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Wednesday, Octcber 9, 20 !,' The Statement

letter from the editor
These are yours, ours, everyone's statements. This issue
is filled with stories about life's experiences that resonat-
ed in our souls, so much that we had to put them on our
pages. Writing can be a cathartic process, a way to wrestle
through emotions, a moment to gain more understanding
and - if we're lucky - peace. I was lucky enough to read
through many stories and see those moments of clarity.
But I was also entrusted to select only six personal state-
ments for these pages. Some are funny, some are sad, but
all are the reality. One personal statement is published in
The Statement regularly, but this week, we dedicate the
issue to those moments where you speak to us.

The t me was impeached
by Matthew Slovin

CONNECTIONS CONFERENCE
J REGIEI: LSA.UMICH.EDU/LSAIT/CONNECTIONS
THE KALEIDOSCOPE OF U-M
OC l ° TECHNOLOGY FOR RESEARCHERS

44 ey, gorgeous."
It's been three and ahalfyears
since Papa died, but I can still
hear his familiar, embarrass-
ing greeting. He came to my house almost every day
when I was growing up, and the greeting was a tradi-
tion that had sprung up over the years. He'd walk in
and say his hello, and I'd run over and give him a hug,
blushing. After, we would sit in the family room and
watch the Tigers game or Michigan football together.
It may not seem like much, but it's one of the
things I miss most about him.
Papa Henry, my father's father, was ahard worker,
fiercely loyal to family and, above all, he was kind. In
the almost 18 years I got to spend with him, I never
once heard him say something negative or hurtful
about someone.
He was a good man, and he made me a better
person.
Papa was a joker, constantly making us all laugh,
even if we had heard the joke once or twice before.
He was a favorite among friends and strangers alike.
He loved crossword puzzles, and he fell asleep every
time he picked upa book.
On days when I thought the world was out to get
me, he was my ally, comforting me when the tears
wouldn't stop. And when I felt insecure, Papa was
there with a bologna and mustard sandwich, ready-
to make it better.
He had a big heart, and he filled it with family. My
grandma was the love of his life, and they had a mar-
riage any couple would be lucky to have. He raised
both of his sons to be respectful and kind. From
driving my cousin, D.J., to school each morning, to
sitting through every last one of my dance recitals,
he loved each of his grandchildren unconditionally,
and continuously showed it.
The memories, of course, are endless. But my
favorites revolve around our annual family trip to
Traverse City, We were all on different schedules,
but every year we set aside time for the Family Vaca-
tion because Papa wanted us all together. Truthfully,
the games of putt-putt, rounds of go-carts, family
softball games and sand castle-building competi-
tions are some of the best times my family has had
together. We still go to Traverse City every year, and
we still have a great time, though his sunburnt feet
are noticeably absent.
Papa was a family man, but he was also one of
the biggest sports fans I've ever known. Base-

ball was his game, but he loved Michigan athlet-
ics, too. My first game at the Big House, I was
sandwiched between him and my dad, trying
to learn the chants as I reveled in the glory of
Michigan football.
Admittedly, I don't remember if we won or lost
that game. But I do remember Papa let me bor-
row his Maize and Blue cap to keep the sun out
of my eyes.
He loved Michigan, but Papa didn't go to college.
He had ten brothers and sisters, and his parents just
couldn't afford it.
when I was growing up, Nana and Papa would
bring over bags and bags of presents every Christ-
mas for their four - and eventually five - grandchil-
dren. When Papa was a child, the Salvation Army
brought him a pair of shoes every December.
Buthe, and Nanaworked incrediblyhard and sent
both of their children to college. In that regard, Papa
is the epitome of the American Dream. He worked
tirelessly, painting houses and eventually working
for General Motors, so he could give his family what
he himself never had. For his children, it meant that
they would receive a college education.
For me, it meant a college degree from the Uni-
versity of Michigan, specifically. My family has bled
Maize and Blue for generations. Michigan was my
dream - and Papa was my biggest supporter.
So growing up, I studied hard, I played sports, I
joined clubs andI watched every Michigan game with
my family on TV.I sang "The Victors" with the rest of
my family when my sister was accepted in 2008, and
I explored the campus with her, wide-eyed, counting
down the days until I could join her in Ann Arbor.
Everything was running smoothly, until it wasn't.
Papa passed away two weeks before my high-school
graduation. It happened so quickly, we didn't get to
say goodbye, and Papa never knew that my dream of
attending the University would come true. I trans-
ferred here in my sophomore year.
It wasn't fair, but that's how it went.
At the time, it felt like I lost my best friend. Some-
times, it still does. Almost four years later, I still cry
when I try to talk about him. Writing helps.
When I graduate from the University this May, I
know Papa won't be in the Big House with me. But
I know how proud he would be of me, and I'm so
thankful for the 18 years I got to spend with him.
Alicia is an LSA senior and Daily news editor.

ot many people are able to say they
held the distinction of being stu-
dent council president. Far fewer
can say they ascended to that position in
the fourth grade because, well, how many
elementary schools have a stu-
dent council?
But I can say, with near
certainty, that I was the only
grade-school politician to have
been brought down by a water-
gate-esque scandal - the likes
of which Cincinnati's Maple
Dale Elementary. had never
seen before.
Yes, that's right. I was
impeached as student coun-
cil president before I had even
reached middle school. My
political career was over before
it truly began. Had it not ended
so abruptly, maybe I wouldn't
have chosen a career as a politi-
can's best friend and worst
enemy - a journalist. Perhaps
I'd have stuck with politics and,
you know, actually made money
the rest of my life.
But I digress. Back to that
fateful day at recess.°
It was a beautiful fall Mid-
western day, and my term
as president could not have
been going any better. The
year before, I began my politi-
cal career as vice president
but quickly rose to top dog
with a coup that would make
even Frank Underwood from
"House of Cards" green with
envy. Either that, or the kid
who Ihad served under passed fourth grade
and moved on to middle school. You choose.
Approval ratings were high. I success-
fully strong-armed the cafeteria ladies
into serving pizza one day a week (You can
blame the childhood obesity epidemic on
me.). On rainy days, during indoor recess,
I made good on my campaign promise of a
copy of "Oregon Trail" in every classroom.
But it all came crashing down faster than
all of my "Oregon Trail" characters could
contract cholera.
The end of my presidency began, like all
political demises do, with a game of kick-
ball.
I was an above-average, if unspectacular,
athlete in that day, long before I switched
from playing sports to writing about them.
Later in life, I would score a left-footed slid-
ing goal to send a playoff soccer game into
overtime before celebrating a la Brandi
Chastain. I'd knock down 3-pointer after
3-pointer to defeat the local Jewish day
school (a basketball. powerhouse at the

d


time) in a shooting display that came from the bases, probably jawing at the pitcher ifI obstacles, who I'll call Charlotte.
literally no where. Seriously, I have no idea know my smartass fourth-grade self as well I was familiar with Charlotte. Her moth-
what came over me that day. I'm a horrible as I should. er was president of the school's parent
basketball player. I didn't observe the rubber ball land teacher organization.
And yet, neither I, nor the kickball field- and, if I'm to believe the principal, collide I felt bad for her. I really did. Until the

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next words came out of the
principal's mouth.
The mother and daugh-
ter were alleging that a
classmate had paid me $3
in exchange for kicking the
ball in the general direction
of the girls - in essence, a
playground hit on an inno-
cent child.
I was appalled. I wasn't
sure which part of the tfdi-
crous accusation to debunk
first. The idea that I, non-
violent by nature, could
be bought so cheaply, still
offends me to this day.
It was around this time
when the principal informed
me that this kind of conduct
was not appropriate for the
student council president
and, because of that, I would
be removed from that posi-
tion. So she didn't actor'
use the word impeached.
Whatever. We both knew
what this was.
There were tears. Surely,
this had nothing to do with
Charlotte's mother's role as
PTO president which, in
those days, apparently
meant something other than
AN MULHOLLAND she had a little too much time
on her hands.
My mom, on the other hand, was livid,
as I later found out. She-knew her son was
incapable of intentionally harming anyone,
let alone a girl. I faked sick on the day we
dissected worms in biology class, for crying
out loud.
Not to mention, my aim simply isn't that
good. Sometimes I can't even hit the toilet
bowl. There's no way that I could accurately
place a kickball so far away. If I could, I'd
have homered every time, and I'd probably
be a professional kickball player, if such a
thing exists.
In hindsight, I should have demanded to
see the X-rays. Was that finger actually b
ken? But it shouldn't even matter.
What does matter is that I recently
Facebook stalked her, having not seen her
since shortly after the incident. Let's just
say she's not not attractive. I wonder if she
holds a grudge .
Matthew is an LSA senior and
Daily managing editor.



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ers who covered the school's sprawling
blacktop, could've possibly been prepared
for what was about to occur.
Standing about 15 feet behind the center
fielder was a group of fourth-grade girls,
who severely underestimated my ability to
kick a ball. They were chatting and general-
ly paying no mind to the fact that they were
in fair territory of a kickball game between
third and fourth graders, which felt like the
Super Bowl if the players in the Super Bowl
had little to no athletic ability.
The pitcher delivered a slow roller, with
minimal spin, just a few inches off the plate
- in other words, right in my wheelhouse.
I began striding toward the incoming ball
and made perfect contact with the top of
my foot. The ball soared out of the infield
and over the head of the center fielder, who
played me far too shallow.
You probably see where this is going.
Unfortunately, the gabbing girls in deep
center didn't. I wasn't able to see what hap-
pened next. I was triumphantly rounding

ILLUSTRATION BY MEG
with one of the unsuspecting girls' hands.
And apparently, I struck the kickball with
enough force to break one of her fingers.
The next thing I remember is being
dragged (not literally - Maple Dale Ele-
mentary, to its credit, does not condone
corporal punishment) into the principal's
office the following day during recess.
Now this was not my first encounter with
the principal's office, nor would it be my
last. That would come senior year of high
school when my cell phone was snatched
away for texting in class. The message I
was composing? Informing my dad that I
had been accepted to Michigan. By then, I
had developed a reputation as a bit of a class
clown, and I'd come to realize that the walk
to the principal's office was a necessary evil
for me to continue to have my fun.
As I sat down, the principal calmly
explained to me that the previous day's
kickball homer, the pinnacle of my school-
yard athletic career, had resulted in a bro-
ken pointer finger for one of the center-field

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