The hustle and bustle of life at the University of Higher Education is loud, fast and destructive. Walk through Diago at any sunlit hour on a weekday and you’ll be overwhelmed by the stamping of expensive shoes and the rustling of wine boxes in your backpacks. The number of bodies going in different directions disrupts the natural wind regime, making it easy to rush through this uncomfortable center. You were lucky to pass without being persuaded by some performers handing out flyers with the last performance. Or some club member asks you to buy a donut.

When I’m on campus, I get from point A to point B. God forbid I make awkward eye contact with anyone, to think I know, but can’t be sure of their masks. Avoid last-minute smiles and awkward waving of hands that may come when recognizing a classmate. Avoid Diago’s tables, rush past the slow walkers, try to turn off Ross’s holes and their complaints about any economic test they nearly passed.

I may be alone in my methods of blocking campus noise, but I don’t think I’m alone in my act of entering a more personal realm when I enter campus. Consciously or not, every species of Wolverine exists in its own world while on campus. Their world can sit at this Diag table and raise money for a club, or their world can face another through a conversation about what can and can’t be done on social media. But few of these worlds go beyond academia and into the wider Ann Arbor community and the beauty of the world. I am also to blame for this ignorance of my surroundings, which is why spending a spring break in Ann Arbor was so special.

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