S T A T E M E N T
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Wednesday, January 19, 2022 — 7
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This Moment Matters
OSCAR
NOLLETTE-PATUL-
SKI
Statement Columnist
In the past few months, I have
developed the habit of instinctually
tapping my thumbs against my other
fingers, as if I’m pantomiming a crab,
or my hand is a pair of tongs grabbing
at a piece of air.
I think I adopted this mannerism
as an iteration of something my
friend Emily does, who got it from my
friend Aviva. When they’re excited
to see each other, their forearms fold
upward and they rotate their hands
and wrists with their fingers in a fist,
in a celebration of mutual recognition.
When I imitate them, I tap my fingers
together, my arm folded upward on
itself, with my fingernails pointing to
the sky. The conclusion of the motion
is reminiscent of the hand in the chef’s
kiss expression.
I’m not exactly sure what put
this into my emotive vocabulary
other than that it’s fun to pick up
expressions from one’s friends. I have
noticed myself tapping my fingers
together more regularly, usually when
something is particularly satisfying
or memorable. They pressed each
other to grab at the air when I stepped
out onto my back porch and saw the
white traces of the first snowfall of
the season, and they seeked to lift the
words off the page when I reached the
ending of a short story that shifted my
perspective. They picked at the chords
of a song that caught me by surprise,
and sometimes remembering the way
a brick building looks against a blue
sky ten years ago is enough to prompt
my fingerprints together.
***
When I was ten or eleven, teetering
on the fulcrum between elementary
school and adolescence, my parents
signed my brother and I up for a day
camp at our local Humane Society,
a national organization of animal
shelters. Inspired by our pet cat, Penny,
we were to attend the Cat and Bunny
Training camp at the Society’s West
Michigan branch. Hopes and dreams
of converting our cat from a wayward,
kitchen-counter-wanderer to a living
room star evolved quickly, and we
imagined her leaping over couches
and ottomans with grace. This would
become even more marvelous once
we told others that Penny was 13 years
old, a feline senior citizen. We would
prove our case against those that
called cats untrainable and develop a
repertoire of tricks that would be the
envy of all.
Our father drove us out to the
camp’s location, at the animal shelter
tucked in a dull office park near the
expressway. We walked up to the
brick building under a June blue sky,
and checked in at the front desk. My
brother and I were sent down the
linoleum corridor to the multipurpose
room where, upon opening the double
doors, we were greeted with the
echoing voices of dozens of seven to
twelve-year-olds. The counselors,
high schoolers simply in need of
community service hours, tried to
herd all of us into chairs at the long
folding tables — but order was not
truly restored until the woman in
charge of the camp, Ms. Ashley,
stepped into the room. Reminiscent
of a principal striding into a rowdy
school cafeteria, she first decried the
noise level but then welcomed us “to
the first ever Cat and Bunny training
camp!”
Announcing this before the glossy
stares of eighty school-age children
suddenly made Ms. Ashley aware of
the difficulties this first-time effort
would entail. Could she really promise
these kids the skills to train their cats
and rabbits to sit, stay and roll over?
Her admittances of “we’ve never
done this before” and “we’ll see how
this turns out” certainly did not garner
confidence within the crowded room;
the high school counselors still dazed
with the task of training children to sit
and stay themselves. Nevertheless, we
would set out to do what we signed up
for, and after Ms. Ashley’s not-quite-
inspirational speech, the room was
split up by table group and we were
sent off to the next activity.
Activities at Cat and Bunny
Training Camp varied by day, but all
were accompanied by the overtones of
the noxious smell of animal waste and
a chorus of dissonant meows. Near
the end of the week, we mainly just
pet the bunnies and kittens, and fed
them under the burnt-out guidance of
program staff.
In the beginning, however, a
genuine effort was made to educate
and indoctrinate the rabbits and cats
on various commands in the English
I’ll bite:
Giving into the ‘Twilight’ renaissance
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MACKENZIE HUBBARD
Statement Columnist
HALEY JOHNSON
Statement Columnist
I read the “Twilight” Saga out of
order so my mom wouldn’t know
what I was up to. I was in the sixth
grade, a time in my life when if I
wanted to access the Internet to pirate
a book — or even look up the saga’s
correct ordering — I had to sit down at
the massive desktop computer in my
kitchen before my entire family. Even
in the unlikely event that the kitchen
was vacant, the constant hum of the
computer would surely expose me,
alerting someone that I was online.
Not happening. I was left guessing
about the characters’ origin stories
and relationships before I realized I
had skipped an entire book.
Years later, I would learn from
mom that she didn’t even own a
copy of the first book. Our next-
door neighbor had fallen victim to
Twilight-mania and insisted my mom
borrow her copy; a few days later my
mom ordered “New Moon” without
even finishing “Twilight.”
I read “New Moon” in the nook
between my twin-sized bed and my
room’s lavender walls, careful to
conceal my reading. After finishing
the series (and going back to read
“Twilight,” courtesy of my local
library), I feigned ignorance to every
reference toward the books and acted
disinterested at any suggestion that I
read them. Simultaneously enthralled
and unimpressed, I couldn’t get
through the novels fast enough, but
was also hesitant to cash in on any of
the cultural capital — or lack thereof,
depending on who you asked — that
came with them. I wanted to say I
had read the books everyone was
talking about, but didn’t want to
endure detracting remarks from
critics. “Why would you read that?”
“You know that they’re not any good,
right?” Maybe I was in a “not like
other girls phase,” where I rejected
anything marketed toward women
and felt silly for picking the books up
in the first place. Maybe I just didn’t
like “Twilight.”
By 2011, around the time I was
reading the books, the “Twilight
saga” had sold over 120 million
copies and turned into a blockbuster
film franchise. It had also received
widespread criticism for its portrayal
of
toxic
relationships,
religious
undertones and appropriation of
indigenous culture. In 2009 and
2010 it made the American Library
Association’s list of most commonly
banned books. Simultaneously loved
and hated, the media couldn’t stop
talking about “Twilight.”
Young adult fantasy-romance was
admittedly not to my usual taste;
I was in the middle of a love affair
with historical fiction at the time,
and basically all I read was “Little
House on the Prairie” knock-offs.
I’m not sure if I would’ve picked up
the saga if it hadn’t been all around
me. I remember classmates wearing
“Twilight” merchandise in sixth
grade and their impassioned fights
over Team Jacob vs Team Edward.
I was eleven, I wasn’t even the
franchise’s target demographic. It
was nearly impossible to exist in the
late 2000’s without absorbing some
knowledge of it.
After the media frenzy died down,
it seemed like the saga was destined
to die the same quiet death most mid-
2000s young adult novels did. A whole
era of teen literature — ranging from
major successes like “The Hunger
Games” to mediocre variations on
stories like “Divergent” — became
media empires, immortalized in film
and merchandise, only to quietly
fade into pop-culture obscurity.
The merch goes on clearance, the
discourse dies down, something else
takes its place.
Then
came
the
Twilight
Renaissance. A catch-all term for
the series reemergence, the Twilight
Renaissance was sparked by fan’s
creativity and unapologetic love for
the saga.
Despite my ambivalence toward
the original saga, I was an early
convert to the second wave of
“Twilight” hysteria. In my mid-
teens, about three years after I read
“Twilight,” I was border-line addicted
to Tumblr, but felt a weird sense of
shame about being on the platform.
I hardly mentioned the hours I spent
working on my blog making GIFs,
themes and text posts to any of my
real-life friends. Tumblr was also
where I accidentally discovered that a
“Twilight” community was still alive
and thriving. I began seeing posts
from
@keepingupwiththecullens
on my dashboard, a blog that bravely
asks “what if twilight [sic] were a
trashy reality show?” The blog edited
the movie cast into Kardashian-style
confessionals, perfectly combining
the absurdity of the original books
and reality TV. It was funny and
nostalgic, it breathed life into
some of the flatter moments and
characters. I was hooked.
Some writers have traced the
Twilight Renaissance back to
May 2020, when Stephanie Meyer
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I stab my
friends
Few people have seen me quite
as messy like the captain of the foil
fencing squad has. She’s seen me
dissociated at parties after a single shot
of vodka, glitter on both of our eyes,
making conversation about shared
Irish heritage to ground me without
even knowing. She’s seen me gasping
for air after a bout, telling me to guard
my highline to stop getting stabbed in
the neck. She’s seen me crying outside
of the Sports Colusium, disclosing
incidents of sexual harassment.
I joined the fencing team in fall
2019, having never touched a weapon
before. By the end of the first practice,
sweating more than I ever had in my
life in a claustrophobically hot gym, I
decided these were my people here on
this campus. For somewhere between
six and nine hours a week, fencing was
my safe place — a place to be angry and
stressed, a place to take out aggression
and to laugh harder than I had any
other time that week.
***
There is a certain mindset that
you have to tap into the moment you
step on the fencing strip. No matter
how many touches your opponent
gets, no matter how far behind you
are, the bout — the three minutes
(or five touches) you spend facing
an opponent — isn’t over until the
referee calls the final touch. In short,
you make every touch count. You do
not think about the score; you act as if
each round is the only round.
It is a mindset that works in two
ways. If you are behind in touches,
and it seems impossible to win the
bout, you don’t give up. You stay
concentrated. Your opponent could
get overconfident and slip up, leaving
the target area open. Likewise, if
you are ahead in touches, you can’t
get cocky. A single moment could
be the difference between having a
formidable lead and your opponent
closing the gap.
It also works to keep you grounded
in the moment because time seems
to move differently on the strip.
Notoriously, there was an Olympic
fencing bout with one second left on
the clock that continued on for several
more minutes. Seconds stretch out,
and three minutes feels never ending.
Five points feels impossible. But you
can’t think about that. You can only
think about the next touch.
I’ve heard the sport described as
physical chess. Sometimes it feels like
that — planning your attack five steps
ahead. Sometimes it feels just like
you’re just trying to stay on your feet
until the bout is over.
***
While every second on the strip
counts, club sports as a whole are
a different story. Club sports on
the University’s campus are often
overlooked. As a Big Ten school, really
the only sports anyone pays much
attention to are varsity sports, mostly
football and basketball. Occasionally
swimming will get a mention.
Maybe soccer or hockey is noted.
But nowhere on The Michigan Daily
website is there a tab for club sports;
you have to search for tidbits.
Despite
being
incredibly
competitive, having won the Big Ten
title in 2019 and the bronze medal in
NCAA championships in the same
year, the rowing team only has 4 pages
worth of content dedicated to their
sport. Most of the other club sports
are not mentioned at all. Fencing,
which won the USACFC national title
in 2019, hasn’t been mentioned by The
Michigan Daily since 2006. I’m not
bitter.
There are 30 club sports at the
University, but I’d be willing to bet
the vast majority of students here
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Turner, Sarah Chung,
and Meghana Tummala
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Chung and Paige Hodder