I don’t know.

I don’t know why bad things happen.

On April 8, 2007, my sister called me and told me I should probably sit down. I sat on the floor of my dorm room at Michigan. South Quad. I can see West Quad from my window. My roommate was a native of Hong Kong. I’d gotten her shitfaced on vodka our first week living together; since then, she’d sworn off alcohol and began attending Korean evangelical church services. I played rugby and threw up in our trash can from too much jungle juice more than once. Her rice steamer sat on the second shelf of her desk. I stared at that shelf. She had a few photos of family. Her parents were nice. I met them once.

“Mom’s in the hospital.”

You think a lot of things about your parents. You think about calling them or not calling them, or coming home for holidays or asking them for money or telling them something that you saw that only they would understand because your parents read you the same books over and over and over again and when you see a plant on campus that reminds you of a tree that’s in a Redwall book, you call your mom and tell her. You think about things they did, or things they didn’t do, or how fucked up or not fucked up they made or didn’t make you. You think about them alive. You don’t think about them dead. The concept of your parents dying is a Rubicon you do not want to cross.

“They don’t know what’s wrong.”

My sister is staying unusually calm, because she wants me to be calm and believes that her being calm will transmit across the cell phone lines to my shitty Blackberry and make me not panic. I drop the phone. I panic.

I get from the floor of my room to my friend’s apartment. I call my dad. He puts my mom on the phone. She sounds confused and angry because she hates being confused. She’s going into surgery. Surgery for what is unclear. It’s something with her colon. Or something with her appendix. My dad is telling me all of this while I have the phone propped up next to my head, lying prostrate on the floor. My friend and her boyfriend are sitting next to each other on her bed, watching me. My mom is rolled into surgery. The last time she had surgery, she was giving birth to me.

Everything feels tenuous. If I move, my mom will die. If I breathe, my mom will die. I can keep my mom alive by not doing or moving or thinking or being anything. Nothing else matters. Nothing else could matter. The existence of things beyond me and my mom and my family offends me, if I could think about those things. Everything is frozen because it has to be, because there can’t be anything after my mom. There just can’t be.

My dad calls me later. She made it through surgery. It’s touch-and-go. At least, I think that’s what he said. I don’t know. I don’t think I care.

My mom is put into a medically induced coma in order for her to recover from surgery without going into shock from alcohol withdrawal. My dad prefaces telling me this by saying, “well, you know your mom likes to drink.” My mom has been a prodigious alcoholic for at least sixteen years. This phone conversation is the first mention my father has ever made to this fact. I’m standing near the Alumni Center, looking at Rackham. There is a statue in the garden next to Rackham. It’s a man with his head buried in his hands. It seems appropriate.

On April 16, 2007, Seung-Hui Cho shoots and kills 32 people and injures 17 more on the campus of Virginia Tech. Michigan is locked down. CNN shows shaky cell phone videos and my first thought is, “Huh. My phone can’t do video.”  I am watching the news from my dorm room. I am standing facing the television and my desk, with binders and books piled in some pattern that made sense at the time. I don’t remember a fucking thing from the previous eight days. I’m scared, because school shootings are scary, but I’m numb because a school shooting isn’t my mom waking up or dying, and those are the only two events that could possibly matter to me. I go to work every day. I go to class. I write papers. I stare at my phone and wait for someone to tell me that my mom is dead.

My dad saves the newspaper from every day my mom is in a coma so she can read them when she wakes up. I don’t know if he saved the ones about Virginia Tech.

Today is April 15, 2013. Two bombs hit the Boston Marathon. Or three. Or some number. There’s a suspect in custody. Or not. Twitter is awash in rumors and speculation and mourning, but mostly in “why the fuck did this happen?”

I don’t know.

The day my mom was hospitalized was the last time I attended church voluntarily. I went to church that day for Easter Mass. I stood in the balcony. It was crowded, because it was Easter, but the service was pleasant. I remember walking back to my dorm thinking that I’d gotten a lot done that day.  Eight hours later my mom was in a hospital, fighting for her life.

Our lives are created out of bad things not happening. We have stop signs to make bad things not happen. Entire religions are built out of making bad things not happen. You eat well and exercise to make bad things not happen. But drunk drivers blow through intersections, churches get fire-bombed, and the guy who wrote the Complete Book of Running died of a heart attack at 52.

No matter what we do, or say, or believe deep down, things will happen. Terrible things. And there’s not a fucking thing we can do about it. There is no reason. The idea of a reason for things happening implies that life is a series of checks and balances. You worship the right god; your kid makes it to adulthood. You go to the right college; you get a solid job and health insurance. That’s not how it works.

Life is intangible. Life is uncertain. There is no answer, no overall plan. Everything is tenuous, all the time. We build lives on the promise of certainty and look for things that can cement that certainty because otherwise we’d never do anything, but that certainty is barely more than myth.

What’s not intangible or uncertain is that we’re not alone. There are billions of people on this planet who exist in this same completely batshit mortal coil. I don’t know anything. I have absolutely no idea if there is or is not a god or whether or not my belief in one or multiple spiritual entities would make my life better or worse. But I know that being good to people, and people being good to one another, even when it’s hard or doesn’t make sense, makes it easier to exist in uncertainty. Searching for answers to questions for which there are no answers– why terrorism? Why do children die? Why did this happen? – makes no sense. Searching for opportunities to make someone else’s day easier does.

This morning on the Metro, I met a baby and his mother. We were standing next to one another as our train headed to Farragut North. The baby looked at me with curious eyes, because he is a baby and life must be completely overwhelming to babies. I made faces at the baby. The baby smiled at me, and so did his mother.

If making other people happy is what we’re here to do, that’s enough. If existence has no other purpose than to be a container for moments to not be terrible, that’s enough. Chances are, being a kind and decent human being isn’t going to determine my afterlife. But it’ll determine my life. And that’s enough.

Hope

In 2005, when I was a freshman at Michigan, our basketball team went 22-11. Our best player was Daniel Horton. We finished as NIT runner up. I thought that was our ceiling. I thought that was the best we could hope for, because to hope for more was to be punched in the face with the phantom TO and Tractor Traylor and Ed Martin and why our Final Four banners are in Bentley, not in Crisler. I thought that was the best we could hope for, because hope is a good thing (as Andy Dufresne told us), but hope also makes you think things and then the things don’t happen and you feel like you’ve collapsed inside, so it’s easier to stand there with your arms crossed, waiting for Shawn Crable to be charged with a helmet-to-helmet or the Horror or five interceptions or losing to Harvard or losing to Duke.

It’s the Michigan way, I guess, to wait for the terrible. To feel as if you are on some conveyor belt towards the worst possible sports moment of your life, and there’s nothing you can do about it. We know that 42 Big Ten titles feel like sand in your hands when someone shows Colorado, ’95. We know that every single game is another moment for Purdue to run a hook-and-ladder because you’re playing the worst Michigan football team ever so why wouldn’t you run a hook-and-ladder. We remember the Horror, referred to as such because it was. In sports, and in life, I guess it’s easier to hold on for bad things to happen, because you know they will. You get a new job, but you’re waiting to get fired. You meet someone new, but you’re waiting for them to dump you. You love your family, but you’re waiting for the phone call to tell you that someone you love more than anything in the world is in a coma and might never wake up.

Trey Burke was 13 in 2005. In fact, he turned 13 in November of 2005; around the time I was realizing that maybe business school wasn’t such a good idea.  He doesn’t see hope as a terrifying precipice on top of impending athletic doom. He doesn’t see Michigan athletics as moments of pleasure forced to live up to lifetimes, generations of grinding, crushing expectations. He sees hope as opportunity. Hope as a ladder, moving ever upwards towards something we can’t even see just yet. Hope is how you get from practice to practice, from losing to Michigan State at Breslin to two steals to beat them at Crisler. Hope is how you lose to Penn State and beat Kansas. Hope is how Jordan Morgan gets in the way of Brandon Triche and gets a charge because obviously, Jordan Morgan gets a charge.

I have never and will probably never meet Trey Burke. Our understandings of what it means to go to Michigan are probably very different, given that he is a basketball player and I was a history and political science double major who worked a lot of jobs and spent way too much time at Espresso Royale. I will probably never get to say hello to Trey, or Mitch, or Nik, or Tim, or Spike, or Jon, or GR3, or Caris, or Jordan, or the seniors. Our paths crossed only tangentially. They attended the university I attended. That’s it. And that’s fine.

But if I could tell them anything, I would tell them thank you. Thank you for making your own expectations, not forcing yourself to live up to those of others. Thank you for embracing hope, not fearing it. Thank you for your work, your dedication, your belief when no one – and I include myself – believed in you because believing is like hoping and hope is hard.

Tonight is the National Championship game. I have no idea what is going to happen. We could get massacred. Dave Brandon could be playing back-up point guard. The Georgia Dome could explode. I don’t know. I never know. Anything I could say or think about what will happen tonight is beyond useless. Sports are predictably unpredictable.

But I hope we win. Despite how badly it could hurt to come up short, or how much I want to gird myself against the psychic pain of losing at a game that does not affect me in any real way. I hope we win. I hope we win.

 

I hope.

 

Go Blue.