Tenacious E
You called me “tenacious” and you said that can be good in some situations, but not in the administrative role that I had applied for. This is a political role, you said, and it requires being diplomatic with a wide variety of people. I asked you if you thought I could learn and grow into this role, and you said it was too important a role to take a chance– maybe I would grow some, but if it wasn’t enough I could be damaging to the district.
Tenacious. That word stuck in my mind. I looked it up: Tenacious: (adj.) 1. tending to keep a firm hold of something; clinging or adhering closely. 2. not readily relinquishing a position, principle, or course of action; determined.
It almost makes me laugh. Yes, I am tenacious. I had no choice. I married young, had two children and a step-child by the time I was 28, and lived in poverty for 8 years with an alcoholic husband. By the time I met you, I had been teaching for many years, scraping and clawing my family out of poverty and into the middle class. I had managed to buy a house in our affluent community– a two bedroom house, so my son slept on the living room couch for a few years. All the while, my husband drank excessively in two year cycles. When he was drinking, we were very unstable. I think we talked about divorce 10 times in our 20 year marriage. In spring of 2009, we had been stable for a good year and a half when he learned that he was rapidly losing his hearing. He started drinking again and we started fighting again and finally decided to separate. In May of 2011, he died in a DUI. A year later, my mother died suddenly from COPD. My daughter moved away, and then my son went to college. I found myself middle-aged, alone, and grieving. I had to be tenacious to pull myself out of poverty, survive my grief, and make my life good in spite of loss.
And then, a few years ago, things began to settle and shift. I met the love of my life. My son moved back home after college. met a wonderful young woman, and got engaged. My step-daughter had two beautiful children and we started talking more. I felt like I was healing. I looked back at my life and thought about how much I had suffered and struggled to keep my head above water, and I thought about how much potential I had that was wasted. Maybe I could do more? I worked hard on myself, going to Al-Anon meetings, working the steps, listening to podcasts about Buddhism and how to live with regret and loss. I took classes in leadership. I applied for this new position in our district, the place where I have worked for 24 years.
A week after my interview, I was told that I had breast cancer. I had to wait for surgery because of Covid-19. I had two surgeries, then radiation.
And now you’re telling me that I did not get the job because I’m too “tenacious?”
I try to recall the times you might be referring to. Standing up to teachers who refused to do the work to learn better teaching strategies to use with English language learners? Speaking out when my colleagues were racist or xenophobic? Is that what disqualifies me for this job? Is that the trait that is so ingrained in me that you can’t even trust me to grow and learn as a leader?
Well guess what– I wouldn’t have survived if I were not tenacious. Just as I see my students’ bilingualism and biculturalism as strengths, I see my tenacity as a strength, a huge asset in a difficult life. Some educators call it “grit.” So, fine. I will go to another district, to an urban school where there are LOTS of tenacious people– students and faculty. Black and brown people, economically resourceful people, and English language learners who have tenacity in abundance. I will go where THEY learn and grow, and we will learn and grow together. Because sometimes the medal goes to the runner who goes fast and far, and sometimes the medal goes to the one who clears the most hurdles.
Lessons from Loss #2
You can be absolutely alone– no spouse, no children, no siblings, no friends–and survive. Go hiking, dance in your living room, watch funny movies, read a book, write a book!– just know that you will be okay. This too shall pass.
Lessons from Loss #1
There’s a great line from the early 2000’s TV show “Six Feet Under” :
“I know that if you think life’s a vending machine where you put in virtue and take out happiness then you’re going to be disappointed.”
Life is also not a vending machine where you put in suffering and are rewarded with something you want. Life’s just not fair, a lot of the time. But it’s still wonderful.
Getting Smart
I didn’t know I was smart until I was in my thirties. I mean, the signs were there. I got straight A’s all through high school without expending much effort. My undergraduate GPA was 3.94. But I didn’t like to read as a child, and in a highly intellectual family like mine was, I was the oddball who preferred doing gymnastics and watching sitcoms over heady discussions of politics and philosophy. It wasn’t until I was teaching high school English and enrolled in graduate school at Trinity College in the American Studies program that I had the first real inkling that I was smart. I took three courses with the same professor– Eugene Leach– who opened up this notion in my mind. Gene told me that I was one of the best writers he had ever encountered in his many years of teaching. I remained skeptical until we had the chance to read papers submitted by previous students and I saw that many of them wrote like my high school students. Okay, I conceded. Maybe I am a good writer. Maybe I am smart.
I spent six years commuting to West Hartford 90 minutes each way, one night a week to complete my MA. The drive never felt like a burden because after class, I was high on the intellectual rigor, discussions, and challenge that Trinity gave me. As I drove, I would sing along with my iPod, belting out songs of triumph and confidence. I devoured my reading assignments and found that I actually could enjoy reading. When I finished my degree, I wanted to go on and complete my PhD in American Studies. I had discovered a strength that my parents had been trying to convince me I had since I was a child. I was just starting to believe they were right.
I was in my mid-thirties, married, with three children at home and a full-time teaching job. Getting my PhD would have involved more driving, perhaps giving up my teaching job to go to school full time, more sacrifice. But I was willing to do that. My husband, on the other hand, was not. We had a strained marriage as it was. We had struggled with poverty before we both started teaching. My husband had issues with alcohol and pot, and he was finding the stress of our careers and graduate school to be more than he could handle. I knew other couples who made it all work– moved to a university town, got by on very little money, and followed their dreams. I didn’t understand why we couldn’t try it, but he said no, firmly, unequivocally. It was my PhD dream or our marriage, basically. I chose our marriage.
We dug into our jobs, bought a house, and saved money to help our kids with college. And then in 2009 it all started to unravel. He was losing his hearing and became depressed. His drinking got even more intense. He told me he wasn’t happy and never had been. I couldn’t take the conflict anymore and we separated. In 2011, while we were working out the details of our divorce, he died in a DUI. My life spiraled out of my control, and I scrambled to hold together my kids and myself as we grieved. I helped them go to college as best I could. A year and a half later, my mom died unexpectedly. I felt like I had a permanent case of the flu for five years. And just as I felt myself coming out of that flu, my daughter hit bottom and went into rehab for her own alcohol and drug addictions. Without a second thought, I paid for the rehab using my home equity line of credit, my credit card, and a gift from my dad.
All these years, I still wondered if I could have done a PhD. I still envied professors and the opportunities that I imagined they had. I watched my brother-in-law and his family as they traveled the world for his research and lectures. Attending conferences, writing papers, giving presentations, teaching a bit– it looked so important, so intellectual and worldly. Now in my early 50’s, I wondered if I could still make it happen. On Facebook and Google News, stories popped up about people later in life pursuing an advanced degree. Why couldn’t I, too? I applied. I was accepted. I started taking classes and, once again, commuting 90 minutes each way to school.
But this time was different. I didn’t leave my classes feeling high. I felt drained. I felt depressed. I had trouble staying awake on the way home. The drive felt scary, dangerous. The work seemed tedious, not inspiring. It felt like a “game” to get published, drop names, and disagree with classmates just for the sake of disagreeing. In the middle of my third course, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It’s not a horrible type of cancer– I tell people “I have a little bit of breast cancer” because it’s just a tumor that needs to be removed. I’ll have a “lumpectomy” and radiation and I will be fine. But suddenly, everything is in sharp focus. Is this PhD really what I want to be doing with my time? No, it is not. Am I smart? Of course. I even went to a psychologist and had an IQ test, and, yes, I am very smart. I may not be in the 1% financially, but at least I am in the 1% of something. I’m ridiculously smart.
But you know what? You don’t have to be THAT smart to get a PhD. My classmates are plenty smart, but they are also many other things. They are motivated. Most of them live and work near the university. They have jobs that allow them to go to school full time, or they are doing the grad student game of getting fellowships, assistant teaching positions, and loans. They are good at putting up with the BS that comes with grad school– the name dropping, the game playing. Some of them have spouses who support them.
I used to feel like I had been deprived of my PhD. My alcoholic husband held me back. But writing this has made me reframe this story. I chose my family. I chose financial stability. Those were good choices. The harder part to reframe is the lack of control. I was not able to corral my life into the lanes that I wanted it to go into. I was powerless over my husband’s drinking, I was powerless over my mom’s smoking. I am powerless over my daughter’s life, and I am powerless over my cancer. There’s a famous quote from Gilda Radner that says “Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next.” I’ve always wanted to make my life into the life I wanted it to be, but I’m slowly admitting that, at least for me, life doesn’t work that way. It’s improv, not script. It’s Iron Chef and there are lots of “secret ingredients” that you have to work with. It’s playing the hand you were dealt, not choosing the best hand. It still seems like other people get to choose their hand, get to mold their life the way they want it to be. Maybe they do. Maybe no one does. Maybe I’m comparing my inside to their outside. Maybe it’s just me. But ultimately, I just need to do me. Play the hand I have been dealt and play it the best way I can. That would be the smart thing to do.
Love Your Enemies
I recently finished the book Love Your Enemies, by Arthur C. Brooks. I found the book to be challenging in places– which is perfect because it ties in with one of the points Brooks is trying to make. We can listen to each other’s reasoned arguments–even when we disagree– with an open heart, without shutting down or demonizing the person we disagree with. Brooks’s argument throughout is heartfelt and open. I did not feel insulted or demonized by what he was saying, I just disagreed with some of his conclusions. Still, I am glad I stuck with the book to the end because his overall thesis is an extremely important one in today’s political climate.
The introduction grabbed me immediately, in a positive way. Brooks talks about the “culture of contempt” that we are currently experiencing and warns us not to be manipulated by the “outrage industrial complex.” I love that phrase, modified from Eisenhower’s military industrial complex, and I see the way social media and cable news are acting as the “dealers” for our addiction to contempt. All good. We’re on the same page here. Early chapters draw on social psychology research and the words of the Dalai Lama to discuss the harmful effects of contempt itself and the magical effects of warmheartedness. Brooks refutes the common belief that “nice guys finish last,” in romance and in the workplace — a noble and necessary refutation. He examines the phenomenon that draws some people to coercive leaders and explains why coercive leaders are dangerous. As a long-time fan of Jonathan Haidt’s moral foundation theory, much of this discussion was repetitive for me. If you are not aware of Haidt’s work, Brooks’s description is a good introduction to it. One of my favorite suggestions from these early chapters is to look for the “why” that we have in common rather than focusing on the “how.” Brooks implies that we all– liberals and conservatives and everyone in between– share common love for our country and belief in ideas like justice, equality, and freedom. Those are the “why” ideas. The “how” is policy, and we disagree on that. How to achieve justice or greater economic equality can be tricky. He wants us to discuss the “how” after we have acknowledged that we share the “why” in common. That’s a good suggestion and one I hope I can remember in the heat of a discussion.
Throughout the book, however, I had moments of “Eh….” when Brooks’ argument just didn’t ring true for me. For example, he shares a story about Howard Thurston, a turn-of-the-century stage musician from Ohio. It is the typical “pulled himself up by his bootstraps” story with the added twist of Thurston’s use of kindness and love for his audience as an explanation for his success. Lovely story, and I’m a big fan of love and kindness, but aren’t there other factors that explain Thurston’s success? Or at least explain the lack of obstacles in Thurston’s way? Like the fact that he was a white man who was allowed into any space he chose to venture into? Brooks similarly explains the success of the marriage equality act as stemming from the humanization of LGBTQ people in the eyes of neighbors and friends. By showing their humanity in asking for the right to marry “just like everyone else,” LGBTQ activists were, according to Brooks, able to overcome the resistance many people felt toward marriage equality. I’ve heard this argument before and it bothers me because it smacks of self-congratulatory smugness. It implies that LGBTQ activists had some moral secret figured out that other movements have lacked. I have yet to hear the argument that white men and women could rise to positions of power and influence in their communities and in the nation at large without anyone realizing they were gay, lesbian, queer, etc. How does a Black man in America show his “humanness” to people who automatically reject him based on the color of his skin? White LGBTQ activists still retained all the privilege of being white– the economic, educational, and legislative powers that all white Americans enjoy– because their LGTBQ identities were not obvious on the surface. Different challenges exist for other marginalized groups whose identities are immediately apparent and who suffer from generations of discrimination and systemic oppression. Showing people your humanity is not always as easy as it sounds.
Another weak spot for me was when Brooks explains the rise of populism in the 2016 election not as an economic issue caused by job loss and low wages, but as an issue of “dignity.” He argues against raising the minimum wage because it will, according to his research data, cause job loss instead of a better standard of living and in turn will not lead to “dignity” for working people. Again, I understand the need for dignity for all people, but I wonder how much real-world experience Brooks has dealing with issues of poverty and discrimination. He too easily takes on the assumption that what stands in the way of people pulling themselves out of poverty is a resistance to work, that we need to insist that poor people work so that they can feel the dignity of supporting themselves, as if poverty is caused by a character flaw instead of major systemic economic and social issues. Does Brooks know many poor people? People on public assistance? He admits that he is an academic– he says he took on a job as a fund-raiser with a strong knowledge of the data around charity giving but no real-world experience with the raising of funds. As a former recipient of public assistance, I find the assumption that poor people just need to experience the dignity of work to “wake up” their self-sufficiency to be simplistic and patronizing.
Chapter 5 is where I struggled the most to continue listening. Here Brooks discusses identity and the dangers of focusing too much on “identity politics.” He never names specific groups that fall into this trap, and I was left to wonder if he meant groups like “Black Lives Matter,” which is often accused of playing “identity politics.” Again, I felt like his argument was naive. I get his point– too much focus on identity without a balance of unity can be destructive. But whenever people suggest leaving identity issues in the background to focus on what binds us together as people, it sounds like a suggestion to support the status quo and stop agitating for change. Does Brooks understand that “identity politics” is not about identity for the sake of identity, but instead is about power, privilege, equality, and justice? I was left thinking that he doesn’t fully understand what is needed for marginalized people to challenge the status quo.
Later, in Chapter 7, Brooks focuses on the merits of competition– the tried and true “yin” in conservative arguments that seems to never be balanced out by the “yang” of human survival– compassionate cooperation. This chapter starts with a bemoaning of the elimination of dodge-ball from many public school gym classes, a sign in Brooks’s mind that we have become too “soft” and have stopped valuing competition. Seriously? Anyone who has spent any time at all in a public school knows that competition is alive and well. Sports reign supreme at most high schools in America, and if you’re not a star on the soccer field, you have your GPA, your STEM competitions, your poetry recitation competition, your all-state chorus and band competition–the list goes on and on–to prove your strengths. Dodge-ball is a horrific experience for 90% of the students in a gym class who get hit with a ball early in the game and then spend the rest of the gym class sitting on the side lines. How is that teaching them physical fitness? Imagine if we taught reading by such a contest of strengths. “Oops, you can’t read! Well, just sit over there on the wall of shame and watch THESE guys read. That’ll help you!” Eliminating dodge-ball is a smart move pedagogically. There are FAR better ways to encourage physical fitness for all– and especially for those who need it most– than by this archaic game. If you choose to have a dodge-ball game for those who WANT to play it, go ahead. But it does not accomplish the goals of physical education for most of the students.
These arguments, spread throughout the book–for pulling oneself up by one’s bootstraps, for the dignity of work and the merits of competition–are boilerplate conservative economic arguments. They have always left me feeling that conservative economists lack a true understanding of the world outside of their academic and personal experiences. On the plus side, Brooks presents these arguments with clear warmheartedness; there was no contempt or insult to people who might disagree. I gave myself the goal of listening simply to understand his points, with my own heart as open as I could make it. Luckily my frustration was lessened by the final chapters of the book. Here Brooks asks us to please continue to disagree with one another, but to disagree with kindness rather than contempt. This is a large ask in this era of social media trolls, cable news panel smackdowns, and YouTube videos that announce “Watch as (insert name of cable news host) DESTROYS (insert name of guest).” He ends with a list of concrete suggestions for how to wean ourselves from the culture of contempt. Refuse to be used by the powerful who ask you to hate people different from yourself.. Don’t watch so much news. Spend limited time on social media. Speak up when friends express contempt for people who hold different views. Put yourself into situations where your views are in the minority. Focus on the “why” questions that we all agree on. Apologize to those you have offended. In the end, aren’t these actions all of us could benefit from?
Clapback #1
As the vote to confirm Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh draws closer, protestors have been swarming Washington D.C. to talk to their senators and speak up for sexual assault survivors everywhere.
In one recent video, protestors can be seen approaching Republican Sen. Orrin Hatch inside the Hart Senate Office Building. As Hatch walks to an elevator, one woman says, “Why aren’t you brave enough to talk to us and exchange with us?”
As they continue to talk to him, Hatch steps into the elevator and says, “When you grow up I’ll be glad to.”– (https://www.elle.com/culture/career-politics/a23609550/republican-sen-orrin-hatch-protestors-grow-up/)
Okay, here’s the thing. Senator Hatch, you are 84 years old. You’re retiring at the end of this term, thank Goddess. So, yeah, the protestors who approached you were definitely younger than you. But they are grown women. They are adults. They have a perspective that is different from yours, sir. They have had experiences that are different from yours. And you didn’t want to hear about those experiences because it conflicted with and threatened your political power.
Women hear this kind of admonition all the time. Grow up. Stop being so emotional. Think about it logically. You have a problem! You need to get help!
Meanwhile, a white man can sit for a job interview in which he cries, yells, talks about his love for beer, and shares details from his raunchy yearbook entry and he is elevated to the highest court in the land. Another man can mock people, brag about sexual assault, and lie constantly and he is supported by men like you in his position as the “leader” of this country. Maybe THEY need to grow up?
We’re done. We’ve been gaslighted enough. We don’t lack age. We don’t lack maturity. We lack power. But rest assured Mr. Hatch, a change gonna come.
This is not a story about my colonoscopy…
This is not a story about my colonoscopy, but there is a colonoscopy in it. Actually, there are two. The story begins in 2006 when my late-husband, Anson, turned 50. When you turn 50–just something for those of you under 50 to look forward to– the universe rewards you with an invitation to join AARP and a reminder to get your first colonoscopy. I drove Anson to the hospital, dropped him off, did some shopping, and went to pick him up two hours later. He was lying on a bed wearing a johnny in a room with other patients and I remember the room smelling vaguely like…well, farts. He was groggy and uncomfortable, and I felt sorry for him lying there. This was the most vulnerable I had ever seen him–drugged, half-naked, surrounded by strangers in a room smelling like farts. When he felt clear-headed enough to get dressed, we left the hospital and went right to his favorite diner for lunch.
Five years later, I was a widow. The surrealism of the years just after Anson’s death are difficult to describe. The pain, the loneliness, the profundity of grief are too great for me to go into here. Suffice to say that there are thousands of details about life that you don’t think about when you are married but that suddenly come to the surface as a widow. Who do I call to fix the drier? If my car is being repaired, who will drive me to work? Will anyone want to date me now that I’m 46? Is there anything I can do about the skin on my neck? Does anyone realize how lucky they are to be alive? And for some reason, one of the questions that bothered me the most was “Who will drive me home from my colonoscopy?”
I actually brought this question up with a man I dated shortly after Anson died. This man had never been married, had no children, and was five years younger than me. When I told him that I worried about who would drive me home from my colonoscopy, he grimaced. “I don’t even want to think about that stuff– I do enough of that for my mom, I don’t need to do that for my girlfriend.” Needless to say, that relationship didn’t last long.
I’ve said many times since Anson died that I feel like my foundation is gone. When you are married, even if it is a difficult marriage, there is a sense of continuity, of stability. You have a go-to person, and if your spouse can’t help you with a certain task, they can at least help you find a stand in. As a widow, I feel like each scenario is up in the air– who do I ask for help? And if I ask person A for help this time, I’ll have to find person B for next time so that I don’t wear out my friends’ goodwill. Who among my friends would be kind enough to meet me at the hospital and see me half-naked in a room that smelled like farts?
Last year, I turned 50. I got my AARP invitation and my colonoscopy notice. My health insurance company even offered me a $50 gift card if I got the colonoscopy within a year! What a deal! Because I am a “good patient,” I scheduled the consultation and procedure right away. My 21-year-old son agreed to drop me off at the hospital and pick me up a few hours later. The preparation was no fun, in spite of all the peach iced tea and Sprite I bought to try to make it more enjoyable.
On the day of the procedure, as I lay on the gurney waiting for the gastroenterologist to begin, I fought back tears. Lying on a table in a hospital johnny open in the back, surrounded by strangers and cold machines made me feel vulnerable and small. I didn’t want the anesthesiologist or nurses to think that I was scared– I wasn’t afraid of the procedure. I just hated the fact that I was alone. I had been there for Anson when he came out of the anesthesia. Why couldn’t someone be there for me?
But anesthesia today is so lovely! One deep breath and I was out. I woke up a few minutes later in the recovery area– no nausea like I remembered from the anesthesia of my youth. The nurses were warm and funny and they were checking on me and bringing me water. They told me to go ahead and fart– it was good to fart! But the room didn’t smell bad the way I had remembered with Anson’s procedure. There were other patients around me; some had friends picking them up, some had spouses, some had adult children. I had survived! I actually felt great. And all these people, at different phases of later adulthood, with different life situations– we all had found rides home. The nurse called my son; he was on his way to get me, so I got dressed and waited for him. Other than riding down to his car in a wheelchair, I felt as normal as could be.
So it was over. My first colonoscopy! (By the way, SURPRISE! You have to have one EVERY FIVE YEARS!!!) I had done it without a spouse or a boyfriend to drive me home. It was not a big deal. So, this is not a story about my colonoscopy. I had been a widow for four years, and this is a story about learning that I was going to be okay, alone.
Clouds and Lilac
I recently read about a formula for happiness developed by Mo Gawdat, an enigeneer and Google executive. Put simply, the formula is this: “Happiness is equal to or greater than the events of your life minus your expectation of how life should be.” Gawdat’s formula resonated with me as someone who has learned to accept a life less-than-perfect. “Why me?” I used to think. Now I say to myself, “Why not me?” Why did I assume that no tragedy would befall me? My expectations, pre-grief, were unrealistic. As the saying goes, “Into each life a little rain must fall.”
Today is the anniversary of my husband’s death. I posted a picture of him on Facebook this morning with one of my favorite quotations about grief: “The simple things come back to us. They rest for a moment by our ribcages then suddenly reach in and twist our hearts a notch backward.” (Colum McCann)
I thought about Gawdat’s formula as I got ready for work, the grey cloud of grief hovering closer and closer to my head. “Ugh, not again,” I thought. “Do I have to go through this every year?”
I looked at the weather forecast to help me decide what to wear. Sixty-nine degrees and cloudy, with rain possible this afternoon. It’s the weather, I thought. Just the weather alone brings me back to Anson’s death. It’s always so humid in the spring. It rains way too much– the air is cool but moist, my hair always falls in my face, and I’m sick of wearing sweaters! When will it be summer?!
The temperatures, the rain, the smell of lilac– all of it brings me back to the week of his accident. We were separated at the time, and my son was just about to graduate from high school. During the night of May 23rd, I had a dream about my son– he was floating down a river, buoyed by a puffy red jacket that was acting like a raft. I was walking quickly along the side of the river watching him and he was calling to me “Look mom! Look at me!” He was happy and excited to be moving so fast. Then he floated toward some rapids and he was suddenly pulled down into a whirlpool. I could see his red jacket, but his head and face were under the water, and I couldn’t reach him to help him. More water– the uncontrollable river of life rushing on, my son drowning in the changes thrust upon him by life and his imperfect parents. My heart raced and I woke up in a sweat. I went to school the next day, May 24th, feeling anxious and tired. The day slogged on. And at 10:00 that night, the police knocked on my door to tell me that Anson had been in a car accident and had not survived.
The cool and humid weather of spring brings back those memories almost subconsciously. As I looked through my closet this morning, I thought “the word to describe spring in the Berkshires is ‘bloated.'” It’s almost oppressive– the cool humidity, the clouds, the smell of lilac. Graduation weekend is always wet. The students and parents stand in puddles of wet grass or inside the pavilion if it is still raining. I taught at the high school for 20 years, I should know this by now. This is spring in the Berkshires. Do I expect something else?
Maybe I do– maybe I’m hoping for the dry, cool springs of my childhood in Indiana. The end of school, when you are a child, means carefree days of sun, grass, swimming, bikes, and fireflies. What lightness! Is that what I’m expecting? Am I lowering my happiness by expecting spring to be something that it is not?
And then we add grief–can I learn to accept that I will feel this oppressiveness every year around this anniversary? Will I be happier if I don’t expect to feel better in May, just because the days are longer and there’s no snow on the ground? I don’t want to set myself up to feel bad, but would I feel less sad if my expectations for how my life is “supposed to be” made room for grief? Spring in the Berkshires is cool, it is wet, it is overcast with clouds and grief and it smells of lilac. So be it.

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