Ann Arbor Quotes

Professor O’Leary was Professor of Mediaeval Literature at Ann Arbor University in Michigan, just outside Detroit.

Were these boys in their right minds? Here were two boys with good intellect, one eighteen and one nineteen. They had all the prospects that life could hold out for any of the young; one a graduate of Chicago and another of Ann Arbor; one who had passed his examination for the Harvard Law School and was about to take a trip in Europe,--another who had passed at Ann Arbor, the youngest in his class, with three thousand dollars in the bank. Boys who never knew what it was to want a dollar; boys who could reach any position that was to boys of that kind to reach; boys of distinguished and honorable families, families of wealth and position, with all the world before them. And they gave it all up for nothing, for nothing! They took a little companion of one of them, on a crowded street, and killed him, for nothing, and sacrificed everything that could be of value in human life upon the crazy scheme of a couple of immature lads. Now, your Honor, you have been a boy; I have been a boy. And we have known other boys. The best way to understand somebody else is to put yourself in his place. Is it within the realm of your imagination that a boy who was right, with all the prospects of life before him, who could choose what he wanted, without the slightest reason in the world would lure a young companion to his death, and take his place in the shadow of the gallows? ...No one who has the process of reasoning could doubt that a boy who would do that is not right. How insane they are I care not, whether medically or legally. They did not reason; they could not reason; they committed the most foolish, most unprovoked, most purposeless, most causeless act that any two boys ever committed, and they put themselves where the rope is dangling above their heads.... Why did they kill little Bobby Franks? Not for money, not for spite; not for hate. They killed him as they might kill a spider or a fly, for the experience. They killed him because they were made that way. Because somewhere in the infinite processes that go to the making up of the boy or the man something slipped, and those unfortunate lads sit here hated, despised, outcasts, with the community shouting for their blood. . . . I know, Your Honor, that every atom of life in all this universe is bound up together. I know that a pebble cannot be thrown into the ocean without disturbing every drop of water in the sea. I know that every life is inextricably mixed and woven with every other life. I know that every influence, conscious and unconscious, acts and reacts on every living organism, and that no one can fix the blame. I know that all life is a series of infinite chances, which sometimes result one way and sometimes another. I have not the infinite wisdom that can fathom it, neither has any other human brain

Cyrus Shawn O’Leary got that letter on the Friday morning at his home in Ann Arbor near Detroit.

And as John F. Kennedy described the ideals behind what would become the Peace Corps, he issued a challenge to the students who had assembled in Ann Arbor on that October night: “on your willingness to contribute part of your life to this country,” he said, will depend the answer whether a free society can compete. I think it can,” he said.

At home, loss was everywhere; she could barely see past it, like trying to look out a windowpane covered in fingerprints. She would always feel trapped behind that window, between her and the rest of the world, but at least in Ann Arbor, the glass was clearer. Whenever

This isn't D.C., Murrary, this is Ann Arbor, Michigan. This is a long-haired, pot-smoking little college town.

She’d just graduated from Ann Arbor

Sonya wasn't listening. Her gaze was totally fixated on the road we'd pulled off onto. We came to a red light, where I caught sight of a cheery sign: WELCOME TO ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN.

March 6, 1961 I remembered a party in a house outside of Ann Arbor. There was a jazz band -- piano, bass, drums, and sax -- playing in one of the large rooms. A heavy odor of marijuana hung in the air. The host appeared now and then looking pleased, as if he liked seeing strangers in every room, the party out of his control. It wasn't wild, but with a constant flow of people, who knows what they're doing. It became late and I was a little drunk, wandering from one part of the house to another. I entered a long hall and was surprised by the silence, as if I had entered another house. A girl at the other end of the hall was walking toward me. I saw large blue eyes and very black hair. She was about average height, doll-like features delicate as cut glass, extremely pretty, maybe the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. When she came up to me I took her in my arms and kissed her. She let it happen. We were like creatures in a dream. Holding her hand, I drew her with me and we passed through rooms where people stood about, and then left the house. As we drove away, she said her name was Margo. She was a freshman at the university, from a town in northern Michigan. I took her home. It was obvious she'd never gone home with a man. She didn't seem fearful, only uncertain, the question in her eyes: "What happens next?" What happened next was nothing much. We fell asleep in our clothes. I wasn't the one to make her no different from everyone.

the Ann Arbor, Michigan, School Board, near where I live, had a debate as to whether the primary mission of their schools was imparting knowledge or raising self-esteem. Self-esteem won.

From the moment I bought my ticket, I had a premonition I wasn’t returning to New York anytime soon. You Know, this happens a lot to Russians. The Soviet Union is gone, and the borders are as free and passable as they’ve ever been. And yet, when a Russian moves between the two universes, this feeling of finality persists, the logical impossibility of a place like Russia existing alongside the civilized world, of Ann Arbor, Michigan, sharing the same atmosphere with, say, Vladivostok. It was like those mathematical concepts I could never understand in high school: if, then. If Russia exists, then the West is a mirage; conversely, if Russia does not exist, then and only then is the West real and tangible. No wonder young people talk about “going beyond the cordon” when they talk of emigrating, as if Russia were ringed by a vast cordon sanitaire. Either you stay in the leper colony or you get out into the wider world and maybe try to spread your disease to others.

When Gertrude Stein came to Ann Arbor, my mother said that all she said was, a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. When Dylan Thomas came to Ann Arbor, my father said that he was a terrible man. And that is how I was brought up.

The Ann Arbor superintendent ridicules what he describes as “simple-minded solutions [that attempt] to make things equal.” But, of course, the need is not “to make things equal.” He would be correct to call this “simple-minded.” Funding and resources should be equal to the needs that children face. The children of Detroit have greater needs than those of children in Ann Arbor. They should get more than children in Ann Arbor, more than kids in Bloomfield Hills or Birmingham. Calling ethics “simple-minded” is consistent with the tendency to label obvious solutions, that might cost us something, unsophisticated and to favor more diffuse solutions that will cost us nothing and, in any case, will not be implemented.

Burlington, Vermont, is an example of a certain kind of small city that David Brooks calls “Latte Towns,” enclaves of affluent and well-educated people, sometimes in scenic locales such as Santa Fe or Aspen and sometimes in university towns such as Ann Arbor, Berkeley, or Chapel Hill. Of Burlington, Brooks writes: Burlington boasts a phenomenally busy public square. There are kite festivals and yoga festivals and eating festivals. There are arts councils, school-to-work collaboratives, environmental groups, preservation groups, community-supported agriculture, antidevelopment groups, and ad hoc activist groups.… And this public square is one of the features that draw people to Latte Towns. People in these places apparently would rather spend less time in the private sphere of their home and their one-acre yard and more time in the common areas.

Would she have enjoyed a more natural parent-child fit if she’d been an introvert herself? Not necessarily. Introverted parents can face challenges of their own. Sometimes painful childhood memories can get in the way. Emily Miller, a clinical social worker in Ann Arbor, Michigan, told me about a little girl she treated, Ava, whose shyness was so extreme that it prevented her from making friends or from concentrating in class. Recently she sobbed when asked to join a group singing in front of the classroom, and her mother, Sarah, decided to seek Miller’s help. When Miller asked Sarah, a successful business journalist, to act as a partner in Ava’s treatment, Sarah burst into tears. She’d been a shy child, too, and felt guilty that she’d passed on to Ava her terrible burden. “I hide it better now, but I’m still just like my daughter,” she explained. “I can approach anyone, but only as long as I’m behind a journalist’s notebook.” Sarah’s reaction is not unusual for the pseudo-extrovert parent of a shy child, says Miller. Not only is Sarah reliving her own childhood, but she’s projecting onto Ava the worst of her own memories. But Sarah needs to understand that she and Ava are not the same person, even if they do seem to have inherited similar temperaments. For one thing, Ava is influenced by her father, too, and by any number of environmental factors, so her temperament is bound to have a different expression. Sarah’s own distress need not be her daughter’s, and it does Ava a great disservice to assume that it will be. With the right guidance, Ava may get to the point where her shyness is nothing more than a small and infrequent annoyance.

Larry Brilliant: And then Steve Jobs happened to come to Ann Arbor. He stayed with me, and he had given me the first $5,000 to start Seva, and I started to hit him up for some money to analyze the data from the survey, and he said, “Well, show me what you’ve done.” And I showed him Seva-Talk, and I showed him how we could talk to each other all over the country, and then when I asked him for the money he said, “Look, Larry, instead of asking me for money, why don’t you take your own fucking software, make your own fucking company, make your own fucking money, endow your own fucking NGO, and get rid of blindness yourself! I’ll help you. I’ll help you build what you’ve got into a company, and find you investors to take it public.” And he did, and that’s what happened.

Mountain Jacks in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Everything’s subject to humor. Nothing’s sacred. At a funeral, he’ll put on a somber face and remark, ‘Well, Uncle Joe finally escaped the IRS.’ Or in the middle of a wedding, he’ll comment, “Everyone in her family looks alike. How can he be sure which one he’s marrying?’” —Carol, Ann Arbor, MI

You said you didn’t know where I came from.” Verity met his gaze. “Ann Arbor, Michigan. I’m an assistant professor of Art History at the University of Michigan.

In his play All’s Well That Ends Well, Shakespeare said, ‘Simply the thing I am shall make me live.’ I think it’s fitting for you, Andrew. Remember that who you are, what’s in your heart, is all that matters, not what others think or say—” Rose motioned to Andy’s painfully bruised flesh. “—or what they do...

At my grandfather’s funeral, I saw my dad cry. It was scary as hell because he’s the strongest person I’ve ever known and I put so much trust in him that when he broke down and cried, it made me feel helpless. I mean, how do you help the person who’s always helped you? Where do you find strength when the person who’s always given it to you falls apart? That’s how I felt seeing Andy cry...

What we did do was got to Chinese school. Whether you lived in D.C., Ann Arbor, New York, or Orlando, if there were Chinese people, there were Chinese schools where you went every Sunday to take Chinese Language and cultural classes. Chinese people would drive hours from every direction to take their kids to school. All teachers were volunteers and the parents chipped in to keep it going. While the rest of America went to church, we learned how to read right to left.

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The Evolution of Adam: What the Bible Does and Doesn’t Say About Human Origins. Grand Rapids: Baker, 2012. *Goldingay, John. Theological Diversity and the Authority of the Old Testament. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987. Gorman, Michael. Reading Paul. Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2008. Hawk, L. Daniel. Joshua in 3-D: A Commentary on Biblical Conquest and Manifest Destiny. Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2011. *Japhet, Sara. The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and Its Place in Biblical Thought. Ann Arbor: American Oriental Society, 2009. Jenkins, Philip. Laying Down the Sword: Why We Can’t Ignore the Bible’s Violent Verses. San Francisco: HarperOne, 2011. Johnson, Luke Timothy. The Real Jesus: The Misguided Quest for the Historical Jesus and the Truth of the Traditional Gospels. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1996. Knight, Douglas A., and Amy-Jill Levine, The Meaning of the Bible: What the Jewish Scriptures and Christian Old

Lotte Berk and Lydia Bach, too, acknowledged the sexual dimension of a barre class. But these days, most studios do nothing of the sort. Unlike most other forms of group exercise, in barre there’s a heavy element of affective discipline: you are expected to control your expressions and reactions. This is one of the reasons, I realized at some point, that barre feels natural to me, as my only athletic experience has been in feminized, appearance-centric activities in which you are required to hide your effort and pain. (This may in fact be the ugliest facet of my attraction to barre, and the reason I took to it so quickly after witnessing the Ann Arbor queef attack: I value control almost as a matter of etiquette—as an aesthetic—even when I can feel that instinct tipping into cruelty and reflexive disgust.)

I was the pitchman. I went to each of the houses, sat on a lot of couches, and flipped through dozens of family photo albums as I explained to the homeowners that we were going to build student housing and they could either stay and put up with loud music at night and beer cans on the lawn, or they could move to the other side of Ann Arbor. It worked. I kept buying houses and eventually acquired one full block of land. They were all cash deals, $1,000 each to tie up the properties with deferred closings requiring around $20,000.

I figured the deal was as good as done, and I returned to Ann Arbor and identified five houses that were all in the same price range for what I was going to pay for the land, about $32,000 to $34,000. These five houses were beautiful—every one of them was three times better than what Mrs. D lived in. One day I drove her around to see them. She walked through each one but never said a word. I couldn’t get any response at all. At the end of the day, I drove her back home. As we neared the corner by her house, we saw a man swaying and holding onto a lamppost. I pointed him out, and Mrs. D said, “Oh, that’s my brother. He lives with us and visits the bars every night. That’s why I don’t like any of the houses we went to see—because he can’t drive; he has to be within at least eight blocks of the downtown bars because he goes there every night, gets drunk, and then walks home.” That’s what we call the major unknown factor. “No problem,” I said to Mrs. D, for the first of many times.

He told me he was getting about a 4 percent return on apartments and net leases, which was de rigueur for the time. All of the assets they bought were in major cities like New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Chicago. They never went anywhere else. While their strategy was a safe bet, it was also limiting. The cost of construction was significantly less in smaller cities like Ann Arbor and—even more important—there was no competition. But the syndicators didn’t know those second- and third-tier cities even existed. So there was no real capital looking for assets in those smaller markets. Without competition, I could set the price—and the market.

I don't think you understand. I didn't get any pussy in college. Really. I didn't get ANY pussy in college. none. work? Doing stuff? What the fuck is wrong with you? I really didn't get any pussy in college. None.

For the time being, however, his bent was literary and religious rather than balletic. He loved, and what seventh grader doesn’t, the abstracter foxtrots and more metaphysical twists of a Dostoevsky, a Gide, a Mailer. He longed for the experience of some vivider pain than the mere daily hollowness knotted into his tight young belly, and no weekly stomp-and-holler of group therapy with other jejune eleven-year-olds was going to get him his stripes in the major leagues of suffering, crime, and resurrection. Only a bona-fide crime would do that, and of all the crimes available murder certainly carried the most prestige, as no less an authority than Loretta Couplard was ready to attest, Loretta Couplard being not only the director and co-owner of the Lowen School but the author, as well, of two nationally televised scripts, both about famous murders of the 20th Century. They’d even done a unit in social studies on the topic: A History of Crime in Urban America. The first of Loretta’s murders was a comedy involving Pauline Campbell, R.N., of Ann Arbor, Michigan, circa 1951, whose skull had been smashed by three drunken teenagers. They had meant to knock her unconscious so they could screw her, which was 1951 in a nutshell. The eighteen-year-olds, Bill Morey and Max Pell, got life; Dave Royal (Loretta’s hero) was a year younger and got off with twenty-two years. Her second murder was tragic in tone and consequently inspired more respect, though not among the critics, unfortunately. Possibly because her heroine, also a Pauline (Pauline Wichura), though more interesting and complicated had also been more famous in her own day and ever since. Which made the competition, one best-selling novel and a serious film biography, considerably stiffen Miss Wichura had been a welfare worker in Atlanta, Georgia, very much into environment and the population problem, this being the immediate pre-Regents period when anyone and everyone was legitimately starting to fret. Pauline decided to do something, viz., reduce the population herself and in the fairest way possible. So whenever any of the families she visited produced one child above the three she’d fixed, rather generously, as the upward limit, she found some unobtrusive way of thinning that family back to the preferred maximal size. Between 1989 and 1993 Pauline’s journals (Random House, 1994) record twenty-six murders, plus an additional fourteen failed attempts. In addition she had the highest welfare department record in the U.S. for abortions and sterilizations among the families whom she advised. “Which proves, I think,” Little Mister Kissy Lips had explained one day after school to his friend Jack, “that a murder doesn’t have to be of someone famous to be a form of idealism.” But of course idealism was only half the story: the other half was curiosity. And beyond idealism and curiosity there was probably even another half, the basic childhood need to grow up and kill someone.

Michigan in Ann Arbor were seeking to establish practices in larger cities such as Boston, Philadelphia, and Richmond. Nate had written many letters, but it seemed no one wanted to practice in a place like the Grove where payment for services was more likely to be rendered in chickens and vegetables than in coin. There were also no big city amusements available unless one counted the gambling and whores at Maddie's Liberty Emporium outside town. There were no theaters, no tea houses. Only occasionally

Arguably the nation’s greatest public university and its greatest college football program can both be found on the same campus in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Michigan students, lettermen, alumni, faculty, and fans take a great deal of pride in that unique combination—and they watch the source of their pride very closely. They believe it’s not just Michigan’s victories that matter—on and off the field—but the values behind them that are so important, values that place a premium on community, achievement, and integrity. When they feel those values are threatened, they rise to defend them.

though he would deliver that speech twenty-eight miles away, in Ann Arbor, no place seemed more important to his mission than Detroit, a great city that honored labor, built cars, made music, promoted civil rights, and helped lift working people into the middle class. “This city and its people are the herald of hope in America,” he said. “Prosperity in America must begin here in Detroit.

As for Gus, he had come to Haddan with no appreciation for the human race and no expectations of his fellow man. He was full ready to confront contempt; he'd been beleaguered and insulted often enough to have learned to ignore anything with a heartbeat. Still, every once in a while he made an exception, as he did with Carlin Leander. He appreciated everything about Carlin and lived for the hour when they left their books and sneaked off to the graveyard. Not even the crow nesting in the elm tree could dissuade him from his mission, for when he was beside Carlin, Gus acquired a strange optimism; in the light of her radiance the rest of the world began to shine. For a brief time, bad faith and human weakness could be forgotten or, at the very least, temporarily ignored. When it came time to go back to their rooms, Gus followed on the path, holding on to each moment, trying his best to stretch out time. Standing in the shadows of the rose arbor in order to watch Carlin climb back up the fire escape at St. Anne's, his heart ached. He could tell he was going to be devastated, and yet he was already powerless. Carlin always turned and waved before she stepped through her window and Gus Pierce always waved back, like a common fool, an idiot of a boy who would have done anything to please her.

Autumn is the most beautiful time of the year in Ann Arbor because hundreds of different types of trees are filled with crisp orange and yellow leaves.

they’d saved 122,300 lives—the equivalent of throwing a life preserver to every man, woman, and child in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

As promised, I’d driven to Ann Arbor so we could spend the weekend together and go wedding dress shopping. This was the fifteenth or sixteenth gown she’d tried on. We’d been in this bridal salon for so long I think the shop had changed owners since we’d arrived.

I felt in Ann Arbor the same way I did in the city—like everything was happening and I was missing it all when I wasn’t there. I suppose there are several spots on earth where each one of us feels completely at home. For me, they are Ann Arbor,

If we look at all metropolitan areas, rather than just the large ones, Durham–Chapel Hill, Bloomington, and Ann Arbor—all college towns—climb into the top five for segregation of the working class away from the non–working class. That

McNamara’s Lincoln Continental had idled at the curb outside Kennedy’s house, its high-tech radio car phone keeping an open line to the Ford offices in Washington, which, in turn, had a long-distance line open to McNamara’s wife in Ann Arbor to relay the news of the job offer.

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Alright I'll admit not all Americans are fucking stupid. I have respect for Carl Rogers, for example. Dude puts a lot of stock in Experience. Personal experience. And what has my experience been? Well. Russia was nice. I had two bicycles and girls liked me. What's not to like? Then they drag me here (Michigan). Make me work my ass off because parents are idiots and don't speak English. I don't get any pussy till 22. And now they say I still owe school loans? Honestly, I don't remember much of school. Seems like some kinda scam to me. What is to be concluded from this? Either my father is a piece of shit, or America is a shithole. Maybe both. Experience.

We each had our own clocks on either side of the bed. They were old wind-up clocks from our Ann Arbor days. His was a Big Ben and mine a Little Ben. Naturally the Big Ben’s ticking was lower than mine, and louder, the father of the clock family. Mine was staccato, shrill, as if it was panicked by the passage of time. They didn’t tick in sync, and Howard’s was always set fast. I remember waking up and thinking the clocks were sparring, that they would battle over their precious minutes and the way to tick until they exhausted themselves and wound down and just quit.

I been to college, u know? and what do I know? I know how to make blogs, drink beer, and pee on sidewalks.

SHOPPING TIPS Most of the fakery surrounding the King of Cheese has to do with the misleading use of “Parmesan,” not Parmigiano-Reggiano, so when you see the full Italian name and it says “Made in Italy” and has the PDO seal, it is usually the real deal. The same is true of Prosciutto di Parma. However, the cheese is made in very large wheels that begin to deteriorate once cut, so it is important to buy from retailers with a lot of volume turnover who are constantly opening new wheels and storing it right. More than many other cheeses, it’s usually better to buy from a specialty cheese shop like Murray’s in New York—most cities have these. If you go mail order/online, you cannot beat Zingerman’s in Ann Arbor, Michigan, which buys whole wheels directly from

Lionhearts One very cold night in Ann Arbor I went to a party where “Kate Bush” was the password. I put on my Uggs & trudged through the slush. I climbed the fire escape to an attic apartment where five other writers & I sat around a Crosley turntable & a box of Bordeaux Blend & a stale bâtard with expensive butter & listened to Lionheart & talked about line breaks & grew increasingly drunk & complimentary & eager —for aesthetics’ sake— to investigate each other up close. Some of us kissed. Kate stalked us from the cover—crimped mane & lion-skin suit—as two people with silk scarves tied someone to the radiator & danced madly, leaping on chairs, licking paws! Leo rising, downward dog! Candles sputtering their last magic into the rafters as we sank straight through the secondhand loveseat: floral flickering, ticking undone. This is one of my fondest memories. The whole room a gold & rolling ship of girl flame! But there— in the dark, catholic corners where I can’t quite see—a stowaway sometimes darts. Imagine such a creature: subsisting all this time on the dusty crusts & vinegars of someone else’s slight & misplaced shame.

I mean, I just got to a point, where I was unbelievably exhausted. And I didn't really know why. They kept telling me America. such a nice place. So wonderful. Opportunities! But I get to this place where I'm 22. I'm an alcoholic. I got through fucking college. I got a fucking job. This girl says she likes me. but she's fooling around with some married guy I think. SO PEOPLE DONT FIND OUT. that's her logic. 2 Masters degrees. And I just cant fucking do this shit anymore. I'm not doing shit. Really. Until A. things start making sense. or B. they send me back to Russia. just say I'm a spy. I want a book deal. or C. I get to 65 and I can begin to drink continuously again. That's it. period. end of story. I did have one nice year there where I got to do drugs and smash random pussy. in Philadelphia. Yep. Thank you, Accenture. Much love.

Saginaw and Weinzweig had no interest in pursuing acquisitions or moving to another location, and they knew of no alternative growth strategies for small companies like theirs. So they did a lot of reading, thinking, and talking—meeting regularly to discuss their ideas at a picnic table next to the deli. They wrote vision statements and then rewrote them, soliciting input from people inside and outside the business. By 1994, the outlines of a grand design had emerged. It was called the Zingerman’s Community of Businesses, or ZCoB, for short. Weinzweig and Saginaw envisioned a company comprised of twelve to fifteen separate businesses by 2009. The new businesses would be small and located in the Ann Arbor area. Each would bear the Zingerman’s name but would have its own specialty and identity, and all would be designed to enhance the quality of food and service offered to Zingerman’s customers while improving the financial performance of ZCoB and its components. There was already a bakery, Zingerman’s Bakehouse, as well as the deli. There could also be a training company, a mail order business, a caterer, a creamery, a restaurant or two, a vegetable stand—you name it.

Liberals and social democrats have systematically suppressed reference to Luxemburg's close alliance with Bolshevism from the revolution of 1905 until 1912 and again from the outbreak of World War I until her assassination during the Spartacus uprising in 1919. They have, however, fully exploited her 1904 polemic in the service of anticommunism. Thus, the widely-circulated Ann Arbor Paperbacks for the Study of Communism and Marxism reprinted "Organizational Questions of Russian Social Democracy" under the slanderous title "Leninism or Marxism?" No less pernicious have been the efforts of many left-reformists and centrists to portray the Leninist democratic-centralist vanguard party as valid only for backward countries, while solidarizing with Luxemburg's 1904 anti-Bolshevik position for advanced capitalist countries. [...]

Once you get people addicted to alcohol in college, you make it almost impossible for them to stop drinking - Milton Friedman. Just kidding. I said it. But inspired by Milton. hehe.

Don’t think of introversion as something that needs to be cured. If an introverted child needs help with social skills, teach her or recommend training outside class, just as you’d do for a student who needs extra attention in math or reading. But celebrate these kids for who they are. “The typical comment on many children’s report cards is, ‘I wish Molly would talk more in class,’ ” Pat Adams, the former head of the Emerson School for gifted students in Ann Arbor, Michigan, told me. “But here we have an understanding that many kids are introspective. We try to bring them out, but we don’t make it a big deal. We think about introverted kids as having a different learning style

In a buyers market, sellers are often going through the five stages of grief: 1. Denial, 2. Anger, 3. Bargaining, 4. Depression, then 5. Acceptance. My job is to counsel them through it. Martin Bouma, Ann Arbor, MI

Applicants must also choose whether to be in or near a city or whether to attend college in a rural area. City suburbs are always a favorite because they combine access to the urban area with the safety that parents crave. During the 1970s, rural hideaways were popular among students who wanted to curl up with a book on bucolic hillside. Today, cow colleges are out as students hear the siren song of the city. Boston has always been preeminent among student-friendly big cities, offering an unparalleled combination of safety, cultural activities, and about fifty colleges. Chicago and Washington, D.C., are also immensely popular. On the West Coast, Berkeley, California, is a mecca for the college-aged, though today an overcrowded one. Legendary college towns like Ann Arbor, Michigan; Boulder, Colorado; and Burlington, Vermont, provide wonderfully rich places for a college education. Perhaps the hottest place of all among today’s students is New York City, where private institutions such as Columbia University, Barnard College, and New York University are enjoying record popularity.

You’re so unhappy. But the ancient grove has promised it will not be long.” How did Kurr communicate with these ancestor trees anyway? It felt entirely unhinged to hang a whole plan on the whispered promises of elderly arboreal advisors, but hell, once she got abducted and decided to roll with it since it was better than her old life, did she really need to draw the line at listening to venerable vegetation? “Well, if the trees said so…” 

The University of Michigan opened its new Computer Center in 1971, in a brand-new building on Beal Avenue in Ann Arbor, with beige-brick exterior walls and a dark-glass front. The university’s enormous mainframe computers stood in the middle of a vast white room, looking, as one faculty member remembers, “like one of the last scenes in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey.” Off to the side were dozens of keypunch machines—what passed in those days for computer terminals. In 1971, this was state of the art. The University of Michigan had one of the most advanced computer science programs in the world, and over the course of the Computer Center’s life, thousands of students passed through that white room, the most famous of whom was a gawky teenager named Bill Joy.

Ypsilanti State Hospital is located nine miles southeast of Ann Arbor and about seventy-five miles southeast of East Lansing. It was opened in 1931 with a bed capacity of 1,000; its present capacity is 4,100.

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In the following years, Andrew remained at his father’s side, assisting in the farm work and livestock breeding and continuing his experiments with ostensibly labor-saving agricultural contraptions. That phase of his life came to an end with the close of the century. In 1898, the sixty-five-year-old Philip took his third wife, a widow named Frances Murphy Wilder, twenty-five years his junior. Not long afterward, Andrew left home. Despite the best efforts of researchers, little is known about the next eight years of Andrew Kehoe’s life. Census records show that, in 1900, he lived in a boardinghouse in Ann Arbor and worked as a “dairyman.”17 At some point—at least according to his claims—he enrolled at the Michigan State Agricultural College in East Lansing. Founded in 1855 as the nation’s first educational institution devoted to “instruction and practice in agriculture, horticulture and the sciences directly bearing upon successful farming,” the college (which later evolved into Michigan State University) gradually expanded its curriculum to include training in mechanical, civil, and electrical engineering, Kehoe’s alleged major.18 Sometime during this period, he evidently made his way to Iowa and found work as a lineman, stringing electrical wire. He also seems to have spent time in St. Louis, attending an electrical school while employed as an electrician for the city park.19 Family members would later report that, while residing in Missouri, he suffered a serious head injury: “a severe fall” that left him “semi-conscious for nearly two months.”20

With Meg’s support, I managed to make it to the next event in Ann Arbor and get through it, although I had a full panic attack onstage.

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Treating Abuse Today 3(4) pp. 26-33 While Pamela Freyd was speaking to us on the record about her organization, another development was in the making in the Freyd family. Since Pamela and her husband, Peter Freyd, started the Foundation and its massive public relations effort in which they present as a "falsely accused" couple, their daughter, Jennifer Freyd, Ph.D., remained publicly silent regarding her parents' claims and the activities of the FMS Foundation. She only wished to preserve her privacy. But, as the Foundation's publicity efforts gained a national foothold, Dr. Jennifer Freyd decided that her continued anonymity amounted to complicity. She began to feel that her silence was beginning to have unwitting effects. She saw that she was giving the appearance of agreeing with her parents' public claims and decided she had to speak out. Jennifer Freyd, Ph.D., is a tenured Professor of Psychology at the University of Oregon. Along with George K. Ganaway, M.D. (a member of the FMS Foundation Scientific Advisory Board), Lawrence R. Klein, Ph.D., and Stephen H. Landman, Ph.D., she was an invited presenter for The Center for Mental Health at Foote Hospital's Continuing Education Conference: Controversies Around Recovered Memories of Incest and Ritualistic Abuse, held on August 7, 1993 in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Dr. Jennifer Freyd's presentation, "Theoretical and Personal Perspectives on the Delayed Memory Debate," included professional remarks on the conference topic, along with a personal section in which she, for the first time, publicly gave her side of the Freyd family story. In her statement, she alleges a pattern of boundary and privacy violations by her parents, some of which have occurred under the auspices of the Foundation; a pattern of inappropriate and unwanted sexualization by her father and denial by her mother, and a pattern of intimidation and manipulation by her parents since the inception of the Foundation. She also recounts that several members of the original FMS Foundation Scientific Advisory Board had dual professional relationships with the Freyd family.

Enemies are people whose stories you haven’t yet heard and whose faces you haven’t yet seen. —Irene Hasenberg Butter, Holocaust survivor, during an interview at her home in Ann Arbor, Michigan, June 13, 2013