Wrap-up

I was hoping to write more after coming back, but the truth is, having found my friends and family again, I don’t feel the need to write here anymore … except one last time. Just to wrap things up.  So here we go.

French Guiana was not easy. And I was also not the easiest person with whom to work. But I would never change that experience with anything in the world. I have discovered so much about myself, about others, and about ties that unite seemingly different peoples into one family. I’ve seen the power of words, of the Word, and of wordless communication. I’ve seen the devastating effects of illiteracy, and shared the joy of my friends when they discovered that, after months of work, they could string together syllables. I’ve experienced the freedom of washing and bathing in a small creek under the stars, and playing in a dusty field with children until dusk. Sang out loud and not cared if we were in tune or not. Encouraged girls and women that they do have a place in a world dominated by men. Shared prayers for healing, protection, mourning, and growth.
And, for a year … I felt useful.

This is a quote from a letter I wrote to some members of the Local Spiritual Assembly of Ottawa. I find it wraps-up my feelings quite well.

I am now a Master’s student at Université de Montréal, studying film scoring composition. It’s very exciting, and very heavy as far as course load goes (think 3 short videos to score within the span of 6 days, each having between 24h-48h to write them).  Here’s an example:

I have also been reunited with my good violin. He and I have had quite a few adventures already. I have stepped on a stage for the first time today since my return. I’d forgotten how much I love it. Thankfully, I haven’t lost too much of my technique, though my fingers are distinctively slower.

I now live in Montréal in a beautiful large apartment, high ceilings, wooden floors – my room is so big it could fit all of the family at PK-10 where I would stay during the weekends (this is still awkward for me …). Food is cheap. My new roommate is another fiddler – and we are currently fiddling together, and building a studio in our apartment, as she will be also studying in my program in January. We have wonderful neighbours, and there is a small sense of community in this building. There are many trees – we practically live on the top of Mount Royal and can see the whole city from our roof top (because we have access to a rooftop!).

Some have asked me if I had some sort of culture shock coming back: many white people, big cities, different values, different levels of honesty …. I’ve got to say: culture shock has been at minimal level (especially when you consider I flew directly from French Guiana to New York City). I had braced myself for things to have changed back home. And things have. And I was fine with it. (Again, though – I’m still in awe with the luck we had finding this apartment, getting into the film program, and how everything is just so … easy … except when it comes to paperwork.)

I have also somehow transformed into a more initiative, calmer, and flexible person. Not only people tell me – I feel it. I rarely feel rushed or stressed anymore. I spend less – I feel less like I HAVE to buy this and that and ooo that too … Of course I’m still extremely far from perfect, and will always be … but these are good changes.

I have also officially switched from coffee to tea, as tea was more available and affordable than coffee back at the Walker’s house. This may contribute to me being calmer …

I find myself being asked so many times the following: “SO! You were gone in South America! How was it?!?” … and not being able to answer (this, Sarah Windle has also experienced). So many things happen in a year. So many emotions, so many thoughts, so many decisions.  How can I wrap it all neatly into a two-minute answer? I see now that I can’t. So I must sift through many of my experiences and pick out small episodes that may interest some people. Even my new roommate has heard practically nothing.

I’ve reconnected with the Baha’i community of Montréal … I can’t believe how many artists, GOOD artists, there are … I’m now trying to get some artistic projects going: such awesome opportunities! I’m also volunteering at the Shrine of Abdu’l-Baha once a month as a guide, where I get to learn more stories of Him, and get to tell them in turn … (and learn how to make Persian tea … mmmmm, Persian tea …)

I got to communicate with the next Youth Year of Service which will be picking up the projects where we left them in French Guiana. She sounds very competent, and is starting up a blog of her own (http://dugoutcanoe.wordpress.com). Apparently reading this helped her get an idea of how it can be over there. If that is the case, then this blog has served its purpose, and I’m happy about it.

And lastly, today, I just gave my first children’s class in North America. Ever. Who were the kids? … a bunch of jovial kids, many having just arrived from Haiti and Africa this summer (with one little Québecois girl).

And for a moment, while the kids were clibing all over me in the yard … I was transported back in French Guiana.

_______________________________________________________________

If for some strange reason, someone wants to continue reading about my ramblings as I go on with life as a film music student, you can find my thoughts on my other blog, which I’ve also had for a while in French Guiana when I wrote of things that did not involve my experiences there: http://randomivity.wordpress.com

“Take Me With You!”

And so it begins.

I have started to remind my students, young and old, that in three weeks, classes will be over. This announcement has been, up to date, immediately followed by the question of why I won’t be there next school year. I hate this question. Oh so much.

I have to say, I’ve been divided on my personal feelings about living here. On one hand, I am completely blown away by all the new experiences I’m racking up – I’m learning so much here, about life, humans, culture, and myself, and I keep seeing new things that make me grin from ear to ear, or laugh out loud in amazement. I’ve even gotten used to the climate (as a lover of Autumn and snow, this is saying something). On the other hand, I had a friend ask me if I was more a roots or a wings person. I used to think I was wings.

…

Now I need to present another idea before continuing the roots/wings analogy.

I’ve been asked once too many times the following: “Why don’t you just stay in French Guiana with us instead of leaving?”

I first try to justify my leaving with my imminent studies.

Then comes the observation: “So you’ve only got two years left to study! You can come back after that, right?”

I then have to explain that I’ll be studying film music, and that there isn’t an industry for that here (“here” being in French Guiana). So, not much job option for me.

“But you can always come and teach music! We always need more music teachers!” (even though arts and sports are being cut like mad in the education system in France, and therefore here, but let’s not get into that right now).

“It’s … not that easy?”

“Why not?”

… Indeed, why not? I have been faced again and again to truly find my reason as to why I would not come back in French Guiana to live there after my studies and have a family here. I could continue developing the French program even more – the Baha’i community could use the extra hands – I’m starting to understand a little more how things work here …

So this is when I have to look back at my self-assessment of “wings”. I have to say that, for now, I’m not wings anymore. I’m roots, with a wish to have wings.

This means that, whenever I’m uprooted, though I realize in what a wonderful new environment I’m in, I can’t help but wish I was home. It takes me ages to really warm up to a new place and really feel like I belong there, and start growing roots. This happened to me when I moved to Montréal for my four years of studies. I kept wishing I were back in Ottawa. But in the end, I was able to make roots there too. Which is another reason going back there to study some more will be like going home, even though Ottawa’s where my family resides (and is my home home).

Problem is, I’ve noticed that I’ve grown little roots here too.

Which is why I hate the continuation of the “Why won’t you stay” conversation even more … very often it will be punctuated with a humourous comment of “Take me with you!”.

That’s when I see I actually grow my roots where the people are. Nevermind the geographical placement. People are my home. Were my friends and family randomly decide to move to French Guiana, suddenly it wouldn’t feel like I were uprooted anymore. This is something I’ve suspected for a while, and confirmed a little more ever since the arrival of Sarah last month.

“Take me with you,” indeed. I think that, once back in Montréal, I’ll be longingly thinking of my friends I’ll have left behind in French Guiana just as longingly as I’m thinking of my friends in Canada right now. That seems to be the price to pay for having wings, and I’m not sure I could cope with that too often, were I to keep living a life of wings.

Detachment comes in all kinds of forms. I guess detachment of friends and family is another one that I never really considered much until now.

…

Anyone’s got word yet on any kind of advancement in teleportation technology?

Seven Months and Monkey Meat

I look at the amount of times I have posted in December and January, then in May, and notice I have more than a 50% decrease of activity on my posting. But life down here is not less exciting than before. So, to counteract the possible impression of banality in French Guiana, let me tell you why things are still exciting.

First: I only have three weeks and a half left with all of my classes. This is especially pertinent with my French classes, as my main side project here was developing a French-Second-Language curriculum for illiterate students. This, I have been working on all year long, and I have just finally figured out how to grade my students and with which criteria. (Now to figure out how to evaluate them fairly within the next three weeks.) (Remember: I’m trained in music – not pedagogy.)

Second: I’ve managed to arrange carving lessons for my girl’s group (the one I keep raving about). We’re starting tomorrow. And yes, I did finish my chess board. It’s going to be heavy in my luggage. Darn.

Third: Speaking of board games. Monopoly with improvised cards, such as “teach your right-hand neighbour how to play your instrument for 10 minutes”, “show Sarah how to fold a paper crane”, “Yell Marco: the fastest person to reply Polo gets 5000$”, “Make lemonade for everyone” … well, you get the idea. Philip, Sarah and I amused ourselves yesterday evening. I also got spontaneously challenged to a game of “Quarto”, which a man promptly taught me how to play (sort of a mix of chess, tic-tac-toe, and bingo, all in one). I may need to make myself a board of that too.

Fourth: My schedule has had an upheaval during the weekends, and I no longer stay in the village of PK-10 overnight (though I haven’t cut any of the classes I do there). I now reside in a new area to work on a couple of specific projects. This family’s … well … here: What do you say when you see the 14-year old girl walk out with flour hand prints all over her face, saying “It was Amoni!” (her uncle), then her uncle walking out, half-covered in flour, saying, “It was Sébastienne!” (his niece), and then seeing a hoard of little kids covered in flour tromping out of the uncle’s house? … Fun times lookin’ up. (This is also the man who juggles babies while standing on a slack rope. I kid you not.)

Fifth: Seeing a wild boar getting hunted during a class in a remote village, then seeing it getting decapitated, de-haired, and prepared for cooking, alongside a couple of baboons … reminds me how sometimes I’m not exactly home. (Details of this adventure have been stacked in the “to-draw-as-cartoon” list, which I haven’t been working on recently.) (No worries. The baboon and wild boar one shall not be graphic.)

Sixth: … I forgot to celebrate the 7-month mark! It’s been 7 months! Yikes!

Seventh: Without going into any details, let’s just say that I’ve also had to rethink how I understand the Baha’i Faith, or more like how I fit into it. This isn’t something that’s entertaining for you to read about, like the baboon meat (no, I didn’t eat any, if you were wondering) or flour-fights, but it’s by far what’s been weighing most in my mind and heart. I guess that’s everyone’s struggle and search, in a way: where they fit in the world. (Ok, so some people don’t struggle with it at all, but you know what I mean.)

So that, in a rather large nutshell, is what’s been going on these days.

As my classes wrap up, and final projects get accomplished, I’m pretty sure I’ll have a substantial amount of fun stuff to post up here during these last two months. Well, hopefully, anyway. I feel like if I don’t leave with a bang on my year of service, that somewhere I’ve done something wrong.

So expect an upsurge of pictures and videos and whatnot.

“Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snooooowww …”

Caroline, one of my 11 year old students, spoke to me a little bit after our lesson tonight.

Caroline: So … there’s snow in Canada, right?

Me: Huh? Yeah, sure!

Caroline: About … how high?

Me (thinking of this year’s enormous downpour and wanting to be impressive): About … (pointing at my head) this high, this year.

Caroline: WHA? How can that be??

Me: It happens every year. Snow falls.

Caroline: But … but isn’t that dangerous?

Me: Nah. We can navigate easily enough. We shovel our walks, and there are big trucks with huge shovels that clean our streets once in a while.

Caroline: But … (then gestures a huge 6-feet-high piece of snow falling all in one chunk)

Me: What? Wait, no! Snow doesn’t fall in one big chunk! Ack! That would be terrible!!

Caroline: Then how DOES it fall??

Me (really giddy, because it’s just so cool to get to describe snow for someone who’s never experienced it – ever – not even on tv … ): It’s fluffy, light … Like, rain … but softer … Basically it’s rain, but it’s so cold outside that the raindrops freeze before they hit the ground.

Caroline: Wait! Rain just freezes? Before it hits the ground?? So how cold IS it, then?

Me: Pretty cold.

Caroline: Like, how would you dress?

Me: AH! Ummmm, ok. Other than underwear? Pants, socks, shirt – then, boots, sweatshirt, scarf (Caroline’s mother: “What’s a scarf?” Me: “A thing that keeps your nose from freezing but strangles you.”), coat, hat, mitts … on the coldest days, that is.

Caroline: Wow … so, um … do you ever think of coming back to French Guiana?

Me: Well, I’m pretty sure I’ll visit within the next five years.

Caroline: Can you do something for me then?

Me: Yeah?

Caroline: When you come back, can you bring me a jar of snow?

——————–

Note to readers: Caroline was aware that the snow would have melted by the time I reached the country. In her defense, I was considering bringing back a small jar of rain forest rainwater myself a few months ago.

Of Zen, Craftmanship, and Weekend Plans

I need to learn how to chill out. Seriously. I am, as a person, very nervous. Sometimes it blows out of proportion. I get scared for the smallest things, and I don’t realize the effect it has on my attitude, my self-esteem (and therefore my performance), and my sleep (and therefore health).

Sometimes stressful situations will roll off my back like water on a duck. Other times I’ll freeze out of fear. I still don’t know what makes me trigger, but it’s really getting on my nerves. I’m afraid that my nervousness and my fear comes through during some of my classes, and that maybe I end up destabilizing the kids. Isn’t the whole point of these classes for them to feel good about themselves and to have fun? Having a nervous and fearful teacher won’t give that effect. I need to zen-out.

That being said, I have another artistic outlet that I realized I haven’t explained yet.

I’m learning how to carve. Saramacca-style. They call that “Tembe”, which is interesting, as the word “tembe” is also used for any other craftsmanship, including hair-braiding. (Hair-braiding here is an art. Seriously.)

So for the past few months, I’ve been slowly designing a chess board with Saramacca designs on the edges. My teacher has been VERY patient with me. Wood-carving demands for precision and arm-strength. I’m definitely lacking the necessary arm-muscle, so it doesn’t take long for me to get tired! Therefore, I’ve been bringing my chess board home and working away at it little chunks at a time. I am now finished drawing and outlining everything with a thin cut. The next step that I’ll be taking today is sanding down the pencil marks, and then I start digging for real. (The 32 squares’ outlines have been dug out already.)

“In the Baha’i Cause arts, sciences and all crafts are counted as worship. The man who makes a piece of note paper to the best of his ability … is giving praise to God.” — ‘Abdu’l-Baha, The Divine Art of Living, p.65

This is something we’re discussing today with the older kids at PK-10.

Other items on this weekend’s menu:

• Kite-making
• Little celebration for the younger kids since they finished their “chapter” (which included putting a jewel on a crown every lesson – the crown is full, so they get to make themselves a crown – they’ve been looking forward to this …)
• Feast at the Doekoe’s house on Sunday night (“the Doekoes’” is the family with my adored five girls youth group – this is the first Feast they’ll be hosting in a long time, so in all, everyone’s excited)
• Sanding down my chess board
• Maybe getting my hair fully braided. We’ll see. Irène (friend at PK-10) has done a successful test last week.

Socio-Economical Reasons to Be Here …

As I look back to my previous posts, I realize that I failed to explain the political and socio-economical situation of my area in French Guiana. This information may help clarify the type of life and relations I have with the surrounding population, and more specifically explain the nature of the French classes I give (and as to why they’re not lessons given in a classroom setting with a predetermined curriculum).

Of course, everything I say is what I’ve either heard, noticed, or directly experienced. There may very well be articles out there contradicting what I say here, but I don’t feel like debating today, so I’m telling you straight up: if you want to verify my information, go right ahead – and if you feel there are things I should correct, feel free to inform me.

So, here goes.

French Guiana is an oversea department of France. Everything here is ruled by French laws. Everyone born within its borders can apply for French nationality, granted they can speak French and intermingle with the French population.

The currency used are Euros, and the prices are high, as everything sold here must be approved by the European Union. Even if we’re right next to the border of Suriname (previously known as Dutch Guiana, but who has claimed independence since … the 70’s? Not too sure.), where things are very cheap, French Guiana needs to import everything, from car parts to toilet paper, from Europe. So – high prices (and in Euros, to top it all).

The population here is widely mixed. There are Creoles, Native Amerindians, French/Europeans, Surinamese, and Chinese (Hmong), in general. The Surinamese (Maroons [a mix of African descendants of the slave trade], Guyanese, and Native Amerindians) are an especially large group in St-Laurent. This is for a simple reason: in the 1980’s and 1990’s, there was a civil war in Suriname. It lasted longer than anyone had anticipated, as I gathered (this impression comes from the fact that I heard many stories from people who were either attacked, involved, etc etc). So, the Surinamese fled to the closest border: French Guiana (more specifically, St-Laurent, my town, as it’s a border town).

For the first few years, the French government decided to ignore their presence in the department. Everyone figured the Surinamese civil war would stop soon enough. But it didn’t – and the refugees after a few years began their life anew in French Guiana. Unfortunately, it was done so illegally – no papers, no protection from the government. Just – go in the forest, build a new village, forage for yourself. The children born then were denied education in French Guiana as they were not official French citizens.

Recently, perhaps during the last ten to fifteen years, the French government had to admit that these families weren’t going anywhere. So, any minors born and/or living in French Guiana, either legally or illegally, were finally granted permission to attend school until they became majors. They would then need to apply for their French nationality. At this point, if they can prove they live and studied in the department and speak reasonable French, and have avoided any trouble with the authorities, their nationality is pretty much guaranteed.

The problem is with their parents. A whole generation has been denied education during the war (this generation being mine and the previous one). So these people, along with their parents and grandparents, cannot speak French – and therefore can’t apply for their French nationality. This is a problem because they are constantly under threat of being deported, they can’t legally work (and don’t have an education, so aren’t proficient for a lot of the jobs anyway), they can’t buy land or a house – their garbage can’t even be picked up by the city (basically they are denied all the rights of a citizen -all except hospitalization, thank goodness). So they build small shack-like houses around the city, and move whenever they have to. And St-Laurent, where I am, whose population used to be between 600-800 before the civil war, is now at 20 000, with 10 000 living around in those small houses. To give you an idea.

Back to speaking French: the refugees and immigrants need to ask for either a long-term visa or a French nationality in French. That means understanding what the office says to them in French, and replying coherently. Most of these people who have been denied education have never read in their lives, and don’t know how to study or learn subjects, nor languages. So for them it’s especially hard to learn French, unless they’re gutsy and throw themselves into the fire (and there are some I know who do this, which is great) – especially for the women, as they usually stay in their house all day and attend to their 5 – 10 children and cooking (which is a nice simple way of living, but it sucks if you’re afraid of being deported half the time). It’s therefore hard to integrate in the French society to learn the language if you don’t go out at all to intermingle.

That’s when I come in: all the French lessons I do are part of a non-profit organization, SuriFrance, that offers French classes to anyone who wants them – but for free. So I go around in those little camps and small houses by bike, set up a class time and location for their friends and neighbours (so these classes usually happen in someone’s house), and spend an hour or two per week with each group (which are mostly women). And part of the project is really making a program that’s aimed at that specific population, to teach them verbally things they would need to know to get around. Some are at the point where they want to learn how to read (syllable dictations can be fun, apparently). At this moment, I am now looking at how one applies for a visa and a French nationality so I can teach them what they may be asked, and how they should answer accordingly. No easy task.

But let me tell you, I’m going to feel damn useful if I succeed.

(For more general info on St-Laurent, click here)

(For more general information on the Suriname civil war, click here)

“Do You Get Paid?”

The one question Philip and I get asked very often (other than “Are you two married?”) is “Do you get paid”?

Actually, most of the time, they don’t ask it – they just assume we do. So when the topic comes up, it’s more like, “What? You mean you don’t get paid?” (Often it’s followed by “I don’t believe you.”)

It’s not a problem. We don’t mind specifying why we don’t get paid (Baha’is are encouraged to go out in the world and do some service where needed – see post #1 of this blog). But today’s conversation went down a path that shed a little light on our monetary and material needs in a way I don’t usually look at it. I explained that the family with whom I’m staying offers me room and board – the essentials to live, basically. But that I don’t get paid.

And the 12 year old boy nodded his head and said: “Oooh, yeah, that’s cool. So your neither rich, nor poor. Just like us.”

Neither rich nor poor. You have all you need, you’re not starving, you don’t go out of your way to excessively buy random things or unnecessary things.

Why not?

Four Months

Strange happenings:

• Almost ran over venomous snake with car. Twice.
• Meats eaten: armadillo, chicken claw, shark, piranha.
• Plowed an Amazonian field with hand machetes to make a soccer field with 10 other boys.
• Found that 23 degrees Celsius, when temperature usually stays at 27, can actually feel relatively cold.
• The Lord works in mysterious ways: new plane itinerary makes it impossible for me to reach Canada on the day I fly back, so I’m *forced* to stay in New York for a few days, and visit my friends of the surrounding area. My family is also free to go to a cousin’s wedding on the same day I was arriving.
• I’m becoming more tolerant as a person. How strange.
• I’m now preferring tea to coffee. That’s the strangest yet.
• Oh, and for those of you who don’t know yet, my dear and beloved McGill (ex) roommate will be hopping by St-Laurent (town where I currently reside) for a whole three months to do an internship in Public Health as part of her Masters’ degree. She had to find an overseas location. I just happened to be overseas and to know the right people for her to find a project here. … EXCITED!!!

A Cultural Lesson

Ms Vonkel: So what do you like most about French Guyana?

Me: Well, aside from the awesome weather and environment? I’d say the way people greet each other on the streets all the time.

Ms Vonkel: Oh? People don’t do that in Canada?

Me: Um … not quite – not in the big cities like the one I come from, anyway.

Ms Vonkel: Really?!? That’s not right!! What do you say when you see someone walking down the street towards you?

Me: Most of the time you look straight forward or at the ground, and say nothing.

Ms Vonkel: That’s terrible!! That’s not right at all! If you don’t get friendly with your neighbours and the people living around you, who’s going to help you when you’re in trouble??

Me: People don’t think that far – also, I think the police are a little more efficient back home than here.

Ms Vonkel: Still, the police don’t come for you if you trip and fall and injure your foot, don’t they?

Me: No, they don’t. (Stops and thinks of the awesome people in Montréal that all went out of their way to help her when she fell and injured her foot – “Ok, so Montréal’s got the right mentality.”)

Ms Vonkel: In the Saramacca culture, you have to say hello to everyone. It’s just the way we do things. If someone passes you on the street without saying hello, you’re not obliged to help them if they get in trouble after that.

Me: Huh!

Ms Vonkel: And also, if you’re sitting on your porch, like we are, and someone walks by your house – you’re not the one to say hello: they are. So if they walk by your house and they don’t say hello, then once they’re past your house, you’re allowed to say, “Hey! Why didn’t you say hello?”

Me: Now that, I had no idea. I’ll make sure I do that from now on.

Ms Vonkel: No one says hello to each other back at your home?

Me: Well, that’s not quite accurate. It’s just that everyone’s always rushed, and the cities are so big, you don’t feel like you can say hello to everyone – if you do you’d be saying hello every waking minute of your day! But back at my parents’ house we make an effort. Some people will be shocked and won’t say hello back – some will ignore us – but most people will be pleasantly surprised and say hello back. (*thinks* That’s how my parents met, come to think of it … simple hello on the street …)

Ms Vonkel: Well, you make sure that when you get back, you get to know your neighbours! You can support each other when there’s trouble!

Some Reflections

“As the spirit of man after putting off his material form has everlasting life, certainly any existing being is capable of making progress; therefore, it is permitted to ask for advancement, forgiveness, mercy, beneficence and blessings for a man after his death because existence is capable of progression.” — Abdu’l-Baha, Some Answered Questions, p.231

It is hard sometimes when Baha’is don’t get the chance to write a Will and Testament – this happens often when these people are illiterate. At the time of death, there are certain ways to treat the body and a certain prayer that we must respect. Unfortunately, in many parts of the world, the surrounding community isn’t Baha’i, and are not aware of these. So without a Will, the family and/or the community taking care of the burial must do what they think is right. This can easily turn into the family and/or community denying the deceased was ever a Baha’i.

Thankfully, this was not the case today. Yes, the lady was a Baha’i. No, she hadn’t written a Will. Yes, the surrounding community insisted on a Catholic ceremony and burial (This is not a bad thing in itself – on the other hand, I have no idea if it was denied this lady was a Baha’i or not, which is one of the dangers.). But the family called us in the morning to inform the Local Spiritual Assembly that their deceased mother was to be buried that afternoon, and asked if someone who knew the Prayer for the Dead could come. That fell on me, everyone else having previous engagements.

So at 4 o’clock, I made my way to the cemetery, not quite knowing what to expect. The cemeteries here are quite different than in North America – they include ceramic tile covers on top of the tomb itself, which make a very colourful sight. Minutes later, a bus and a few cars came, and people dressed in white (the mourning colour here, apparently – I felt a little out of place with my black blouse …) followed the casket to the tomb. I received a few hellos and smiles from family members, some whom I recognized as my French students. That was encouraging, and it also confirmed that my presence there was accepted. And so, while the casket was slowly lowered and covered, I stood a little ways away and recited the Prayer alone.

It was the strangest feeling ever.

Note to self: write a Will and Testament. I may not be old, but hey!, that bus could squash me tomorrow, couldn’t it?