My fascination with witches was born out 
of reading “The Crucible” my sophomore 
year of high school. I read aloud the voice 
of Elizabeth Proctor to the class, my voice 
trembling as I pleaded with the judge for 
my innocence, that I did not harm Abigail 
Williams through supernatural means, that 
John Proctor was a faithful husband, that I 
wasn’t a witch. But the judge didn’t believe 
me, nor did the town of Salem, swept away 
by a fear only God could instill. Soon I’d be 
hanged with 18 others, one of 20 victims of 
the trials.
Arthur Miller’s recount of the events 
of Salem is nonetheless historical fiction, 
an allegory for the Red Scare of the 1950s. 
Abigail Williams wasn’t a teenage Winona 
Ryder but a little girl, and John Proctor 
wasn’t a strapping and brooding Daniel Day-
Lewis but an old man. There was no affair 
between the two that led to Abigail accusing 
Elizabeth Proctor of witchcraft. 
But the characters mentioned in the play 
were all real residents of Salem. Abigail real-
ly did accuse the Proctors, as well as dozens 
of others, of witchcraft. And both Proctors 
really did die as a result of Abigail’s accusa-
tions against them, making them two of the 
20 victims of the Salem Witch Trials, not 
counting the four who died in prison and the 

hundreds of others who were imprisoned on 
the charge before the chaos ceased in 1693.
This semester, I revisited my fascination 
with witches and signed up for History 375: 
History of Witchcraft. Telling my friends 
about this particular course registration 
meant I was soon met with raised eyebrows 
and scrunched faces. They all had the same 
question: Are witches even real?
The short answer: Yes, but not in the ways 
one might expect. While there are practitio-
ners of witchcraft today, they are separate 
from the ‘witches’ of the trials conducted 
against people like Elizabeth Proctor.
For the United States, much of our under-
standing of witchcraft is filtered through 
the lens of Salem. And yet, the events that 
occurred in Salem pale in comparison to 
the European trials of the Early Modern 
Period — a few centuries earlier than Salem. 
While estimates vary wildly, the most recent 
numbers are that between 40,000 to 50,000 
people were hanged and burned at the stake, 
75 to 80% of whom were women, during the 
European witch trials. In context, as Shake-
speare was writing his sonnets and Michel-
angelo painted the Sistine Chapel, supposed 
witches, most of them women, were being 
burned for crimes they did not commit. 
One purpose of History 375 is to dis-

sect the various reasons, events and players 
behind the atrocities that occurred during 
the Early Modern Period, and therefore, no 
one simple explanation exists for why each 
victim was accused. However, one reoccur-
ring element of witch trials throughout his-
tory is apocalyptic thinking, that demonic 
evil is present and those involved must be 
defeated. This line of thinking characterized 
the Red Scare of the 1950s and Satanic Panic 
of the 1980s. Today, conspiracy movements 

such as Q Anon rely on this same sensational 
notion that people, specifically the “elites,” 
are secretly engaging in child sacrifice and 
devil worship.
With a basic understanding of the accused 
witches of Salem and Europe and the hyper-
bolic ways in which they were portrayed and 
ridiculed, I wanted to know what the real 
witches were like, here in Ann Arbor.

Wednesday, October 26, 2022 // The Statement — 4

Between my fourth and fifth failed attempts 
to land a hit on the seventh hole of the afternoon, 
my friend declared with a laugh:
“This article is going to be an attack on golf.”
For a time, I was tempted to write such a piece, 
especially after an adolescent frustration kicked 
in on hole six. The autumn sun started to fade, 
and my fingers grew stiff in the cold — too stiff to 

continue taking notes. My eyes watered, largely 
from the relentless wind, but other factors may 
have played a part as well.
I grew frustrated with the ball and my tech-
nique worsened further. Each swing of my club 
spewed sizable chunks of dirt through the air. 
Even when my club struck home, the ball spun 
wildly into the bushes or sadly plunked down a 
few feet from where it’d taken off.
Behind me, a group of my friends, steadfast 
companions in my first attempt at the sport of 
golf, followed my gradual progress toward the 
distant flag. Along the way, they cheered for my 
meager victories and my failures all the same. 
The support kept me from spiraling, even when 
confronted head-on with the reality of my golf-
ing ability.
While I expected my athletic reservations to 
minimize any confidence I might have on the 
University of Michigan Golf Course, the open-
ing hours were actually a blast. Reports of the 
course’s allure had trickled down to me over the 
years, but I’d never visited to see for myself.
Upon arrival, the staff issued us two shiny 
golf carts that thrilled us with their novelty 
and smooth handling. I had never been respon-
sible for a golf cart before and took quickly to the 
simple joy of navigating the course. We glided 
over pathways carved through the open green 
expanse, then jolted over crooked bumps in 
the hills. A passenger was likely to be bounced 
straight from the seat if not holding on tightly, 

and, in the end, I accidentally crashed one cart 
during a daring attempt to catch up to the other. 
No damage ensued, fortunately, and the event 
only raised our spirits further.
Surprisingly, though, beyond our golf cart 
hijinks, my little band of first-time golfers 
adhered well to the athletic rituals so foreign to 
us. I uncovered a deep satisfaction in the thwack 
of a golf ball lofted toward the horizon, and in 
doing so, suddenly demystified a reverence I’d 
always assumed was exclusive to Ross Business 
students.
Above the course hung wreaths of clouds, 
etched with deep purple shadows from 
the dying light of day. Evergreens stood 
sturdy along our hilltop vantage while 
more colorful trees swayed and shed their leaves 
on perfect green grass. It made for an idyllic por-
trait, one I hoped was never lost on those who 
frequented the course.
This spectacular view of autumn, however, 
did not come free of charge. At the University of 
Michigan Golf Course, one game between four 
students costs $236.
One game costs more than a used guitar. It 
costs more than a 75-gallon fish tank or 1,000 
bananas. It’s more than a pair of leather boots 
with a lifetime warranty, or a Scotch whiskey 
aged 16 years. In 1868, the United States gov-
ernment spent fewer dollars to purchase 11,000 

acres of Alaskan land than my friends and I spent 
to golf for one afternoon. At the current federal 
minimum wage, $236 equates to 32 hours of paid 
labor, or a full week’s work, after income tax.
In short, golf is expensive. By my stan-
dards, it’s unreasonably expensive. Though an 
informed golf advocate could surely cite a hun-
dred upkeep fees that justify the cost, I don’t 
believe such an egregious price of admission 
should apply to students already piling heaps of 
money at the foot of an affiliated university with 
a $12 billion endowment.
The Michigan Daily provides exhaustive cov-
erage of the arguments both 
for and against golf courses, 
including 
overwhelming 
data on wasted land and 
water. Reporter Alex Nobel 
cites an enormous 2.08 
billion gallons of water 
used each day main-
taining golf courses, 
an amount equal to 
that of 3,000 Olympic 
swimming pools.

My first swing at golf: Lessons from the green

Sitting face-to-face with one of Ann Arbor’s witches

BY JOHN JACKSON, STATEMENT COLUMNIST

BY ELIZABETH WOLFE, STATEMENT COLUMNIST

Read more at 
MichiganDaily.com

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

John watches his ball’s trajectory 
Sunday, October 16.

JEREMY WEINE/Daily

John finishes off a hole with a 
short putt Sunday, October 16.

JEREMY WEINE/Daily

HANNAH TORRES/Daily
Kai Belcher performs a T
arot card 
reading Monday, October 17.

