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Raised to Profess Social Justice and Faith!
Just
108 years ago, my ancestors came as strong-willed, hardworking and God--loving intellectuals from Europe. They came
to pursue the promise of land, freedom and education for their children, and a brighter future than they fear they faced
in the political and social climate of Germany. Here they encountered the lies and broken promises many immigrants
to America faced. My family largely worked themselves to death in the squalid conditions of the packinghouse industry,
bluecollar workers who broke their hearts and backs for my white-collar future.
My BlueCollar Beloveds and
I desire to live a life exemplifying the Christian walk, a walk we feel is entirely
compatible with intellectual endeavor, good humor, and activism.
We consider ourselves "blue sheep" of the Religious Left and embrace
a fiscally liberal, pro-labor, egalitarian philosophy which values an active
fight for social justice. Our faith in Jesus Christ emboldens us to fight against poverty, injustice, discrimination, ignorance, intolerance,
arrogance, greed, racism, sexism and oppression in all its institutions.
Our family lives an afflicted victory thruogh which we seek to encourage, enlighten and bring hope and joy to others
through Spirit-led works of the hand, heart and mind. We invite you into our family and welcome you to join us in our
endeavors for the good!!!!....
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Tuesday, July 28, 2009
The Signs of Our Times If I were a fancy blogger, I'd post a poll about
whether or not you have abandoned homes on your street, or how many are on your street, or if there are squirrels nesting
in the abandoned homes on your street. But I am not much one for the tag clouds and permalinks and adsense and other
doodads. Fancy is not really in my dossier.
Pictures say a lot, though, and they are a simple upload. This
photo shows just one of the many doors on our daily walk through the 'hood which are covered in foreclosure signage.
We are warned by the notices not to trespass, not to use the toilets, not to drink the water, not to turn on the electical,
not to feed the squirrels. There is nothing about prayer, so we do a good deal of that. Some of you know that
the boys and I have long done prayer walks through our neighborhood, picking up trash, praying over our neighbors and their
homes, sometimes stopping to trespass in a vacant yard to pet a kitty, pick some neglected rhubrarb or play on a porch.
I don't think we're the kind of trespassers the city is worried about, although I guess I can't be sure.
We stop often to pray for the tenants of the abandoned homes, past and future, and for the Holy Spirit to wash over our urban
family with restoration.
As a parent there are times when I worry about whether it is good to let my children see my sorrow over the world we live
in. I want them to learn compassion and love more than anything, to grow up as men of integrity who know and fear their
God but who never forget that they have within them the power to make changes for good. Sometimes on the steps of a
neglected house, I cry. Sometimes the injustice and the evil in life are overwhelming. At those times, Tovi will
often put his arms around me and say, "It's okay, Mommy Princess. I'll help you find your family."
Reuben may nervously scratch his head with a look of concern, or puff out his lower lip.
But that is only sometimes.
Most times, we rejoice in our freedom to walk and be safe together. We wave to the guys at the firehouse, we stop at
the DQ and get a cone, we sing Wiggles songs and peek in windows of the grander houses, imagining what the new owners will
do with such a huge kitchen! We are near to the LORD and to each other, and we are glad. And I think that in letting
them see the sorrow, that the joy will mean more--and I know that the ice cream will taste better.
Tue, July 28, 2009 | link
Friday, July 24, 2009
The End of Everything...againSo, the buzz is out there, and you've probably
heard it. There's even a major movie (actually there are about three) coming out now about this latest in a long line of predicted last days: 12/21/2012. When I saw the Complete Idiot's Guide
on the shelf at the library, I knew the vexing voodoo date had gone really mainstream, the Complete Idiot's Guide
being the dead canary for the arrival of all popular American movements.
Well, if you know me, you know I
love disaster movies and fictional cataclysm of all kinds. Towering Inferno, The Poseidon Adventure, Titanic, Jurassic
Park, Twister, The Day After, The Day After Tomorrow (was there one called The Day After That??), Earthquake!
Volcano! Outbreak! On the Beach, 1984, The Seventh Sign and Curious George Rides With the Four Horseman
of the Apocalypse (oh, wait, I might have that last one wrong). Just to name a few.
Of course, as a
longtime Christian and a student of eschatology, I know the only book I really need to read concerning the end of time is The
Holy Bible. I know that the naming of exact dates for the Coming of Christ is never godly, but is in contradiction to
the Gospel. No man will know in advance; let us always live our lives in a way that we are at every moment ready.
But back to this 2012. I know it's bunk, you know it's bunk, but I am completely floored by the hubbub.
It is almost orwellian in proportion. The date even has it's own official website for documenting doom (of course
it's www.december212012.com). The History Channel is running documentaries. I can't even imagine what is happening out there on Twitter.
I haven't really sensed such an undercurrent of cultural excitement about something since they discovered Aspartame causes DNA mutations (oh, wait, that may have been bunk too...but I wouldn't use it). Partly I think it is because
of the New Age attraction to spiritual beliefs and practices of indigenous American cultures (a lot of the 2012 interest comes
from the fact that, according
to the Mesoamerican Long Count Calendar--or the Mayan Calendar--a 5,125 year span is ending, signalling a major upheaval,
a spiritual transformation, or the apocalypse). Some of it, I think, comes from the fact that in this hard life, people
without hope are romanced by the finality of an ending.
In the end, I have to say that though the whole
2012 will probably spawn some really good disaster flicks, mostly it has given me pause. Pause to pray for those who
are feeling without hope, for those who don't know yet that for God's children there is no ominous impeneding end
to everything, but only an end to evil and a beginning of immeasurable joy. And if they make a good movie about that,
I will surely let you know.
Fri, July 24, 2009 | link
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
The Rites of Brotherhood: Bunkbeds and Boo Boos So what if the American Academy of Pediatrics says they are the deathknell of the American boy, we love bunkbeds! (Okay, well the mommies hate the bunkbeds.
There are certain things we just don't trust our sons to be left alone with, especially in the dark: towering furniture, knives,
men in trenchcoats, motorcycles and friends with inverted cross tatoos...) . But in limited space, they are the
place of choice to woodpile little boys in small houses all across the U.S.A. And lo, it shall come to pass.
The BlueCollar Lads have passed that benchmark into boobooland. Cast out the cradle, call the ER. Toe and Roo
have taken to the heights. Oh, the humanity!
Tue, July 21, 2009 | link
Monday, July 20, 2009
Here Comes HUAC "If you keep on biting and devouring each other, watch out or you will be destroyed by each other. So I say, live by
the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the sinful nature. " Gal 5:15,16 You can't get away from it--when you read the papers or meet
with friends or watch the news or check your Facebook account or visit Cafe Mom or wait in line at the self-serve library checkout. It's all chatter about socialized-medicine
all the time. I can't tell you how often in just this past week I have read or heard the political polices
of President Obama (especially in reference to his proposed health care plan) being referred to as socialism, or, by his more
vicious opponents, as communism. Let's face it, Obama's not the first president or lawmaker to be
accused of being, what my late Great Uncle Hermann (who fought in WWII--and who also, incidentally, had pet goats and
collected photographs of roadkill and other dead animals), called a "pinko." What kinda honks me is the
fact that so many well-meaning and educated people care or understand so little about the difference between advocating for
social justice and advocating socialism. I was sort of baited to blog about it, but I will only do it this
once. Then, rest-assured, you probably won't hear me chatter about it again.
Okay, so call me pinko
if you want, but really my beliefs have nothing to do with a modern institutionalized political or economic system. I
do not subscribe to the theories of Lenin or Marx. I am a student of the human condition, of history, ethics, theology and
anthropology. I strive for faith, compassion and the fulfillment of holiness toward our fellow wo/men in this world.
I know the Bible teaches an economics of individual giving for the benefit and good of the whole : "Our desire is not that others should be relieved while you are hard-pressed, but that there might be equality.
At the present time your plenty will supply what they need, so that in turn their plenty will supply what you need.
Then there will be equality, as it is written: "He who gathered much did not have too much,
and he who gathered little did not have too little." --II Corinthians 8:13-15
(NIV). I know that tribal societies and clan societies of the past also prospered under this belief. Take, for
example, the beautiful tribal economics of the Lake Superior Ojibway. They believed that each individual was differently gifted, and thus differently able to contibute to their own
household and to the tribal group. He who is a good hunter and catches many deer one winter, shares all with the
tribe. If this same hunter does not do well, and his family is hungry, the other hunters of the tribe who
have done well share their bounty with his household. Some individuals are great story-tellers, some talented at nurturing
the sick, some at tanning hides or trapping furs. Others are afflicted and must be cared for--perhaps they are encouragers
or spirit-lifting with their humor, or teach the children skills or ancient stories, but they cannot feed themselves.
To the group, they are not considered less, and their contribution is not given a lower value. They are expected to
benefit from the same quality of life as the member of strong mind and body who can spear a hundred dear.
Finally,
in the end, let's not forget where the word economics comes from: the Greek "oikos" (house) and "nomos"
(custom or law)--therefore, "rules of the household." Even the language denotes that we are family in matters
of resources.
End of story, Senator McCarthy.
Mon, July 20, 2009 | link
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Prayer of Thanksgiving for Sunday Afternoon Walks (With Photo Essay)Psalm 96:11-13 Let the heavens be glad, and let the earth rejoice; let the sea roar, and all that fills it; let the field
exult, and everything in it. Then shall all the trees of the forest sing for joy befo re the LORD; for he is coming...
My LORD, thank you for the shelter of the trees, and for
the magnitude of nature's beauty. That You desired so much to impress us to love you, that you made all
this overwhelms me with gratitude and humility. There is nothing I could do to be worthy of the gift, and that
makes the gift all that more meaningful.
In this lush forest, there is no anger or disagreement. No one looks at the fragrant pine or the tall grasses sprayed
with wildflowers and argues. The world doesn't gaze upon a night sky filled with stars and feel hatred. Even
in the desert places--where I and many of those I love best have spent a lot of time--there is a subtle and different wonder
to be seen. In harsh heat and dryness, in powerful seas and in the quiet of the meadow, You are there, majestically.
Thank you, that we can walk here and see You in the pattern of the woodgrain or the complexities of birdsong. You are
in the mudpie and the laughter from my children, in the cleanliness and the dirtiness, in the hot and cold, the the distant and close. My prayer of thanks also is for those who have not heard Your name, but who know You through
Your wonders, and that they are my brothers and sisters too. My joy will be to meet them and see them with their children,
healthy and happy, without need or persecution, no longer thirsty or broken, but together with us in Your promised, unknowable
garden.
Sun, July 19, 2009 | link
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The Brotherhood of the Brick
Just a quick note on nostalgia. If you've
turned or are nearing 40, or if you're any age looking back at life a little, take a moment to check out the evolution
of the toys you used to love. I was happy to learn that most of the things I played with as a kid, though simple compared
to what's out there now, are honored with Platinum or Gold Awards from The Oppenheim Toy Portfolio and on the Toy Industry Association's (TIA) "Top 100 Toys of the 20th Century" list. Now that I am indoctrinating my boys with a love of my
favorites (Legos, Lite Brite, Colorforms, Play Doh, Rubik's Cube, Don't Break the Ice!, etc.), I can feel it
is an act of conscientious parenting and not just self-interest. It's good to know the things my parents chose,
and that I gravitated toward as a wee lass, are viewed now as good for development, consistently safe, and good values.
Oh, and I'd be remiss not to add this. BlueCollar Hubby. He's
not an Elk, a Mason, or even, really (anymore) a Rotarian. But his love of Lego's has lasted him over thirty years now. He is definitey what I call
"in the Fraternal Order of the Brick." A man with legophilia, a serious lover of those danged little blocks
from Denmark. And now, with two sons, he's got his own little chapter of legomaniacs to fellowship with night
and day. I know it's a little weird, and I would hide it from the public except, well, Lego's have a platinum
award. And at least BCH hasn't dragged out that depressing bag of Viet Nam era plastic army men he has in the basement
yet. When he does, that will be another blog.
Thu, July 16, 2009 | link
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Long Night's Journey Into DayEvery so often in our household, all the planets align
to create a majestically exhausting and sleepless night (and by planets I mean: an insomniac hyperactive child, his
tagalong little brother, a freakishly smelly old beagle, a bed-wetting incident (not the author's), a severe flare of
chronic myofascial pain and blissfully unaware, deeply snoring husband). Ah, midnight in the garden of good and evil,
where mommies throw back ibuprofen and sit in a cirle on the floor with their progeny playing dinosaur farm. And sometimes,
mommies write retributive poems nd serve a little Bacon for breakfast.
Fireflies for BlueCollarHubby
Sleep eludes me
while you slumber. Your brazen, active snore ignites me where I stand, and my hand, clutching
dinosaurs and teddy bears, considers thumping you.
But it doesn't because you, untouched by
chaos in your midnight idlesse, are everything I want to be in rest, a peaceful little testament to the possibilities of the bed.
My plan tomorrow night is this:
to bound ahead in robust strides-- a triathlete of dreams--
through uptakes of oxygen, REM, and plasmic overhaul. To finish first, refreshed.
Oh, and the little fireflies that light
about our bed... treat them sweetly while I lie. Note any fractured wing and help them fly. The
dark's made useless without their luminescent dance.
He that hath a wife and children
hath given hostages to fortune. --Sir
Francis Bacon
Wed, July 15, 2009 | link
Monday, July 13, 2009
In The Ring of Fire It's the kind of lovely summer day with a
light breeze that makes you think of white, billowing curtains and The Great Gatsby. Unfortunatley, in
our house and down the street, the mood is a little more Dickensian. We live in an urban area where the popularity
of recreational burning has exploded (probably you do too, as it seems to be nationwide phenomenon) and where every
other yard seems to have a smudgepot smoldering day and night in nice weather. When little Roo starts to hack like a
tubercular, we shut the windows and wait out the smog.
Now, I realize we live in a diverse culture, and some of
our neighbors view outdoor cooking as routine. Dudes also love to grill, kids like a "staycation" backyard
campout complete with bonfire and smores. Landowners rights and all that. I don't want to be the grumpy neighbor
lady, but I am seriously concerned that in an age when we are battling such air-quality problems and when childhood asthma is at an all-time high, that turning our residential neighborhoods into char pits is the good choice. In a rural setting, like a state
park, there is a lot more greenspace buffering emissions and absorbing them. Yah, there are rules, you say.
True, but here in our little-policed 'hood they are indifferently-enforced (the PeaceMen have more important things to
do than make sure my kid can breathe, and I respect that), but routinely I have witnessed the burning of trash and chemically
treated lumber, someitmes in times of high winds, all of which, forbidden.
I'm torn (or burned), I really am.
Staring at the flickering flames of a fire in the dark outdoors is as compelling to me as to anyone. We're
midwestern. Burning wood and roasting food over it while we relax and tell tales is in our blood. But this
is a city, people, a big city. How can we stamp our feet about the smog monster of industry that belches its
toxins into our kids' lungs and be indifferent that our neighbor is cooking formeldahyde night after night?
You may say living in a city, that's the price. But when I see so many pre-schoolers in line for the big yellow
bus at the elementary clutching their inhalers, and when my best friend's kid gets her own home nebulizer by the
age of 10, I think the price is too high.
Get involved in the fight for better urban residential air quality by
visiting Neighbors Against the Burner at www.neighborsagainsttheburner.org.
Mon, July 13, 2009 | link
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Does NIH Stand for Needle-In-Haystack? Interesting news in the medical world as the Prez appoints Francis S. Collins
to be the new NIH Director (see the full Washington Post story at http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/07/08/AR2009070802769.html). An evangelical and born-again Christian who can reconcile faith and science! We like this, but what we like
more is the several billion dollar stimulus the NIH has received from the Obama budget to research some sadly neglected areas
of health, one being the mysteries of autism.
As the parent of a young child diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum
Disorder (ASD), it is frightening to stand before the miasma of chattering, bandwith-broadcasting, twittering, blogging,
speculating, conjecturing postulators and stay sane. Layman research is impossible--and I am a researcher at the
subatomic level--we're talking in my quarks. Every purported fact about ASDs pulls at the thread of
a myth, every answer unravels more questions. One thing I do know is that until recently, more money has been spent
on researching erectile dysfunction than on this epidemic neurologic disorder among children (wait, maybe it's neurological,
maybe it's immunological, maybe it's a mental health issue...). I do know that it is safer for my babies to
be vaccinated and keep known deadly diseases at bay than to crumble at the suggestion that these vaccines may perchance
have afflicted my beautiful, funny, affectionate and charismatic little lad (wait, maybe it was prescription
drugs in the drinking water, or endocrine disrupters in the plastics, or the failure of my immune system, or...). Too
many haystacks, very few needles, and not enough people out in the field looking.
So, yay for Mr. Collins, and
for the Prez! Let them enter the lair of the beast with both eyes open and lead out the quiet, waiting little boys.
For more information on the mind-numbing puzzle of Autism, read Cracking the Autism Riddle: Toxic Chemicals a
Serious Suspect in the Autism Outbreak (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/harvey-karp/cracking-the-autism-riddl_b_221202.html) or learn about the Cure Autism Now Foundation at www.autismspeaks.org.
Thu, July 9, 2009 | link
Technical DifficutliesSorry for the disappearing photos and lack of new content. My
web-hosting company is having technical problems! They are on it!
Thu, July 9, 2009 | link
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The Broken-Necked Crane It's official--Steve
has been run out on his rail for righteousness sake! BlueCollar Hubby has accepted and signed a contract
for severance from the University--and I mean "severance" in every sense of the word. July will be a
month of endurance without income, but in August he will recieve his full financial package, including COBRA, pay, and removal
of anything negative from his employee file in exchange for eternal banishment. It was a difficult decision, attorneys
and AFSCME officials were consulted, pros and cons weighed. In the end, BCH and I realized that, though he has spent
his entire career in service to this institution and its students, it is no longer a place of honor in so many ways.
Working there again in his life is really not an option for Steve, unless he were to litigate. So, farewell alma mater.
Of course, we realize this sort of thing has been happening to Labor Union Supporters for decades. When railroad
barons wanted to get rid of their union-organizing workers, the barons would grease the workers' decision
to leave by giving them a glowing letter of recommendation that would "guarantee" them a job anywhere else
in the industry. What the workers didn't know was that all the railroads were aware of a secret watermark on the
back of the letter--if it was a broken-necked crane, the prospective employer knew it was a pro-union man and they would refuse
to hire him. In the same way, employee attorneys have advised that most corporations and large employers such as universities
have electronic "watermarks" that tag an employee file as a workers'-rights troublemaker. This way
Human Resources know to reject their aplication on any basis they can find, despite a stellar visible work history.
So, onward and upward! I have been supporting organized labor for over 20 years, have marched and written and spoken
and rallied for AFSCME, the UAW, TEAMSTERS, AFL-CIO and others. This won't change anything, and it certainly won't
change Steve. His gifts will go with him, and our family will continue to hold our heads high for the rights of professional
and blue collar workers--broken neck or not. If you want to support Steve, support those who fight for social justice
through labor and healthcare issues. Visit www.afscmemn.org or www.makehealthhappen.org for a start!
Tue, July 7, 2009 | link
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Into the Big Green Woodsy The three lads and I decided to celebrate Independence Day by escaping the concrete jungle on the 3rd and going into
what we call The Big Green Woodsy. This means heading anywhere that we can experience 360 degrees of nature, which luckily
isn't hard in this gorgeous state. My dad used to call it "getting out of Dodge," but Steve and I both
crave it, for ourselves and for our boys who we know will likely remember and treasure times outdoors more than
any other--just as we did.
Steve and I both grew up with regular access to lots of nature--for Steve this was growing up
in the boonies (what would now be called a third-ring suburb) and tramping around a meadow behind his house all
day with his beloved dog "Dusty". I grew up very much a downtown girl, but dad's heart was always in the deep
woods. He scraped and saved until he could afford a cheap 40 acres of virgin timber in Floodwood, and our whole
family-- Mom, Dad, Gram, and all but the one oldest BlueCollar Sibling (there were six of us altogether) spent every
weekend of my childhood there. My brothers and dad built a rustic cabin and outhouse--they also built the creakiest, most structurally deficient bridge ever engineered over the creek that ran between the edge
of the land and the gravel road. We picked chokecherries, blackberries, raspberries, gooseberries and strawberries,
each in its season. There was endless rockpicking in the tiny creek, tree-climing, fire-poking, hiking and birdwatching.
We swam in Hay Lake and Leech Lake and a crapload of other lakes. Fat black bears sat on the hillsides along the road
eating and watching the cars (which went by at the rate of about 3 per day). It seemed natural to know the names of the trees,
to see wild roses and lady slippers everywhere, to come across the mangled remains of a bear kill on a walk
through the pines. We loved it, even though my mother shrieked in terror a lot. That seemed natural too.
No memory is more potent to me than one of lying on a soft blanket at dusk, looking up into the dancing leaves of a poplar
tree, listening to the distanat conversation of my siblings and parents around the firepit as they wrapped burgers and onions
and potatoes in foil to roast for dinner, feeling completely safe and peaceful and aware of my senses. I was three.
I want that for Toe and Roo; we both do. There are invaluable benefits to living and growing up in a major city,
and we love that too. But we both know there is a healthfulness and learning that comes only from our meaningful
interaction with the land, its plants and creatures. Richar Louv's book The Last Child In the
Woods (www.richardlouv.com) is a great testament to this truth, and explores all the studies of nature-deprivation among children and the toxic effects it can have on their development
and emotional well-being.
This being said, we are back in the big city, and tomorrow night we will visit
a nationallly renown science museum with a visiting member of our "urban family," Uncle Jimbo, and we will
stand on a terrace overlooking a great fireworks display, among throngs of people and in the presence of great works
of architecture and civic engineering, and there will be an education and feeling of human community in that too.
Oh, and that 40 acres of my parents'? Yah, the University that canned Steve owns that now. When the 70's
recession hit hard, my dad was laid off for the first time since he was 14, and was forced to sell the land to keep our
family afloat. I can't tell you how much it chaps me now to know that the University bought it (and still owns
it) because there grows a rare species of pine that is found nowhere else in the world. Ah, kizmet!
Sat, July 4, 2009 | link
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Holding Back the OceanThe first year after I became afflicted with P.I.A.N.S.
(post-infectious autonomic neuropathy syndrome), I used to dream of running. I hadn't been through any physical
therapy yet, and the Mayo Clinic was still trying to figure out exactly what had happened to my body--I could barely walk
then. Running, skipping, hurrying, any fast movement made with ease and nonchalance-- was something I grieved.
In my dreams I ran like a child runs, awkward and carefree, arms swinging, laughing. Okay, so my brain romanticized
it a bit--life before my illness was never "The Sound of Music." But when you lose that daily walk around the lake,
or your weekly hike in the woods with you dad, or the ability to get from Clinic A to Clinic B under your own power, it's
like a death. Your heart goes still and quiet and you forget the feeling of wind and speed and absolute physical self-reliance.
Thanks to God, my husband and my father, an amazing D.O. we'll call Dr. Angel, a brilliant neurologist we'll
call Dr. Gesund, a gifted and determined university Internist and the gold bullion of excellent health insurance, my life
didn't end with a wheelchair. A few years, fifty tests, about 200 specialists, and hundreds of hours of grueling
and cutting-edge PT later, I was able to regain some of my former fitness and walk. I will probably never run (although I
do a modified scamper after the boys, and we have been known to skip a quarter city block...), but my dreams have adjusted.
In them now my little blond boys are running, healthy, happy, chubby feet dancing and arms pumping. I am there with
Blue Collar Hubby, standing on my own two feet, knowing that I can summon enough strength through the support of those
who care for us, through God and through the herculean reserves of motherhood to do anything to protect these lads as they
run. I can beat back a dinosaur with a stick, block a lightning bolt with one hand, or even push back the ocean to make
way for their footsteps. To learn more about dysautonomias or contribute to their research,
visit www.ndrf.org

Thu, July 2, 2009 | link
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
You Can Take Down Your FrankenSign The Supremes have finally upheld justice. Franken is given his rightful
due. Now if only the University would do the same for BlueCollar Hubby! The lads and I will rally with all the
other blue sheep at noon today to celebrate. Join us at the Capitol Building for the fun.
Wed, July 1, 2009 | link
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©Angela R. Braun, June 2009 test
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