Declaration of Sentiments

The Declaration of Sentiments is missing.

Rather, the original document, the artifact, the piece of paper (or parchment?) upon which the original Declaration was written is currently unaccounted for.

This has been true for at least the last 100 years. But what has me equal parts bemused and disgruntled is that nobody seemed to care too much about that.

Until now.

We have a woman running for President. Again. (No, Hillary Clinton is NOT the first woman to do so!) But what makes this election unique is that Clinton has accumulated enough support to be the Democratic Party’s official nominee. THE nominee.

Giving a speech in Brooklyn on June 7, 2016, Hillary Clinton refers to the Declaration, and suddenly, it – and the fact that it is missing – are headline news. 

Suddenly, we’re all saddened by the “lost history,” the pieces of women’s material history, that has simply disappeared. I mean, it’s not like we have Susan B. Anthony’s gavel and other personal items gathering dust in the Smithsonian Archives (oh wait, yes we do!) or the table upon which theDeclaration of Sentiments was penned, also tucked away in the underbelly of the Smithsonian (um, actually, we have that too). As a graduate student researching women’s history museums, I get asked all the time about whether we even have stuff to put in a women’s history museum – I mean, we all know that only the “really important” stuff gets saved, right?

Without meaning to, such questions point directly at the heart of the problem when most people try to imagine a public space devoted to women’s history. The stuff of women’s lives, the material traces of their experience, labor and craft, have rarely been considered worthy of saving. I would even suggest that this is largely because this stuff is women’s stuff, which also means that it is often the stuff of everyday life: meant to be used, worn, consumed, lived in/among.

Suffrage Banner

But women did save things, DO save things, things they considered important, and did their best to commemorate their successes and victories in many ways, both public and private. Smaller house museums around the country are veritable treasure troves of women’s history at the local or organizational level; most recently, I paid a visit to the Sewall-Belmont House in Washington, D.C. and gazed at suffrage banners, hand-sewn flags and pennants, custom jewelry, artwork, desks and other furnishings of women’s organization leaders, and busts and commemorative images of many of the famous faces we associated with women’s suffrage.

Perhaps it’s just that beyond woman suffrage, there doesn’t seem to be much beyond the domestic implements, clothing or other artifacts of daily life that we can collectively point to and say this represents a moment in women’s history that we should remember. This impression is directly tied to the way that women have moved through U.S. history with an oppressive degree of invisibility; their accomplishments attributed to men or stolen outright, their victories claimed by others, their public displays of commemoration torn down at the first opportunity.

Megan Smith, U.S. Chief Technology Officer, astutely noted that: “It is not lost on me that the ongoing invisibility of women and girls is a serious issue for our country, and for the world. The invisibility of our history, heroes, stories, challenges, and success handicaps the future of all Americans, and it deeply affects our economy and our communities.” (www.whitehouse.gov, October 14, 2015)

Without a past, we are unilaterally denied a future.

Hitler knew this; that is why he worked so hard to annihilate Jewish artifacts, sacred spaces, cemeteries, and other physical evidence of their past.

The early colonizers on the American continents knew this; that is why they worked so hard to erase indigenous cultures and oral traditions by forced religious conversions, the theft and “assimilation” of children, oppressive “education” programs, and/or outright genocide.

What is interesting to me about Hillary Clinton’s achievement this week is how it has slid that bright spotlight of public history back into our national past, and, sadly and absurdly, found our shared popular notions of women’s history seriously lacking. Women’s historians and enthusiasts (like me) are all looking at each other going, uh, well, duh! Haven’t we been saying for decades that what we know about women as active agents and makers of history is rarely (if ever) disseminated widely across a national public?

You bet we have! Women’s rights advocates back in the early 1800s were saying it; suffrage leaders at the turn of the twentieth century were saying it; civil rights, women’s rights (second, third, and fourth waves), labor organizations, teachers, feminist, and all kinds of people have, for long, long years, been saying it.

Hell, I’m saying it right now.

Maybe, with a female President, Americans might finally be ready to listen.

1977

Did you know that the National Archives in Washington, D.C. is home to more than just the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution? Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation is there; so is Edison’s light bulb patent, the Louisiana Purchase contract, and the Nineteenth Amendment, giving women the right to vote.

The archives hold hundreds of thousands (or more) of documents, photographs, and intriguingly, video footage. Some of this is on display in the Museum that occupies one wing of the building; you can watch and listen to Martin Luther King, Jr., deliver one of his famous speeches, or hear audio recordings of the radio broadcasts of FDR’s Fireside Chats. Fascinating stuff, to be sure.

What surprised me, though, was a small but amazingly thorough exhibit on women’s rights. Squeezed between Civil Rights and Immigration, the Women’s Rights exhibit featured documents and photos from across the long years of activism, from the suffrage movement all the way through the last organized push to get the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) passed in the late 1970s and early 1980s.

Rounding a corner in the dim lighting, I heard it before I saw it: a screen, showing video clips of women with 1970s hairstyles, coordinating a massive collective effort to reach a consensus on resolutions focused on critical “women’s issues” like reproductive rights, child care, education, and support for the ERA. This, I was amazed to learn, was video of the 1977 National Women’s Conference, funded by the U.S. government and designed to give women a voice in national policymaking.

I had never heard of it.

I think this was the most shocking part of my encounter. I couldn’t believe that such an important event, one that was covered by major media on national television, including a documentary about the conference that aired nationally on the last night of the Conference, had managed to slip through the cracks of my gender studies courses and extensive reading in feminist theory. Sure, I was in diapers when the Conference was held, but still. It inspired enough controversy at the time to rally tens of thousands of protestors determined not to let the Conference conclude unchallenged. An event of that magnitude would be everywhere in today’s social media culture. Wouldn’t it?

Maybe. But would it make the history textbooks, the survey courses, the film adaptations?

The possibility seems remote, since I never encountered it. Not once. And that makes me sad. The 1977 National Women’s Conference was one of the most diverse face-to-face gatherings of women this country has (still) ever seen; they came from across the country and around the world, organizing themselves into political Caucasus and raising their voices and objections within the formal framework of sessions, complete with Susan B. Anthony’s gavel, brought in special for the occasion from its dusty basement home at the Smithsonian Institution. 

Three First Ladies, National Women's Conference, 1977

These women, in their pastel suits, teased-out bobs, or hippie beads, represented political and cultural positions from across the spectrum, radical to conservative and back again. Their bad hair and enormous eyeglasses belied the fact that, in practice, each one was a total badass, standing up to the status quo of her time and demanding change. From First Ladies to homemakers, they came and they spoke, and they argued and they voted, and it was awe-inspiring, start to finish.

And then they went home. And they were forgotten, a vanishing act that should be the envy of any aspiring magician. This is the part that bothers me most. We are not taught our full history. Women are not taught their own history. Americans are unaware of a past filled with inspiring role models, celebrities, success stories, amazing achievements, scientific discoveries, and life-altering innovations – simply because the person doing all these things happens to be a woman or person of color.

If we learned, very young, that women and men both have worked hard to organize for political and social change and paved the way for us to do so, too, how would that change current levels of political participation? If we all see women leading conventions, proposing recommendations, taken seriously by her government and its elected leaders, how would that shift the future for the next generation? What difference might it make to see women heading companies, recognized for their achievements, honored for their military or public service, voting on policy and sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in equal numbers with men on boards, panels, courts, and all manner of governing bodies?

All the difference in the world, I think.

Twenty-Dollar Tubman

On April 20, 2016, Treasury Secretary Jack Lew announced that as part of the redesign of several denominations of U.S. currency over the next ten years, Harriet Tubman would be featured on the front of the $20 bill.

Sounds great, right? A win for women everywhere.

Or is it?

In reality, Lew's April 20th announcement seems to have caused more controversy and, in my case, confusion, than anything else. Sure, women's organizations around the nation are celebrating Tubman's new prominence on our money. And it should be cause for celebration, right? I mean, women have been asking for more public commemoration of female leaders for centuries, and most recently the Women on 20s initiative organized one of the most coordinated efforts, well, ever.

So when Lew announced in June last year that the redesigned $10 bill would have a woman on the front, Women on 20s supporters were crestfallen, but soon became somewhat resigned to their consolation prize. I mean, a woman on paper currency at all was progress of some kind, wasn't it?

And now I hear that no, a woman will not be on the front of the $10. A woman will share the front of the $20 (with Jackson, apparently - a highly unlikely scenario, but there you go) and a tableau featuring suffrage leaders will now be on the back of the $10.

As if Lew's whiplash-inducing change of plans wasn't bad enough, the plan to put Tubman on the $20 bill has inspired some of America's most offensive racism since Trump started his campaign for President. Check out this clip from Samantha Bee on her late night talk show, Full Frontal:

You're welcome.

Based on Lew's track record of changing his mind at the slightest Broadway success, my confidence in the current plan is about a inch above non-existent. In fact, I don't think I could be more disappointed in the way that Lew has jerked women around on this issue, and in the way that (some) Americans have responded. We really didn't need another demonstration of what makes being a woman in this country so damn hard, but there you go. I mean, we can't even trust officially announced Treasury plans to stay reliable from one month to the next. And these are the people in charge of legislating reproductive rights, social welfare, education, and everything else that matters? We are in so much trouble, folks.

A Living Wage

I am the parent of a 15-year-old with autism. She is a joy and an enigma, my baby girl, and being her mom has changed me in incredible ways.

I wanted to make how I feel about my daughter absolutely clear because what I have to say today might seem a bit like I am complaining about the privilege of having her in my life. I’m not. My “beef” is with a system that makes providing for her, that makes creating a life that works specifically for her, almost impossible.

Today’s post was inspired by an email from my daughter’s school, explaining a new aftercare program available for parents unable to pick up their teens promptly at 3pm every day. In the email, I learned that this “service” would cost $15 to use (a kind of access fee, I guess), and then $10 for every 15 minutes the child spent in aftercare.

So let’s say I work full time, and would need my daughter to hang out after school until I can pick her up at 5:30 pm. The total cost of after care, per day, would be $100. For 2 ½ hours of care.

So if it’s not immediately obvious, let me explain why this is the most absurd number you’ve ever heard.

My daughter attends a private middle/high school for high-functioning autistic teens. This is only possible because she qualifies for a scholarship that (almost) covers her tuition. This tuition is more than I make in a year of teaching. Despite the high cost, the school does not provide lunches, or transportation, or before or after care. The school does not provide extra-curricular activities, sports, or an arts program. Or any kind of supplemental therapies, counseling, college prep, driver’s ed…you get the idea. All of those things still fall on the parents.

As a single mom and parent of a child with special needs, I can’t afford to be proud. I will ask for and accept any help I can get. I also can’t afford to take the most traditional route of full-time employment. Wages are too low, the hours too long. Right now, my income consists of the pittance I receive as a graduate student teacher and is supplemented with a soul-crushing amount of student loan debt, and that is how we’ve survived over the years. But that can’t go on forever. I need to get a full-time job.

But if I had a full-time job, my daughter couldn’t go to a private school because I wouldn’t be able to drive her there and back every day. She also wouldn’t qualify for her scholarship program. She’d be kicked off state health coverage designed for special needs kids. My other kids would lose certain benefits that being “poor” qualifies them for, as well. Most employers don’t offer benefits, or if they do, they are expensive and don’t cover many of the basic services that special needs kids require.

I’ve crunched the numbers, and working full time is a sure-fire road to disaster. Within months, we’d be sunk, financially, personally, educationally.

This is one of the great ironies of my life. Getting a better job would actually make our lives worse. What kind of a system do we live in, in which such a thing is true?

A system that makes it possible for employers to pay their people less than a living wage. Sure, I could go get a retail job for $8.25 an hour, absenting myself from my children’s lives, and we’d still starve. So I’d need a second job, which means working 60-plus hours a week, and letting my children raise themselves, because there’s no affording child care on that amount. Who knows how good of a job they’d do with that. I mean, they’re kids, right? I’d miss everything about their lives that is important to them. No soccer, no karate, no film camp, no swimming. They would have to drop out of all sports and extra activities, because no one would be able to drive them. We’d be stuck with whatever public school provides transportation to our area, and my special needs child would be thrown into a system that is designed to punish her for who she is, rather than support her needs.

So here’s a crazy idea: let’s raise the minimum wage to $15 an hour. Would that solve every one of the problems I’ve mentioned above? No, it wouldn’t. But it would be a step in the right direction, and people like me can’t afford another step in the wrong one.

And there are a LOT of people like me. We are everywhere. We are staffing the restaurants that the more affluent frequent on the weekends. We are stocking the shelves in the stores where you shop. We are an army of independent service professionals, maintaining everything from your yards to your shiny SUVs. We are the teachers, the soldiers, the public service workers, the backbone and the beating heart of this country. And we are struggling to survive.

We invest in our communities, in our families, and in the future of this country every day, raising kids with a sense of values and responsibility, contributing to the economy, paying our taxes.

We deserve a system that invests in us, that rewards us for our hard work and service and guarantees a life free from reliance on public assistance. We deserve a system that protects us from the greed and opportunism that runs rampant in big business. We deserve a living wage.

Would making $15 an hour mean that I could afford $40-per-hour child care? No. That is still the most ridiculous number, and unfortunately all-too typical: charging so much for so little (these are high-functioning kids, remember) represents of the kind of exploitative price gouging that families struggling to provide for special needs kids experience every single day (don’t even get me started on the prescription medication racket).

What it would mean, however, is that I could afford rent AND groceries AND utilities, and pay for all of these things myself, without state assistance or going into debt. What it would mean, for someone like me, is self-reliance, and the profound re-configuration of a citizen-identity from one of dependence to that of an active contributor. A society filled with contributors, rather than dependents, is a society that has a real chance to thrive.

And that is what I want, for my daughter, for my neighbors, for myself. To thrive.

Life on the Road

I finally got around to reading Gloria Steinem’s autobiographical My Life on the Road, and it was a revelation. That the book was well-written and filled with stories of political activism did not surprise me; the overwhelming sense of hopefulness I got while reading it did. As someone who cares a little too much about social and political inequities, I know firsthand how easy it is to spiral down into bitter cynicism. Some days, it feels like nothing much has changed at all; other days, it feels like American society and politics are hell bent on taking five giant steps backward.

And then I read a book, and I am surprised by hope. And utterly charmed by stories of traveling around the country on public transportation. I admit, I think anyone who chooses public transit over more private forms of travel is brave. The germs alone will lay you flat, and depending on where you are, that is the least of your worries. But I could see Steinem’s point: you really don’t get a sense of a place or a people unless you spend time with and among them, and I don’t mean sticking to the spit-and-polished tourist spots. Never a fan of crowds, or buses, still I wished I could be more like this determined woman who took to the road any time, any where, in the pursuit of societal and political transformation.

My first chance to be a little braver came last week when an academic conference called me to Houston. I think I’ve been to Houston before, but I can’t really remember, which means if I have been, I definitely didn’t do it properly. Layovers in the airport don’t count. This was always going to be a quick visit – just in and out. My son’s final soccer game on Saturday morning trumped any thoughts of staying over. Besides, I was financing this trip myself, and with extremely limited means I decided to skip the hotel room. I also decided to skip taxi rides to and from the conference center, mostly for the same reason but also with Gloria’s stories in the back of my mind. I would be taking the bus.

For those of you who are regular bus riders, I am sure you will laugh when I tell you how daunting such a prospect seemed at first. I never take buses at home; I prefer to drive. In fact, up until I visited D.C. last month, I don’t think I’d set foot on a city bus (parking shuttles not included) for years, if ever.

But the prospect of saving some cash was too attractive, and I soon found myself waiting awkwardly at the airport metro stop for city bus #40 to appear. This was the bus that would (eventually) make its way past the conference center where I’d be giving my presentation that afternoon. The schedule said it would take about an hour, with a route that wound its way over city streets and guaranteed a close-up view of southeast Houston.

I’m sure I looked as uncomfortable as I felt, in my dress slacks and suit jacket, shoulder-to-shoulder with every imaginable kind of person. As we bumped and jarred past crumbling buildings and weed-choked lots, shiny new strip malls and fast food joints, and then entered the shadow of the towering buildings of downtown, I thought about how much this place looked like every other place I’d ever been, at least in slices. People working, driving, arguing, shopping; the same stores, the same tumble-down spots, the same marked difference between the neighborhoods to the south and downtown, with its shiny windows and spotless concrete.

On my trip back to the airport, a woman asked the driver for a Band-Aid, but the driver didn’t have one. I did. I gave one to her. I got asked for a light, but I don’t smoke and so didn’t have one. In consolation, he told me I “didn’t look the type” anyway. I was very aware of my pale (by comparison) skin, alien in a sea of beautiful shades of brown. But mostly, I read my book and avoided eye contact; I guess my bravery has its limits.

I made the whole round trip intact, and as I boarded my return flight that evening I considered the result. I really didn’t expect much, having stayed so short a time. I felt a little more confident on public transit, a little less awkward. Those people on the bus were too busy with their own concerns to worry much about an awkward out-of-town woman in their midst. Maybe next time I will talk to some of them, if I can work up the guts. I’m chicken shit when it comes to talking to strangers. Is taking the bus the cure? I doubt it. But then again, I guess we’ll just have to see.

Dr. No Way

“I want to get published before I graduate.”

I watched a skeptical expression worm its way across the young professor’s face, and I felt a stab of anxiety. What? Was that a ridiculous thing to say? Did grad students just never publish while still in their degree programs?

“Hm,” she responds slowly. “Well, if that’s the case, then you should start now. Publishing can take a long time.”

Anxiety flared to panic. It was my third year of grad school, and I already felt miles behind my peers. I hadn’t realized that jumping into an accelerated Master’s/PhD program would mean I would be given no leeway for my lack of grad school experience; I was expected to have things written, publishable things, things that had been carefully worked over by a thesis committee or academic mentor.

I had no things; I had seminar papers, and stacks of books and even larger stacks of notes and papers. But all of this felt very disorganized and useless in the face of submitting things for criticism and (hopefully) publication.

This poised young woman behind her desk intimidated me. I wondered why. It couldn’t be an age thing; I was probably older than she, truth be told. She’d been through years of graduate research and dissertation writing, things still on my distant horizon. So her (assumed) experience awed me. She had been hired by a large public university as an Assistant Professor – maybe that was it? One’s ability to land a job like that at such a young age must mean this person was a force to be reckoned with, I figured.

It was only after this same professor had declined to join my dissertation committee that I started to wonder if she felt the same way about me. During that same office visit, she had told me, somewhat sternly, that I was a “grown-ass woman,” with children, and if I’d made it this far I could probably figure out the rest myself.

That was true. At least the first part; just my presence there, a student in her office, was a testament to all the adulting and sacrifice it had taken just to get to grad school in the first place. I was a “grown-ass woman,” and I had sixteen years of raising kids to boot. That was something.

Looking back on it, though, reassuring me by telling me I could figure things out myself was not helpful in the least. Even grown-ass women need mentors and support systems, and she had made it clear that for me, she would be neither. I don’t know why. I never asked. How could I? She probably had enough whiny grad students to deal with without me chasing her down for answers to very awkward questions.

But now I needed to publish things. No, I needed to finish writing publishable things. I had no idea what that meant, how to do that. How could I? I was new to the whole idea of grad school and academic publishing, and my department certainly wasn’t going to walk me through it holding hands.

Fast forward to the end of my fourth year in grad school, and I’ve met every hurdle I’ve faced (exams, prospectus, colloquy) with my best. I’ve done my best, I’ve achieved candidacy (which still sounds like some sort of odd fungus) in record time, I’ve made it to the cusp of finishing my degree and within sight of the horror of all horrors, the academic job market. I’ve battled through the anxiety, the mommy guilt, the “impostor syndrome,” the insomnia. I feel accomplished in many ways, confident of my ability to perform admirably as a scholar and a teacher for the rest of my career.

And then I learn that no matter how I feel, it probably isn’t going to matter at all. Because I still haven’t published anything. Reading through a highly acclaimed book on job market prep has assured me that my chances of presenting a competitive job application are nil. The service hours, the conference presentations, the courses I took – all that is very nice, says this book. Pat on the head, gold star sticker. But you haven’t published anything? Sorry, no job for you.

So I panic, and hyperventilate a little, and then open a new spreadsheet and make a five-year plan. I’ve become a sudden believer in miracles and the possibility of divine intervention. Because that is what I think it is going to take, now. That, and hoping that lots and lots of the other candidates are less prepared, less articulate, less presentable than I. I do feel bad about that. And I am planning to haul ass and dash some of my things off to publishers as soon as possible. I am. Just as soon as I finish this blog post. I swear. Any minute now.

Here’s to denial, and hoping that job market “expert” is wrong. Cheers!

Searching for Ourselves in the National Museum of American History

When Secretary Lew announced last year that a woman would be joining Alexander Hamilton on the $10 bill, he brought the complicated relationship between women and public history back into the spotlight. All around the country, people were being asked to choose a woman – just one woman – important enough to our national identity that she deserves representation on our money. Although it may feel new to many people, this seemingly simple question is just the latest echo in a canyon of repetitions. The Treasury struggled with this same question when they created the Susan B. Anthony and the Sacagawea dollar coins. Women’s rights groups struggled with this question as they sought the public ear without the benefit of a single, charismatic leader. And those who want to commission and fund public monuments, statues, and history museums struggle with this question when they are told that women simply haven’t done anything important enough to deserve equal representation – at least not the same way that men have.

Haven’t they, though? I was curious, having read so many books and seen so many films that show women doing some pretty remarkable things, why “remarkable” wasn’t quite enough to deserve a statue, say, or a plaque in a museum. Like all good questions, this one simply wouldn’t let me be. So, after listening carefully to diverse points of view, I decided to go and see for myself. Figuring I’d go straight to the source, I started with the National Museum of American History in Washington, D.C. After all, where else in the United States does one go for an authoritative presentation of our national history?

Problem is, I came away just as conflicted as I went in. My purpose was simple: find the women in the museum. Find them, and then note not only where they are but how they are represented. The first part proved easy: women showed up in displays about household inventions, in life-size dioramas of trains and vehicles, and in a hall filled with sparkling gowns worn by the First Ladies of our nation. Women popped up as television chefs, immigrants, and businesswomen. The display of the “Star-Spangled Banner” included a detailed description of the women who stitched it together; the displays on America at war featured a number of descriptions of women’s contributions, both at home and overseas.

So women have made important contributions to our nation, I was pleased to see. As a woman, it was inspiring to see other women at work, building homes, families, companies, communities, and the nation.

It was during my second pass through the exhibits that the trouble started. Yes, women were there, but it was the way they were shown in the exhibits that puzzled me. For example, one of the largest exhibits in the museum is “America on the Move,” telling the story of mechanized transportation in the United States. The locomotives, trolleys, busses and cars on display are impressive; they are accented with life-size mannequins of people driving, working, and riding in them. And the women are there – riding the trolley, waiting for the train, setting the table for dinner in a travel trailer, helping her husband buy a car. Most are shown next to (or pregnant with) children. Based only on what I saw in the exhibit, on where and how the women are placed, I would conclude that women are passengers; men, not women, are the builders, the mechanics, the drivers.

Why, exactly, is this a problem? Women do ride trains and go camping; men do drive trucks and buses. Women also drive cars and work as mechanics; men also ride the subway and have children. But that reality is not reflected in the exhibit. In terms of the roles of men and women and their preferred modes of travel, past and present, what I experience in my own life and what I am shown in the museum are at complete odds with each other. And that is just one example of many. The women I know, both personally and from history, are not satisfied being passengers, reliant upon and subject to the authority of men; they make their own way, drive and direct their own lives.

Does it matter that, in our national history museum, only women are shown as poor, as immigrants? Does it matter that the only place women are shown in an exhibit about invention is in the case with the electric mixers and vacuum cleaners? Does it matter that women are shown cooking, doing laundry, selecting china patterns, dressing pretty? Does it matter that almost every woman in the entire museum is defined by her relationship to men and associated with domestic objects and activities?

I think it does. Women are so much more than these things. At least, all the women I know (and know of) are more than these things. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, we can give popular media a pass for perpetuating unrealistic stereotypes about women. Maybe we can even understand why our politicians, our religions, or our other trusted cultural institutions do the same. Maybe.

As the popularly acknowledged authority on public history, however, the National Museum of American History has a greater responsibility toward its visitors. People look to the Smithsonian Institution to tell them the “true” story of a collective past – how we should think about and remember the people and events that together have shaped who we are today. Using objects as their evidence, they have been charged with the solemn task of providing us, the American public, with a usable and relevant story about ourselves.

Unfortunately, unless you are white and male, you probably won’t find much that is usable or relevant there. I suppose this is why the Native American and African American communities thought it was necessary to build museums of their own: to guarantee themselves a hopeful future, they needed a representative past, one built without the interference of oppressive alternate tellings they could not otherwise avoid.

As do we all. As do we all.