S T A T E M E N T 8 — Wednesday, September 14, 2022 The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com CHARLIE PAPPALARDO Statement Columnist Read more at MichiganDaily.com I think I was 17 when I came to the realization that my relation- ships with God and Major League Baseball are very similar. I was half-born into both Catholicism and the San Francisco Giants because with each, only one parent really cared. My dad would lecture me about all the mediocre ballplayers from his heyday and my mom would take me to Catholic school every Sunday — the after- math of this is that I can now name an equal number of saints and baseball players from the 1970s. But aside from the half-baked devotions to God and baseball that were instilled in me throughout my upbringing, I’ve realized that these two things still occupy very similar spaces in my life. I go to mass, and the ballpark, maybe four times a year respectively — and usually with my grandpa. Half the time I get bored while I’m there and I don’t know whether I’ll carry on the practice in the future. I could retain a loose connection to both, or it could fade. But the moment someone mocks either institution, I get really defensive. In many cases, I think faith embodies more than just the stated belief. Yes, there’s a holy book to follow, but I think the core tenet of belief is that there is an order and justice present in a seemingly cha- otic life. And just because I don’t totally know if I believe that’s true doesn’t mean that I don’t envy that comfort, and dislike when it gets disrupted. In theory, I’m a big fan of both God and the Giants, but the honest to God truth is that I don’t know if I believe in God, and I don’t know if I give a shit about baseball. But I like faith being an option, and I God and baseball — in no particular order sure as hell like the ambiance of a ballpark. *** I remember when I was 16, I got way too drunk for the first time. It was a day or two before New Year’s and my parents left me at home with my Grandpa because they deemed me “level-headed, intelligent and mature.” So being the “level-headed, intelligent and mature” child I was, I stole my Grandpa’s gin and took shot after shot with my friend Michael in a park play structure. Michael didn’t handle the gin well, and within the hour, he was vomiting everywhere. On my couch, on my floor, on me. It quick- ly dawned on me that I was in way over my head. I could only sit in a rocking chair, hold back tears and let Michael sleep. I was convinced that he’d choke on his vomit and die if I let him out of my sight, and that it’d be my fault if he did. I finally walked him home at 5 a.m. because his family was leaving on a road trip, but of course his parents caught us because we were neither quiet nor particularly intelligent with our entry strategy. So I got back at about 6 a.m., cleaned up the vomit, and stared at the fan for two hours. I was still half-drunk and convinced that Michael’s parents would hate me. I knew that my parents would find out and presumably hate me. And frankly, I thought that I would hate me. But for some reason, I walked back downstairs about two hours later, and my Grandpa was awake. Knowing nothing of the seven disastrous hours that had just occurred, he asked me something he always asks me: “Do you want to go to church?” And for the first time in a while, I said yes. I remember sitting in that pew, barely sober, and feeling an intense wave of tranquility. The sun was shining warmly through the stained glass, the priest was speaking on love and sin and I felt content. There’s this moment in Catholic mass after you receive communion when you kneel and pray. And as I knelt, I understood that my life would go on, long past the gin and vomit and parental retribution that I was sure I’d face. I under- stood that the world would keep spinning, and that I’d be okay. That was faith. And yes, in that moment, it was borne out of neces- sity. I was 16, new to delinquency, awkward and terrified. And in that moment when I felt like I was careening, I needed something omniscient and omnipresent to center me. Even just for a morning. But I don’t think the circum- stances negate the belief. Because faith isn’t a static thing. I had it then, and I don’t know if I have it now. But I don’t think that either state of belief is permanent. I think this cycle of belief, skepticism and secularism applies even in a non- divine context. For example, I have a lucky five dollar bill tucked into the right side of my wallet behind a Walgreens receipt. I won it from a gas station lottery ticket I bought the night I turned 18, and when I walked out of the 7-11 that night, I was con- vinced that I must be lucky. The bill must’ve been an omen of this, so I decided I’d keep whatever luck had stuck itself onto that bill, and tuck it into my back pocket. Do I think the bill brings me luck now? No. But did it make me feel lucky two years ago? Yes. And I’m glad it was with me then, so I’ll keep it in my back pocket now. I think I treat faith the same way. *** After church that morning, my Grandpa and I went to breakfast at a diner, and while I can’t tell you exactly what we talked about, if I had to bet I’d say he told me a brilliantly meandering life story before we talked about horse rac- ing and baseball. He probably lamented the woes of his Philadelphia Phillies and I probably pretended like I knew what was going on in the Giants organization. I always liked talking about baseball, but I never quite had it in me to watch enough games to sound smart. I’d watch when the Giants were good, or when “Jeopardy!” wasn’t on, but rarely without some sort of prompting. In 2016 I had a personal connec- tion to the World Series because I wanted the Cleveland Guardians to win. Not because I particularly liked Cleveland, but rather because my sister lived in Chicago and I had decided that she shouldn’t have nice things. I have a distinct memory of being 13 and watch- ing Game Seven, half-dressed in hockey pads, standing outside of a locker room. It was the bottom of the eighth — the Guardians were down two and the Cubs had their star closer, Aroldis Chapman, in. The game seemed all but over. There was a runner on second, and this real mediocre player was up to bat for the Guardians named Rajai Davis. He was a “journeyman” type who bounced around from team to team and never really stuck. He was having a bad series, and was not at all who Cleveland wanted at the plate. But there he was, playing out the moment we’d all dreamed about while playing catch in the driveway. On the seventh pitch of the at bat, he launched the ball to deep left where it snuck over the wall and knocked the cameraman over — and I went insane. In that moment, baseball became everything it was cracked up to be. In the most exciting and suspenseful way, the underdog came up big when it mattered most. I thought to myself, “God this is incredible, I gotta watch more of this.” In that moment, baseball was a romantic and poetic thing that I knew I needed to love. And I’d try. I’ve always loved going to games. Whether it was the Giants, or their minor league affiliate, I could sit in a ballpark and watch a game any day. Enjoy- ing early summer evenings with fresh air and Cracker Jacks, chant- ing and heckling, and watching the truly bizarre intermission games involving golf, faux horse rac- ing and children face planting, I’d feel contentment like I felt in that church. NATE SHEEHAN Statement Columnist Content Warning: Quotation of f-slur. Leaving my last “History of Sexuality” lecture, I pondered: What attaches me to this label of a “man?” Does it serve what I want from my life? I had never thought deeply about my gender before, but with a newfound awareness of the gen- der system I lived in, I realized What is a man? I might have always been more conscious of its weight on me than my other cis male peers. Didn’t we all question why we have to deepen our voices when talking on the phone? Did no one else consider how the paleness of their skin allows their lips, a light but notable pink, to appear as if they were wearing lipstick and think about the sex appeal of their nar- row hips? Did more than a few of us occasionally adopt hyperfemi- nine behaviors when drunk? Hips swaying as I walk, thinking “I’m gentle. I’m fluid.” Surely we all must? Right? I never thought that others might not. But suddenly, my edu- cation forced me to think about the above considerations. For the last few weeks that semester, as I studied the history of sexuality, my gender and I were in a tug of war. I came to realize then that I’m not particularly interested in the expectations that come with being a “man,” spanning from closing off segments of my emo- tional range to not being allowed to sit with my legs crossed. Fol- lowing these expectations makes me less happy. Yet, it’s difficult not to observe them. On most days, I feel like a man. That makes some sense, given I was socialized as one. I’ve often associated my manhood with soccer, a sport I’ve played since preschool. I loved the rhythm of the ball and foot, the hive mind of a team. I was always told that I was a fun player to watch, mov- ing gracefully with the ball, like a dancer weaving through a crowd and discovering space. For most of my life, soccer ate up at least two hours of my day, five days a week. As the field dominated my time, so did its gender norms. The spirit of a sports team is mostly one of hypermasculine comradery. These were boys I won state titles with. How could we not cling to a sense of fra- ternity? Many of us did. But in eighth grade, this macho envi- ronment also enabled one team- mate to repeatedly tell me that I was a “faggot.” I remember how ostracized I felt, how quickly I had been degraded from being recognized as a teammate to being targeted with a slur. Design by Tamara Turner Read more at MichiganDaily.com JOHN JACKSON Statement Columnist Once my housemates leave for the summer, I stop wearing socks altogether. The wood making up the floor of my front porch, paint long faded, turns slowly to compost day by day. The floor sits damp beneath my bare feet, and all around, Church Street recovers from a summer storm. There’s no damage to count, but remnants rise for the eager observer. The pavement remains slick and dark and the city sun hides behind a low-hanging mist. Residents peek shyly from their front doors, peer- ing upward every few minutes, as if succumbing to a delayed bio- logical instinct: lightning inspires fear. I watch two men unload sup- plies from an unmarked white truck; they’ve patched the same twelve missing bricks in Weiser Hall for ages. The natural goings-on of the city block reach out to me – not just through droll sights of the determined pedestrians on fad- ing crosswalks, through ringing sounds of the fresh construction on another high-rise, through unfriendly scents in a nearby pile of neglected compost, but most often, through solid feel of the steady earth beneath my feet. The day we started wearing shoes, humankind abandoned our fifth sense. Stepping gingerly down onto the sidewalk, I scan for broken Walking freely glass. Shards of a long-discarded Budweiser bottle lie on my left. The newfound danger thrills, and I discover the safe path on my right. I traipse down the street, bound for Palmer Field, arches of my feet aching with every con- tact to the pavement’s unforgiving flatness. Grass poses a new challenge. The squelch in the dirt screams, “you’ll have to shower immedi- ately,” but I walk on anyway. The moisture reminds me of life, of hope, and just now, I realize I’ve been away from them too long. Once, in middle school, my brother remarked that I had “Hobbit feet,” and thus, an aver- sion to exposing my bare feet was born. The comment wasn’t malicious or personal. His remark that day was merely the punctuation mark on a sentence that had already been written. Long gone were the days of absent-minded flip flop- ping. I’d grown up, and the sub- sequent loss of tactile sensation in my feet was a price I’d gladly pay for maturity. As young adulthood waxed and waned, my aversion to foot visibil- ity only grew stronger, until even- tually, the casual covering of feet became an undercurrent in my life: unheard, like the hum of an air conditioner I’d forgotten was running. Only with all the noise switched off and the housemates shuttled away was I finally made aware of how loud my fear had been. The day my roommates moved out, I became acquainted with a new level of loneliness. I had friends in town, but my meal prep- aration, my laundry, my living room television consumption — the little whims and activities that comprised my life — took place largely alone. It felt nice. And my shoes were the first thing to go. There were no spectators at home to comment, “Put those bad boys away” or “I see the dogs are out today” or even just “Woof.” In fact, I walked, shoe-free, straight out the front door to set my Nor- folk Pine plant in the afternoon sun. In our little red house, other- wise teeming with the quirks and every-day amusements of commu- nal living, the unwritten addition of, “Those with bare feet will be mocked” never made much sense to me. It’s not unique to us, is it? Aversion to bare feet has been a long-lasting cultural trend in America. In 1969, the town of Youngstown, Ohio made it illegal to walk barefoot downtown, an ordinance which was eventually declared unconstitutional. On the University of Michigan’s campus, some dreaded combination of Ann Arbor snows, OnlyFans jokes and blowback from vestigial hippie trends have rendered the exposed foot a subject of friendly ridicule. Freshman year, a friend in Bursley walked barefoot down the hallway once and was thereafter known by all those present as “foot girl.” Read more at MichiganDaily.com Design by Melia Kenny Design by Leilani Baylis-Washington A public lecture and reception; you may attend in person or virtually. For more information, including the Zoom link, visit events.umich.edu/event/95671 or call 734.615.6667. ANN CHIH LIN Scapegoating Chinese American Scientists in the Name of National Security Kenneth G. Lieberthal and Richard H. Rogel Professor of Chinese Studies Associate Professor, Gerald R. Ford School of Public Policy Thursday, September 22, 2022 | 4:30 p.m. | 10th Floor Weiser Hall LSA LECTURE