I
was 19 then — a socially
anxious first-year — with time
on my hands and a tendency
to procrastinate. I wanted better
time management skills and, most
importantly, money for books and
Panda Express. After winter break
was over, I immediately emailed
two people at the library about
potentially working there for a few
hours per week. The supervisor
replied promptly, asking for a meet-
up the next day. I’ll call him Matt.
I was told to meet up with Matt
and another supervisor at the café
on the first floor of the library. I was
a little jittery — this was my first
time applying for a job on campus
— and after all, I knew I might not
get it. Matt and a woman showed
up soon, and we all sat down at
a small table in the corner. They
asked for my schedule and resume,
which they quickly glanced over,
and Matt smirked at. When I said I
needed a little time to reflect before
I signed up for shifts — my class
schedule was up in the air — Matt
said that he was not a scary person
to work with.
Something about the comment
and the way he stared almost
piercingly made me feel slightly
uneasy, slightly creeped out and
caught off-guard. He had white
hair, he’d hardly smiled during the
conversation, and he was in his
50s, at least. I left the interview,
feeling a little worried, pondering
about my next step. I was possibly
overthinking it. I was too prone to
jump to conclusions.
I emailed Matt two days later,
saying I was ready to start at the
earliest date possible. I needed a
few signatures from him before
going to Student Activities and
getting my documents finalized.
He replied quickly, asking me to
meet him for a cup of coffee at the
same café.
It was around noon; students
and staff were flocking in and out
of the doors and gathering around
the couches. I bought a small coffee
and sat at a table in the middle of
the crowd, pulling my phone out
to check the time. I felt someone
lightly tap me on the shoulder
before he pulled a chair across from
me and sat down.
Matt looked quite excited. He
was wearing a tight, turtleneck
sweater, he reeked of cologne and
sweat and his glasses tilted on his
nose. I asked whether the other
supervisor from last time would
join us. He said no, seemingly
pleased. He then proceeded to
ask me how my day was going,
what classes I was taking, what I
liked doing in my free time, etc. It
appeared friendly and innocent,
but something felt disconcerting.
I tried to bottle the feeling of
apprehensiveness rising inside me.
I attempted to divert his attention
toward the papers he needed to
sign so I could get up and leave.
He signed slowly, lifted his hand
up and paused, a smile protruding
from the corner of his mouth.
He leaned in, peering closer — I
abruptly saw his white eyelashes
— and placed his hand on both of
mine. He gave them a squeeze and
asked smoothly, “Are you going to
hire me?”
“What?” I sputtered after a few
seconds. “N-no.”
He repeated, squeezing my
hands again, laughing quietly.
I got up, feeling flabbergasted
and numb. He immediately came
over to my side and pulled out my
chair for me. I left, muttering a
goodbye and running towards the
bus stop. My legs felt heavy, a little
shaky; I knew something wasn’t
right, but I didn’t know what I
should be doing. As I waited, I saw
that he’d followed me to the bus
stop. When he caught me glancing,
he turned around and struck up
a conversation with someone
else. The whole thing felt bizarre,
violating
and
wrong.
During
classes, I wondered and worried.
I ended up not taking the job.
For a while, I tried to force myself
into taking it, believing that
nothing would happen. I could
manage it, I thought. I just had to
make sure that the two of us were
never alone in a room. I blamed
myself, wondering why I didn’t say
anything to his face, why I felt a
sense of cowardice enveloping me
then. I also didn’t feel like going to
the library anymore, and I’d gone
there almost every other night to
study. Occasionally seeing him
there — even as I tried my best to
avoid him — made me feel queasy
and angry. I understood that
what he’d done wasn’t something
huge, but there was a chance
that something more could’ve
happened. I sensed it, I felt it in my
gut and I knew I wouldn’t be able
to fend for myself if the situation
got worse.
I hated that I had to worry about
fending for myself in a workplace
even as it boasted about having zero
tolerance for sexual harassment.
I hated that I didn’t know who to
tell, that my incident would get
chalked up to nothing and that I’d
be going against an experienced
supervisor who was also a white
man. I’d seen it happen to others
too many times to imagine my
situation would’ve been different. I
knew if I joined his team, I’d dread
seeing him every day.
I kept quiet for three years and
moved on, but I remembered it. I
remembered it when I applied for
another job on campus and hoped
that it wouldn’t be a man who’d
interview me. I remembered it
when I seated myself far away from
male co-workers and professors in
cramped offices.
I remembered it well enough
to know that everything I’ve felt
back then does matter. It might
not be a big deal when compared
to many other cases, but it was
still humiliating, unnecessary and
violating of my personal space. It
was still sexual harassment. It was
still the same story about a man
inappropriately touching a woman
and getting away without any
consequences.
I
hated
running
after
baseball games. After all,
baseball
isn’t
much
of
an endurance sport, and the
punishment of choice for most
of my coaches after a poor
performance was making us run
from foul pole to foul pole for
what seemed like an eternity.
Of course, this wasn’t the
case for every team I played
on, and it happened mostly
after age 13 when baseball
became
more
competitive.
But throughout my career, the
majority of coaches treated
us as professionals — despite
the fact that most of us were
unable to do our own laundry,
couldn’t cook an egg and
definitely could not drive.
So, when I took my first
job as an assistant coach for
13-year-olds this past summer,
I vowed to find alternatives to
running as punishment, which
I saw as a counterproductive
and negative strategy. Perhaps
ignorant and naïve, I hoped
that my philosophy was one
that
coaches
and
parents
across the country also shared.
However, upon returning
home last month for Fall
Break,
I
found
quite
the
opposite: There was a growing
crowd of children who were
being trained and treated like
professional athletes — which
is, in my opinion, a dangerous
prospect for the future of
sports in this country.
Midtown
Athletic
Club,
a notorious spot for aging
parents to relive their glory
days on the elliptical machine,
had turned into a modern
athletic sweatshop of sorts
since my last visit. Unlike the
“training” of my early years —
dodgeball, steal the bacon and
flag football — I witnessed 8-
and 9-year-olds working out
ferociously with trainers.
At one point, I overheard
a trainer tell the parent of a
young,
slightly
overweight
boy that “he needs to be
running
every
day
to
be
ready for high school tennis,”
despite the fact that this boy
did not even seem old enough
to understand algebra. Later
in my workout, I was appalled
to see a group of young girls
running
sprint
“suicides,”
an exercise I had previously
only
witnessed
in
highly
competitive high school and
college sports.
This
growing
trend
to
treat children as professional
athletes and specialize their
training
has
dangerous
consequences. According to a
recent survey conducted by the
National Alliance for Youth
Sports, 70 percent of children
in the U.S. quit organized
sports by the age of 13 because
“it’s just not fun anymore.”
Though I stuck it out because
of my love for the sport,
baseball in my hometown of
Deerfield, Ill., has a reputation
for weeding out kids for that
very reason. The increasing
pressure coaches, parents and
the community put on young
baseball players has not only
caused kids to transition to
other sports like basketball or
lacrosse, but has also prompted
many to quit organized sports
altogether.
Overall,
Little
League baseball participation
is down 20 percent since its
peak in the early 2000s, a
disappointing statistic to read
for someone whose experience
was almost entirely positive.
By professionalizing youth
sports, many kids are no longer
exposed to the benefits of
organized athletics — learning
the importance of teamwork,
selflessness
and
discipline.
And apart from minimizing
the positive experiences kids
like myself had playing sports,
increasing professionalization
ties into another negative trend
in youth sports: specialization
and overuse of the body.
According
to
Dr.
Albert
Knuth, a pediatric orthopedic
surgeon at Advocate Children’s
Hospital just outside of Chicago,
the United States sees 3.5 million
youth sports injuries per year,
and an estimated 50 percent of
those come from overuse.
Where youth sports used to
be focused on effort, learning
core values and having fun,
recent trends have seen kids
training vigorously for one
sport in order to pursue some
sort of college or professional
career — like the young boy
I saw being overworked at
Midtown last month.
The roots of specialization
and overuse injuries lie largely
in the prospect of college
scholarships. Many parents,
seeking a way to alleviate
financial
stress,
put
their
children
through
intense
training programs and hope to
see Division 1 offers pile up.
Unfortunately, the reality
is gloomy for almost all youth
athletes. Only 6 percent of
high
school
athletes
will
play in college, and only 1
to 2 percent of those college
athletes will see their efforts
pan out professionally. Though
not their intention, big-time
athletic programs provide a
largely unrealistic expectation
for zealous parents seeking
an opportunity for upward
economic mobility.
And it all comes down to
running. Though I’m a fan of
discipline and teaching work
ethic, overworking kids to
prepare them for a professional
career completely defeats the
purpose of youth sports.
I hope my efforts as a coach
last summer signal a changing
direction for the future of
youth sports, and that others
follow my lead. Though I know
it won’t be the case for most
if not all parents and coaches
involved in organized sports,
putting the “fun” back in
youth athletics will positively
impact the experience of many
children and reduce their risk
for injury in the future.
While the results might
not be visible immediately,
replacing foul poles and sprints
with
thoughtful
post-game
conversations will have the
most positive impact on kids
and their sports experience in
the long term.
Opinion
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
4A — Friday, November 10, 2017
REBECCA LERNER
Managing Editor
420 Maynard St.
Ann Arbor, MI 48109
tothedaily@michigandaily.com
Edited and managed by students at the University of Michigan since 1890.
EMMA KINERY
Editor in Chief
ANNA POLUMBO-LEVY
and REBECCA TARNOPOL
Editorial Page Editors
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.
EDITORIAL BOARD MEMBERS
Put the fun back into sports
BEN CHARLSON | COLUMN
Are you going to hire me?
Carolyn Ayaub
Megan Burns
Samantha Goldstein
Emily Huhman
Jeremy Kaplan
Sarah Khan
Max Lubell
Lucas Maiman
Madeline Nowicki
Anna Polumbo-Levy
Jason Rowland
Anu Roy-Chaudhury
Ali Safawi
Sarah Salman
Kevin Sweitzer
Rebecca Tarnopol
Stephanie Trierweiler
Ashley Zhang
Sami Matin is an LSA junior.
Is it OK to joke about death?
ELENA HUBBELL | COLUMN
I
’ve found that the humor
exhibited by University
of Michigan students is
usually pretty dark. If, back
in high school, I had joked
about wanting to get hit by a
car, my friends probably would
have stared at me in horror
and told a guidance counselor
that I needed help. But here in
Ann Arbor, the same joke will
most likely be met by a chorus
of “same,” “me too” or even,
“Hey, college is expensive — go
get that insurance money.”
Joking
about
death
has
become pretty commonplace
on campus, and a way for a lot
of students to express their
frustration over never getting
any sleep and always being
under an intense amount of
stress. And though I love dark
humor — I’ve been known to
casually joke about waiting for
the sweet embrace of death —
I also have conflicted feelings
toward
how
University
students casually talk about
wanting to die.
For people who have actually
experienced a friend or family
member dying or who have
had thoughts of suicide, these
types of jokes can be perceived
as insensitive, careless or even
triggering. I know that after
my father passed away, I had
a hard time finding any jokes
about death to be anything
less than insulting, even if
they were not at my or my
family’s expense. I once broke
into tears after a friend joked
about wanting to die after they
turned 30 so that they wouldn’t
have to get old. Others may feel
differently, but I know that
for a while after experiencing
a death in the family, hearing
jokes about wanting to die
made me uncomfortable and
upset.
But I have to be honest —
dark humor and making jokes
about death can be a really
good coping mechanism. With
all the stress that we are under
here at college, sometimes just
being able to laugh with a friend
about our mutual desire to no
longer exist in this dimension
can help make a long night
of studying just a little more
tolerable. I have yet to meet a
fellow student who is sleeping
enough or who feels content
with their lives and because
of this, it’s easy to understand
why the atmosphere around
campus would get a little grim.
Making wholesome and pure
jokes when you’re running on
two hours of sleep just isn’t
going to cut it. Even I have
found myself making jokes
that a few years ago would
have
insulted
me.
College
really puts a person through a
lot mentally and emotionally,
and dark jokes and humor
are sometimes what a person
needs to make it through.
This
sensitive
issue
can
sometimes
be
portrayed
as
black and white — people who
make jokes about death should
be more sensitive and stop, or,
on the other side, people who
are sensitive to jokes about
death should just have a sense of
humor. I believe that, concerning
matters of death, a black and
white approach will only create
more tension and won’t allow for
a nuanced discussion.
It’s
true
that
making
these
kinds
of
jokes
can
lead to hurt emotions and
misunderstanding for some, but
I also believe that people should
be allowed to cope with trauma
in whatever way they feel is
best. If that means making a
few death jokes, I’m really not
going to complain, as I’m going
through the same stress and
experiencing the same feelings
of inadequacy as every other
student on this campus.
Still, I believe that everyone
should remain sensitive to the
challenges
that
others
may
be going through, and I also
think that some part of me will
always find jokes about death
distasteful. But what is also
distasteful is a school system that
prides itself in running students
into the ground and creating a
general atmosphere of stress.
I believe that we should also
remain sensitive to the students
forced to deal with the distress
that this University has put them
through, and the unhealthy
coping mechanisms that arise.
Students
who
normalize
death should be villainized —
in my opinion, it’s one of the
healthier
unhealthy
coping
mechanisms.
I
hope
that
students can begin to see how
their jokes surrounding death
and suicide can be hurtful
and dismissive to some. But, I
would also like to see a school
system that actually tries to
help students learn, and not
just put them through mental
and emotional stress in the
name of competition.
This is the fourth piece in the
Survivors Speak series, which
seeks to share the varied,
first-person experiences of survivors
of sexual assault. If you are a
survivor and would like to submit
to the series, please visit
https://tinyurl.com/survivespeak
for more information.
SAMI MATIN
I kept quiet for
three years and
moved on, but I
remembered it.
Elena Hubbell can be reached at
elepearl@umich.edu.
Ben Charlson can be reached at
bencharl@umich.edu.
JOE IOVINO | CONTACT JOE AT JIOVINO@UMICH.EDU
Students who
normalize
death should be
villainized.
I hope my efforts
as a coach last
summer signal
a changing
direction for the
future of youth
sports.