Position(s): MiC Senior Editor (2023), MiC Assistant Editor (Fall 2022), MiC Columnist (2021-2022)
Section(s): Michigan in Color
Semesters at The Daily: 6
Dear Michigan in Color,
I think it’s about time for us to call it quits. As the saying goes, it’s not you, it’s me. But after some careful consideration, I think maybe it is you.
When we first met, I thought that the task of writing articles would be a simple one — I came into MiC mostly seeking community, assuming that the writing skills would come in due time. While I enjoyed writing essays for class, I had never before taken myself seriously as a writer who could have their work published. When my very first article hit the MiC webpage, I prematurely assumed the role of a cultural connoisseur — one that could deftly relay my opinions on pop culture into well-written, knowledgeable pieces. This assumption was quickly proven to be mistaken. Upon reading the writing of my fellow columnists in the following weeks, my assumption dissipated and I was intimidated by the amount of sheer skill that surrounded me. I took this as a challenge, and opportunity, to strengthen my pen and create work that was as evocative as that of my peers. I desperately wanted to find my own linguistic rhythm and write with a recognizable cadence and stylistic flourish that I could call my own.
As I continued to write for you, I’d teeter on the line between trepid reservation and unbridled vulnerability, most of the time finding myself in that gray area in between. As I wrote more and read pieces from my fellow columnists, I drew inspiration from the candid nature of their narratives — they never lacked the courage to share their stories no matter how personal or embarrassing they might’ve been. This encouraged me to write with a higher level of candor, resulting in the creation of more substantial material. With time, we reached a point at which we could talk about everything together. I told you about my favorite album, my love for photography, my hair journey and the excruciating growing pains of getting older. You even gave me a platform to show off my sense of fashion (shoutout to Yash and Amy!).
Even as I got better, it didn’t mean the process stopped irritating the hell out of me. Whenever it was time to sit down and write, my fingers would ghost over my keyboard with a blank Google Doc staring back at me. It seemed as if my best pieces would only strike me in the final hour, around 2 a.m. the night before it was due. And stumbling through the first draft was only half of the process — my work would then become subject to the intense criticism of my editors. No matter what I wrote, it always seemed to lack the depth that I relentlessly sought to bring to my work. It was hard for me to ever feel like I wrote the perfect piece. It was even more difficult to swallow the pill that there is no perfect piece. There will always be room for further revision and that is the marvelous nature of the craft. With time, I began to feel more confident with releasing my inner musings and thinkpieces to the public. If a single person could read my words and resonate with what I had to say, then it would make the long nights and hours of editing entirely worth it.
Despite all the frustrations, we also had incredible nights together. The night that The Black Hair Series was published, Karis, Akash, Deven and I spent the entire evening huddled around the MiC table trying to perfect the project before its release. At around 2 a.m., disoriented by hours and hours of editing interviews and images, we took turns hitting “Publish” on WordPress and finally let our months-long project see the light of day.
We had countless of lively nights on Cross Street, packed together in the unofficially official “MiC House,” passed down by Hugo and Kat. We drank wine, sat on the porch freestyling to shitty trap instrumentals and listened to Karis and Pablo spit bars that could’ve been in an XXL Cypher.
MiC, I’m forever thankful for who you’ve introduced me to. To my incredibly dear friends and very first managing editors Gabrijela Joi Skoko and Anamika Kannan — Oh, how I adore you both. If the two of them didn’t see my potential early on as a naive, COVID-19 freshman, I would’ve never gotten to know you. Their sheer brilliance has never failed to inspire me and the poised, loving nature with which they led this section has forever secured their legacy within MiC and The Daily. To all the incredible friends I made through MiC, thank you all for your eagerness to buy into an invaluable community and create work that transcends our much-too-short time spent together.
So, MiC, I’m grateful for the time we’ve shared. You were my home — my haven on a good day and my hell on a particularly long night. However, it’s time for me to take my pen elsewhere. Graduation waits around the corner and higher duties are calling. Still, even as I depart, I don’t think MiC will ever truly leave me — I’ll forever carry the memories made by each generation of our section and the enrichment that I’ve gained from three years of working alongside such inexplicably sharp minds. As we part ways, I know that you’ll bring love and light into other people’s lives as you did to mine. You’ll give others the power to uplift their communities, share their stories and even expose some bullshit if warranted. As I sit writing this letter, I realize that this may be one of my last evenings spent in The Daily’s newsroom. All the hours spent in the newsroom editing, writing and re-writing wasn’t for a check (the pay is far too little for that), but purely for the love of the game. Six semesters later, the collage of photos, memes, drawings and words on the wall in our precious corner of the newsroom never fails to provide a sense of comfort and belonging that I’ve found in very few other spaces on campus.
MiC, I’ll miss you, but I’ve gotta go. It’s been a delightful run.
Always with love,
Udoka