Somewhere, up in space, floats a small time capsule. In it are more than 1,000 interviews etched on silicon wafers and encoded DNA experiments collected by a group of University of Michigan students and faculty. The group, named the Michigan Bicentennial Archive, launched the capsule into orbit in 2017 in hope of its eventual return to earth a century later. Said return would inform the next generation of U-M students of its internal contents, largely discussing hope for the University’s future and testifying to its commitment toward continued technological achievement. It wasn’t sent without a touch of ego, though; the group is proud that their capsule does not lay dormant like those buried in the dirt or under the Pumas outside of the U-M Museum of Natural History. Further, it is up to the class of 2117 to design the mission to retrieve it, because to M-BARC, they would “rather send our successors on a glorious chase, and they must emerge triumphant to hear our voices.”
So, in an abundance of caution — assuming there isn’t a successor up to the task of using a laser to find the satellite’s built-in reflectors or if the contents cannot survive radiation — I would like to assemble my own small, terrestrial time capsule that is slightly less susceptible to other-worldly complications.
To do this, I took to the Bentley Historical Library, a compact brick building that sits quietly on North Campus as it shelves the history of our campus within thousands of donated student scrapbooks, files and ephemera. But instead of simply including a few images or recounting what happened in Ann Arbor this year (you can get that from reading The Michigan Daily, of course), this very “unscientific” attempt seeks to explore what can change in a century while also recognizing what remains constant. These words, stories and people are very much alive and far from being dormant or distant.
And you, the reader in the class of 2124, will have the opportunity and privilege to not only be a part of it, but learn from it. I know this because right now, I am you.
1924
The then-largest class in history shuffled into Ferry Field, filling every seat as they awaited to receive their diplomas and hear the commencement address following the morning rain. The ’20s were certainly “roaring” and were perhaps the best time to be an undergraduate. Throughout their time on campus, some students exchanged poetry with Robert Frost, others strolled among the first peonies to be planted in Nichols Arboretum and those with a radio listened in to the Paris Olympic games as classmate William DeHart Hubbard became the first Black athlete to win an individual Olympic gold medal.
U-M administration planned for a boom in Ann Arbor to mirror that of the broader bustling landscape of the United States. The construction of Angell Hall was complete, fronted by a row of bold stone columns and sloping steps, providing the perfect place to study, sunbathe, smoke and roller skate. Nearby was the newly finished Lawyers Club, William Clements Library, Yost Field House and numerous housing solutions for the growing student body no longer burdened by war. For this — though there were no (legal) toasts of champagne — there was much to celebrate.
Among the 1,800 graduates of the class of ’24 sat Ruth Harvey, a native Michigander and resident of the Adelia Cheever house. Upon parsing through Harvey’s personal scrapbook, it was clear she was a frequenter of the many themed costume parties, dances, operas and games hosted on campus. But perhaps most important to Harvey was her status as a “Cheever gal,” selected to live in the all-female boarding house based on her demonstrated “high character, fine personality and scholarship.” According to records, Harvey had to pay $172 per semester to reside in the dormitory on East Madison Street and abide by the Cheever handbook, which contained a collection of chants and rules including stipulations, like a strict nightly curfew, sign-out process, barring of male guests and a ban on wearing blue jeans (to name a few). Also within the handbook was the “gals” commitment to expanding leadership opportunities, community engagement and broadened global perspectives.
Harvey’s photograph collection and saved notes did not indicate whether she broke the “no necking or petting” rule or took unsupervised dips in the Huron River (history will never know), but it did reveal that the connections she made lasted decades after graduation, despite obstacles like the quickly impending stock market crash, World War II and the demolition of the Cheever House to make way for South Quad Residence Hall. Harvey would go on to travel with and document her fellow “Cheever gals” everywhere from local Michigan beach towns to London for their annual reunions and policy conversations — removing their mortarboards to reveal strands of gray and white hair. Harvey’s time at the University (filed into three leather-bound scrapbooks) reveals the possibility of finding lifelong community in the people you meet all while never aging out of your purpose.
Courtesy of The Bentley Historical Library and the Ruth Harvey Miller Scrapbook.
While it is unknown if their paths crossed, class of ’24 graduate Alena Grace Edmonds also received her diploma on the rainy day in June 1924. Edmonds’ time at the University was well documented in her U-M “Memory Book,” logging the names, birthdays and important notes of each of her friends as well as the dates, occasions and purpose of the social events she attended. When not studying, Edmonds frequented teas, lunches and dances with her Martha Cook Building roommate Beatrice (who she endearingly nicknamed “beets” and “cheesebox”).
Courtesy of The Bentley Historical Library and a Grace Edmonds Scrapbook.
A member of the Women’s League, Edmonds periodically donated $10 to support the artistic, athletic and building initiatives for female students who had yet to obtain a gathering space bigger than an office in the Barbour Gymnasium. Donations like hers helped contribute to raising $1 million to build the Michigan League, making Edmonds a small piece of a larger push to create the space for female scholars and athletes of today to learn, create, compete and thrive.
Left and Right: Courtesy of the 1924 Edition of The Michiganensian. Middle: Courtesy of The Bentley Historical Library.
2024
I am unable to connect with 1924 graduates like Harvey and Edmonds beyond reading their entries and letters and looking at their photographs and preserved ephemera. But if I could, in some extraterrestrial way, there is so much more that I wish I could learn and say.
First, I would tell them that the University no longer sells scrapbooks of brittle, black carbon paper, and instead students capture photos in full color to then share digitally. Women sport jeans and other types of pants as they sit in class, returning home to no curfew or sign-in sheet. Female athletes have achieved incredible victories, yet still have so much more to win. Triumphantly, I write this sentence seated in the foyer of the finished Michigan League — surrounded by students of all backgrounds, majors and passions who are likely unaware of its rich history. Oh, how I wish you, Ruth and Alena, had the chance to study, gather and perform here, too.
Not all has changed, though. Students still give each other funny nicknames and dress in homemade costumes for absurdly themed parties. Living communities and other campus organizations very much exist and are the heartbeat of campus, constantly pushing for change in our world. Many soon-to-be graduates have planned reunion trips, exchanged addresses and phone numbers to stay in touch as we go on to fill other corners of the earth.
Before leaving, many will take their last glances of the ratty sneakers on power lines, hammocks roped around trees, red Solo cups on sticky tables, smatterings of construction sites, a lack of empty chairs and outlets, kayaks floating down the Huron River, releases of exhaust from a Blue Bus, echoes from the Diag and first dates in the UMMA to breakups in local parking lots.
The reality is, we won’t be able to return to this view, this version of campus in 100 years. In a cynical sense, we will be dead. But also, it will have changed.
Because the expanding digital age will hopefully allow for greater preservation of all that the class of 2024 has achieved and lived through (at least better than that of paper or space matter), I trust that future generations will be eager in digging through the webpages of The Michigan Daily and photographs of today to compare the events and culture of the time. But what will not be preserved, or effectively communicated more likely, is the feelings of what it means to be a graduate in 2024. So to avoid being lost among the stars, let us tell you about how we feel and what we hope your view looks like in 2124.
***
To me, being a graduate in the class of 2024 is a feeling that makes my hands subtly sweat on my laptop, wakes me up minutes before my alarm, triggers flashbacks at each recognized corner or crack in the pavement. It can be both bitter or sweet, welcomed or feared, and is ultimately shaped by our unique passions, organizational involvements and purpose.
Public Policy senior Rose Reilly, president of Turn Up Turnout, feels gratitude for all that has happened during her time on campus as a student and a leader. A core memory for Reilly includes waking up at 6 a.m. to talk to voters, harbor their excitement, help them register and pass out cups of coffee during the 2022 midterm elections. The result was record voter turnout among young voters and the cementation of the legal and cultural role that the state of Michigan has in championing voter accessibility — a democratic feat that she hopes students beyond just those in Ann Arbor continue.
Organizations like Turn Up Turnout have expanded tabling efforts and completed groundwork to personalize and strengthen the student culture and confidence surrounding voting — efforts that Reilly considers to be rare on many college campuses.
“We’re at a really instrumental time in determining the future of our democracy,” Reilly said. “It’s my sincere hope, and it’s what I hope to commit my career to, that we preserve democracy by making voting accessible and easy for every American.”
A century ago, female graduates like Harvey and Edmonds would be eligible to vote in their first election.
Projecting into the future, Reilly said, “It’s my hope that in 2124, students remain at the center of voter accessibility, because if they do not, this work will not be done to the level of success that it is when students are key drivers in promoting voting and in shaping the way that democracy is exercised on our campus.”
Engineering senior Megan Mathews feels both excitement and relief for graduating, given the class of 2024’s ability to overcome barriers like navigating the COVID-19 pandemic and gaining equal representation as a female club hockey player.
Mathews’ teammate and fellow Engineering senior Katie Christiansen shares similar sentiment as she describes graduating and concluding her time on the team as being unbelievable.
“When we joined sophomore year, not a lot of people knew about our team, and we were just getting hand-me-down jerseys and old equipment,” Christiansen said.
Thanks to record-breaking wins, an empowered coaching staff and extensive media coverage, Christiansen and Mathews have watched the program nearly quadruple in size, attracting strong talent who chose to balance playing club hockey with their studies, despite it having the pace and demands of a varsity sport. Such apparent growth has initiated talks with U-M administration toward achieving varsity and NCAA status, a first for the state of Michigan and a major feat for underrepresented club sports on campus. The next barrier to overcome — despite more than a century of activism and fund collections from graduates like Edmonds — is where the team will be housed.
One-hundred years ago, athletic facilities, including the Yost Ice Arena, were designed and constructed to showcase select U-M athletes, sending other sports into what Mathews describes as a seemingly forced hiding. While many of these buildings still stand, to Matthews and Christiansen, their design needs an update that cannot wait another century.
“I don’t know what it feels like to be hidden, because right now, with all the media attention that we’re getting, we are very much not hidden,” Matthews said. “If female athletes a hundred years ago had this same experience, I’m sure they would feel a lot more empowered and could get a lot more done.”
As a former managing editor for The Michigan Daily, I feel its nature of hopefulness when I see a staffer set their bag down on the stained carpet of the newsroom as they prepare for a pitch meeting. A century ago, there were only a dozen or so female staffers on the Daily. But today, I have confidence that one girl out of a staff of more than 600 will make the lasting friendships that I made and have even greater opportunities than I did. Because even in 100 years, when print newspapers are a relic of the past, independent student journalism will never cease nor lose its relevance. There is so much left to cover, stories to take out of hiding, profiles left to spotlight and champion. It is my hope that in 2124 there will be talented writers, visionaries, leaders up to the task.
One last note (not subject to the risks of radiation)
The University of Michigan is not done growing, not nearly capable of housing all of the talent it fosters, not perfect in its policies or its culture. No collection of words or space capsule can represent all that this University means in the present nor what it can do in the future. Yet within each of us, it fits neatly. To you, the reader, how does it make you feel? What will you get done here? In 100 years from now, I hope you’ll tell it.
Statement Contributor and former Managing Editor Julia Verklan can be reached at jvmalo@umich.edu.