MIC

700 square feet. That is how much space I had for the first 18 years of my life. 700 square feet consisted of one full bathroom, a connected kitchen and living room, a bedroom and a master bedroom that was only a few feet longer — split among five people. The members of apartment 2F included my busy dad, doting mom, brat of a little sister, smiley baby brother and myself. 700 square feet forces you to be creative. My dad was able to strategically fit a baby’s crib, a file cabinet and a three-piece furniture set in one bedroom while leaving a single strip of floor space for praying. Sticky, humid New York summers also meant investing and placing wall fans, window fans, standing fans and tower fans in each room. Those 700 square feet taught my sister how to pick the bathroom lock when I would hog up the only private space in our home. When friends or family came over, we slept laterally to fit as many people onto a bed as possible, with our feet hanging off as we grew taller. My mom shopped for furniture with storage units, and even stacked our drawers to make for more room. Naturally, nothing was set. There were no designated rooms. My socks and computer desk floated around the living room or wherever they fit best at the time. My sister and I slept wherever there was a bed. Neither of us claimed a room as we had guests flow in and out of 2F for weeks to months at a time. I learned how to fall asleep anywhere, to keep earbuds with me always and most importantly: to not be confined to my 700 square feet.

My parents kept my siblings and me busy and out of the house with school, afterschool programs and every weekend at madrasa. But these in themselves all felt like work and chores — not a true escape from my bottom bunk. I craved being outside without reason. I yearned for mindless walks and car rides. I satisfied this need every time my mom went out, practically begging her to let me join in on her errands. I’d happily hop in the car on a Sunday morning to play music and offer mindless chatter. Any aunties who’d join would give animated gasps each time they found me sitting in the backseat, but I soon became a regular member on these trips. The route followed the order of errands: first to put in orders at the butcher shop, then random shops and stalls with things to return and only buy if there was a good deal and finally returning back to the butcher and local supermarkets for frozen groceries. I was of no use on these trips as I enjoyed eating Costco samples, wandering through the stores eyeing items and — at my best — reminding my mom to pick up some cilantro. I mainly liked the potential of convincing my mom to pull into the McDonald’s drive-thru or stop at a halal cart before getting back home. I was unsuccessful most times. Instead, she let me pick up light snacks or chocolate at the register — a little treat for doing nothing but being outside with her. I’d set my strawberry-kiwi Snapple and two-for-$1 potato chips on the counter while my mom added, “Take 5, please.” Take 5. It can be interpreted as “take a break” or even the Reese’s “Take 5” chocolate bar. But it was understood as a one-dollar, small scratch-away lottery ticket. The bright yellow and magenta card could always be found in my mom’s purse or kitchen countertop. It’s an easy game to play: scratch away and get three of the same number to win that amount in dollars. Most commonly, my mom would win back the one dollar she’d initially spent on the lotto ticket. This mostly no-loss trend made it harmless fun. There were only a few times she won anything upwards of five dollars, which would be enough to cover my little snacks. The greatest amount you can win is $5,555. It was not a lot but it was definitely something. A lump sum to ease the pressure at home. Something to make our measly 700 square feet feel lavish. I imagined the $5,555 being put to good use to buy more McDonald’s Happy Meals long into the future. In hindsight, I realize $5,555 runs out quickly.

This weekend, I finally understood the significance of Take 5. The high pressures of raising three kids in Queens, N.Y. have dissolved as my mom now settles into a quiet, suburban lifestyle. The image of her sipping hot tea in our backyard before tending to her small garden fits so well that I’ve forgotten how she’d scratch the lotto ticket against the deli wall with a rusting penny. There’s no more running rushed errands, scrambling for parking or navigating a 700-square-foot living space. There seems to be no more need for Take 5 or lotto tickets. But this past weekend, I learned I was wrong when my mom asked my dad to pick up a Take 5 for her. It was then that I realized the goal was never to win $5,555 (but that would have been nice). Instead, it was to try and test one’s luck. It may bring an extra ten or fifteen bucks, or you lose a dollar. Like many other immigrants, faith in luck is one of the things my mom held on to in starting a new life where she knew no one. In moving across the globe with nothing but hope and luck, you have to trust that things will work out. That’s a much bigger gamble to make than playing Take 5. My mom continues to fall back on pure luck, except now by scratching three-like amounts [COPY: is this phrase referring to the three same numbers you have to get? maybe rephrase this if that’s not what it’s referring to] to see how lucky she might be.

My childhood home might be dubbed as “not so lucky” by others. But I never felt unfortunate, even if my mom lost a dollar that day on Take 5. I never felt that way at all in our 700 square feet. It’s easy to say I felt content because that’s all I’d ever known. But it was my parents who truly made me feel lucky. I was lucky that my mom stocked our snack cabinet with Ferrero-Rochers in secret after telling my sister and me “no” at the store. My dad fulfilled our dreams by somehow making space for a five-foot-tall aquarium with tens of neon-colored fish. We were lucky to have our yellowish-white fridge covered in magnets from our vacations, family photos and messy art projects. Our cozy apartment 2F may not be classified as a house, but my parents definitely made it a home. Every square foot was somewhere I felt lucky to be.

Design by Zafirah Rahman

Preemptive Grieving

Design by Andrew Nakamura

ANDREW NAKAMURA MiC Columnist

My paint-chipped garage slowly unhinges its gaping jaw to swallow my father’s car whole. Clad in my only fitting black collared shirt and a pair of athletic shorts, I walk down the stairs to meet my dad, still wearing his aloha shirt and black slacks from work. We smile at each other before climbing into his car. The half-hour drive passes by silently until we reach our destination. “We’re a little early, do you want to get a snack to kill time?” “Of course,” I enthusiastically answer. My dad navigates to a nearby 7-11, where I check out with a warm spam musubi and a refreshing can of Thai tea in hand. I don’t want to be disrespectful, so I wolf down both before we return to our destination. My dad laughs at my remarkable eating speed, and I chuckle in response as he pulls into the parking lot. We park across from my mom, who is just getting out of her car as well. We greet each other and then follow the familiar laughter echoing out of the funeral home.

I knew this day was coming long before I learned of my aunty’s passing the previous month. Of course, death can claim anyone at any moment, but I only really thought about it in my own life after my aunty’s stroke a few years earlier. My grandparents would take my sister and I to her house sometimes when my parents had to work. We would spend the afternoon taking her dog on a walk to the market up the street and strolling through the aisles of the small store. I knew she liked to travel, and my dad told me she had been to Japan a few times. She was one of few in our family who actually went back to our ancestral home country, and I regret not asking her about her memories of Japan now. As a young child, I never thought to ask her about her life before I was born. We weren’t that close since and as I grew older I only saw her at occasional family gatherings. I didn’t even know her full name until I saw the nameplate in her hospital room. I always just called her “Aunty K” as everyone else in my family did. “K” wasn’t even her first initial.

She also wasn’t actually my aunt. Technically she was my grandmother’s sister, but I always felt more comfortable just calling her “aunty,” just like my dad’s sister and his mother’s other sister’s daughter and his dad’s sister’s husband’s two daughters, all of whom sit in the metal folding chairs of the mortuary. I bounce around the room to chat with all of my relatives, whom I haven’t seen since the start of the pandemic. They are brimming with questions about my major and my first year of college. My other aunty’s infectious laughter echoes around the room as I talk about my steady diet of dining hall chicken tenders and fries. I don’t tell her — don’t tell anyone — that I ate almost every meal alone in my dorm room. Beneath their masks, I can tell that everyone was smiling, and especially with death looming over us, I don’t want to ruin the mood. I eventually nestle into a seat between my grandma and my dad before the funeral director comes out to start the ceremony.

We skip the eulogy. While the gong rings through my eardrums, the monk recites a Buddhist prayer in a language I can’t even identify, much less understand. We all bow our heads and close our eyes in prayer. I can’t read the musings of my family members’ minds as we sat in silence. At the end of the funeral, we all make an incense offering. One by one, my family members walk up to the podium and move a few incense chips from their box into the fire. We each slightly bow our heads and clasp our hands together in a moment of silence before returning to our seats.

When it’s my turn, I don’t know what I should pray for. After so many hospital visits and silent car rides down the long hill down from the hospital to the city, I had long since accepted that this fate was inevitable. My aunty would want us to be happy despite her absence. And so I am happy, or at least I am as happy as one could be at a funeral. This preemptive grieving had saved me the anguish of suddenly trying to process the void she had left behind in the short month between her passing and the funeral. I turn around and walk back to my seat, facing the rest of my family. Their eyes all point in different directions, some are closed, some aim at the ground and others stare directly at me. Those eyes have seen my aunty’s face long before I was born. I wonder what thoughts and memories churn behind their pupils. But I can at least guess that they too have privately mourned before now, because when the funeral is finished, we all leave dry-eyed.

This wasn’t the first time I thought about losing my family. Ever since ninth grade, when I knew I was gay, I’ve been thinking about the consequences of my coming out. My family and I have come to a nonverbal peace agreement since we’ve grown. It’s been years since shouting voices had endlessly bounced off the walls of the house. In their place, quietness fills up every inch of the house. The stillness of the air seeps into my throat and arrests my vocal cords. But I prefer this silent suffocation to choked back tears. The fleeting silence makes the threat of bereavement loom even more menacingly over my household. I don’t want to risk undermining all the effort we’ve put in over the years, yet I cannot live a lie forever. Thus I grieve the comfort we share knowing that I will eventually shatter this fragile reality we’ve shaped for ourselves.

In the Buddhist faith, death results in rebirth until we can escape the cycle and achieve enlightenment. I find comfort in knowing that we may get unlimited opportunities to keep learning and growing. Although the comparison isn’t one-to-one, if the revelation of my true self does kill our family’s relationship as we know it, I hope that household can be reconstructed and tried again.

YOUR WEEKLY

by Andy Nakamura

Scan this QR code to see your full horoscope!

Neptune stations direct in its ruling house, the twelfth house of the subconscious. Now is the time to look inward for motivation and creative inspiration. However, don’t get sidetracked by your own mind; keep a list of priorities and stick to them before starting any new projects.

When Neptune stations direct in your sixth house of organization, you may have great ideas about reorganizing your schedule or your space. This is a great time to think of new plans, but be careful that you don’t over-commit yourself or begin a reckless renovation process. The new moon and solar eclipse in your third house of communication and intelligence is asking you to take a moment alone. With Neptune in your ninth house of philosophy, you may suddenly have grand ideas about travel and educational pursuits. Now is a great time to chase this heightened motivation. However, it can be easy to become swept up in the fantasy of travel or grandiose intellectual pursuits. With Neptune in your eleventh house of friendships, you may start to over-romanticize being in a group. Of course, it is natural to yearn for inclusion; however, peer pressure could also force you to conform to everyone else’s standards. Neptune has the tendency to make us overromanticize people, but you need to remain true to your own feelings. When Neptune stations direct in your tenth house of career ambitions, your work life may suddenly become jumbled as projected plans don’t pan out the way you had intended. However, adaptability is a Gemini’s specialty, so just stay on your toes and keep in mind alternate paths you can take. Ever the social butterfly, Geminis often form new connections just as quickly as they lose old ones.

When Neptune stations direct in your eighth house of death and rebirth, your ideal aspirations may not pan out exactly the way you had hoped. Leos can get especially frustrated when they don’t get what they want, and this can further hinder their opportunities to move past their obstacles. When your dreams are crushed, don’t dwell on the disrupted past, but instead look toward an even brighter future.

With Neptune in your fifth house of creation, you may come to some incredible creative breakthroughs. Now is the time to harness this positive energy and use it to create something you’re passionate about. The new moon and solar eclipse in your second house of materialism may cause you to reapproach your relationship with money. You should examine your expenses and aim to eliminate anything that isn’t necessary.

With Neptune in your third house of communication, you may view conversations and intellectual pursuits through a much more optimistic lens than usual. This can be more relieving, but you must also approach your studies critically as well. If you’re passionate about a certain interest, don’t settle for “good enough”; strive to be as proficient as possible.

When Neptune stations direct in your second house of materialism, be wary of frivolous purchases. Neptune can cause us to see the world through rose-tinted glasses, and this can be especially dangerous when it comes to money. Now is not the time to splurge since it is easy to overspend.

When Neptune stations direct in your fourth house of home and family, you may suddenly have new ideas to rearrange your living space. However, Sagittarius’s typical carefree attitude combined with Neptune’s fantastical influence may cause you to act recklessly. Before making any major changes to your home, be sure you think carefully about every decision you make. The light of the new moon shines upon your sign.

With Neptune in your seventh house of partnerships, you may need to re-evaluate some of your relationships. Neptune can cause us to see people as better than they really are. Virgos are great at observing small details, and this is the time to be critical. If certain partnerships are causing you distress, there is no need to continue silently tolerating the harm they’ve caused you.

This is an intense week for you. Your ruling planet, Neptune, stations direct in your sign and your first house of self-identity. This is a great opportunity to generate new creative ideas and you may come to a sudden emotional breakthrough. However, your extremely active imagination can cause issues as well. You may tend to over-romanticize opportunities or people, which can cause you to overlook underlying issues.

Addressing Angell

EASHETA SHAH MiC Columnist

Attending a 9 a.m. lecture. Setting up a table at the Posting Wall. Printing out a lastminute essay. Gathering for a student organization meeting after hours. As students at the University of Michigan, we spend so much of our time in Angell Hall, but how many of us actually know who James Burrill Angell is and what his legacy entails? Learned pieces of the University’s history seem to be met exclusively with shock and disappointment from students, faculty and alumni, and my moral outrage is growing weary. As a thirdyear student, each passing term’s revelations have left me with more to consider in regards to my relationship to this institution and its roots. I feel tainted with remorse for the countless survivors of sexual misconduct denied their due justice. I stand in solidarity with the unmet needs of the Graduate Employees’ Organization and the Lecturers’ Employee Organization from an inadequate reopening plan. I remain appalled by the historically racist and exploitative practices of the Order of Angell, an exclusive senior honor society that disbanded just this past spring. Most of all, I am frustrated at the lack of accountability taken by the administration to address an imperfect history of the Leaders and the Best.

Over the course of the past month, members from my organization South Asian Awareness Network came together with organizers from the United Asian American Organizations, Central Student Government and LSA Student Government to discuss the legacy of former University President James B. Angell and the memorialization of his name to one of the highest-traffic student buildings on campus. Each week’s meetings worked toward brainstorming and planning a response to appropriately address his legacy. Here’s what we came up with: a CSG resolution draft calling for the removal of Angell’s name from the University building, a teachin and dialogue surrounding the present-day implications of Angell’s history, and a cultural fashion show on the steps of Angell Hall in celebration and reclamation of a space that the late president himself may not have expected our presence in.

For context, Angell held a 38-year term as the president of the University and was a nationally recognized leader in higher education, bringing in record number enrollments and increasing accessibility for many students. In addition to his presidency, Angell served as a U.S. ambassador to China during which he re-negotiated the Burlingame Treaty. While this treaty endorsed immigration at the high point of U.S.-China relations, the Treaty of Angell recognized the U.S. government’s power to regulate the immigration of Chinese laborers due to domestic economic tension. As American Culture professor Ian Shin explained during the mid-November teach-in, Angell signed on to this treaty out of a sense of public duty as opposed to actual support for exclusion. Regardless of his initial hesitations to sign, the Treaty of Angell paved the way for the passage of the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, one of the most racist immigration bills in American history. Regardless of his intent to bring students on campus together, the secret society Order of Angell — formerly known as Michigamua — eventually became known for its profane appropriation of Native American culture and its notoriously racist and elitist nature. President James B. Angell may have been a moral centrist, but the consequences of his neutrality leave a permanent mark on the University’s history. Is this someone worth memorializing?

On Nov. 17, 2021, CSG’s ongoing resolution passed for the renaming of the University building Angell Hall and Angell Scholar Award. While I consider this a necessary step in the right direction, I can’t help but admit to a qualm I’ve had since the teach-in.