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These are the last days of my childhood, and since I’m 22, that’s a weird statement to type.

I’ve been a student since I was six years old, which makes it one of my longest standing identities, but as of this Saturday, that’s about to change. Graduation is coming, and with it shatters the protective barrier that academia has provided between me and the real world. I feel like Superman being shot off of my home planet into a strange new world, only instead of being granted super powers I’m left only with the thought that I should’ve learned something. My uncle asked me the other day what skills I’d actually learned from my time at U of M, and since I’m graduating with a double major in English and Creative Writing, I told him that what I know is how to bullshit in spoken word and in written (and if you’ve been reading my poems on here than you know all about that ((or do you, who knows, now I can’t be trusted muwahaha (((are there better things in life to aspire to than being an unreliable narrator?)))))).

I’m not proud of what I just did with those parentheses.

What does any of that have to do with art though? That’s a great question, one that I’m hopefully weaving my way towards an answer to at the same rate that you’re reading along with this post. I guess the thing about being a student that really matters is not what you learn from your classes or writing essays, but what you learn about what it means to be a student. I’m not talking about figuring out how to calculate how many espresso shots it’s going to take to write that last 8-9 page essay that’s standing between you and a cap and gown, but what being a student really is–and I’m going to assert that it’s not as much an identity as a mindset.

Being a student isn’t about what you learn, it’s about being a seeker of truth who is open to knowledge from all sorts of sources. Sure I might be leaving the university world of burritos and books written about articles written about things that were written about people who died a long, long time ago, but why in the hell would that mean I’m no longer a student? Sure it’s cheesy, but what’s wrong with being a student of life?

Nevertheless, where does the art come in? And I guess my only answer to that question is how should I know?

Okay, that’s not exactly true because my other answer is this: if art is the process of gathering up all these crazy things that appear to be separate and then putting them all together (be it on canvas, a marble slab, a sheet of paper, etc…) in such a way as to reveal that they’re not actually separate at all, then art is absolutely about learning. When we look at art, we are students to a lesson in perspective shifting the way tectonic plates form new landmasses, only these continents are cranial and the eruptions are expressions of a soul that everybody shares! Art is about beauty and about passion, but it’s the learning of these that allows for their celebration and understanding only ever fleeting at the periphery of perception, consciousness only ever condescending for a moment to lower itself into the stars of the cosmos.

That’s what I’m going to follow, or at least to try–those split second snapshots of reality through the constant illusions of my own limited perception. Because that’s what art is about (or what I’m choosing for it to be about for me) and what life is about (same disclaimer) and what being a student is about (no qualifier this time, deal with it). So these might be the last days of my childhood, but I’ll spend all the rest of the ones allotted to me as a student.

Has it ever occurred to you that something you may do well (cooking, writing, styling) is being imitated by one of your friends right now? Something you thought to be a silly technique or preference that you’ve adopted, may be an action that has inspired the people around you to change their spaghetti recipe or their hair style. Imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Some people in this day in age get so worked up over the idea that someone is ripping them off, trying to be like them, and are unoriginal, that they haven’t stopped to realize who would we all be if we didn’t imitate the great ideas of others and bring them into our everyday lives?

I decided to start wearing my hair curly. I switched out all of my products for all-natural sprays, conditioners, shampoos, you name it. I stopped using heat and progressively my curly hair became poofy and healthy. Friends and family members saw this, admired the dedication I had to this one aspect of my life, and…well…imitated it! They asked me what I did to get it this way, what technique did I use, how did I style it, and of course I explained it all, but I was a little taken aback. I thought, “jeez, why is everyone trying to rip off something that I’m doing?” But then after awhile I realized, these people that are asking me for tips on my hair are asking me because they enjoy what I’m doing, they think it works, and they want to be just as adventurous in their life as I seemed to be in mine. I couldn’t help but feel flattered.

Of course there is the fine line between imitation and straight-up stealing. In the creative fields, whether you put your all into a project, a song, a design, seeing it reproduced by someone online or in your community, without giving credit, can be the greatest insult ever. When someone works hard at creating an expressive form of their own art, whether it be a song, poem, or dress, it means something to them that is beyond a silly attempt at creating a similar hairstyle. Inspiration is an uplifting feeling, giving us the ability to think beyond what we’ve been capable of, and utilize the thoughts of others to show us a new path. Be yourself, but also don’t be afraid to be inspired by others and imitate a little. This world is full of splashes of imitation mixed with innovation; you never know what could come of showing a little flattery.

Sometimes, when I’m in Ann Arbor, I walk to Main Street, just so I can see people over the age of 25. Then I imagine I’m somewhere else.

I wish I could say that I love college. I really do. And my dislike of the environment isn’t that I haven’t learned so much about others and myself in my three years here. It isn’t that I haven’t been inspired by certain instructors. I think it’s mostly that I feel an overwhelming sense of exhaustion that comes with living in this bubble of a college town. I feel like the sleepless nights I’ve spent writing and studying have made me age at least 40 years. I feel like institutions of any variety naturally suppress creativity.

For instance, a few days ago, I handed in an essay about the pedestal in this poem.

Please let that sink in.

I spent hours upon hours of my life writing about a pedestal.

One of my greatest fears is that we each have a quota of creativity — a set number of words or ideas in our minds of which we can possibly run out. In fact, in a class this term, we learned about Joseph Mitchell, the reporter for The New Yorker who wrote Joe Gould’s Secret. We learned that that was the last significant work he produced. After its publication, he would go to his office, shut the door, and go home at the end of the day. His coworkers have stated that they barely heard typing and that he never yielded much else. I wonder if he was happy at the end of his life, because the way by which people have described him in his later years makes me terrified. They say he was detached. They note that he would nod at people in the hallways and keep walking and sigh and cut himself off from others. I am so scared of becoming a ghost that haunts the Earth while my heart is still beating.

And this semester has amplified my fear . . .

For a month, I had been researching and writing on the refugee shelter, Freedom House, in Detroit. Residents who were seeking asylum here in the U.S. trusted me with their stories in interviews and I viewed it as my responsibility to portray them accurately in my final piece. After pouring so much time and energy into this project, I moved on to my pedestal essay and simply could not bring myself to care about it. Like Mitchell, I was detached. I ignored phone calls and text messages and stared at my Word document, thinking that I just didn’t have it in me to string sentences together. I would walk to class and nod to acquaintances on the sidewalk and sigh and keep walking.

After spending so much time listening to both optimistic and heartbreaking stories from the residents at Freedom House, all of my other class work seemed so utterly meaningless. I wanted to print my pedestal essay and burn it out of rage. I often found myself wondering — what am I even doing here? In my walks down Main Street, I wanted to just keep going until I passed the city limits and left all of my problems behind me.

One day, after having one of these walking existential crises, I became particularly annoyed when a professor with the most uncaring attitude and a monotone voice to match literally called himself “an intellectual” in class. Now, he may very well be that, but to grant yourself such an title . . . God. I realized that I cannot stand professors who take their job name so literally — i.e. they feel that the only responsibility they have is to profess. It’s as if they are those people who shout that we’re all going to Hell on the Diag — thinking they’re helping the world by pointing out how wrong it is. To be a professor, you need to prove that what you’re professing matters. You need to teach. You need to inspire your students to give a damn. You need to realize that your Ph.D. does not make you invincible. I’ve spoken to so many refugees with advanced degrees in their home countries over the past year. They are struggling with the fact that they will need to essentially start their college education over in America. However, as I listen, what strikes me most in their voices is an unwavering sense of hope that gaining another degree will absolutely be possible. And after hours of staring at my horrible poem analysis, I started thinking of these people and truly understanding how inspiring they are. Because if they’re willing to spend years writing pedestal essays again, I shouldn’t be struggling to finish mine once.

I will graduate from this university eventually and I’m looking forward to it. I’m excited for the day when I can gaze at my elaborately scripted name on the diploma I’ve lost so much sleep and money for. But I don’t expect to feel some sort of magical transformation upon holding that paper in my hands. In my interview with Freedom House’s Case Manager and former resident, Lucy Neighbor, she explained how she helps asylum seekers when they are doubting their abilities to begin again in the U.S. “It’s not a degree that defines you,” she tells them. “It’s what’s in your heart.”

I first heard about Charles Bradley about a week before I saw him at the Blind Pig, when I discovered a youtube video of Bradley performing the song ‘Why is It so Hard’ with the Menahan Street Band. The sweat beads on the perfomer’s face as he belts about the hardships of trying to make it in America, his powerful voice channeling pastgospel and soul legends. Born in Gainesville Florida, Bradley ran away from home at the age of fourteen due to poor living conditions, and lived on the streets for two years until enlisting in the job corps and training as a chef. A recently released documentary  on Bradley’s life, called ‘Soul of America,’ follows Bradley’s story, describing how he endured extreme poverty, life-threatening illness, and the murder of his brother. In 1997, after moving back in with his mother in Brooklyn, Bradley began moonlighting as a James Brown impersonator under the moniker ‘Black Velvet’ in local clubs and bars, where until he was discovered and signed by Daptone Recodrs. Daptone is a label known for their retro-soul revivalism, signing and producing artists who celebrate the feel of funk and soul music from the 1960s and 1970s (such as the renowned Sharon Jones). Since his discovery, Bradley has worked with The Menahan Street Band, releasing several songs co-written by guitarist Tom Brenneck on Bradley’s debut album in 2011.

This past Thursday, Bradley played at Ann Arbor’s The Blind Pig with a seven piece backing band billed as his ‘Extraordinaires.’ Bradley arrived onstage after enthusiastic keyboardist MC appropriately hyped the crowd, and burst into an hour and a half long set.

The Extraordinaries consisted of a tenor saxophone and a trumpeter, who exhibited their restrained yet synchronized dance moves while generally leading the band, an enthusiastic funk keyboardist, who MC’d while Bradley exited for a costume change, and a typically languid drummer and subdued bassist exchanged meaningful nods with each other, and two guitarists. The band was tight and high energy, with the outstanding horn section dominating the backups in the style of Sharon Jones’s backing band “The Dap-Kings’. Bradley himself appeared older and smaller in stature than in the videos I had seen, but he gave a highly energetic performance, complete with dance moves and outfits that he may have retained from his James Brown impersonation. But while his stage presence was dynamic, Bradley’s voice was truly the star of the show, a force of nature whose sheer soul and power has led critics to compare Bradley to Curtis Mayfield and Al Green. Bradley’s voice was was powerful in the small venue, and he interspersed songs with some with abbreviated story-telling, occasionally declaring – gospel-style, while the bass and drums still pulsed at an instrumental break– that we were not his fans but his brothers and sisters, or urging us to all find true love. He seemed truly connected to the audience, touched by the screams and cheers of the packed venue, and the fans reciprocated, reaching out to touch the singer, shake his hand, and exchange words.

The performance was dynamic, high-energy, and touching. The first song I heard of Bradley’s, Why is It So Hard, was also the singer’s encore performance. Though I had interpreted the song as a response to the hollow reality of the American Dream, or an ode to the traumas of Bradley’s life, the energy behind his delivery was overwhelmingly positive.

The show ended when Bradley spontaneously jumped off the stage and into the crowd, the Extraordinaires pounding out the chorus as the divo made his way towards the back of the venue, hugging fans and shaking hands.

These past couple of years have seen the commendable growth of the amount of women in the rap industry. I really began to take notice when Nicki Manaj started showing up on several of Young Money’s more popular tracks such as “Bed Rock” and Lil Wayne’s “Knockout.” This was a lot of talent and exposure for someone who hadn’t even released her own album yet. Not long after Nicki’s fame began to spread followed a handful of other young women who, little by little, started venturing into this male dominated music genre. Up until this point, the category of female rap had been a mostly one woman at a time kind of thing. Lil Kim and Missy Elliott were sort of the household names in female rap when I was coming into appreciation of the genre, and even then I mostly heard them on other (male) artist’s tracks.

When Nicki Manaj came along, there was a glimmer of hope that the exclusivity of the male rap world was opening up a door to women. Unfortunately, Nicki Manaj has had to forfeit a lot of her natural talent in order to fit into the pop world (the genre where women are allowed to flourish). Her gritty, risqué, and clever verses of her earlier days had to be sacrificed to mould her into the sexy, colorful, ideal of femininity that pop culture constantly produces and reproduces. Though the lure of pop fame is hard to resist, this did not hush the other female rappers out there searching to get their name out into the rap world. Not much later, Kreayshawn dropped her “Gucci Gucci,” Azealia Banks’ “212” blew up, and now we finally have Iggy Azalea’s “Fancy” playing on top 40 radio. I’m not saying I love all of these songs, I don’t, but it’s about time women were allowed to break the stigma that the genre of pop is the only place for female artists to find success. This means more than just rap. Blues, alternative, and punk/hardcore are all traditionally male dominated music genres. I commend all the women who have broken into the boys club that is subculture musical genres, such as “Queen of the Blues,” Koko Taylor and pop-punk lead vocalist of Tonight Alive, Jenna McDougall.

Unfortunately, it’s still hard for society to except more than one female and the media is pitting these artists against one another as if there can be only one, for example, female rapper. It’s that kind of logic that keeps carbon copies of the same girl circulating through the mass media. So, I task you this Summer to get out there and support female artists. Not one, not two, not as a feature in some male artist’s song, but as talented and diverse wealth of untapped talent.