It's that time of year again. And that time seems to come earlier each year. It's the time of year when I am so frustrated, overwhelmed, and annoyed by petty small things (mostly other adults that I work with and all their concerns that seem, to me, to miss the big picture), that it's hard to care.
You see, I'm a teacher.
A public school teacher. In North Carolina: a "right to work" state. "Right to work" seems to be a euphemism for exploiting workers, at least from this side of the fence.
Since I have taught in other states--Alaska, Kansas and Kentucky, namely--I have a wider view than some. I know what it is like in other places.
Some things about my career choice are rough all over. It doesn't pay well, especially not when you consider the level of personal commitment, education and variety of skillset it entails to teach successfully. I'm only half-joking when I say that I can only afford to do this because they pay my husband very well for his work. I know we'd have a lot less nice things if we had to rely on only my income.
It's also a truly staggering load of work each and every day. Each day I am supposed to prepare five forty-five minute long lessons on a variety of topics that include technology, differentiating my presentation for a variety of learning styles, background knowledge levels, academic skills and interests for 130 people.
With only 90 non-supervisory minutes per workday, I am supposed to also make contact with the families of these children with the good or bad news, collaborate with all the other staff that supports them in their learning (gifted learning experts, exceptional children experts, other subject area teachers, school counselors, school nurse, family welfare experts, autism specialists, hearing impaired support staff, etc., etc., etc.), evaluate whatever work the children produced that day (for 130 people), and handle my own "secretarial" stuff (making copies, responding to emails, submitting paperwork, etc.).
Some things about my job are harder in North Carolina than they were in other states. Unions, for all the negative impact they have on the field (protecting poor teachers and making it hard to fire them; hamstringing potentially awesome programs for fear of setting precedent), also have some tremendous positive impact on my work conditions and I have sorely felt their lack in my six years in North Carolina. My non-supervisory work time is not nearly as protected. The structures for giving and receiving criticism of my performance are not nearly as balanced. Things happen all the time that leave me in a stunned silence. Can they really do that? Yes, apparently they can.
So, why do I stay? And how do I fight the bitterness so that it's a good thing that I am staying?
The obvious answer is the kids. There are plenty of frustrations involved with children, but they are the good kind of frustrations. When I am frustrated with a child, it is because my heart is involved and I want so badly for him or her to find success, to "get it", to learn to use their strengths and safeguard against their weaknesses. These are frustrations that inspire me to great heights and bring out all my strengths. These are frustrations I am successful in combating often enough to feel like I am good at my work.
It's not just the kids though. I really truly love learning. I love thinking about the ways ideas connect, and being surprised by new connections. Maybe there are other fields where I can be paid to live the life of the mind all day, but I haven't found them.
I love the trappings of school as well. I like awards ceremonies and book fairs, school plays and events, showcases and projects. I love trying out new technologies and seeing what young people can make out of them.
If I'm honest with myself, the very difficulty of the work is part of the appeal for me. Thanks to my Mom and Dad and the way they raised me, I'm a workhorse. I delight in checking off large numbers of items from my to-do list. It gives me a sense of accomplishment. I like feeling like not just anyone could do what I do. I like the feeling that my work is big and important. I'm not sure I could feel that way in other fields.
On a bad day, I think, "You hated school when you were in it. Why are you still here?" On those days, I am tired, overwhelmed and feeling put-upon and unappreciated. I mumble to myself and my children suggest that I should take a walk.
But on a good day, I think, "School is my home. It's where I belong." Yep, I'm just that nerdy. And I'm good with that. Here's to more good days!
Friday, February 24, 2012
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Our Latest Shakespeare Date
It was time for date. T & I hadn't been out alone in too long. It doesn't have to be all that long to be too long for us. More than a week is too long. We have this horrible buildup of too many unfinished sentences and a lack of quiet moments. Children are lovely, but they can make it hard to have a conversation and conversation is at the heart of our attraction.
So, we talked about what to go do. Luckily, we live in a great area of the country full of wonderful things to do. We thought about going to see a double feature big screen showing of Bela Lugosi's Dracula and Lon Chaney's Wolfman at the Carolina because I am a big old movie fan and T's appreciation is growing. But babysitting was going to be a problem on Friday night.
We thought about just walking around Franklin Street looking at stuff and talking, but T's got a foot problem right now, and it was supposed to rain. Walking was going to be a problem at the art museums, too, and no one had anything we were really drawn by right now and hadn't already seen. We didn't really want to just go eat.
Then, T had the thought that we hadn't seen a play together in a while (this is how lucky I am--I have a husband who has "theater" in the top five list of places to take me on a date night). Fiasco Theater was doing a production of Cymbeline at Duke. Shakespeare. Shakespeare that neither of us already knows by heart. Perfect!
Shakespeare is special to T and I.
First off, we are both tremendous word nerds. We drive our tween crazy when she wants help with her vocabulary homework because we can go on for fifteen minutes about the various ways a word might be used and where that word came from. We email each other articles about new language items we see on the Inter-webs. We quote from Much Ado About Nothing to flirt.
Second, we are both romantic saps. We're a collective sucker for happily ever after. But at the same time, it has to be a believable happily ever after. We're not an easy sell.
Then, there's the coincidences of Shakespeare for us. Our first real date (the one where we both went in knowing this was going to be a date and not just friends getting together) was on Shakespeare's birthday. Our first couch-movie together was 10 Things I Hate About You. Our first dress-up date was Twelfth Night at Playhouse in the Park.
Cymbeline, by the way, was amazing! It was a lot of fun to hear echos of other plays and other lines that I knew better. I figured it would be worth seeing, because I have enjoyed every Shakespeare production I have ever seen--even the bad ones. The writing is that good--it's hard to kill if you have any talent at all.
And Fiasco Theater is a group of six very talented and versatile actors, who each played multiple roles in the production. One man was the king, the doctor, and Cloten the oaf/villain. Another was a servant, the long last Prince, a rich Italian host, and a pompous Italian general. One of the women was the evil stepmother queen, the runaway kidnapper of princes, and a couple of different men.
Costuming was simple. Additions of jackets, hats, or small props were made on stage as actors transitioned from one role to another. The actors made the transformations with body language and voice. Costuming was just a nod for the less observant audience member. Or maybe they just like to play dress up a little.
All six actors were also amazing singers and musicians and the production made wonderful use of this with a variety of music--madrigal, martial and bluegrass--all worked naturally into the show.
The untangle at the end, the reveal of who everyone really was and how they relate to each other, was brilliant. I laughed aloud to the point that I snorted.
So, another wonderful date, brought to us by William Shakespeare, and Fiasco Theater. Thank you!
So, we talked about what to go do. Luckily, we live in a great area of the country full of wonderful things to do. We thought about going to see a double feature big screen showing of Bela Lugosi's Dracula and Lon Chaney's Wolfman at the Carolina because I am a big old movie fan and T's appreciation is growing. But babysitting was going to be a problem on Friday night.
We thought about just walking around Franklin Street looking at stuff and talking, but T's got a foot problem right now, and it was supposed to rain. Walking was going to be a problem at the art museums, too, and no one had anything we were really drawn by right now and hadn't already seen. We didn't really want to just go eat.
Then, T had the thought that we hadn't seen a play together in a while (this is how lucky I am--I have a husband who has "theater" in the top five list of places to take me on a date night). Fiasco Theater was doing a production of Cymbeline at Duke. Shakespeare. Shakespeare that neither of us already knows by heart. Perfect!
Shakespeare is special to T and I.
First off, we are both tremendous word nerds. We drive our tween crazy when she wants help with her vocabulary homework because we can go on for fifteen minutes about the various ways a word might be used and where that word came from. We email each other articles about new language items we see on the Inter-webs. We quote from Much Ado About Nothing to flirt.
Second, we are both romantic saps. We're a collective sucker for happily ever after. But at the same time, it has to be a believable happily ever after. We're not an easy sell.
Then, there's the coincidences of Shakespeare for us. Our first real date (the one where we both went in knowing this was going to be a date and not just friends getting together) was on Shakespeare's birthday. Our first couch-movie together was 10 Things I Hate About You. Our first dress-up date was Twelfth Night at Playhouse in the Park.
Cymbeline, by the way, was amazing! It was a lot of fun to hear echos of other plays and other lines that I knew better. I figured it would be worth seeing, because I have enjoyed every Shakespeare production I have ever seen--even the bad ones. The writing is that good--it's hard to kill if you have any talent at all.
And Fiasco Theater is a group of six very talented and versatile actors, who each played multiple roles in the production. One man was the king, the doctor, and Cloten the oaf/villain. Another was a servant, the long last Prince, a rich Italian host, and a pompous Italian general. One of the women was the evil stepmother queen, the runaway kidnapper of princes, and a couple of different men.
Costuming was simple. Additions of jackets, hats, or small props were made on stage as actors transitioned from one role to another. The actors made the transformations with body language and voice. Costuming was just a nod for the less observant audience member. Or maybe they just like to play dress up a little.
All six actors were also amazing singers and musicians and the production made wonderful use of this with a variety of music--madrigal, martial and bluegrass--all worked naturally into the show.
The untangle at the end, the reveal of who everyone really was and how they relate to each other, was brilliant. I laughed aloud to the point that I snorted.
So, another wonderful date, brought to us by William Shakespeare, and Fiasco Theater. Thank you!
Monday, January 30, 2012
Keeping work at work
We just started a new semester. And last week, I only brought work home once! It was amazing what a difference that made to my home and family life.
I want weeks like that more often. But they are way harder to come by than you might think. Each year that I have worked at this middle school, more balls have been added to the pile I juggle each day, and more minutes of that precious prep time (teacher talk for our few limited minutes of non-supervisory time at school--the time when we build lessons, call parents, make copies, clean up after the kids, go to the bathroom, eat lunch, etc.) have been taken away. (as well as any promise of the little raises and bonuses that make it financially tenable--I'd have to take a second job if it weren't that the tech industry pays my husband double what I make).
Between my first and second year at my school, I gained two new things to prep, and lost 45 minutes of prep time. There's something really skewed about this thinking.
This year, I didn't gain any new classes, clubs, or other things to prep for the kids, but I did gain two new PLCs (Professional Learning Communities). We can debate the value of this particular work sometime if you'd like, but valueable or not, it's a time sink. And time is the most valuable commodity of my life.
So, the question is back to balance. The whole idea that got me started blogging. How do we get everything we need and want out of each day? How can I be prepared to educate and inspire 150 middle schoolers, take care of the needs of a household and a house, be there for my family and friends, write, exercise, and still find a little me time?
Step one has got to be leaving work at work. I'm afraid it's not realistic to think I will never bring home papers to grade or presentations to prepare, but for this semester, my goal is to keep that to a minimum. Because I love my work. I love my students. But I love my family more.
- I didn't have to say, "Not now honey," when N wanted to draw with me, when M wanted to show me her latest scheme, when T wanted to discuss a trip our family might take.
- I was able to complete all my normal household tasks of an evening (dishes, laundry, pickup, etc.) while it was still evening and not actually yet night.
- I exercised.
- One evening, I even sat with my feet up and played with my iPad.
I want weeks like that more often. But they are way harder to come by than you might think. Each year that I have worked at this middle school, more balls have been added to the pile I juggle each day, and more minutes of that precious prep time (teacher talk for our few limited minutes of non-supervisory time at school--the time when we build lessons, call parents, make copies, clean up after the kids, go to the bathroom, eat lunch, etc.) have been taken away. (as well as any promise of the little raises and bonuses that make it financially tenable--I'd have to take a second job if it weren't that the tech industry pays my husband double what I make).
Between my first and second year at my school, I gained two new things to prep, and lost 45 minutes of prep time. There's something really skewed about this thinking.
This year, I didn't gain any new classes, clubs, or other things to prep for the kids, but I did gain two new PLCs (Professional Learning Communities). We can debate the value of this particular work sometime if you'd like, but valueable or not, it's a time sink. And time is the most valuable commodity of my life.
So, the question is back to balance. The whole idea that got me started blogging. How do we get everything we need and want out of each day? How can I be prepared to educate and inspire 150 middle schoolers, take care of the needs of a household and a house, be there for my family and friends, write, exercise, and still find a little me time?
Step one has got to be leaving work at work. I'm afraid it's not realistic to think I will never bring home papers to grade or presentations to prepare, but for this semester, my goal is to keep that to a minimum. Because I love my work. I love my students. But I love my family more.
Monday, January 16, 2012
3 weeks overdue
Damnit. I was doing so well, too. I had quite nearly kept up with weekly blogging. Then January came. And now it's been just short of 3 weeks. Where did the time go?
Is it just the way of resolutions? Three months then you fall off the wagon? I'd like to think I'm stronger than that. So, why didn't I keep it up? What have I been doing instead? Let's see . . .
It's all about priorities--and blogging apparently wasn't as near the top of that list as it has been. Still. I think it's working. When I sit down to write, it's no longer a two hour warm up before I find any flow. So, this is definitely still worth doing. Thanks to anyone who bothers reading my meanderings. Somehow, it's easier to do this journal-esque sort of writing if I believe someone is going to read it.
So, back to it. My novel gets the afternoon. Thank goodness for days off with open day care!
Is it just the way of resolutions? Three months then you fall off the wagon? I'd like to think I'm stronger than that. So, why didn't I keep it up? What have I been doing instead? Let's see . . .
- I read. 3 books, in a row. Started a fourth.
- I used my new Kitchenaid Stand Mixer to make a cake.
- I took a mini-vacation with my family to Great Wolf Lodge.
- I cleaned. A lot. Then did it again. Families are messy. And housework is something you can achieve even when you feel brain-dead and woogy on cold meds.
- I prepared lesson plans, graded tests, attended meetings, called parents, and generally attended to the business of school.
- I played with my daughters.
- I wrote several chapters for my novel.
- I wrote an essay for a contest.
- I fought a cold, mostly successfully
- I fought fleas
- I hosted the grandparents, twice.
- I went to the movies, twice.
- I went to my reading group and my writing group meetings
- I let Barnes and Nobles buy me lunch because I'm a teacher. Thanks B&N!
It's all about priorities--and blogging apparently wasn't as near the top of that list as it has been. Still. I think it's working. When I sit down to write, it's no longer a two hour warm up before I find any flow. So, this is definitely still worth doing. Thanks to anyone who bothers reading my meanderings. Somehow, it's easier to do this journal-esque sort of writing if I believe someone is going to read it.
So, back to it. My novel gets the afternoon. Thank goodness for days off with open day care!
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Grocery Lust
Holidays always give me grocery lust. I have to stay out of places like A Southern Season, Trader Joe's, and Whole Foods. Even Weaver Street Market, our local co-op market, isn't safe. They are all full of wonderful things to eat that I have never tried and wonderful exotic ingredients for things I have never made.
If I walk in to one of these stores, I could bankrupt us. Once grocery lust takes me over, I could end up buying kitchen tools I don't know how to use and ingredients I don't know how to prepare. Like it goes most of the time when you give in to sheer lust, it doesn't end well. You gorge yourself. You don't feel well. You get fatter. You hate yourself afterwards.
It's not limited to the stores either. There are ads, cooking magazines, podcasts, emails from foodie websites. It's kind of funny, because I'm pretty immune to advertising. If I wasn't already thinking about buying something, it takes more than a clever commercial to make me want it. You can send me ads for electronics, cars, toys, books, garden items, etc. all day and never get any of my money. But food. That's different.
I think it goes back to spending my 20's in Alaska. It was my big adventure post-bachelor's degree. My then-husband and I packed our bags and moved to Alaska. We ended up staying just shy of ten years. It was a place that demanded much and gave much. There was so much to love about life there--the people, the landscape, the feeling of accomplishment that just living there gave me.
But not the groceries.
Alaska, especially small-town rural Alaska, is not a foodie paradise. Going to the grocery store is a study in lowered expectations. Depending on the weather, even simple staple items like milk and bread may not be in stock. You cannot rely on fresh ingredients, and every meal involves a backup plan full of cans and boxed items. People hunt and berry-pick, and it's not just a hobby. It's a way to have something fresh in your palate.
When I would visit my family or travel in the 48, I would go food crazy. I would eat out for as many meals as I could afford, the more exotic the meal, the better. I would go to the grocery and spend $50 in the produce section alone, then go spread it out on my mom's table and just smell it, hold it, feel it in my hands, giggle over it with my then-little daughter. When I moved to Kansas, my first home in the 48 after Alaska, I hit every farmer's market within an hour's drive. There were whole days when I didn't actually eat meals, just a string of produce items.
It's the kind of appreciation that can only derive from deprivation.
Even now that I've lived in the 48 for another ten years after leaving Alaska, I still get that kind of grocery lust, that sensual pleasure in good food.
My now-and-always-husband likes to take me out to eat at least in part because of how much I obviously enjoy my food. I'm that person who is bouncing in her chair and making yummy noises and gets really excited over something new on the plate. I'm asking the wait staff about the ingredients, what kind of tea is in my iced tea and what that new green is in my salad. I can't help myself. At least it makes him smile.
So, I made it through, and only bought a few things this year. Weaver Street stollen bread for breakfast today. Tomorrow, it might be safe to go into the grocery store again. I know I'll never fully control my grocery lust, but I can manage it, by letting it out here and there, for the really good stuff.
If I walk in to one of these stores, I could bankrupt us. Once grocery lust takes me over, I could end up buying kitchen tools I don't know how to use and ingredients I don't know how to prepare. Like it goes most of the time when you give in to sheer lust, it doesn't end well. You gorge yourself. You don't feel well. You get fatter. You hate yourself afterwards.
It's not limited to the stores either. There are ads, cooking magazines, podcasts, emails from foodie websites. It's kind of funny, because I'm pretty immune to advertising. If I wasn't already thinking about buying something, it takes more than a clever commercial to make me want it. You can send me ads for electronics, cars, toys, books, garden items, etc. all day and never get any of my money. But food. That's different.
I think it goes back to spending my 20's in Alaska. It was my big adventure post-bachelor's degree. My then-husband and I packed our bags and moved to Alaska. We ended up staying just shy of ten years. It was a place that demanded much and gave much. There was so much to love about life there--the people, the landscape, the feeling of accomplishment that just living there gave me.
But not the groceries.
Alaska, especially small-town rural Alaska, is not a foodie paradise. Going to the grocery store is a study in lowered expectations. Depending on the weather, even simple staple items like milk and bread may not be in stock. You cannot rely on fresh ingredients, and every meal involves a backup plan full of cans and boxed items. People hunt and berry-pick, and it's not just a hobby. It's a way to have something fresh in your palate.
When I would visit my family or travel in the 48, I would go food crazy. I would eat out for as many meals as I could afford, the more exotic the meal, the better. I would go to the grocery and spend $50 in the produce section alone, then go spread it out on my mom's table and just smell it, hold it, feel it in my hands, giggle over it with my then-little daughter. When I moved to Kansas, my first home in the 48 after Alaska, I hit every farmer's market within an hour's drive. There were whole days when I didn't actually eat meals, just a string of produce items.
It's the kind of appreciation that can only derive from deprivation.
Even now that I've lived in the 48 for another ten years after leaving Alaska, I still get that kind of grocery lust, that sensual pleasure in good food.
My now-and-always-husband likes to take me out to eat at least in part because of how much I obviously enjoy my food. I'm that person who is bouncing in her chair and making yummy noises and gets really excited over something new on the plate. I'm asking the wait staff about the ingredients, what kind of tea is in my iced tea and what that new green is in my salad. I can't help myself. At least it makes him smile.
So, I made it through, and only bought a few things this year. Weaver Street stollen bread for breakfast today. Tomorrow, it might be safe to go into the grocery store again. I know I'll never fully control my grocery lust, but I can manage it, by letting it out here and there, for the really good stuff.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Not Yet Professional Ballet
If you're thinking of seeing a production of the Nutcracker this holiday season, let me wholeheartedly recommend that you seek out a not-yet-professional production.
I just had the best ballet experience of my life, watching a local youth ballet perform it at a showing for a special needs audience.
I'm a strange sort of ballet fan. Mostly, I find the storytelling weak, but I'm drawn into the visuals: the costumes, the sets, and, most of all, the athleticism. As a woman who trips over hallways (just hallways, empty ones, with nothing in them), I admire the things these dancers can get their bodies to do, with grace.
Watching these young people with this particular audience was utterly amazing.
When you watch a professional ballet, everything looks effortless. I know that's supposed to be part of the artistry, but it's part of why it doesn't thrill me. It seems cold.
But this show, featuring young performers who may someday be those professionals, had such heart, such spark! When an especially difficult leap or lift or landing was accomplished, you could feel the joy. Maybe it's the teacher in me, or the mom, but I found it very moving to watch these young people reaching new levels of accomplishment. And they were definitely very accomplished.
And watching with this audience! I was worried about taking my very active four-year-old to a ballet, even a family friendly one, but I figured the special needs audience would be a little more accepting of any of her outbursts.
What I didn't realize was that who you watch with can be part of the joy of the show. It was like watching a jazz performance. Instead of waiting politely for the prescribed bowing moments, they called out and cheered when something impressive happened, clapped whenever they felt moved. And their energy fed the performers' energy and it was magic.
I wish the ballet was always like this.
I just had the best ballet experience of my life, watching a local youth ballet perform it at a showing for a special needs audience.
I'm a strange sort of ballet fan. Mostly, I find the storytelling weak, but I'm drawn into the visuals: the costumes, the sets, and, most of all, the athleticism. As a woman who trips over hallways (just hallways, empty ones, with nothing in them), I admire the things these dancers can get their bodies to do, with grace.
Watching these young people with this particular audience was utterly amazing.
When you watch a professional ballet, everything looks effortless. I know that's supposed to be part of the artistry, but it's part of why it doesn't thrill me. It seems cold.
But this show, featuring young performers who may someday be those professionals, had such heart, such spark! When an especially difficult leap or lift or landing was accomplished, you could feel the joy. Maybe it's the teacher in me, or the mom, but I found it very moving to watch these young people reaching new levels of accomplishment. And they were definitely very accomplished.
And watching with this audience! I was worried about taking my very active four-year-old to a ballet, even a family friendly one, but I figured the special needs audience would be a little more accepting of any of her outbursts.
What I didn't realize was that who you watch with can be part of the joy of the show. It was like watching a jazz performance. Instead of waiting politely for the prescribed bowing moments, they called out and cheered when something impressive happened, clapped whenever they felt moved. And their energy fed the performers' energy and it was magic.
I wish the ballet was always like this.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Christmas in FlipFlops
Today, my family and I went to a tree farm and bought our Christmas tree. The man who sold it to us was full of the right kind of charm, in his flannel shirt and with his well-used tools. It was a lovely, old-fashioned Christmas experience, very Currier and Ives . . . except that it was nearly 70 degrees.
We get winter in North Carolina. Sometimes.
Last winter, for example, we got to go sledding twice. We missed several days of school, because even a mild dusting of snow causes mass panic here. It cracks my older daughter and me up though. We spent her early childhood in Alaska, where there was a lot of snow, but never a Snow Day.
This winter hasn't arrived yet. I've worn a jacket twice so far, and only in the morning. Santa, in the Christmas parade, looked a little sweaty.
Mostly, I've enjoyed the milder weather in my new home. It's rather nice not to feel like I'm taking my life into my hands to walk my dog on a December day. And I really like having fresh produce any time I want.
But it still feels kind of wrong to buy my Christmas tree in short sleeves and flip-flops.
My sister spent three years in Hawaii and she always said that Christmas didn't feel very Christmasy there. I get what she means. My images of the season have fires in the fireplace and cute hat and mitten sets on my girls. Hot chocolate really tastes better if you're cold.
Still, when you're in your own living room, and it's dark outside, and the tree is lit, and the carols are playing on Pandora, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, at least on the inside.
We get winter in North Carolina. Sometimes.
Last winter, for example, we got to go sledding twice. We missed several days of school, because even a mild dusting of snow causes mass panic here. It cracks my older daughter and me up though. We spent her early childhood in Alaska, where there was a lot of snow, but never a Snow Day.
This winter hasn't arrived yet. I've worn a jacket twice so far, and only in the morning. Santa, in the Christmas parade, looked a little sweaty.
Mostly, I've enjoyed the milder weather in my new home. It's rather nice not to feel like I'm taking my life into my hands to walk my dog on a December day. And I really like having fresh produce any time I want.
But it still feels kind of wrong to buy my Christmas tree in short sleeves and flip-flops.
My sister spent three years in Hawaii and she always said that Christmas didn't feel very Christmasy there. I get what she means. My images of the season have fires in the fireplace and cute hat and mitten sets on my girls. Hot chocolate really tastes better if you're cold.
Still, when you're in your own living room, and it's dark outside, and the tree is lit, and the carols are playing on Pandora, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, at least on the inside.
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