Wednesday, January 8, 2020 // The Statement
2B
Managing Statement Editor
Magdalena Mihaylova
Deputy Editors
Emily Stillman
Marisa Wright
Associate Editor
Reece Meyhoefer
Designers
Liz Bigham
Kate Glad
Copy Editors
Madison Gagne
Sadia Jiban
Photo Editor
Keemya Esmael
Editor in Chief
Elizabeth Lawrence
Managing Editor
Erin White
statement
THE MICHIGAN DAILY | JANUARY 8, 2020
I thought I’d aged out of this years ago. I’m sitting criss-cross-applesauce in my apartment while my roommate
straightens my hair. The brush catches my hair knots and pulls my head back like the boys in my elementary
school used to do, though it wasn’t because they liked me.
The hair situation isn’t going as planned. My curls are beginning to spring back from stress sweat, either caused
by the fact that I’m going to a dance with a stranger or the fear that I won’t fit in with the crowd. I have less than
20 minutes to figure out how I can turn my curly hair, acne and glasses into something remotely resembling a
O
n a Monday night in Novem-
ber, I sat on my half-lofted
dorm bed with a book. It was
already 2 a.m. My roommate was sleep-
ing on the other side of the room, and
I’d carefully angled my desk lamp away
from her so I could continue reading
without disturbing her.
Most weeknights, 2 a.m. is an hour
I only experience if I’m staying up to
study. But that night, I wasn’t reading
for class — I was reading a novel.
Outside our window, I saw a few
students walking back from the direc-
tion of the Diag with backpacks on
— I assumed they were coming from
Hatcher or the UGLi. A couple of my
friends were studying in the lobby of
my dorm building some floors below. As
I lay there, I wondered: How many oth-
ers were reading this late because they
really wanted to read? How many of us
even read for leisure anymore?
When I was younger, I devoured sto-
ries. I was the type of kid who would
say goodnight to her parents with a
book and a flashlight under her pil-
low. I always kept a novel tucked into
one of the pockets of my middle school
backpack, in case I wanted to read dur-
ing recess. I remember spending many
Saturday afternoons with my dad at
Barnes & Noble in the children’s litera-
ture section — a magical world.
In high school, I stopped seeing the
magic in reading, as did many of my
peers. Instead, the majority of my free
time was dedicated to homework. If I
wasn’t doing homework, I was probably
on my way to tennis practice, orches-
tra rehearsal or club meetings. There
just wasn’t any time to read for fun,
and I had enough assigned reading on
my plate between “Romeo and Juliet,”
“The Grapes of Wrath” and “Franken-
stein.” Deadlines and forced fishbowl
discussions in English class made read-
ing a chore rather than a joy.
It wasn’t until this past summer
when I was finally relieved of the chore
of reading. I was stuck in a weird limbo
between an ending and a beginning, and
for the first time in a long while, I had
no obligations. It was a slow, strange
summer, placed awkwardly between
my graduation from high school and
the start of my first semester of college.
I had no summer Chemistry packets to
solve, English books to read or History
essays to write.
Thus, I read. In the muggy heat, I
went to Schuler Books, my local book-
store, and explored the expanse of
shelves. Eventually, I emerged with
an ambitious pile of books in my arms,
and then I read and read and read.
Upon witnessing this, one of my friends
laughed and told me I was making up
for the last four years.
Looking back now, I wish I had real-
ized how precious that time was. Now
that it’s winter in Ann Arbor, my life is
nothing like it was back then. Summer
is long gone — now, it’s cold and bleak
out, and everything – from classes,
friends, applications, orgs and meet-
ings – is chaotic once again. I am here
to get an education, but college life
can feel like endless work, work, work.
There always seems to be a constant
need to be doing something. At times,
it feels suffocating.
On a whim this fall semester, I
ordered a novel online. It would be a
break from everything, I decided, and
maybe it would help make things less
chaotic. Maybe I could recreate my
lazy days from last summer. When the
package arrived, I practically ripped
the box apart. I held the book in my
hands. It was new, in hardcover: “The
Starless Sea,” by Erin Morgenstern.
With its black binding and ornate gold
engravings along its cover and spine, it
reminded me of those books I’d poured
over when I was younger, the ones with
rough edged paper and maps of fantasy
worlds. Despite my initial excitement,
it took me awhile to find time to actu-
ally sit down and read it: I ended up
carrying the book around in my back-
pack for a few days on the chance I’d
find myself free.
The spare moment I’d been waiting
for finally came on a Monday night in
November. One of my weekly meetings
had been canceled on short notice, I’d
finished most of my homework and the
next day was a light class schedule for
me — the universe seemed to be on my
side.
So, I sat down on my bed, nestled
into the various blankets I’d brought
from home, and laid “The Starless Sea”
across my lap. I let myself sink into the
pages. Before I knew it, it was two in
the morning and I was halfway through
the book.
By now, I’ve finished “The Starless
Sea.” It’s still sitting on my desk next
to my bed, underneath a growing pile
of secondhand books I’ve bought from
Dawn Treader. If I sit in my bed and
read at just the right angle, I can see the
gold of the book’s spine glinting under
the light of my lamp. It serves as a con-
stant reminder of that Monday night —
and the natural magic behind reading
that I almost forgot.
On clandestine reading
BY CHELSEA PADILLA, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
ILLUSTRATION BY MAGGIE WIEBE