STATEMENT

VALERIJA MALASHEVICH Statement Correspondent

Content Warning: mentions of death, homicide, suicide and graphic descriptions of bodily mutilation and trauma. ***

I remember the beauty of last week like it was yesterday, when all the fresh and crunchy leaves were still littered across the Diag and the wind lacked that extra bite. I frequently find it difficult to engage in my favorite pastime — stopping to smell the figurative roses — with such a busy schedule, but I had some time that day to pause and collect a few vibrant specimens from the ground, glowing in all shades between red and yellow.

It’s not hard for me to imbue such seemingly bland moments with meaning, to make those tender seconds of inner solitude the defining parts of my day. But my ability to manifest meaning in otherwise ordinary occasions stems from something sinister, something completely out of my control that haunts me to this day. I remember the dim green of the traffic lights and the wet, shiny reflection on the road like it was yesterday.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the look of the other driver’s face, the complete and total blankness that overwhelmed his softer features, dimly lit up inside his car by the luminescence of my headlights. I almost want to say that there was a look of fear on his face, which is predictable given that he haphazardly pulled out into my lane before noticing my car barreling towards his, but I might just be projecting.

I remember thinking how unfair it was. How I spent the last five years building my defensive driving skills. How I got my permit the day after I turned 15 and a half. I had a car before I had a license. There is something embedded in this silly invention by man, some kind of force that beckons me to the driver’s seat like a siren. There is nothing more electrifying for my soul than the hum of her engine. No one can cure me like my Hyundai can.

How unfair it seemed to me then, to know how much thrill driving gives me, and how much of it is ruined by clueless drivers. “Unfair, unfair, unfair!” I would scream as I approached my father covered in tears, for years on end, after yet another idiot on the road made me pay for his mistakes again.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to think about all the unfairness in the world. This man didn’t just pull out into my lane — he parked his minivan perpendicular to my path, and with me nearing a speed of 60 mph, the already worrying 100 feet or so of space between our cars was diminishing quickly. It was unfair, truly, that even with my stellar reaction time and the urgent strength in my foot as I slammed the brakes, it was not enough.

I was just going too damn fast.

In all actuality, I don’t know what that guy went home and did. Maybe he kissed his wife, told his kids he loves them, and promised to quit his shitty job. But me? I spent months regressing into a sort of guilt, ruing the fact that I had been granted a second chance, and feeling unworthy because I didn’t know what to do with it. ***

I once took a forensic pathology class my senior year of high school where we were shown intensely graphic images from victims of asphyxiation to death by chainsaw to car crashes. I wasn’t strong enough to stomach one, just one, image from our class, where a pedestrian was plowed through by a sports car, which left his legs on the opposite side of the road from his torso, and a mildly interrupted string of intestines could be traced between the two.

I can only picture what the scene of my accident would’ve looked like. How both of our faces would have been eaten by the airbags, bones snapped and twisted and exposed, even though I definitely had a higher chance of walking away from our encounter than he did. It would’ve been horrible — tragic to look at, tragic to think about and just tragic enough to make the next day’s front page.

It may have only been a flicker in my mind, one second that wasn’t drowned out by instinctual thinking, but I had convinced myself that I was a dead man driving.

Any time I sit behind the wheel, I often have close encounters with destruction. I drive in a way that leaves my passengers shaking with adrenaline, slammed down into the seat from the force of my sharp turns and startled by the sudden yet smooth swerving in between lanes. And yet, with all the accidents I’ve almost had throughout the course of my life, never have I blanked behind the wheel so instantly as I did in that moment.

And yet, when the brake failed to stop my rear wheels from sprinting as I approached the minivan head-on, cars racing against me in both of the adjacent lanes, leaving me with nowhere to go, my detrimental habit became the thing that saved my life. I took my foot off the brake and slid it to the right, speeding up just quickly enough to lane split and avert death by just a few inches.

I initially assumed I had learned nothing from my lesson, taking away nothing from the deathly learning curve and the addiction I have to endangering myself and others. I continued to drive with the same recklessness (and still do), but how could I not? That night, I had saved both of our lives, shooing away death with the same dangerous driving that all those news outlets warn you about. Despite the years of unfairness, I was in the right this time.

Still, the ego boost was not enough to overshadow the hollowness that followed my spirit around. I had averted death, but for what benefit?

For months, I grappled with my dilemma. What would leave a more foul stench in your mouth — dying a little too young or unfulfilled potential after being granted another chance?

If you had told me that just enjoying the softness of grass beneath, or collecting pretty rocks to give to my friends later, would be enough to make me feel whole again, I honestly wouldn’t have believed you. I had met Death before, in hospital rooms and in movies and within myself, but it took me almost dying to realize I was shunning the friend who made my life worthwhile, who made me remember what I do it all for.

We all have, I think, treated our friend the Grim Reaper a little too unfairly for all the good he brings us. Death was once considered a uniquely divine and honorable part of our lives, but the creation and medicalization of the death industry has transformed conversations about Death into cultural taboos, as we all just bite our tongues and sweep under the rug the most inevitable component of our collective experience. ***

Like any healthy obsession, my fascination with death started quite young. Instead of “Vampire Diaries” or “Gossip Girl” or “Wizards of Waverly Place” (which has earned me plenty of harassment from my roommates), I grew up on shows like “House MD,” “Bones,” and “CSI.” My exposure to death was precocious to say the least, but these heavier and moralistic shows helped to stiffen my backbone during actual troubling times, when I started having to say my last goodbyes to the people I loved.

And how ironic it is that my life pursuits continue to center around these topics. One of my truest passions — as everyone around me knows — continues to be anthropology. I tend to make it very explicit how much I appreciate the efforts of past hominins to preserve evidence of their existence. To slather paint on cave walls and to look after injured members of their clan — it’s all just too poetic to ignore.

In defense of my old friend, Death

Design by Serena Shen

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

The real fake IDs of UMich

HALEY JOHNSON Statement Correspondant

Two months ago, I received an unexpected direct message on Twitter. It was from someone I had never met but vaguely recognized from the University of Michigan Twitter-sphere.

“I think my roommate found your fake,” they wrote. “It kinda sucks btw.”

Said ID was not, in fact, my fake ID. It was my real Michigan driver’s license. It had disappeared somewhere between my apartment and Babs’ Underground Lounge after a night out about two weeks prior. I had been frantically looking for it ever since, tearing through my car, backpack and bedroom on a desperate mission to find it. In the meantime, I endured the humiliation of taking my passport to bars.

I didn’t blame the Twitter stranger for assuming my ID to be fake. My driver’s license photo was exceptionally bad. I looked terrible in it — I had forgotten you were allowed to smile so it looked more like a mugshot than a driver’s license photo, and I was still hungover from the night before. I wouldn’t blame someone for thinking it was taken in a dorm basement with a digital camera from the 1990s. And ever since I turned 21, I’ve been paranoid that my license would be confiscated at Rick’s or the liquor store because there’s something about it that just seems so unconvincing.

But there was something so stereotypically “college student” about that message that it was almost comical. It was a reminder of the absurdity of the fake ID phenomenon; they’re so ubiquitous that any driver’s license found left behind on the street is assumed to be a piece of fraudulent government documentation.

Fake IDs have become almost synonymous with college life since the legal drinking age was raised to 21 from 18 with the passage of the National Minimum Drinking Act in 1984. The law was a bizarre quid-pro-quo that withheld federal funding for highways from states unless they raised the drinking age, meant to circumvent a provision in the 21st Amendment that prohibits the federal government from regulating alcohol. Four years after the National Minimum Drinking Age was passed, all states were compliant and 21 was the de-facto federal age.

Suddenly, 21 became the most important — and in my opinion, most arbitrary — social division on college campuses. Perhaps in recognition of how meaningless the divide really was, students almost immediately began trying to circumvent it with fake IDs. Utter disregard for the law became the norm. In one study published in 1996, 46% of college students admitted to using a fake ID to purchase alcohol.

For the most part, obtaining a fake ID is low risk and high reward. Minors can effectively purchase unlimited access to alcohol, weed or any other illicit substance. And it’s currently easier than ever to get high-quality “novelty IDs” online, usually produced in China, that can be swiped and scanned. Sure, there’s the small risk of it getting confiscated by the bouncer at Charley’s, but chances are you’ll make it past him just fine.

Still, using a fake doesn’t come entirely without risk. Under Michigan law, it’s illegal to “intentionally reproduce, alter, counterfeit, forge, or duplicate an official state identification card or use an official state identification card that has been reproduced, altered, counterfeited, forged or duplicated.”

And using a fake ID to “purchase alcoholic liquor” is punishable by up to 93 days in prison and a $100 fine. Students have been arrested for possession of fraudulent identification before, often when police officers are waiting near the lines going into popular bars. In 2010, immigration agents arrested 2 U-M students and 1 MSU student after intercepting a package with 48 fake IDs arriving from Toronto. Regardless, it still seems like many illicit transactions do proceed everyday and uninterrupted, as students hand their ID to the cashier at Campus Corner, perhaps verifying their “address” or “date of birth,” and go on their way.

Fake IDs are so common that it can be easy to forget the insanity of the concept: Minors have the opportunity to significantly improve their social lives and overall college experiences by committing federal crimes on a weekly basis. This isn’t to say underage drinking is bad or that people should boycott fake IDs; I actually personally support the lowering of the drinking age. Rather, I’d argue that this fake ID phenomenon that’s accompanied by ample, even grave risk is too often taken at face value.

If you don’t have a fake ID, there’s a good chance one of your friends does. One could go as far to say that the never-ending stream of parties, tailgates and smoke sessions that are so integral to campus life stand entirely on an informal network of fraudulent identities. And I think it’s time to confront this network for all it’s worth and all it does for this campus community.

These are the real fake IDs of the University of Michigan. ***

“I thought I was totally screwed and lost everybody’s money. I was freaking out,” a Ross sophomore explained. The student, who wished to remain anonymous due to fear of legal and professional repercussions, will be referred to as Eric.

Eric had placed a mass order of 14 fake IDs for himself and fellow Michigan students. He had meticulously tracked everyone’s information in a spreadsheet and, together, their false personas spanned the entire country — he had ordered “novelty IDs” from Illinois, Connecticut and Colorado, among other states.

The entire process had gone smoothly until it was time to pay. Many forgers offer discounts to customers who pay with Bitcoin, and some of the highest-quality vendors have gone crypto-only. Eager to save a few dollars, Eric transferred the $650 he had collected from his friends into Coinbase, a popular crypto exchange platform.

Then in June, the price of Bitcoin crashed. The hundreds of dollars Eric had collected evaporated.

Eric was able to recoup his funds by exploiting a loophole in Coinbase’s system. “I called Coinbase and told them it was a ‘mistake’ that the money was put there,” he said. “I did some research, and they have some sort of rule where if you don’t do a certain amount of transactions within a certain amount of time, they think that the money was put in there by mistake or your account is inactive, and they give you your money back.”

Eric, thankfully, was able to complete the transaction through Zelle, albeit at a higher cost than if he had paid in Bitcoin. Soon after, Eric’s “novelty” Georgia ID

 SETTING THE STAGE FOR A

CATASTROPHIC

November 16, 2022Wednesday

SUPERVOLCANO ERUPTION

REBECCA LANGE

Alexander N. Halliday Collegiate Professor of Earth and Environmental Sciences LSA Multipurpose Room 4:00 p.m.

Design by Ally Payne

Give me a sign: Touring Ann Arbor’s Signage Landscape

ELIZABETH WOLFE Statement Columnist

Political signage around Ann Arbor, though often a year-round affair for many students, protestors and organizations, has been amplified by the midterm elections, from splashes of “Vote Yes on Prop 3” signs across the Diag to yard signs promoting local candidates.

I was not accustomed to this politically charged environment until coming to college, nor did I realize its prominence until a recent controversy occurred in my hometown.

Grosse Pointe’s St. Paul on the Lake Church garnered media attention last month after displaying a large “VOTE NO ON PROP 3” sign on its front lawn, accompanied by dozens of small white crosses. Driving past the church with my mom, I saw the sign and felt a knot tighten within me — a visceral response triggered by not only frustration toward a message I don’t agree with, but its size, lettering and language.

It was eventually taken down for violating city code regarding the size of signs, but its message continued to reverberate within me when I returned to Ann Arbor for the start of the school year. It struck me in the physical context of my hometown, where such signs are a rarity. Looking around Ann Arbor, I thought: Were there any signs here that I was missing?

Kerrytown’s sister funhouses:

MichMinnies Cooperative

I hurried over to MichMinnies Cooperative on Halloweekend, my Princess Peach costume hidden beneath a U-M hoodie. Though it was dark outside, I could still admire the exterior of the houses as I approached: the blue “Michigan House” and, sitting just next to it, a large purple townhouse named “Minnies.” Together, they make “MichMinnies,” one of 16 co-ops in Ann Arbor’s Inter-Cooperative Council.

The brightly colored co-op stands out among the other houses on North State Street. A variety of signs, flags and other objects dotted the wrap-around porch of Michigan House, making it an anomaly among its plain surroundings. Signs on the front of the blue building advertised carbon neutrality, LGBTQ+ pride, Bernie Sanders and perhaps most infamously, a cardboard sign that reads RONALD REAGAN’S GRAVE IS A GENDER NEUTRAL BATHROOM.

The inside of the building held the same chaos of posters. The walls were clustered with a variety of artwork and pictures of friends, as well as a large swordfish sculpture, a presumably stolen bus route sign, caution tape and DIY wanted posters, among other aesthetic curiosities.

I would later learn from MichMinnies’s president, LSA senior Mack Kroll, that the co-op was originally named the Michigan Socialist House, established to serve students seeking affordable housing during the Great Depression.

Because of the houses’ consistent political and cultural leanings inherent to the community of housemates, the signage isn’t reflective of just one member of the co-op, but is rather a shared representation of the intertwined values and personalities of MichMinnies.

The occupants of the co-op are not the only ones that enjoy the inclusive environment MichMinnies offers. Kroll recalled a time when a mother walking with her son noted his interest in the house. The mother relayed to Kroll that they had always passed it on their way to the son’s preschool, and that the son would tell his mom how much he liked the decorations. After taking down their former trans flag due to wear and tear, the mother gifted MichMinnies a new one.

With all these signs, these physical manifestations of the houses’ cooperative identities, the most important thing for Kroll is that people living in and visiting MichMinnies feel like they can express themselves without hesitation.

Design by Emma Sortor

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

Social hierarchies on campus: Why Greek life isn’t unique

CONNOR HERRERAS Statement Columnist

Standing in the late afternoon sunlight amid a crowd of university students, I observed the scene before me. Music blared from a DJ stand I couldn’t see, swallowed in a mass of bodies decked out in maize and blue. A friend of mine from high school was in town, and an old soccer teammate of his invited us to visit his frat before we headed off to watch the Wolverines take on Michigan State.

The first thing I noticed was the blue tarp surrounding the frat house’s backyard, which served to both maintain the frat’s privacy and give the backyard an atmosphere of exclusivity, like an improvised club for the University of Michigan “a-listers.”

The second thing I noticed was that, as I pushed through the crowd, the faces I passed had the same skin tone as me. Despite not knowing any of the fraternity members or “brothers” there, I was well aware of the reason I could waltz in as if I belonged. Being a white person myself, I was all too comfortable in the company of a group that I blended right into.

When you’re in the moment — EDM tunes blaring in your ears, solo cup in hand — it’s easy to see how the privilege of being a part of “the brotherhood” is appealing to so many university students across the country — a privilege that has historically created homogenous groups of campus “cool kids,” a privilege deeply embedded in systems of racism, homophobia, classism — the list goes on.

Greek life gives students the opportunity to choose their social circle, but it’s not unique in that sense. Social hierarchy is synonymous with Greek life, but beyond the explicit measures of social standing, like the ranking systems that determine the “top” frats and sororities, many student organizations on campus operate in a similar way, positioning themselves in relation to their peers.

Involvement in student organizations is a means for students to tout their status, whether it be a sorority or the ski and snowboard club.

To investigate this, I spoke with LSA sophomore Alina Malin, a member of the a cappella group The Compulsive Lyres, one of over a dozen a cappella groups on campus.

Malin explained that when it comes to a cappella at the University of Michigan, an organization that features “rushing” loosely similar to that of Greek Life, “Certain groups are very driven by competition ... and certain groups are all about the social aspect.”

“There are certain groups that tend to compete more, have more funding and have worked toward performance quality over other things,” Malin continued. “There is a hierarchy in terms of performance ability because that’s measurable.”

However, while a cappella and Greek life both have hierarchies, for Malin, the similarities end there. “People don’t really join a cappella to get social standing,” Malin said.

So, competition among different a cappella groups may not be the popularity contest that is Greek life, but you’re still going to end up with people rushing what they perceive as the “best” a cappella group.

To be certain of social hierarchy’s heightened relevance to Greek life, I spoke with an anonymous member of the business fraternity Phi Gamma Nu about their experience. The interviewee chose to remain anonymous out of a concern for the potential social ostracism they might face for speaking up about social dynamics among the business fraternities.

Explaining their fraternity’s position in comparison to the other business frats, they said, “We would be considered kind of lower than everyone else.”

“Within the business frats, they’re called the tri-frat ... It’s DSP (Delta Sigma Pi), PCT (Phi Chi Theta) and AKPsi (Alpha Kappa Psi), and they were the first three established at Michigan,” the interviewee said.

Hence, Phi Gamma Nu hasn’t been around for as long as these “top” frats and is not afforded the same prestige.

Getting into one of the top frats can mean a lot to prospective members. “That’s a big mentality people have when rushing,” the interviewee explained. The rushing process involves interviews, in which, according to a Reddit post on r/uofm, those rushing get “grilled pretty hard.”

Being in a business frat is an opportunity to establish connections that will last into post-college life in the workforce. In other words, “They all do the same thing, it’s just different social cultures, but people still perceive a ranking even though it’s just there for the sake of having a hierarchy,” the interviewee said.

Whether that hierarchy truly matters or not is up to the individual. As this person told me, “I view them kind of as friend groups, and when you’re rushing, you should see which friend group you want to fit into best.”

Lucy Brock, an LSA junior and member of the sorority Sigma Kappa, echoed this sentiment.

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

 WALLACE HOUSE PRESENTS

SPECIAL SCREENING OF FEATURE FILM “SHE SAID”

with reporters Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey

Michigan Theater MONDAY, NOVEMBER 28 | 5:30 PM

On October 5, 2017, Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey of The New York Times broke the story of Harvey Weinstein’s decades of sexual abuse allegations and changed the world. Watch the feature film, “She Said,” based on their book of the same name, and meet the reporters behind the groundbreaking expose at an in-person conversation immediately following the movie screening.