I have never claimed to be a
“gamer.” Given that I only ever
truly played “Super Mario,”
I didn’t feel deserving of the
same title that people fluent
in “Minecraft,” “The Legend
of Zelda” or “Halo” held. I was
only familiar with one tiny
corner of the gaming world, but
I was completely and utterly
immersed in it.
Every Saturday morning I’d
wake up before sunrise and
quietly race to the living room.
I wanted guaranteed access
to the TV, and I wanted to be
alone in the dark and quiet
space. In spite of the serenity, I
was wired, eagerly waiting for
the Wii to load and bring me
my favorite sound: the “Mario
Kart” theme music. Though
I enjoyed every game in the
Super Mario universe, “Mario
Kart” was my favorite; it was
more intense than the Super
Mario Nintendo DS game and
gave me more control than the
Super Mario Galaxy games (the
Wii steering wheel had nothing
to do with it).
I would play “Mario Kart”
until my parents woke up and
I was forced to clock out. For
hours on end, I would play
Grand Prix after Grand Prix
—
four-game
tournaments
against the computer — only
moving on to the next after
scoring first in each round.
Maybe this should’ve been a
sign of my later struggles with
perfectionism, but at the time, it
wasn’t really winning that kept
me playing, but having so much
uninterrupted fun. (OK, maybe
winning was a contributing
factor to my addiction).
As I grew older and out of
my “Lion King 1½” phase,
neither movies nor television
really held my attention — at
least not in the way Mario
Kart did. I wasn’t racing to
finish my homework in time
to watch the newest episode
of “Victorious” or “Good Luck
Charlie”; no, I was rushing to
get in a race or two before bed.
I did have something to show
for my unwavering devotion
to the game — I unlocked
every possible character and
vehicle, as well as the other
miscellaneous
rewards.
Rosalina, one of the most
difficult characters to unlock,
was my favorite player. I was
both proud of and stubborn
about
my
achievements;
I
wouldn’t let anyone else play
in my saved file in case they
messed up my stats. Instead,
I’d play in my sibling or dad’s
save to unlock their desired
characters before moving back
into my own.
Though
the
Grand
Prix
tournaments were my favorite,
I would log several hours doing
Time Trials as practice for the
computerized competitions —
it was all incredibly serious to
me. I’d compare the speeds of
different vehicles, (I always
preferred the bikes to the karts
— they’re faster and easier to
maneuver), their accelerations
and their drift types (inward
drifting
was
the
best),
to
determine which vehicle was
the best overall choice and
which ones were better for
certain terrains, like ice or
sand. Mario Kart had my full
attention, and it has kept my
attention for years.
Playing “Mario Kart” is the
only art that brings me back
to this nostalgic state of mind.
When I rewatch old TV series
or even reread books (the art
form I am most partial to), I
don’t feel anything beyond
amusement
concerning
my
past
taste.
Video
games,
though, transport me back to
those early quiet mornings in
my living room, adrenaline
pumping, eyes wide open.
Over Thanksgiving Break, I
had the luxury of playing my
sibling’s Nintendo Switch after
begging them to download
“Mario Kart.” I itched to play
it throughout Thanksgiving
dinner; I counted down the
minutes of The Game until I
could get my greedy paws on
its controls. Just as I did when
I was young, I played the Grand
Prix tournaments one after the
other, following my respective
first-place trophies. I jumped
up and down when the confetti
rained over the characters
and shoved the screen in
my parents’ faces when my
highlight reels rolled. I needed
them to bask in my glory with
me and give me an approving
nod, which is exactly what I
asked of them back in 2010.
“Mario Kart” brings me both
relief and joy when I play it
today. I can vividly remember
how good it felt to win, to
dodge turtle shells and banana
peels and be granted with a
bullet boost in times of strife.
Though I still don’t think I
qualify as a gamer, I know I’ll
be a “Mario Kart” player for
life.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
When people ask me what my
favorite book series is, I still say
it’s Percy Jackson.
Now, I know you’re probably
thinking that I must not read a
lot, or that if I do, I have the taste
of a very nerdy seventh grader. I
mean, there are so many amazing
books in the world, and my
favorite series is “Percy Jackson
and the Olympians?” Lame. But
the thing is, I do read a lot. I read
all the time, actually, yet no book
or series has managed to have the
impact on me that Percy Jackson
did when I was a wee 10-year-old,
and I think I finally understand
why.
I don’t remember the first time
I picked up “Percy Jackson and
the Olympians: The Lightning
Thief,” but I do know that by the
time I finished the whole series,
Camp Half-Blood felt like home,
and its inhabitants — Percy,
Annabeth and Grover — felt like
my old friends. The series was
like a warm safety blanket I knew
I could fall back on, no matter
what was happening in my life.
This isn’t entirely surprising.
Since I was young, I’ve always
clung to the fictional words I
read about and watch, holding
onto them like they are lifelines.
When I find a series that I love,
I immerse myself in it, absorbing
every detail until I know it like the
back of my hand. That book, TV
show or movie becomes not just a
form of entertainment, but a way
of life. Still, there was something
undeniably special about the way
Percy Jackson drew me in.
For those unfamiliar with
the series, the story begins
when Percy discovers that his
father is actually the Greek sea
god Poseidon, and he is thrown
into a world of Greek gods and
magical creatures. It’s a fast-
paced adventure, but it wasn’t
the monsters or the bloody
combat that stuck with me. It
was
the
relationships
Percy
forged along the way, specifically
his
friendship
with
Grover
Underwood, who stuck by his side
through it all, and his relationship
with his reluctant ally, turned
friend,
turned
girlfriend,
Annabeth Chase, a friends to
lovers arc that set the romance
bar way too high. In the midst of
his life-threatening quests, Percy
found the people who would stick
by his side forever — a group of
friends who became his family.
A found family, you might say.
I’ve
become
intimately
familiar with this trope. From
the golden trio in “Harry Potter,”
to El and Hopper’s precious bond
in “Stranger Things,” to the hit
sitcom “Friends,” the found family
trope — forging familial bonds
with the people you choose —
infiltrates a large chunk of media,
and the impact it had on me as a
little kid cannot be understated.
Seeing my favorite characters in
the world surrounded by people
who supported and loved them
through it all set my expectations
for what I thought friendship
should look and feel like. It made
me believe that one day I would
find my people — my family —
because if Percy could do it while
fighting off Titans, I could too.
Growing up, I was lucky to have
a biological family who loved and
supported me unconditionally.
I didn’t need to search for a
family, because I already had
one. I did, however, have a very
black and white idea of what a
family looked like: A mom, a dad,
a couple kids, a dog — the nuclear
family. Now, we know that the
concept of a family is far more
expansive than this, and it was
reading and watching the found
family trope that opened my eyes
to this complexity. Series like
Percy Jackson and Harry Potter
pushed the boundaries on what I
perceived to be a family. Reading
about
groups
of
drastically
different
individuals
coming
together and leaning on one
another, I realized that family is
not just marked by blood relation,
but by an unconditional love and
support that is rare and magical.
By immersing myself in these
stories, I discovered that who we
turn to for love and support is not
limited by the words on our birth
certificate, but can be defined
and constructed by us and us
alone. A person’s support system,
I realized, did not need to follow
a strict dictionary definition, but
could be made up of whomever
they choose to have in their lives.
Sometimes — like Harry making
a family for himself at Hogwarts,
or Percy finding his best friend
in a satyr — support comes from
unlikely places and people, but
that does not make it any less
valuable.
I began to carry these lessons
into my life, allowing them to
guide me. As a kid, I struggled
with social anxiety that I still
cope with today. At a young age,
I cycled through a lot of friends.
Most of them didn’t stick around,
and a lot of them hurt me, but the
found family trope had a funny
way of making me feel a lot less
alone. When I was sad, I knew I
could flip open Percy Jackson,
reread a favorite scene and be
reminded of the kind of love and
friendship I deserved in my own
life. Suddenly, my definition of
family was not black and white,
but bright and colorful and
vibrant.
Now, as a 20-year-old away
at college (who is thankfully a
much more confident version
of herself than she was at 10),
rereading Percy Jackson feels
like a warm hug. It’s an instant
remedy to anxiety and stress,
and — even though I know the
story by heart — reuniting with
its characters feels like coming
home to old friends. Flipping
open my well-worn copy, I’m
reminded again that my circle of
love and support is not limited
or defined by anyone but me. My
family can be made up of whoever
I choose. I guess that’s why, years
later, the series is still nestled in
the center of my bookshelf, on
display for anyone who saunters
into my room. It’s both a source of
comfort and a reminder that I’m
not alone, that I have the power to
surround myself with people who
care about me.
To find my family.
Needless to say, I’m still
working on it. I’m incredibly
lucky to have friends who I love
more than anything in the world,
and a family who has my back, but
support systems are constantly
evolving and changing. I have a
funny feeling that, even 20 years
from now, I’m going to need to
keep revisiting these stories, to get
that gentle nudge on the shoulder
from Percy and Annabeth and
Grover and all the characters who
filled my childhood. They will
always remind me that I deserve
loving, supportive family and
friends, whatever that may look
like.
Finding my family in
the found family trope
Wednesday, December 7, 2022 — 7
REBECCA SMITH
Daily Arts Writer
Mario Kart is a blast to the past
LILLIAN PEARCE
Managing Arts Editor
Arts
Writing myself in and out of childhood
At a family reunion last
summer,
my
grandmother
gleefully presented me with
a manila folder. Inside were
several sheets of paper, all
different sizes, each filled with
my childish scrawl. They were
stories I had started — and
never finished, to her dismay —
while staying at her house over
the years. I couldn’t have been
more than 8 or 9 years old when
I wrote most of them; likely
they were parts of make-believe
games I had started with myself
before getting called to dinner.
But regardless of how old I was,
I knew even then that I wanted
to be a writer.
The books I read and movies
I watched clearly influenced my
writing, whether it was a story
about a girl befriending a wild
tiger due to my obsession with
“Free Willy” or a full-length
movie script set in a wizarding
school that was eerily similar
to Hogwarts. Writing came
to me easily as a kid because I
loved it. It was this love that
first drew me to the University
of Michigan. In fourth grade, a
classmate’s parent who worked
at the University gave my class
a presentation about the school,
which is how I first learned that
I could study creative writing in
college.
As I got older, the stories I
wanted to write became less
fantastical and more rooted
in my personal experiences. I
wrote down almost every idea
I had in my diary, alongside boy
troubles and frustration with
my parents. I brainstormed a
coming-of-age story about a
group of middle school friends,
inspired by the girls in my own
friend group. When I struggled
with anxiety and depression, I
wanted to write a character that
faced those same struggles and
overcame them. I had started to
recognize the power of words
and how they could make a
difference in the lives of many.
But when it came time to go
to college, my attitude suddenly
changed.
I was a bit pretentious when
I first started looking into
colleges. Originally, I wanted
to go to NYU (yeah, I know).
The University of Michigan
then returned to its top spot,
more for its reputation as a top
university than for its creative
writing program. But by the
time I graduated high school,
I was enrolled at a completely
different university, planning to
pursue a degree in psychology
and become a therapist. I don’t
exactly remember how I left
behind my original dream, but
my end goal was the same: I
wanted to help people since
I could connect with them.
The idea of being an author
still remained in the back of
my mind, waiting in the wings
until I realized, in 2020, that I
couldn’t handle the emotional
strain that would come with
being a therapist for the next
50 years or so. Psychology was
interesting to me, but I needed
creativity in my life.
I’m
lucky
enough to have
a
family
that
has
always
encouraged any
career
path
I
might take. My
parents
were
understanding
when I wanted
to
change
my
major.
Yet
whenever
they
asked me what
I wanted to do
instead
and
the
thought
of
writing
inevitably
popped up again,
it terrified me to
say it out loud.
Being an author
would mean a
different
kind
of
stress
than
being a therapist
—
it
would
mean a life of
unpredictability,
which I’ve never
been hardwired
to
handle.
So
why couldn’t I
let the idea go?
We’re
all
familiar
with
the
idea
of
the
“starving
artist.” A career
in the arts is
highly cutthroat
regardless
of
which path you
take: a writer, an actor, an artist.
We’ll
face
more
rejections
than we can count. We have
to take day jobs to support
ourselves through that grueling
process of our work just being
acknowledged, and even if we
are lucky enough to land a deal,
it probably doesn’t pay very
well. Once it’s time to enter the
“real world,” our answers to
“what do you want to be when
you grow up?” don’t matter
as much as how we’ll support
ourselves. Why is money more
important than happiness? On
a practical level, I understand
the answer to this question, but
I hate feeling like my passion
matters less as I get older. I hate
how much of a risk it has to be to
go after what I want.
The day I admitted to one
of my closest friends what I
really wanted to do with my
life, I felt a weight being lifted
off my shoulders. It hasn’t
been without its challenges,
including a nasty sense of
perfectionism
—
since
the
competitiveness of the industry
has me falsely convinced that I
have to get it right on the first
draft if I want to “make it”
as a writer — which couples
dangerously with my horrible
habit of quitting anytime I can’t
figure out a plot hole. But it has
its blessings, because it brought
me here to The Daily, where I
not only have the opportunity
to build a portfolio but am
surrounded by people who want
the same things I do.
Now that I have returned
to my dream of being a writer,
I
still
find
myself
giving
“disclaimers” whenever people
ask me what my plans are once
I graduate. “I want to write,” I
say, “but right now I’m looking
for a way to support myself
while I do that.” Even as I write
this article, I had to stop myself
from writing “I had the courage
to go back”; if this were a more
technical career I was pursuing,
I wouldn’t be called courageous
or have to assuage family
members that I promise, I have
a plan. I want this path and all
the stresses that come with it
because it will make me happy.
Days spent typing and deleting
the same paragraph over and
over again might not be the
path
to
financial
freedom,
and landing a book deal might
not catapult me to fame. But
that’s okay with me, because
the possibility of even one
person reading my books and
connecting with them matters
more. That can only happen if
I try.
HANNAH CARAPELLOTTI
Senior Arts Editor
Design by Leah Hoogterp
Design by Leah Hoogterp
Design by Leah Hoogterp