Social Class Voices: Student Stories from the University of Michigan Bicentennial

Laugh and Learn

Comedian Brooks Wheelan, a former actor on Saturday Night Live, was walking around Times Square in New York a few years ago with some friends when one of them decided on a whim that they should go to Red Lobster for lunch.

“What’s the occasion? I have shorts on. I can’t be wearing shorts at the RL!”

Wheelan grew up middle class in Iowa and deemed restaurants such as Red Lobster fancy while others scoffed at it. But never before had a joke been so relatable to me. I heard Wheelan opening a comedy show for John Oliver, a show my girlfriend graciously gave me as a Christmas present.

I grew up middle class, thinking Red Lobster and Olive Garden were fancy and for special occasions. Bottomless breadsticks or biscuits with an entrée sounded like heaven to my palate whenever I earned good grades, which I always strived for. When I attended college and went to legitimately fancy places in Ann Arbor, Michigan, I didn’t know about wine menus or which forks and spoons were for soups or salads. “Wait, now there are two sets of silverware?” I looked at places like these in awe. The check had a number I hadn’t seen associated with a small serving. I thought my middle class was normal, and it is. But coming to Ann Arbor made me realize how different my life was compared to more affluent peers.

I grew up in Flint, Michigan, yes, the one home to the Flint water crisis. My city always had a bad reputation for being one of the most violent per capita. The water issue brought in even more bad press. I live on the city limit, mainly shielded from it all. I recently looked at a map where lead entered the water supply and my house is literally a block away. My family and I are lucky our pipes are new. My subdivision is very safe; it’s mostly just older people and I didn’t have any neighbor kids to play with growing up. There was one shooting in my subdivision, but my cousin was shot and killed in Flint’s inner city when I was in the fourth grade. Two houses have accidentally burned down on either side of our place and the lots are now vacant. These experiences broke my heart, but now three years into college, they’re like distant memories. That’s probably because they didn’t hit me incredibly close to home. However, I have never felt unsafe in my neighborhood. I only mention these unfortunate things to give myself a little street cred, which is kind of sad.

Flint was hit especially hard by the 2008 and ongoing recession because the city’s economy was cemented in the automotive industry. Multiple factories closed and thousands lost their jobs. My family was fortunate enough because dad didn’t work in a factory like many others. Still, with tough times he chose to take a part-time job as a Transportation Security Administration (TSA) agent at our local airport in addition to his primary job working at a center for disadvantaged children. Even though I had no idea how much money my parents earned (my mom is a second-grade teacher), this was the first time I became conscious of how money came into play in my middle-class life. They never mentioned it and I didn’t have much of a reason to ask. I felt comfortable with our money situation. My parents told me when we couldn’t afford things and I understood. I made Christmas lists while consciously adding up prices. I made pro and con lists to ponder intently on wants versus needs. I didn’t ask for much and felt guilty about asking for money to go on activities like class trips because I didn’t want to inconvenience my family. To my knowledge, not having enough money to spend wasn’t a problem.

That guilt extends to college. I hate asking my parents for money because I want to be increasingly independent and can imagine the strain my parents experience as they work hard to help me pay rent and my sister’s tuition at Grand Valley State University in Allendale, Michigan. They work their butts off. They motivate me and my sister. Dad is now a full-time supervisor for TSA and my mom still teaches second grade in Holly, Michigan. She also has works at Macy’s as well as in an old time village tourist attraction on some weekends and in the summer. Meanwhile, Michigan’s governor Rick Snyder has held thousands of dollars of mom’s in a dispute with state of Michigan teachers. It’s her money and she needs it now! The fact my parents have sacrificed so much keeps me motivated so that I can someday spoil them with bundles of cash I’ll hopefully gain from my University of Michigan degree and future career. But for now, I stay frugal.

On the other hand, I’ve seen a lot of fellow students at the University of Michigan with tight pockets and those who spend freely. The first thing I noticed during my freshman year was how frequently peers shopped during lectures. While I was taking notes, several were zoning in on their next purchase. All over MacBook screens were shoes costing over $200, plane tickets, fancy dresses, and suits bought with clicks of a button and glances at credit cards. I even overheard a girl talking to a friend about riding on a private jet. I had been on a plane just once. People talked about yearly trips to the Mediterranean and expensive tropical places I had only dreamed of visiting. I hadn’t been to another country until I traveled to Toronto, Canada, in 2017. I also became aware of what others were wearing. What the hell are Vinyard Vines, Patagonia, and Canada Goose? I didn’t understand why students—or their parents—could spend almost a grand on a coat when I’ve had the same one for seven years and it still keeps me warm. In America, there’s an overwhelming sense of materialism and brand loyalty, causing people to spend more than they need to. I’ve always had the mentality of eating leftovers instead of making a new dish, wearing the same shoes if they’re not falling apart before buying new ones, and driving a car with multiple problems because it still runs instead of taking it to the shop so that it’s in peak condition.

There is no point in keeping up with the Joneses at Michigan. I can’t afford to. I also don’t have a desire to fit in since I was born to stand out. You see, I’m mixed: half black and half white. I’m viewed as a racial minority. College is different from my K–12 days. At the University of Michigan, the black population is about 4% and I rarely have classes with someone who shares my races. I’m not threatened or particularly angry, but I notice all the time. Any time race comes up, I feel vulnerable and awkward.

But back in Flint, half my school was black and the rest was white, with some Arabic. My high school was and is one of the most diverse in Michigan, but it’s not viewed as one of the most academically prestigious. Browsing through Facebook one day, my Michigan friends talked about how a website ranked the top high schools in Michigan. While their schools were the top two, mine didn’t crack the top 150. I thought the ranking was absurd because I had received a high-quality education but at the same time I was one of only two kids from my class to start college at Michigan while some high schools sent dozens. Though my school was racially, economically, and religiously diverse, our class standings seemed to be the same, so we all had relatable common grounds. We didn’t discuss specifics of social class difference, but nobody was overly materialistic either. We rarely went on vacations, our houses were worth less based on perceptions of our city, and a lot of fellow students worked after school. We hated our rival school 20 minutes away because its students were richer and had everything handed to them. They, of course, deemed us inferior, and whenever we interacted with preconceived notions, we thought they were snobby and elitist.

When I met kids who went to that rival high school here at Michigan, I encountered kind-hearted and hard-working people. The perceptions I attached to all upper-middle-class and rich people of being stuck up and rude were false. They simply had been born into a situation where they could also benefit from their parents’ hard work. I didn’t resent an imaginary rich person anymore. I respected a real one. Just like me, they deserved to be here and had parents who raised them up right. I’m fortunate enough to have highly educated and intelligent parents who provided examples for me. Some of my peers aren’t so lucky.

I didn’t experience the reality of poverty until I went on a 2011 high school mission trip to Kokomo, Indiana, with my church’s youth group. Kokomo is very similar to Flint in that both are dependent on the auto industry and have social class diversity. We heard stories of how kids would bring home extra napkins from school to split into thirds to stand in as toilet paper for their siblings. And families in poverty were actually hurt financially when they obtained a job because they didn’t receive additional government funding. Parents’ salaries weren’t enough to support their families in a country where the minimum wage doesn’t equate to a living wage. We met 16-year-old mothers and former drug users trying to get on the right paths. Six-year-olds directed their younger siblings like seasoned parents. As we went through a poverty simulation, I felt horrible after not eating for one day. I was lost, isolated, confused, and vulnerable to what could go wrong. I couldn’t imagine how I would feel if that was my life. We met people at a soup kitchen who had lived in poverty for years. Some were upbeat and open about their experiences, while others kept to themselves.

As a child, I was afraid of people I didn’t know. Some still are wary of talking to people from a different class. I’ve witnessed people different than me who are just like me in many ways. They have feelings and dreams and stories. That’s why I’m so impassioned to become a storyteller—because not everyone listens to what the unheard have to say.

We went back to Kokomo the next year, enamored by a pastor who left a very wealthy church and parsonage in a Chicago suburb to come back to help his hometown and its citizens get back on their feet. I’m conflicted on whether I want to do the same someday. I want to help Flint, but at the same time, I have a burning desire to leave. But I guess that doesn’t mean I can’t serve wherever I live in the future. This pastor lived steps away from government-subsidized housing and hosted weekly picnics in the summer to feed families. Some of the children were foul-mouthed and dirty, a lot different from the way kids behaved when I was in elementary school. And as we learned more about how this poverty was generational, I couldn’t help but think how terrible it was that there were so many wasted minds. Who knows, the cure of cancer or an incredible math theorem may be developed by a child in Kokomo. But without education, that intelligence and potential will never be unlocked.

In elementary school, I was one of the smart kids. I kept to myself, remained modest, and pretty much only spoke when spoken to. I was put in an extra class with a handful of other students called highly abled learners. As the only black male in the class, I heard that I acted white (actually middle-class white) throughout my primary education because of the ways I spoke and presented myself. There was also a difference between being deemed “smart” and black and smart. If a white student excelled, it was viewed as normal. But at the same time, I realized there were structural disadvantages for working- and lower-class blacks in school systems, hindering their success. So I’m blessed and lucky to be where I am today. Back then I tried to compensate for my stigmatized intelligence by playing basketball at recess and brushing waves in my hair to seem more like what others expected of me. On the court I felt simultaneously safe and out of place. We were all kids who didn’t have a lot of money and didn’t act like we were better than anybody else. I didn’t talk or walk like my friends: I didn’t like the same things. However, with pride in our hometown, there was a mutual respect across class boundaries.

I first realized that Flint was different on my sixth birthday. The party was at Chuck E. Cheese and everything was going just fine. I had pizza and got plenty of tokens so it was a good day. When my party was ending, a dispute developed nearby between two women and the police were called. Pepper spray filled the building and everyone scrambled out. But experiences like this were far from the norm in my area of Flint.

This experience may paint a bad picture, but I’m also proud to boast of our surging downtown area, exceptional arts district, and one of the best farmers’ markets in the country. I wish more effort would be put into nearby ghettos and abandoned areas. It always bothers me when people deem places “bad neighborhoods” or “not nice areas” because of what a few parts of my town look like. I know people see a liquor store and a couple of left-behind businesses and freak out, but nobody is going to get hurt. My grandmother used to live in what people called the “hood,” but we were always safe when visiting. My great uncle has a large garden in his backyard complete with corn stalks, potatoes, and green produce. The majority of people aren’t bad and rundown buildings aren’t necessarily a reflection of citizens’ actions and characters. There are just a few bad apples, like in every city, that tarnish the overall perception.

Some people who live in Flint suburbs judge the area and its residents (we’re called Flintstones) based on what they’ve heard in the media and from others. Granted, the news calls attention to inner-city crime and shootings, but it is often implied all Flintstones are less educated, poor, and dangerous. And some of those distinctions may be true, but discrimination based on assumptions is wrong. Years ago at a high school baseball game, our opponents’ fans and parents called my teammate a nigger. Racism wasn’t and isn’t dead. Some are still ignorant and stupid in their ways, but we still must love them to make progress in changing hearts. We’re still far from overcoming race and social class discrimination. This is possible, but the more hate and lack of acceptance in news and social media prevents a shared vision of a more united country. But I still have hope. No matter someone’s race, religion, or class status, I intend to treat him or her with the utmost respect as I see in all God’s children. John 13:34–35 says: “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

For the overwhelming majority of my time here at the University of Michigan, I have been respected and accepted by peers in regard to my race and social class background. But during one of my first weeks, I had a contrasting experience. One day I wore a blue hat coming out of my dorm room and my neighbor asked: “Do you work in the dining hall?” My hat and the dining hall workers hats were both navy blue. I politely said no and didn’t think anything of it, but my other neighbors who saw and heard the interaction thought his question was racist since he asked me, a black person. I thought it more saddening that my peers insinuated working at the dining hall was a job for lower-income people and associated blackness with that work. There’s nothing wrong with being black and there’s nothing wrong with working at the dining hall. Nine dollars an hour is a hell of a wage for college kids, no matter their race, their class, or how much money they’re getting from parents. But my peers didn’t have to work in college like I do. Perhaps they do now. But I wonder about their thinking three years later as we’ve all matured and learned exponentially more about how the world works, how other people live, and how they think.

The summer after my freshman year, I worked for the university cleaning bathrooms and painting dorm rooms in Alice Lloyd Hall. Not only did I work with friends, but also with the same people I saw cleaning dorms while attending school in the 2014–2015 school year. I have always cleaned up after myself and said hello to the custodian who worked on my floor. But actually doing the work gave me the opportunity to know some of the workers better and have a greater appreciation for what they do. They were normal, quick-talking, and hardworking people. I was astounded by how many students didn’t have them in mind when they left behind trashed rooms and horrible messes. And through working with the staff who were from the working class, I saw they weren’t any different from me. I wondered if other Michigan students agreed. But I’m afraid many students saw these jobs as inferior, less prestigious and sophisticated. But every job has a learning curve, and without these people, the dorms wouldn’t be able to function. You can’t live in a dorm when no one takes out the trash, cleans the showers, or fixes broken light fixtures. And I doubt everyone wouldn’t be game to clean toilets all summer like I did. I miss the housing facility workers and their camaraderie, as well as their jokes and kind hearts. I’m pleased to have met them and gotten to know them on a personal level.

There have been times during my time at Michigan when I wished for a more career-advancing opportunity or internships like my more affluent peers. I’ll admit that having money is great in this capitalist country. Along with more money, there is also the aspect of social capital. In a competitive career market, it isn’t always about what you know, but about whom you know. Some people, along with their merit, may be able to get certain jobs by way of community or parental connections. And connections come with the territory of wealth. I may know a mechanic I can go to with my background, but I don’t know who can help with obtaining a job or internship. I wish the University of Michigan could better facilitate career connections for those from less affluent backgrounds.

All in all, I’m very fortunate to have had the chance to study at Michigan. I’m blessed to have earned scholarships that help pay for educational expenses. I’m lucky to have parents to guide me when I’m in need of direction. I may be a racial and social class minority on campus, but based on my family’s income and my race, I have always felt welcome and safe. I can only speak for myself, but I’m glad to have chosen the University of Michigan despite the sometimes acute competitiveness and stressors here in Ann Arbor. Social class hasn’t been that much of an issue, as my scholarships and side jobs help out a lot. And, of course, my parents are able to generously help when I ask.

I began this essay with a joke because sometimes humor can be a very effective way to strike a nerve or relate to people. From my perspective, middle-class people like myself are privileged enough to laugh at minor misfortunes and pain. We’re fortunate to have basic needs met for the majority of our days. Some communities and families aren’t as lucky. Class struggles, differences, and suffering aren’t funny; trying to laugh is a sort of middle-class self-schadenfreude (a way to take a little pleasure in minor pain the comfortable middle-class experiences). One of my family’s favorite TV shows is The Middle. It’s about a middle-class Midwestern family that hilariously and heartwarmingly struggles through family relations, expenses, and what discomfort they must endure. My family relates by laughing about the broken wheel bearings and metal squeals of our car, the leaky dishwasher, and how many times we’ve replaced the bathroom tub’s cold handle on the right side with a pair of pliers. We laugh about it, live, keep working, and get along just fine.