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T
hey say you go away to college to
learn about the world. To learn
what makes the world spin, where
your place is in it and how
to someday change it for
the better. So that’s what
I did for the last four
years.
I passed my classes,
made
connections
and
got a job — all of the
things that are supposed
to happen in college. I
studied computer science
and math. I lived in
this STEM world where
programming
was
the
future and the world was seen as one big
beautiful mathematical model.
I liked what I studied. I liked thinking
in numbers and algorithms. I liked being
faced with a problem and moving toward
a solution using the toolsets I had learned.
Problem solving was the epitome of the
engineering mindset, and it made sense to
see the world around me in the same way.
Observe a problem that’s out there, find
a way to creatively work through it, then
move on to the next one.
It’s usually the way things work in
college, where you find what you enjoy
and immerse yourself in that paradigm.
At one point during
my time here, I had
the opportunity to talk
with a visiting priest at
my parish, who along
with his ordained role
was a math professor
at Xavier University.
Clearly
very
smart
and passionate about
his work, he chatted
with a group of us
undergraduates
about
the way mathematics
fits into his life and
his worldview. He said that there was one
question that every person always asks him.
“Do you see beauty in mathematics?”
He said of course there’s such a thing
as mathematical beauty. Beauty in the
way the numbers work out, beauty in
things like Euler’s identity, beauty where
you somehow combine the three basic
arithmetic
operations
and
the
most
important mathematical constants to
somehow get e^i*pi = 0. But, what about if
he actually sees beauty in the world itself
through math?
He said no, he doesn’t.
Beauty in the numbers is only self-
contained. Numbers may be the governing
model of the universe, but trying to
describe the world around us in terms
of numerics comes up empty and misses
too much. The world was also meant
to be described in ways that aren’t
quantifiable or measurable. It was meant
to be described with things that you
can’t reduce into numbers or systems but
nevertheless exist all around us.
The world was meant to be described as
a story.
I
spent
Spring
Break
this
year
backpacking and traveling southern Utah,
and found myself on the last night of the
trip with a couple friends at a blackjack
table in Las Vegas before we flew out
the next day. At its core, gambling is just
math designed not to be in your favor. So
we played the odds that night, trying to
stay afloat just long enough to get our free
drinks and move on to see the next place
on the strip. I learned how to count cards
from a class here at the University, but I
wasn’t there for the math. I was there to
share stories and to write new ones.
Looking at the world through stories
led me here, to the newsroom at the Daily.
I started as an Editorial Board member,
served as an editor in the opinion section
for a time, and then had my own space
here on this page. There was a time I
was the only engineering student in the
opinion section, but there was always
something
far
more
beautiful
about
words and print to me than the numbers I
surrounded myself with in the classroom.
So I read stories, I edited them and, most
importantly, I wrote them.
I had a place to tell inconsequential
stories, such as the time a squirrel fell
out of a tree onto my head on the Diag
one day. I told stories about the campus
I loved and my hometown that I adored.
When the Daily asked me to list a topic
for my columns, I said “not
politics.” So, I wrote about
how much I hated politics. I
wrote about the people who
met the same misfortune as
me sitting in the second floor
of the library on a Friday
night. I wrote stories about
newspapers themselves, and
stories about my high school
teacher who passed away —
the one who told me to start
writing in the first place.
I wrote in a story one time
about the phenomenon of
spectators at a baseball game chasing after
the balls hit into the stands. The souvenirs
they make, from a price standpoint, are
worthless, not even sellable on Amazon.
Yet fans will chase after them with fervor
and cheer for the lucky ones who can snag
one. Over the years, I’ve caught a couple
and lost all but one of them, but never the
image of the ball falling into my hands
each time. Just like the baseballs, I’ll leave
after my years here with many “things,”
whether it be skills or a diploma. But the
things themselves become meaningless
without the stories behind them.
So yes, I did indeed learn about the
world here at college. I learned from the
stories that came in and out of this paper
and this newsroom, the stories I was a part
of and the ones all around me. Stories have
an ending, as does mine which ends with
this, my last column after the years with
this paper. Yet, there’s always another
issue tomorrow, because the world always
has its stories that need to be told.
—David Harris can be reached
at daharr@umich.edu.
Opinion
SHOHAM GEVA
EDITOR IN CHIEF
CLAIRE BRYAN
AND REGAN DETWILER
EDITORIAL PAGE EDITORS
LAURA SCHINAGLE
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
W
riting is hard. Not only
is the process grueling
(I’ve had this Google
doc
open
for
an entire week
with absolutely
no
progress
made
on
it
whatsoever), it
is also risky.
Writing
for
a
publication
means
being
vulnerable.
It
means believing
your
opinion
is
valid
and
informed enough to contribute
to a dialogue. It means elevating
yourself to a level at which you
can be scrutinized. It is long
nights of research, multiple tabs
open, scouring the thesaurus for
another way to say “political” or
“good.” It is absolute hell.
But at the same time, writing
is also rewarding. It is a platform
from
which
you
can
reach
hundreds, thousands, millions of
people you will probably never
meet in your life, whose identities
are completely unknown to you.
They could vehemently oppose
every point you make or they could
hang on every word. There is no
way for you to know for certain.
When I started writing for the
Daily, I was unsure of myself and
my ability to connect with my
readers. I truly believed that no
one would find my line of thinking
relatable enough to appreciate.
I made my differences known. I
never shied away from discussing
heavy topics like class structure,
politics and sex. I opened myself
up to an anonymous audience and I
was terrified of the consequences.
For me, the greatest of these fears
was being brutally honest without
actually
conveying
anything
meaningful. I could have easily
made people very uncomfortable
while contributing nothing of
value to any conversation. It was a
balancing act.
My very first column, in which
I recounted the events that rallied
me to political activism, was
originally part of my columnist
application. I didn’t realize that it
would actually be published before
I had the chance to edit it, so when
I saw it there on the website —
my own name tacked onto a very
passionate and personal piece of
writing — my stomach dropped. I
felt like a colossal segment of my
soul had been extracted from my
body and thrust into cyberspace
for my peers to pick apart like
vultures. There was nowhere for
me to hide. I was exposed.
I
imagined
the
flood
of
inflammatory e-mails denouncing
me as too liberal, discrediting
my background, correcting my
grammar. I firmly believed that if
people actually cared about what
I had to say, they would hate it. I
pined for indifference.
To my complete surprise (and
contrary to what my paranoia led
me to believe), the responses to my
first article were overwhelmingly
positive. While the compliments I
received from friends and family
made the effort worthwhile by
themselves, it was the praise I
received from complete strangers
that really demonstrated to me
just how powerful writing can
be. This momentum only built
over the course of the semester
when people of all ages and
backgrounds
wrote
to
me,
corroborating my words with
their experiences.
I am not recounting any of
this to brag about the quality
of my writing (which I think
is mediocre at best), and I
imagine those people were not
contacting
me
because
they
believed wholeheartedly I was
the next Bob Woodward. I am
just residually astounded that
real people — people who will
probably only ever exist as names
in my inbox — have felt precisely
what I have felt, seen what I have
seen, done what I have done and
believe that I captured aspects
of their story in my own.
I cannot begin to describe how
incredible that is.
That is what makes the hours
spent writing and rewriting and
rewriting the rewrites — to the
point where the words swell
and dance on the page and you
wonder if they are even spelled
correctly, or if they are even
words anymore and not just
figments of your imagination — all
worthwhile. They are all worth
the gratification of speaking to or
for an audience.
Regardless of whether or not I
continue to publish my writing, at
least I can live the rest of my life
with the knowledge that someone
else, somewhere, can relate to the
nonsensical thoughts in my head
— and sometimes, that is enough.
— Lauren Schandevel can be
reached at schandla@umich.edu.
Words count
LAUREN
SCHANDEVEL
E-mail anniE at asturpin@umich.Edu
ANNIE TURPIN
4A — Wednesday, April 13, 2016
“I wasn’t there for
the math. I was
there to share stories
and to write new
ones.”
I don’t spend most Saturdays
around
a
lecture
hall,
but
this past March, I made an
exception.
I
had
noticed
a
Facebook event for the Saturday
Morning
Physics
talk
series
titled “Higgs and the Beginning
of the Universe,” to be given by
Bibhushan Shakya, a researcher
here at the University. It piqued
my curiosity. I couldn’t believe
it when I arrived early and yet
found the largest lecture hall in
the Weiser building (formerly
Dennison) full, and the overflow
lecture hall next door, equally as
large, full as well, a total of more
than 500 people. Most in this
crowd, it seemed, were beyond
their student years. Apparently
for many, Saturday Morning
Physics is a weekend staple, and
some have been attending since
its inception in 1995.
Some of the facts about Higgs
I already knew. The discovery of
the Higgs Boson, as it’s called,
was predicted by a physicist
named Peter Higgs back in 1964.
It was finally confirmed in 2012
by the large team of scientists at
the Large Hadron Collider near
Geneva,
Switzerland,
where
experiments are performed by
smashing
together
particles,
smaller than the size of atoms,
at a speed that approaches the
speed of light. At the time of
the
announcement,
it
made
mainstream
media
headlines,
dubbed
as
the
“The
God
Particle.” Why the name? Many
tiny Higgs Bosons, within the
Higgs Field, impart the property
of mass upon all objects in the
universe, and the ability for them
to interact through gravity. “The
God Particle” is responsible for
forming matter into galaxies,
stars and the planet that has
provided us with the exact
necessities for life.
At this talk, I learned new
things about Higgs, such as the
answer to how the Higgs field
gives matter its mass. Think
of a shoreline where there are
several different kinds of boats
moving about. Some boats, like
jet skis, barely skim across the
surface of the water. Larger
boats, maybe the size of a cruise
ship, are actually substantially
submerged
underneath
the
water. As a consequence, the
jet ski can move around more
quickly than the cruise ship, but
it wouldn’t be able to move as
fast as, say, an airplane, which
doesn’t need to touch the water
at all. The amount of water they
touch the water gives them
different properties.
The
same
concept
applies
for Higgs. Some objects, like
planets, which have a lot of
matter, interact with the Higgs
field more strongly than other
objects, like snowflakes, that
have relatively less matter. And
like the airplane in the analogy,
a photon, or particle of light,
doesn’t even interact with the
Higgs field, enabling it to travel
at a much faster speed. The
amount by which objects interact
with the Higgs field determines
how much mass they contain and
how much gravitational force
they have.
I
commend
Dr.
Shakya;
he’s built a career in studying
theoretical
physics,
earning
degrees at Stanford in physics
and philosophy, and a Ph.D.
from Cornell. As a graduate
student
studying
biomedical
engineering, I’m not unfamiliar
with science, though theoretical
particle physics doesn’t pertain
much to my own field. His talk
really challenged me, but it also
fed my curiosity. I’ve found
it fascinating to consider and
discuss the big questions in
science, and learning about “The
God Particle” serves as food for
thought.
I would imagine that many
Michigan
students
have
an
intellectual
curiosity
about
something unrelated to their
own
field.
People
shouldn’t
be completely siloed in their
one
specific
area
of
study.
It’s important to find ways to
address those other curiosities
and to make them a priority.
Learning about something that
I’m genuinely curious about,
especially when I don’t know
much about it, can be truly
gratifying.
I’ll conclude with my biggest
takeaway thought from the talk.
Higgs explains something as
small as why objects fall when
dropped, but also, on the cosmic
scale, the makeup of the universe
and why it is still expanding in
size. It explains how it might
eventually stop expanding, and
that it might actually begin to
contract back to its infinitesimal
size at the time of the Big Bang, a
theoretical phenomenon known
as the Big Crunch. Assuming
humans don’t succumb to climate
change, to Earth’s engulfment
by our expanding sun or some
other, more immediate threat to
our survival, preventing the Big
Crunch might be the ultimate
challenge for our species.
If that sounds grim, it luckily
won’t become an issue for at
least tens of billions of years.
Yet, according to Forbes in 2012,
from the contributions of several
countries, $13.25 billion was
spent to conduct experiments at
the Large Hadron Collider that
helped discover Higgs. Peter
Woit, a theoretical physicist at
Columbia University, wrote in
a blog post that, while small in
comparison to the expenditures
on
military
and
biomedical
research in the United States,
hundreds
of
millions
of
dollars are still spent by our
own government and private
foundations to fund theoretical
physics research.
But
why
would
these
establishments provide funding
for theoretical physics when
climate change and other issues
are far more imminent threats?
I think it suggests that we, as
humans,
can
be
irrationally
curious. Or maybe, preventing
the end of the universe is a
problem that really will take
several billions of years to solve,
and we can breathe a sigh of
relief that we’ve already begun
to consider it now.
—David Mertz is a first-year
engineering Ph.D. student.
Elucidating Higgs
Claire Bryan, Regan Detwiler, Gracie Dunn, Caitlin Heenan, Jeremy
Kaplan, Ben Keller, Minsoo Kim, Payton Luokkala, Kit Maher,
Madeline Nowicki, Anna Polumbo-Levy,
Jason Rowland, Lauren Schandevel, Melissa Scholke,
Kevin Sweitzer, Rebecca Tarnopol, Ashley Tjhung,
Stephanie Trierweiler, Hunter Zhao.
EDITORIAL BOARD MEMBERS
The world is a story
DAVID
HARRIS
DAVID MERTZ | OP-ED