S
he told me she was collecting little
white pebbles. We sat on the green
bench of our senior lawn and talked
about blackness.
She asked me if I had ever
had that feeling that I was
missing out. That feeling
that
creeps
up
on
you
when you realize there is
something else. Something
more.
Something
bigger
than you. Or outside of you.
You know the feeling, like
you are almost there, but
not quite. Hovering under
the threshold but needed
someone to reach up from
above and pull you through the ocean’s
surface. She told me that’s what she needed.
“I think that’s it,” she questioned. One
more stroke.
Sometimes that shallow pond is more
similar to swimming from the ocean’s base
with a bag of bricks roped around your feet.
Or maybe it’s just someone peeling open
your eyes.
She asked that the feeling be lifted off of
her chest. The boulder of darkness. Lift off.
She told me it was just a white pebble. Perhaps
jammed in the palm of her hand. Or caught
beneath her fingernail. Or worst, caught in her
ear. It seemed to me that it was lodged in her
throat, or the tear duct of her eye. She told me
it was nothing serious. Only white she said,
not too dark, not too black. More translucent.
It will pass.
She called me one evening. I was sitting by a
friend’s fire pit. Her more-than-a-friend at the
time sat there too. Wearing yellow, I danced
with the fire.
My friend buzzed in my pocket. She asked
me if I remembered her little white stone. The
collection, she reminded me. Her little bag of
white stones that she kept beneath her bed. The
ones that strapped her to Earth’s floor.
“It seems we have a problem” she hushed
over the phone. The little white stones, she
had misplaced them. She thought she had
tucked them away into a place where they
would stay put. Where they couldn’t run too
far. Or drag her down too hard. Wreak havoc.
“I thought maybe I would pass them to my
children one day, but it seems this may no
longer be the case.” She hummed some more.
“The stones have been replaced. Would you
come over and see what I found. It’s hard to
explain,” she told me.
“Of course,” I said. I asked if I could tell
her more-than-a-friend what had happened.
She said he wasn’t a rock collector himself.
He may not understand. Or maybe he just had
too many to count.
I left the fire and arrived at her front
door. Down the steps. Her younger sister
watched television. The middle child painted.
A mother and friend took tequila shots.
Unaware of where their sister and daughter
and friend was taking me. Glassy eyes globed
in milk. Ignore them, she told me.
We descended down the staircase, past
the rainbow cave and hookah pipes. Past the
portraits of the four siblings, once jovial.
Peering
into
the
mother’s
room,
where a new boyfriend stood, staring
into nothingness.
The last photograph that normally hung on
the wall was a picture of her “old” family with
her father who had found another woman.
The picture and frame had been removed.
We arrived at the bottom of the stairs. She
told me her light switch was broken. The door
was also jammed, but if you push really hard
you may be able to peer in.
— Dani Vignos can be reached
at dvignos@umich.edu.
Opinion
JENNIFER CALFAS
EDITOR IN CHIEF
AARICA MARSH
and DEREK WOLFE
EDITORIAL PAGE EDITORS
LEV FACHER
MANAGING EDITOR
420 Maynard St.
Ann Arbor, MI 48109
tothedaily@michigandaily.com
Edited and managed by students at
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Unsigned editorials reflect the official position of the Daily’s editorial board.
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The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
4 — Tuesday, March 17, 2015
Little white pebbles
Claire Bryan, Regan Detwiler, Ben Keller, Payton
Luokkala, Aarica Marsh, Victoria Noble, Michael
Paul, Allison Raeck, Melissa Scholke, Michael
Schramm, Matthew Seligman, Linh Vu,
Mary Kate Winn, Jenny Wang, Derek Wolfe
EDITORIAL BOARD MEMBERS
T
his semester, I was given the oppor-
tunity to write and direct my first
short film. A narrative about men-
tal health, it’s to premiere
along with other student
films at the Michigan The-
ater in April.
This has been a passion
project pent up in my head
for so long, now one I can
finally bring to life. As a
creator, there is a certain
responsibility to myself and
to the narrative that bur-
dens me. In the past week,
I have slept less than 24
hours, tossing and turning
in anxiety, planning late at night to ensure
everything could be as perfect as possible.
We just finished filming this past weekend; I
feel like I just gave birth. Despite the stress, I
have learned more about creative teamwork
than I ever have on any other project.
“Creativity” and “artistry” have always
been elusive concepts. How does one actually
be creative? Are certain types of creativity
more effective? To what extent can you label
or self-identify as an artist? Quite paradoxi-
cally to its name, creativity can often be the
most rigid.
I am the writer and director — which in
many cases could have been synonymous with
dictator. In many instances, I would typically
want complete, unhindered, uncontested con-
trol. I have this immense connection to the
work I toiled over for so long; it is a story that
has deep meaning to me, a creative vision that I
want to bring to life exactly as it is in my head.
I wanted to insist more takes when the image
didn’t adhere word for word to the script. How-
ever, in this exactness, creativity becomes more
of a science than the art it should be.
Filmmaking is a process that requires cre-
ative decisions to come in the moment — and
also with the input of a team. To me, creativ-
ity always seems like an individual pursuit.
Creativity means being introspective, tap-
ping into deeper emotions and finding inner
inspiration based on outside influence.
Quite the contrary, especially as a first-
time director, I needed the input of indi-
viduals with far more experience than I had.
Filmmaking is not — and cannot be — a solo
process. The insight of the director of photog-
raphy, producer, assistant director and other
crew members are what enhance the vision.
Since childhood, group work has always been
the bane of every student, as it’s unlikely
every group member will pull an equiva-
lent weight and also see eye to eye on every
decision. On a film set, though, collaboration
is not what makes the process a nuisance.
Rather, it is an integral, vital part of the
creative process.
I could have never completed this project
without a team that, albeit with a few artistic
disagreements, was so dedicated to putting its
best interests into this movie. Essentially, in
the process of translating work onto a screen,
creativity becomes about the relinquishment of
control and the contribution of a team.
What I have struggled to learn is that cre-
ativity is not about perfection. Maybe I am
just realizing this now, but it is a struggle
many other creators have regularly as well.
Now, I can only imagine how those in Holly-
wood could ever manage feature-length proj-
ects without the help of massive teams — it
just wouldn’t be possible. It has been a diffi-
cult, incredibly stressful process putting my
vision to life — but I am learning to relinquish
control and trust others.
For now, I am incredibly grateful for this
opportunity and so immensely proud. And
that’s a wrap.
— Karen Hua can be reached
at khua@umich.edu.
Defining ‘creative’
KAREN
HUA
BEN KELLER | VIEWPOINT
Mike Mansfield’s birthday
Recently, 47 U.S. Senators sent
a letter to the leaders of Iran
in an effort to derail current
negotiations with President Barack
Obama.
Forget
party
politics
for a minute — this was an overt
attempt by members of Congress
to go behind the back of a sitting
President while he was conducting
foreign policy. This kind of action
is
unprecedented,
and
reflects
the sorry state of affairs not just
between Capitol Hill and the White
House, but also between almost
every branch and department of
our federal government.
Yesterday, March 16, would have
been the 112th birthday of Michael
Joseph Mansfield. He held many
titles throughout his life — Marine
Corps private, member of the U.S.
House of Representatives, majority
leader of the Senate and U.S.
ambassador to Japan, among others.
He presided over the Senate’s
functions for 17 consecutive years —
something no other majority leader
has surpassed. Mansfield was a
soft-spoken, humble, generous and
pragmatic giant of his time. It’s the
way he conducted himself within
our nation’s capital that should
be remembered on March 16, in
the face of so much congressional
stagnation and petty politics.
A terrific biography written about
Mansfield by Don Oberdorfer reveals
the life of a man who spent much of
his time trying to stay away from the
limelight. Oberdorfer describes the
Senator’s many accomplishments
while he was a member of our
nation’s Upper House — including
the successful passage of the Civil
Rights Act of 1964 and other Great
Society programs, as well as a
continuous objection to military
escalation in Vietnam, advice that
President Johnson unfortunately
did not heed. Being a Democrat
or a Republican was much more
of a nominal title back then, and
Mansfield consistently stayed above
party politics and led, for the most
part, a very apolitical career.
Legislative achievements aside,
Mansfield may be most remembered
for his remarkable persona. When
President John F. Kennedy was
assassinated in 1963, Jacqueline
Kennedy, the president’s widow,
asked that Mansfield give a eulogy
while the president lay in state at
the Capitol. There was a reason
Mansfield led the Senate through
five
different
presidencies
and
served as ambassador to Japan —
a job that is typically reserved for
political benefactors — even after
Ronald Reagan took office from
Jimmy Carter in 1981.
It could have been his humble
beginnings: a boy from New York
City raised in Montana by a distant
aunt and uncle, only to run away at
an early age and subsequently live
in an orphanage for over a year. He
worked as a coal miner without a
high-school degree for almost a
decade. His future wife, Maureen,
convinced him to work his way
toward a bachelor’s degree, and
he went on to get his master’s and
teach at the University of Montana.
A few years ago, James Grady
wrote
a
wonderful
piece
on
Mansfield in Politics Daily. In it,
Grady recalls an episode in which
Mansfield “Caught a Democratic
colleague
breaking
a
promise
to a Republican, (so) Mike used
the rules of the Senate to give
the Republican his promised fair
shot.” There was little pettiness
in the Mansfield Senate, very
small-scale
bitterness
and
hostility among its members; Mike
regularly reminded his colleagues
to, as Grady puts it, “Act like they
belonged to ‘the world’s greatest
deliberative body.’ ” During the
Watergate
scandal,
Mansfield
made sure to make a non-partisan
investigative committee to oversee
the
hearings,
something
that
secured
constitutional
integrity
throughout the process to remove
a corrupt politician from the
White House.
Mansfield once said, “When I’m
gone, I want to be forgotten.” This
kind of modesty, statesmanship and
respect for everyone surrounding
him makes Mansfield a politician of
his own kind, from a different era.
Today, seldom do you see a member
of government deliberately try to
avoid taking credit, solely focusing
on bettering the people of the state
of Montana and the country that he
fought for and loved.
I wish I could truly express the
excellence that embodied the life
of Mansfield; however, I believe the
best way to do that is to review his
life, and realize that he was truly
one of the greatest leaders to ever
set foot in Washington, D.C.
He is now buried in Arlington
National Cemetery, in the same
simple gravestone that marks the
thousands of soldiers lying with
him, still keeping watch over our
nation and its lawmakers.
I hope that those who work
in our government, and those
who aspire to one day be in our
government, take notice of the
lessons taught to us by Mansfield.
The state of American politics is in
fragile condition, constantly being
tested by the extreme partisanship
of our country’s leadership. Let us
hope that the words and wisdom of
Michael Mansfield can once again
be realized, especially by the ones
who walk in his footsteps.
Ben Keller is an LSA freshman
and Editorial Board member.
T
rayvon Martin was killed
during my first semester
in college. I remember
sitting in my civil
rights
history
class, where our
professor
asked
if any of us had
heard the name.
I knew the loose
facts of the story,
but it was still
a
little
while
before
George
Zimmerman
became
an
anathema
and
hoodies a symbol of solidarity.
Three years later, I ran into that
same professor at a small gather-
ing of students and faculty. I hadn’t
seen him in some time, but the event
was tragically fitting. Along with
others, he had helped organize a
space for us to watch the announce-
ment from Ferguson about Darren
Wilson’s indictment.
After we listened to the decision,
everyone sat quietly to observe
a moment of silence for Michael
Brown. The only sounds came from
a woman in the front of the room,
who was crying. As four and a half
minutes passed, a professor asked
if anyone had thoughts or reactions
to share. Between tears, the crying
woman asked, “When are our lives
going to matter?”
During my time in college, it
has often been hard to believe life
is genuinely improving for Black
Americans. Between the deaths of
Trayvon Martin and Mike Brown,
there have been countless Black
people killed by police and vigi-
lantes: Renisha McBride, Jordan
Davis, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice and
more. The milestone of the nation’s
first Black president has, in some
ways, been overshadowed, and not
just by the frequent destruction
of innocent Black life. The Voting
Rights Act has been gutted, state-
level bans on affirmative action
have been upheld and it is likely
that the Fair Housing Act is on the
chopping block next.
And
this
is
just
the
past
three years.
It is very easy to look at American
history — especially as it is pre-
sented in schools — and see a clear
progression toward racial equality.
The end of slavery was followed by
the end of segregation, which led to
expanded voting rights, which was
followed by the nation’s first Black
president, etc., etc. The improved
state of Black Americans from
chattel slavery to explicit protec-
tion in the Constitution is undeni-
able, but a deeper understanding
of the history
and
structural
flaws of educa-
tion,
criminal
justice,
voting
and other insti-
tutions
muddy
the waters.
Neighbor-
hoods
and
schools
across
the country are
overwhelmingly
segregated by race, with “Black”
schools
finding
synonymy
with
“poor” or “violent” schools. Prisons,
from local holding cells to federal
penitentiaries to death row, are dis-
proportionately filled with Black and
brown bodies. Inequity in the educa-
tion and criminal justice systems is
nothing new when it comes to race
in America, but these discrepancies
are not necessarily stagnant. It could
be argued that, if current trends con-
tinue, the average Black child born
today will face worse discrimination
than his or her parents.
Perhaps this gloomy outlook is a
bit cynical, even fatalistic. But as a
realist, I don’t find it unreasonable
to fear that our generation may hit
a brick wall when it comes to racial
progress. I don’t say this to be a
provocateur or a contrarian, but to
reflect the urgency of crisis and the
necessity for action.
At the very least, we must accept
that a perpetually unequal soci-
ety is possible; in December 2013,
however, the Black Student Union
decided it would not be inevitable.
During a time when college stu-
dents are criticized for “slacktiv-
ism” and general political apathy,
the BSU has been able to convert
national media attention into con-
crete progress. A new multicultural
center is on its way, and the Uni-
versity has been pushed harder for
increased diversity than it has in
years. Though many of the experi-
ences discussed through #BBUM
reflected a campus unwelcoming
to Black students, perhaps most
importantly — though less con-
crete — there has been a noticeable
change on campus when it comes to
discussions of race.
Similarly, the killing of Michael
Brown
and
attacks on pro-
testers in Fer-
guson
should
not purely be
seen for their
horrors.
The
day after pros-
ecutors
chose
not
to
indict
Darren Wilson,
hundreds of stu-
dents and com-
munity members gathered on the
Diag for a vigil. After a few short
speeches, local activists moved the
gathering into a planned march.
Leaving the Diag, more than 1,000
people filled Ann Arbor’s streets,
bringing downtown traffic to a
halt. Massive anti-racism demon-
strations like these have broken
out across the country, and paral-
lels with tipping points during the
1950s and 1960s are hard to ignore.
During college, there has been
no issue that I have studied or writ-
ten about more than racism. It’s a
poetic note that my undergraduate
years began with the senseless mur-
der of a Black 16-year-old and will
conclude with the nation declaring
“Black Lives Matter.” However, no
matter the neat symmetry of my
experiences, this isn’t poetry. This
is the future of civil rights and civil
liberties; this is the destiny of an
entire people, both as a collective
and as millions of individuals. This
is a turning point.
In explaining why he came that
day to a community dialogue on
Ferguson, a Black graduate student
fought back tears as he told us:
“This is my life on the line.”
— James Brennan can be reached
at jmbthree@umich.edu.
Illuminate the darkness
JAMES
BRENNAN
Perhaps this gloomy
outlook is a bit cynical,
even fatalistic.
DANI
VIGNOS
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