“What sound is louder in the room, what sound is the most inaudible? Why is this sound louder than this one? What is the relationship between the sounds?”

Additionally, Hwati hones in on the importance of finding a center — in the artistic process, in performance and beyond. As we discussed during a post-performance interview in which he elaborated on his multidisciplinary approach, cultivating a center allows one to seek out grounding in an affirming idea. To him, this affirming idea during musical improvisation can be a note that speaks to or inspires him and then resolves to find connections and constellations from there. With Hwati’s objects, such as those he uses in his sculptures, he singles in on one particular item and searches for ways to connect it to other things, whether that be utilizing its sound-making capabilities and/or visual, ritualistic significance (such as the double-edged spear), in a meaningful way. He likens the search for a center to a finding of feeling.

“It’s a feeling that I’m looking for,” Hwati claimed, “and if I can get a hold of the feeling, I feel confident enough to bring other things in.”

To find such center, Hwati expressed the necessity of knowing the Self. To him, this self-knowledge arrives in part to our relationship with of course, our Self, but also with others and to God. He claims that in the communal art-making experience, we make revelations in the presence of those we trust, close friends and family who allow us to be vulnerable and take risks, reveling in the comfort of their company.

Hwati expressed, “There are people that I play with — I always know that I am so relaxed around those people that I begin to discover new things about myself.”

Beyond our relationship with others, we can become grounded in our self-knowledge and grow in our capacity to find a center by making ourselves familiar to what he describes as the four existential questions:

1. Destiny: what is going to happen after you die
2. Origin: where do you come from
3. Morality: a system of knowing right and wrong
4. Purpose: why are you here

To Hwati, these questions, deriving from his father and faith, are answered when we evaluate our relationship with God and others. He maintains that his mediating of these questions is materialized in his performance in a multitude of ways. He deems it his destiny to put together and perform, as marked by the all-consuming energy and thrill he derives from working with his pieces, which ultimately imbue him with purpose. 

“I know that I am born to do this thing that I do. I have so much energy when I am doing it. It is more than just a profession or a hobby but a consuming desire to do something,” Hwati stated.

These musical improvisations connect back not only to an Afrikan root but a cosmic origin. In these numinous notes and notions, Hwati and his audiences transform and transcend as the blending cacophony and congregation of sounds move and meander conspicuously through the space. The tempering of tone and tempo, variations of intensity, and the immensity of the instrumentals allows for morality to manifest in our reflection of nature, the spirit and the essence of these sounds. In our contemplation, and in our critical listening to these sounds and the sounds all around, we can develop better ways of knowing the self, of finding our center and of practicing every-day forms of resistance.

MiC Columnist Karis Clark can be reached at kariscl@umich.edu.

MiC Photographer Akash Dewan can be reached at abdewan@umich.edu.

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