Wednesday, January 8, 2020 // The Statement
2B

Managing Statement Editor

Magdalena Mihaylova

Deputy Editors

Emily Stillman

Marisa Wright

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Reece Meyhoefer

 Designers

 Liz Bigham

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 Madison Gagne 

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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

