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

Read more at 
MichiganDaily.com

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 

Read more at 
MichiganDaily.com

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 

Illustrations by Sam 

Turner, Sarah Chung, 

and Meghana Tummala 

Page Design by Sarah 

Chung and Paige Hodder

