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 

the University of Michigan since 1890.

Unsigned editorials reflect the official position of the Daily’s editorial board. 

All other signed articles and illustrations represent solely the views of their authors.

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
4 — Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Claire Bryan, Regan Detwiler, Ben Keller, Payton Luokkala, 

Aarica Marsh, Anna Polumbo-Levy, Jason Rowland, 

Lauren Schandevel, Melissa Scholke, Rebecca Tarnopol, Ashley 
Tjhung, Stephanie Trierweiler, Mary Kate Winn, Derek Wolfe

EDITORIAL BOARD MEMBERS

T
o be best friends

A 

few weeks ago, my best 
friend Alaina and I were 
at Salvation Army picking 

out a costume 
for 
Halloween. 

Thursday night, 
we were Garth 
and 
Kat 
from 

Saturday 
Night 

Live, but Friday 
night, she got to 
pick. 

“I just want to 

look like a girl,” 
she said, throw-
ing up her hands. 
“Last 
night 
I 

looked like a potato.”

***
One of my best friends, Alaina, 

hates when I use “best friend” in the 
plural. “They can’t all be best. That’s 
not what best means,” she says, talk-
ing with her hands.

When I say someone I haven’t 

talked to in years is a “best friend,” 
she goes on a rant about this and 
that, loyalty and honesty and what-
ever. She gets exasperated over little 
things like who gets the title of “best 
friend,” things any logical person, in 
my opinion, would regard as trivial.

But I maintain that I have about 

10 best friends. My best friend from 
sophomore year of high school, Erin, 
moved to some town in Wiscon-
sin when we were 15. She checked 
in later that year to tell me a local 
megachurch was burning copies of 
the Harry Potter series for promot-
ing witchcraft.

“I’m scared,” she said, but I fig-

ured she could fend for herself and 
left her to it. We ran into each other 
at Lollapalooza last summer.

See? Besties.
I wonder if someday Alaina will 

be like Erin — off in some remote 
corner of Wisconsin, hoarding her 
Harry Potter books beneath a floor-
board in her room before the militia 
comes looking for contraband.

“OK, fine, you say we’re best 

friends,” Alaina says, waving her 

arms wildly, “but how many people 
have you said that to? Twenty?”

Who are the others? I won’t list 

them for time’s sake. But there’s my 
best and first friend, Jack, who I talk 
to more than any person I don’t live 
in the same house with, and who 
will probably be the best man at 
my wedding. When we talk, I have 
the sensation of opening a favorite 
book to a random page and finding 
I remember the characters and plot 
just as well.

But there are other best friends 

I don’t really talk to. There’s the 
best friend I got in a fistfight with. 
That ended the best-buds stage of 
our friendship. And he’s still my 
best friend because I owe him that, 
because at one point we would have 
done anything for each other. I still 
honor that. We may not be best bud-
dies, but he’s my best friend.

And then there’s the best friend 

I fell in love with, by accident, and 
whose doorstep I showed up on 
halfway across the country, expect-
ing who knows what, and for whom 
I found that I was too late, that we 
were going to stay best friends — 
nothing more, nothing less.

I think that’s really what it comes 

down to: A best friend is someone 
you love.

***
Appearances are another thing 

I think any logical person would 
regard as trivial. I prefer to look 
clever, and I told her, “We need a 
costume that makes you look hot 
and me look funny: I got it.”

But she didn’t like my idea of 

going with a “sluts and wizards” 
theme. So, she decided we were 
being Danny and Sandy from 
Greece. “Simple,” she said. “Just 
wear jeans and a white T-shirt and 
slick your hair back.”

Except that I’m an asshole, and I 

thought this was a pretty stupid idea, 
so I showed up dressed as a wizard 
anyway. Boom: wizards and sluts. 
I wore a white T-shirt and jeans 
underneath my costume, though, to 

change when Alaina went berserk 
on me. Honestly, I was just trying to 
get a rise out of Alaina because I was 
bored, and I wanted to look funny, 
and I liked the attention from people 
at the party. Alaina was upset, but 
she let me keep the wizard cloak on 
because, she agreed, it was sort of 
funny. She looked hot, and I looked 
funny. Perfect. So then we got on this 
bus to go to a party downtown and I 
figured everything was fine.

Fast forward to the bus back from 

the party: Alaina is crying and cov-
ered in fake blood, because I found a 
bottle of fake blood and told her it’d 
be funny if we changed from Sandra 
Dee and a wizard to dead Sandy and 
a dead wizard. The bus is broken 
down at a gas station 10 minutes 
outside Detroit. It’s been a half an 
hour. My friend Connor is lying on 
his back in the parking lot, chain-
smoking cigarettes. Alaina refuses 
to speak with me, and is in a corner 
crying tears of blood. She is freezing 
to death in a Sandy costume because 
she just wanted to look hot.

I took off my wizard cloak and 

covered her up with it. And just like 
that, I was unintentionally dressed 
as her Danny Zuko. I didn’t want to 
be. She wouldn’t be freezing if she’d 
just gone as a fur-covered Wild 
Thing and I’d gone as Max, like I’d 
said we should.

But she cared about all this. About 

looking good for once. About who 
her best friend is.

My point is this: You never real-

ly know what people care about, 
whether that’s stupid, little titles or 
looking good. But if you care about 
them, and I do, then you start to 
care about how they feel, even if you 
think what they care about is stupid.

So Alaina, I’m sorry. You’re not 

my best friend. But I do love you. I 
hope that’s enough.

P.S. I’m sorry I ruined your night 

and covered you in fake blood. 

— Tom West can be reached 

at tkwest@umich.edu.

TOM 
WEST

The real cost of education

“Everything is going to be OK,” my dad 

assured me as I sat cross-legged on my bed, 
pressing my phone against my ear and sup-
pressing a fit of formidable sobs. His compo-
sure did little to quell the onset of emotions I 
experienced; if anything, it intensified them.

For some context, here is a brief timeline of 

unfortunate events:

About a month ago, my dad was terminat-

ed from his job of 18 years with no severance 
pay, no unemployment benefits and very little 
experience navigating the 21st-century job 
market. Not one week later, my mom’s union 
announced its decision to strike — a strenuous 
effort that offered little in the way of compen-
sation for its participants — which cut her pay 
in half and forced her to work overtime to make 
up the difference. And precisely one hour prior 
to my writing of this article, my dad called to 
tell me that we are at risk of losing our house.

My family has never been what one would 

deem “financially stable.” When I was growing 
up, we received welfare benefits as my mom 
searched for a full-time job. Most of our food 
came from church pantries, our clothes from 
Goodwill. Over time, though, things gradu-
ally became more tolerable. My mom found 
work, and we were living relatively comfort-
ably on a salary of $60,000 for our family of 
four. Extravagance was still out of the ques-
tion, but at least we were stable. One thing that 
remained consistent throughout the course of 
my childhood was my dad’s job, which con-
tributed more than half of our income once my 
mom reentered the workforce. For it to van-
ish so abruptly was not just shocking — it was 
absolutely devastating.

“I just can’t not work,” my dad told me over 

the phone. “It doesn’t feel right. I need to keep 
busy. I need to get out there.”

“What can I do?” I asked him over and over 

again. “I want to help.”

“You just stay in school,” he replied. “Know-

ing that you’re out there bettering yourself is 
enough. I don’t want you to end up like us. I 
want you to be comfortable.”

This rationale does not console me in the 

slightest, even though I knew he was right. My 
parents never attended college and have always 
emphasized the importance of a quality educa-
tion — the fact that I am studying at the Uni-
versity is not only a source of pride for them, 

but also a one-way ticket to a life of financial 
security, which, among other things, is what 
they have always wanted for me. My dad reit-
erates how delighted he is that I am in school 
in every conversation I have with him, but in 
spite of his gratitude, I cannot help but feel a 
sense of overwhelming guilt about my detach-
ment from the pressing issues that currently 
plague my family. I have a roof over my head, 
a meal plan and running water. I have access 
to an array of opportunities for advancement. I 
am comfortable and content; they are not, and 
there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

Giving up on academia is not an option, and 

even if it is, it is not a particularly appealing 
one. Some days I feel as though I am not only 
pursuing higher education for myself, but for 
my family as well. Much more is at stake for me 
than just a degree — I am launching my lineage 
in the direction of a new lifestyle of prosperity. 
I am leading a crusade of upward mobility, but 
it is not without its anxieties.

While my parents worry about paying the 

bills, I worry about the fact that I am not wor-
ried about anything remotely financial. I am 
thankful for the luxuries of university life, but 
agonize over the fact that it may come at the 
expense of my relationship with my parents. 
There is a glaring disconnect that resurfaces 
whenever I mention my classes or organiza-
tions, and they counter with an anecdote 
about a new obstacle that has pervaded their 
sense of security. I can do nothing to ease the 
burden of poverty for them except prevail 
over my studies, and at least for now, that is 
enough for them.

“I love you, Lauren,” my dad told me. “I am 

so proud of you.”

I hung up the phone and pondered our situ-

ation for a long time. I am angry, I am pow-
erless, and I am more determined than ever 
before. My family may not have the means to 
afford much in the way of amenities, but we do 
have each other. They offer unconditional sup-
port as I work my way through the system so 
we may one day achieve a better life, together. 
It is not guaranteed, but it keeps me going and 
it keeps them hopeful, and at the moment, that 
is all we need to get by.

Lauren Schandevel is an 
 

editorial board member.

I 
 

have spoken about the gym community 
that I have become a part of in the past, 
but have hesitated to speak the word 

“CrossFit” out of fear for 
what response I will get. 
Usually, when I mention 
that I do CrossFit, I am 
met with a condescending 
eye roll and a sarcastic 
remark about being in a 
cult. I usually laugh along 
and shrug it off — at this 
point, I have recognized 
that trying to argue the 
true purpose of CrossFit is 
futile against anyone who 
has never experienced it.

In this article, though, I am not being cau-

tious. I am not talking about the “gym I go 
to off campus,” because shrinking the com-
munity I am a part of to this size is insulting 
to the things it has given me, and the people 
who make up this community. With the recent 
events in Paris and other parts in the world, 
there is no place I would rather be on Thanks-
giving than at home with my family and the 
members of CrossFit Burlington. 

I performed the “Murph” workout for the 

first time on May 25, 2015. That Memorial 
Day, I rolled out of bed at 7 a.m., pulled 
on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and went 
downstairs. Less than one hour later I found 
myself standing outside CrossFit Burlington 
with approximately 50 individuals, about to 
take off on our first of two miles. The rain had 
just stopped, and because I had never done 
this workout before, I optimistically looked 
forward to it. However, those who had done 
the workout before were incredibly nervous, 
making me realize I had no idea what I was 
getting into. The timer sounded, and we all 
took off down the street. Exactly 62 minutes 
and 51 seconds later, I found myself on my 
back in a pool of my own sweat, gasping 
for air, thinking about how this workout 
was barely a fraction of the difficulties that 
soldiers face on a daily basis.

“Murph” is a CrossFit workout dedicated 

to Navy Lieutenant Michael Murphy, who 
was killed in Afghanistan on June 28, 2005. 
Lt. Murphy’s story is well known by many, 
partially due to the book and later movie 
“Lone Survivor,” and because he is one of 
the many war heroes that CrossFit gyms 
across the country pay tribute to in a small 
way. The workout, which was Lt. Murphy’s 
favorite, is a grueling one-mile run, 100 pull-
ups, 200 push-ups, 300 squats and another 
one-mile run — all while wearing a 20-pound 
 

weight-vest.

Every Memorial Day, CrossFit gyms across 

the country perform the “Murph” to celebrate 
this war hero. The workout is a symbol of our 
appreciation for what he and others have 
done for our country. Some boxes — CrossFit 
gyms — even do Hero Week and perform a 
different workout dedicated to a fallen soldier 
for seven days in a row. Some boxes perform 
“Murph” six months after Memorial Day on 
Thanksgiving morning. 

There is a mutual understanding, while we 

sweat through workouts like “Murph,” that 
what we are doing is not for us. What we are 
doing is the smallest token of appreciation for 
fallen heroes like Lt. Murphy, for those who are 
on active or inactive duty, for the individuals 
suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder 
and for the families and friends of all of those 
who have served our country. I am proud to 
be part of the CrossFit community for reasons 
like these.

This Thanksgiving morning, while I 

remain at school in Michigan, I know my 
brother and sister will be getting out of bed 
in Vermont and making their way to CrossFit 
Burlington to line up once more to complete 
the “Murph” workout. It will probably be 
snowing, just like it was last Thanksgiving. 
Even so, Ali, Tommy and the other members 
of the CrossFit Burlington community will 
not care, because as soon as they hear “three, 
two, one, go!” the snow will be the last thing 
on their minds.

— Grace Carey can be reached 

at gecarey@umich.edu.

LAUREN SCHANDEVEL | VIEWPOINT

The “Murph”

Dear Governor Snyder

D

ear Gov. Snyder,

I campaigned for you 

in 2014 because I thought 

that your prag-
matic, common-
sense leadership 
was taking the 
state in the right 
direction. 
You 

balanced 
our 

budget, 
grew 

our 
economy 

and 
did 
your 

best to elevate 
the 
governor’s 

office above the 
political fray. I 
believed that you 
were the kind of leader who made 
rational, tough choices, politics 
be damned — the kind of governor 
Michigan needed.

I still think you’re that kind of 

leader. But your decision to request 
the president to “pause” before 
admitting additional refugees into 
the state and country on the heels 
of the Paris terrorist attacks didn’t 
reflect the sound, judicious decision-
making that I’ve come to expect 
from your choices.

You defended your decision as 

apolitical, sensible and in the best 
interest of Michigan’s security. But, 
given the widely publicized xeno-
phobic fearmongering by some 
high-profile Republican presidential 
candidates this fall, I find it hard to 
believe that your decision was based 
solely on a desire to protect Michi-
ganders.

There isn’t any substantial evi-

dence — let alone definitive proof 
— that any of the attackers entered 
Europe through a refugee pro-
gram. Most of the terrorists were 
born in Europe. Two possibly 
entered Europe by way of Greece, 
but it’s believed that they snuck 
in through Greece’s borders — not 
through a refugee program com-
plete with the strict background 
checks that characterize the Unit-
ed States’ asylum process.

Even if the Paris attackers had 

been granted formal entry to Europe 
through a refugee program, it still 
wouldn’t have justified a reduction 

in the United States’ refugee admit-
tance. There are simply too many 
substantive differences in both the 
number of refugees entering and 
the differences in ability to impose 
stricter background check require-
ments between Europe and the 
United States.

Between January and August 

of this year, an estimated 350,000 
refugees immigrated to Europe, 
often through southern European 
nations already suffering from 
economic and political instabil-
ity. The huge numbers of refugees 
at European borders on any given 
day have overwhelmed the Euro-
pean Union’s efforts to screen 
each individual. Once inside the 
EU, they can travel between coun-
tries without facing border checks 
or additional screening.

Geographically removed from the 

crisis in the Middle East, the United 
States doesn’t face these same pres-
sures, and consequently, the United 
States admits far fewer refugees. 
The United States plans to accom-
modate 10,000 Syrian refugees next 
year. Just 200 Syrian refugees have 
resettled in Michigan this year. 
That’s a far cry from the 800,000 
refugees Germany alone expects 
to cross its borders this year. And 
unlike in Europe, where mass cross-
border flows of people make exten-
sive background checks difficult, 
the United States subjects each refu-
gee to a rigorous review process and 
background check that lasts 12 to 18 
months on average.

You were right to call on the 

Obama administration to take mea-
sures to prevent ISIS from attack-
ing the United States. Given ISIS’ 
repeated threats against the West, 
an attempted attack on United 
States soil doesn’t seem to be a ques-
tion of if, but rather, when.

But focusing on refugees ignores 

the real vulnerabilities in United 
States border security, and reflects 
a basic misunderstanding of where 
ISIS’ true strength lies. ISIS has 
proven itself adept in using uncon-
ventional communication channels 
to connect with people overseas.

This is crucial to their overall 

strategy, allowing them to turn nat-
uralized Europeans and Americans 
into ISIS fighters. Most of the Paris 
attackers were Europeans. Moham-
med Emwazi, a British ISIS opera-
tive, killed at least seven Western 
hostages in Syria. Of the 68 people 
arrested in the United States for 
supporting ISIS activity thus far, 55 
are American citizens and 43 were 
born in the United States. None 
were Syrian.

However, the fact that European 

and American ISIS operatives pose 
a statistically larger threat to the 
United States doesn’t preclude a 
threat from any other group, includ-
ing refugees. The United States 
should maintain its high standards 
for background checks into refu-
gees’ personal and family history. 
But with some of the strictest stan-
dards in the world, it’s hard to envi-
sion a scenario where this purely 
hypothetical threat justifies barring 
some of the world’s most vulnerable 
people from seeking refuge in the 
United States.

You were the first governor to 

attempt to bar refugee resettle-
ment. In doing so, you ignited a 
political firestorm. Half of United 
States governors have now refused 
to allow Syrian refugees to resettle 
in their states.

You told National Public Radio 

that you thought your position 
on refugee resettlement was “a 
thoughtful, common-sense one.” 
But if common sense tells us any-
thing, it’s that we should update our 
positions when it becomes clear they 
are misguided.

You have the opportunity to show 

the country that you are still the 
same considerate, principled and 
objective leader you demonstrated 
yourself to be in the past. Leverag-
ing the new details that evidence 
refugees did not carry out the Paris 
attacks, you should rise above the 
fear that has clouded our country’s 
judgment. Reverse your decision to 
try to bar Middle Eastern refugees 
from resettling in Michigan.

— Victoria Noble can be 

reached at vjnoble@umich.edu.

VICTORIA 
NOBLE

GRACE 
CAREY

#CHADTOUGH

