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

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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

