Throughout
his
long
and
illustrious career in meteorology,
not everything went to plan for
Perry Samson.
In fact, he never planned on
becoming a meteorologist. He had
every intention of becoming a rock
star.
“But they expect you to have
some talent,” Samson said. “Which
I thought was unfair.”
And he certainly didn’t plan
on
becoming
a
professor
of
atmospheric
sciences
at
the
University of Michigan, he only
decided to interview because he was
trying to be cheap.
“I applied for the job in Ann Arbor
literally hoping, not that I would get
hired because I didn’t think that that
would happen,” Samson said. “... but
that they would pay for my room as I
drove from Albany to Madison … I’m
a cheap guy.”
And he absolutely didn’t plan
on starting a weather site — The
Weather
Underground
—
that
receives tens of millions of visits
every month. Rather, it began as a
simple attempt to look intelligent in
front of his students by being able
to tell them what the weather was
going to be each day.
“He came in one day and he said,
… ‘I want you guys to make me look
smart,’” Frank Marsik, associate
research scientist and lecturer in
the College of Engineering, said. “‘I
need to know what the weather’s
going to be that day. Nothing’s more
embarrassing for a meteorology
professor to go into class, have
students ask him and you not
know.’”
But regardless of what his initial
plan was, he did all of these things,
from never-was-rockstar to one
of meteorology’s most celebrated
thinkers and the University’s most
esteemed professors.
He wasn’t supposed to. His
success was not a product of some
greater design. He simply took
what was in front of him at every
step of his life, looked for the most
logical path forward and turned
opportunities that he couldn’t have
predicted into much more than they
should have been.
That’s part of the reason Samson
has never fit neatly into a concrete
professional description. Because
for Samson, there’s very little that
he isn’t.
“He’s just Perry. He’s an enigma,”
Rackham student Kaleb Clover told
The Michigan Daily.
And
while
any
description
would be largely inadequate in fully
capturing the enigmatic Samson, it’s
worth a shot:
Perry Samson is a tornado-
chasing,
major
weather-
conglomerate
co-founding,
educational
tool
building,
emmy-winning,
meteorological-
trailblazing,
entrepreneurial
professor of atmospheric sciences
with a specialty in air quality. He’s
spent the past four decades teaching
at the University; every Monday,
Wednesday and Friday, he could be
found standing at a lectern, teaching
Climate 102: Extreme Weather, to
students like me, who had minimal
interest in the weather and an even
more minimal intent of becoming
meteorologists.
“If you ask about the story of
Perry Samson, it’s not the story of
a great forecaster, it’s not even the
story of a tornado chaser … Perry’s
is the story of innovation,” Tim
Keebler, Ph.D. student, and a former
GSI for Samson, said.
With so much that could be
mentioned,
it’s
impossible
to
define Samson by just one feat
that he’s accomplished. Heck, it
took me hundreds of minutes of
interviews before someone even
thought it worth mentioning that a
documentary made about a trip he
led won an Emmy. Yet, everyone
brought up Climate 102 right away.
Wednesday, November 30, 2022 — 9
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
S T A T E M E N T
CHARLIE PAPPALARDO
Statement Columnist
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
RILEY NIEBOER/Daily
‘Do something:’ On the one-year anniversary of the
Oxford High School shooting
Content Warning: Descriptions of
gun violence.
It’s hard to be the picture of
resiliency
when
you’ve
been
knocked down and can’t get back
up.
I wish people would realize
they’re
walking
over
me,
continually pushing me down. But
I also don’t. The people that step
on me have their own places to be,
their own lives to live. I don’t want
them to burden themselves with
mine. I don’t want anyone to lay
down beside me. But it still hurts.
I feel the heels of their shoes press
into the bruises that have made
homes on my skin — everything
lingers.
I don’t know. Maybe I want
someone to look down. Maybe I
want someone to lay beside me.
What I do know is that I’m
scared a lot. I don’t think I’ll ever
not be afraid again.
I put my jacket over my sister’s
shoulders as she cries. I hold my
sister so tightly I fear I might crack
her ribs. I smile when someone asks
where I’m from.
“Oxford,” I say, bracing for
impact.
They
smile.
They
don’t
remember. That is almost worse.
Things haven’t changed that
much. For me, they’ll never be the
same.
***
A year ago today there was a
shooting at Oxford High School.
Four
students
died:
Madisyn
Baldwin, Hana St. Juliana, Justin
Shilling and Tate Myre. Many more
were injured, now fully recovered.
But even more will never be the
same.
I am not a survivor myself, but
my little sister, Abbey, was there
that day. She crawled out of a
window and ran down the street.
I was in Mason Hall during those
minutes my sister made her escape.
I do not try to represent or
describe
the
totality
of
the
experiences that came after this
event. I simply seek to speak on my
own.
***
The changes that happened after
aren’t big. They aren’t noticeable
unless you’re looking for them.
They’re clear when Abbey’s eyes
get lost in space, and I can tell she’s
somewhere far away. They’re clear
when I play certain songs, and
we cry without speaking. They’re
little changes in her face I can’t
pick out. She looks older. I think it’s
something in her eyes.
I look in the mirror sometimes
and try to pick out the differences
in my own face. Maybe I look
different too. Do I look older? Is
there something in my eyes?
But maybe I don’t. Because
sometimes I look at Abbey, and
she looks just like she used to.
When we’re screaming a song in
our parent’s truck. When she’s
watching TV with my older sister.
When I watch her play with our
dogs in the yard.
Those moments remind me
how little everything changed.
Is the look in my sister’s eye all
that’s changed because of this
tragedy? Is that all that changes
after something like this happens
to someone? Nothing tangible,
nothing monumental, nothing that
will protect other children and
other parents and other families
from this kind of pain. From this
kind of change.
Just this. The way my sister
cries and shakes. The way I look
in the mirror and pick apart my
face, hoping for some change,
because
something,
anything
ought to change as a result of what
happened in my hometown 365
days ago today.
It’s always the pain. That’s all I
can see.
***
At the end of the piece I wrote
for “The Oxford Edition,” I called
upon anyone reading to look at my
community, to see it. Actually, I
believe I didn’t “call,” I “begged.”
My friends read the article, my
hometown did. For a few months
afterward when I met someone
new, and I said my name, they
sometimes knew who I was, they
attached my name with the piece.
But that was back when people
froze when I said where I was
from. They looked. They saw.
They listened to my story, to my
sister’s story, to stories from those
on campus and from those back in
Oxford. I thanked them. It takes a
lot of time and a lot of effort to do
that — to look, to see, to listen so
earnestly.
But now, a year later, they don’t
remember. And I don’t blame them.
There have been 717 mass
shootings in the U.S. this year. I
can’t remember 717 towns. I can’t
remember that many names. This
overwhelming, intense pain that
has burdened my family, my town
for months now, plagues thousands
of other souls in this country.
Because my little sister shakes
and cries when she hears fireworks.
Because my little sister can’t go to
school without the therapy dogs
that they provide. Because I can’t
listen to certain songs. Because my
dad can’t think about it for too long
because he’ll just freeze, and the
world will keep moving without
him. Because my entire life, my
family’s life, feels like trying to push
a run-down car uphill. Constant
effort, just to keep moving, and
when we turn around, we realize
we haven’t even made it that far.
And I didn’t even lose someone.
Think
about
that.
717
mass
shootings. Thousands of families,
thousands of people. That’s a lot
of names that you, I, we can’t
remember.
That’s a lot of names that deserve
to be remembered.
***
When it happened, my older
sister and I fled Ann Arbor. I sat
in the passenger seat as she drove,
as she pleaded with me not to talk
about it, because she couldn’t drive
and dry-heave at the same time.
I pleaded with my mind to stop
racing, my arms to stop aching for
my little sister.
But now it’s nearly a year later,
and I’m driving home again. Just
like that day, I’m driving to see my
younger sister. My hands grip the
steering wheel, and I see a Twitter
notification.
Another
headline
of a school facing another threat
of a mass-shooting. I don’t dig
too deeply for the details, I can’t
without freaking out. I think my
Twitter notifications have listened
to my search history. It may not
currently be the worst day of my
life anymore, but I think, with a
growing anger, that somewhere out
there, it is somebody’s.
I glance at the passenger seat and
think about how, two weeks ago, I
was holding back a panic attack like
vomit. I remember locking every
muscle in my body so I wouldn’t
move, so I wouldn’t show anyone
that I was on the verge of tears, of
breaking down. All because we had
tumbled over a particularly nasty
bit of roadkill.
I wondered if this will be what
the rest of my life is like. Crying
over roadkill, fake guns, movies
I used to love, Evan Peters in
American Horror Story, sirens,
book covers, certain names, the
way no one understands and yet too
many people understand and how
none of us should, my little sister’s
backpack, my old chemistry teacher,
therapy dogs, the image of my little
sister bleeding out on the floor of
her high school and whispering
my name, and I don’t even know
what’s happening and someone is
stepping over her, the classrooms
in Mason Hall, flags at half-mast,
calls from unknown numbers,
hospitals, Grey’s Anatomy season
six episode 24, my little sister’s 16th
birthday, the idea of my tears falling
down my face and the shade of the
frost on the grass and how hard the
ground would be if I had to bury my
little sister.
And just like that I’m back in it.
Because what are just nightmares
to make me sob are real to some
people. To so many people. I pound
my fist into the steering wheel as I
pull into my driveway, pressing my
forehead against the cool glass so I
can feel something other than this.
And then I realize that this, this is
nothing. This is getting off easy.
I put each hand on its opposite
shoulder and hold myself close. I
don’t want to go inside like this and
scare my sister. I’d rather bear this
burden alone. But I know I am not.
My family is just inside, bearing
this burden. 717 new communities
in America are out there, bearing
this burden, just from this year
alone.
A little under a year ago I begged
people to look at my community.
Now, I’m afraid I’m going to beg
people again.
Please do something. Check in on
your friends. Have conversations
about mental health, about gun
control with your families, friends. I
said in my previous Oxford Edition
piece that the months following
the event felt like I was stuck in
the moment of that day — Nov. 30.
Others may walk on. Others’ worlds
may change. But mine has not.
Mine won’t. I refuse to let it.
Not until you see. Not until we
see. Not until something comes out
of this. This pain, this unending,
burning pain that is somehow
overwhelming and all-consuming
and still doesn’t compare to that of
those who lost people exactly one
year ago, of those who lose people
to gun violence every single day.
I will remain frozen. I will
remain in that moment of horror, a
piece of me will remain in the worst
day of my life until I feel like the
world has paid for what it has done
to me. To my older sister, to my
father, to my mother. To my little,
baby sister, who I am fortunate
to spend yet another day with. To
Tate. To Hana. To Madisyn. To
Justin. To Oxford.
Please, I’m begging you. Take a
piece of yourself, your mouth, your
hand, your heart and hold it out.
Promise it to me, to people like me,
to people in worse positions than
me. And then do something with it.
Be a part of the reason that the only
thing that comes out of this tragedy
isn’t pain.
RILEY HODDER
Statement Correspondent
‘On the cutting edge:’ Professor Perry
Samson through the lens of Climate 102
Photo courtesy of Paige Hodder
Riley Hodder (left) and Abbey Hodder (right) in front of Oxford High School Saturday, November 26.
Doctor Perry Samson teaches “Extreme Weather” in an Angel Hall auditorium Monday, November 28.