Through A Glass, Brightly

November 29, 2010

My mother always told me that I was beautiful. “You are a beautiful, beautiful girl, sweetie,” she would say, and I would reply – with much eye-rolling and heavy sighing – “you’re my mother. You have to say that.”

I knew that I wasn’t beautiful, not in the way that princesses in fairy tales or fashion models or the older, made-up girls who worked the cosmetic counter at Eatons were beautiful. I was tall and awkward and gangly, which, yes, I know, is exactly the way that girls who go on to become fashion models and perfume-spritzers describe themselves, but I really was tall and awkward and gangly and also frizzy of hair – hair that I insisted, after seeing the movie Pretty In Pink, upon dyeing red, which did not help its texture – and prominent of nose and so I am not being coyly self-deprecating when I say that I believed, that I knew, that I was not beautiful. My mother wasn’t lying to me, but she was, I knew, viewing me through mother-colored glasses, which as we all know are constructed with tempered and tinted glass and glazed with sparkles and stardust. Of course she couldn’t see what I saw when I looked in the mirror. I was looking at myself with clear and critical eyes. She was looking at me with love.

I spent years struggling to come to terms with my looks. I wanted to be beautiful, but I didn’t see beauty when I looked in the mirror, and so I costumed and primped and transformed myself relentlessly, one day playing the part of the poetry-scribbling goth (dark hair, Fleuvog boots, lots of eyeliner, dog-eared copy of l’Etranger), the other playing the part of the quirky outcast who really might be pretty behind her vintage rhinestone-encrusted frames (red hair, Goodwill sweater, antique brooches), yet another pretending to be an avant-garde performance artist who might or might not be rehearsing her one-woman dramatic reading of  Gender Trouble (white blond hair, catsuit, cowboy boots.) (Oh, dear lord. The catsuits. Can we all just pretend that 1990 never happened?) My mother would ask me why I kept hiding. “I’m not hiding,” I would say. “I’m expressing myself.” And I was. I was expressing myself in a thousand different ways that I hoped would draw attention to the parts of me that were interesting, and away from those parts that I thought were, if not ugly, then, at least, unbeautiful. If I was interesting enough, nobody would notice that I wasn’t pretty. I couldn’t make the world look at me through mother-colored glasses, but I could surround myself with mirrored glass and dry-ice fog and disco lights and it would, I figured, amount to more or less the same thing.

It never felt like the same thing.


When I was in twelfth grade, I experimented briefly with not costuming myself. I kept the red hair but grew out the asymmetrical cut and trimmed my bangs and pulled my hair back and wore preppy sweaters and jeans and not much make-up. I acquired a pair of penny loafers, and I wore them unironically. My dad, at the time, was having what used to be called a nervous breakdown, and my parents’ marriage was in crisis, and although they both assured me and my sister that we would be fine, that they loved each other very much and that they loved us very much and that we would be, really, fine, I worried. I worried constantly, and it seemed very, very important that whenever I walked out our front door I looked exactly as they saw me, through their mother- and father-colored glasses; that I looked like me, just me, unadorned. Why that translated, in my seventeen-year old mind, to Upper Canada Preppy – which is, of course, just another costume – I don’t really know, but it seemed to me that this was the look that concealed me least, the one that involved the fewest distracting elements, the one that left me little or nothing to hide behind. It seemed important that I do that, that I not hide. It seemed, somehow, to be key to our family remaining intact, that I comport myself as though I were as beautiful as my parents thought I was, that I actively reinforce their view of me, their view of us, that I assert their rightness about how much beauty lived in our home, about how much beauty lived in us and surrounded us, always.

For some reason, penny loafers and blunt-cut bangs seemed a reasonable way to accomplish that.

This is me, then:

I look at this now and I see what my parents saw and I think, of course I was beautiful. I don’t know that I was any more or less beautiful in the penny loafers and Aran sweaters than I was in the goth eyeliner or the Goodwill costumes – I have almost no photographs from my costume periods – but it doesn’t really matter: here, I felt exposed. I look at this picture and I think: the girl in that picture is beautiful. But I also think: the girl in that picture is terrified. Sure, it’s the picture of a girl whose family is crumbling, but it’s also the picture of a girl who’s trying to disappear into her sweater, the better to hide her face. And I just want to hug her, and tell her that she’s beautiful, no matter what she’s wearing. I want to tell her that she has nothing to hide. I want to tell her that it is going to be okay – no matter how difficult things get – and that she will carry herself beautifully through whatever life throws at her, and that, yes, sometimes a chunky sweater will make it all a little bit easier to bear, and so will high heels and lipstick, sometimes, but that no matter what happens, and no matter what she wears to get through it, she will be beautiful. She is beautiful.

I want to race back in time to say that to her, and I want to leap into the future to say it to Emilia, whenever she hits that moment of self-doubt, if she ever does. But I know that I would be, that I will be – were I to, when I do, say such things – accused of wearing mother-colored glasses, of not seeing things clearly. And to that I would say, I want to say, I will say: yes, yes, I am wearing glasses. Mother-colored, maybe. Love-colored, certainly. And I want them for you, too; I want you to look at yourself, to look at everything, always, as through a love-colored glass, brightly.

And then I’ll tell her that when the time comes, she really, really mustn’t wear that catsuit.

What would you tell your teenaged self about beauty, given the chance? Would you tell her – him? – to stop worrying and love that nose? That someday, she’ll be thankful for that thick hair? That it wasn’t just you, that acid-wash jeans made everyone look like a dork? What will you tell your daughter, or, for that matter, your son? What do you look like when you look at yourself through love-colored glasses – or, what would you look like, if you dared put them on? Leave a comment and I’ll select one of you, randomly, (yes, Canadians too) to receive The Beauty Of Different, which is an amazing, gorgeous, soul-lifting book by my friend Karen, who lives the art of looking at the world, and at people, through love-colored glasses better than almost anyone I know.


Thanks so much, you guys, for the lovely, soul-lifting comments. The winner of Karen’s book is Johanna; the rest of you, I highly recommend that you put it on your holiday wish list.

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    Liz Nelson November 29, 2010 at 11:28 pm

    I would tell myself don’t worry because in ten years no one really remembers just be true to yourself.

    Melissa November 29, 2010 at 11:29 pm

    I would tell myself that I would someday have a foreign-accented voice calling me Love and two tiny voices calling me Mommy, I would have stretch marks and perpetual dark circles under my eyes, and I’d finally feel beautiful. Not always. But most of the time.

    Beth November 29, 2010 at 11:34 pm

    I would say: you are just luscious. Because I was, though I could not see it at the time.

    Another Suburban Mom November 29, 2010 at 11:45 pm

    Its funny, I never thought of myself as really pretty, but I am stunned by the gorgeousness of my daughter and hear that she is my spitting image (except blonde & blue eyed)

    I would tell my teen self that you are really hot, but to trade in the dorky frames for something a little more sleek.

    I would also tell her that her best friend is seeing her boyfriend behind her back which would probably saved me a lot more pain and aggravation.
    .-= Another Suburban Mom´s last blog ..The Tree That Broke My Heart A Little =-.

    Fourth Breakfast November 29, 2010 at 11:57 pm

    I would say: no perms! And to go through the costuming phase. I paid no attention to fashion in high school and I’m sorry for that.
    .-= Fourth Breakfast´s last blog ..Apolo and No Regrets =-.

    oona b November 30, 2010 at 12:10 am

    I would tell myself to love my stomach a whole lot more, and to quit thinking I needed to wear two pairs of underwear every month when I had my period!
    Thanks! foxsquirrelrabbit at gmail dot com

    Jenn November 30, 2010 at 12:12 am

    Wow, so many great answers to this question already. I totally agree with the eyebrow plucking – why oh why did it take me so long to discover that?!
    I would tell myself that yes, actually you are pretty, but that truly doesn’t really matter as much as you think. Strangers who tell you you are pretty deserve a smile and a thank you, not your scorn. I would tell myself to stop being such a sourpuss all the time. And to invest in a hair straightener – it will change your life.

    kaishon November 30, 2010 at 1:04 am

    I would tell myself that my parents are smarter than I know!

    Wendy November 30, 2010 at 2:12 am

    I would tell myself not to put so much pressure on me. Perfection is impossible and that it’s okay to occasionally drop one of the many balls in the air, you can always pick it back up and start over.

    Aurélie November 30, 2010 at 5:13 am

    Appearance doesn’t matter. Attitude makes the difference. Think you’re pretty and you will be.

    Deer Baby November 30, 2010 at 8:36 am

    Loved this post.

    I would tell my teenage self that ‘striking’ is good, to stop thinking life will start when you have dropped a few pounds, and you will never be Julie but you are just as beautiful as she.

    Forgotten November 30, 2010 at 9:32 am

    I would tell my teenage self that even though I’m small in size (short) and kinda plump, one day in my future, my children will cling to those chunky parts because I’m the best person to fall asleep on with that little bit of extra padding.

    One day in my future, I would become someone’s soft spot to land and you can’t beat that. :)
    .-= Forgotten´s last blog ..Being thankful vs being grateful =-.

    Forgotten November 30, 2010 at 9:40 am

    BTW, I meant to add that you were exquisite and still are.

    Beautiful. Inside and out.
    .-= Forgotten´s last blog ..Being thankful vs being grateful =-.

    angel November 30, 2010 at 9:40 am

    I would tell my teenage self that there will come a day when being smart will be something to be proud of and not embarassed by. That being smart will one day win you friends and respect instead of snickers and eye rolls.

    Jessica November 30, 2010 at 10:14 am

    I think that I would tell my teen-aged self that even though every mean word feels like it could kill you, someday these people will not even be on your radar. So relax. Worry about who you really are, and not who you think you should be, or how you should look, to gain their/his approval. Stay away from suspenders. I don’t care what your boyfriend told you, stay AWAY from the suspenders; not a good look.
    .-= Jessica´s last blog ..TGIF =-.

    Mistie November 30, 2010 at 10:41 am

    I would tell my teenage self to be less self-centered. Everyone around you feels the same way you do. Oh, and for the love of god, tone down the sarcasm–not everyone gets it or likes it. I wasn’t a bitch in high school, but I did use humor to cover my insecurities. Sometimes that humor could be cutting. I wish I had realized that sooner.

    Also, I think the best piece of advice I ever received was from my friend (who usually made me feel very insecure). She told me that when we are embarrassed, we can’t remember anything else so we assume everyone else is thinking of it as well. She reminded me that no one thinks about me as much as I think about myself. That’s a lesson I still struggle with, just because some one looks at you that doesn’t mean they are judging you.

    I will tell my daughter, when she is a teenager, the same things I tell her now–she is beautiful, smart, funny, talented, AND it’s important to work hard for the things you want.

    absepa November 30, 2010 at 12:52 pm

    I would tell my teenage self that, one day, looks wouldn’t matter to me nearly as much. That it would take a while, but I would eventually lose weight and be comfortable in my own skin. I would tell myself that being picked on for how I looked (overweight, pale, frizzy-curly hair, glasses) would make me stronger and more empathetic as an adult. To keep taking good care of my skin, because being 40 and looking 28 is great. And not to hate my big butt so much, because eventually Jennifer Lopez and Beyonce would make big butts hot.
    .-= absepa´s last blog ..Fortunately for them- theyre also cuddly and lovable =-.

    Chrissy November 30, 2010 at 1:49 pm

    It’s okay to ask your mom for money for clothes, eyebrow waxes, shoes, etc. You don’t live in 14th century France, so you are too young to be a martyr.

    Also, stop worrying about the theatre and start writing more. Don’t throw away notebooks. Don’t burn anything in effigy. You’ll want it all back one day to help you remember.
    .-= Chrissy´s last blog ..Mourning Dove Men in Caves =-.

    Jodi aka karmicevolution November 30, 2010 at 1:56 pm

    I’d tell her that in 10 years the curvy girls will be the most coveted and that beauty truly has nothing to do with your body and everything to do with your soul. Beauty isnt a number on a tag, its a state of mind.

    amanda November 30, 2010 at 2:23 pm

    It’s not about how much hairspray (oh lord, the hairspray…the hole in the ozone from my hair alone…) or how much makeup you wear. It really, really, really isn’t. It’s so much more about the attitude, the confidence you exude. About the contentedness and happiness that you project.

    Seriously, take that 45 minutes you spend on your hair every morning and sleep. Or read that Dostoevsky that Mr. Anderson from English 11 recommended…

    Her Bad Mother November 30, 2010 at 4:27 pm


    I am certain that I am responsible for some small puncture in the ozone, just because of the Aqua Net use in my crimping/faux-hawk stage.

    Annie @ PhD in Parenting November 30, 2010 at 4:08 pm

    I’m still thinking about your question, but your post has me scared. I used to wish for the day when my kids would finally understand the impact that their behaviour has on us, so that when Mommy needs a break or Daddy is having an anxiety attack, that they would act accordingly. Now I worry about the day when my children will try to change who they are and be someone they are not to keep our world from falling apart.
    .-= Annie @ PhD in Parenting´s last blog ..Risks of Informal Breastmilk Sharing versus Formula Feeding =-.

    Her Bad Mother November 30, 2010 at 4:26 pm

    It wasn’t so much that I changed who I was – I didn’t know who I was, I just knew that I felt more secure, socially, when I costumed, and that my parents thought that my costuming hid the real me, which was partly right, although also partly not right. And so I just switched costumes, really, to one that was less physically concealing. It wasn’t really any less me than, say, Goth Me was, but it was less comfortable because it involved less make-up. It was magical thinking, and if I hadn’t acted it out through my wardrobe, I might have – I probably would have – acted it out in other ways, as children do (as many grown ups do) when confronted by frightening things that they can’t control.

    Micaela November 30, 2010 at 5:28 pm

    Stop. Picking. Your. Face.
    Seriously, younger self, your zits and blackheads are nothing. Leave em’ alone.
    Good job with the sunscreen, tho!
    And most important:

    It will all be OK.

    Her Bad Mother December 1, 2010 at 11:44 am

    God, yes. THIS.

    Deb Lowther November 30, 2010 at 11:48 pm

    I have 3 BEAUTIFUL daughters . . . but their beauty is so different. One carries her beauty in her heart – she is so caring and emotional. One carries her beauty in her brain – she needs to understand the world and then she will change it one day! One carries her beauty is her eyes – she sees the world and all its creatures (including people) as things to love and brighten and make smile and feel happy.
    They are still young – 4, 7,8 – I have many years of guiding them ahead of me, but I hope “body image” “looks” and “diet” are words that don’t carry weight for them. Beauty is our gift from the inside and understanding that is confidence.
    My memories? I was the kid who used hairspray, wore heels and skirts to high school – gawd . . did I admit that . . was looking for anyones approval . . . now I only want my kids approval when they are teens!!
    P.S. Annie . . awesome Comment!
    .-= Deb Lowther´s last blog ..Who Is This Mom =-.

    Dawn December 1, 2010 at 12:50 am

    My last post was about this same thing. It should explain it all.
    .-= Dawn´s last blog ..Talking to myself =-.

    Catherine December 5, 2010 at 8:44 pm

    @Dawn, lovely. thank you.

    The Crossbowman December 1, 2010 at 1:01 am

    “Dude, except for when you are in the Marines, you will struggle with your weight into middle age. The good news is that most people won’t give a shit. You will be in your 40′s, spreading at the middle, and you will be well-loved, respected in you community and profession, and chicks 15 years younger than you will still want to give you some.”

    Micaela December 1, 2010 at 11:02 am

    I know this is too late and no one will see it, but I really realized what I wish I could have gotten across to my teenage self–


    It’s the actions that make us beautiful.

    Her Bad Mother December 2, 2010 at 4:15 pm

    This. EXACTLY.

    Sara Hamil December 1, 2010 at 3:33 pm

    I agree with Micaela – if there is one thing that I have learned about beauty, it’s that the people I consider to be the most beautiful are those that do great things and live as great people. I think I had a feeling that was the case when I was a teenager, so I would simply reinforce it ;)

    A Mum in Minnesota December 1, 2010 at 4:54 pm

    I spent my entire childhood being one of or the only black child in my grade. It did not bother me, but it did screw around with my self-esteem in ways that I only became aware of as an adult. I always remember longing to have “white people hair.” There’s nothing you can’t do to it. It can be curly or straight. Long or short. It doesn’t need to be covered when it rains. On a windy day, it won’t blow into a position that it permanently freezes into. And you don’t have to go to the salon for hours at a time starting at age 6.

    Now of course, that was my romanticized view of “white people hair.” I have now realized that many women of all ethnicities struggle with the limitations and boundaries of their hair. But if I could just go back to my 7th grade and beyond self, I would say that I should stop fighting my hair. Stop trying to make it do what it wasn’t made to or wants to do.

    When I was in college, I did something similar to what you did senior year. I stopped relaxing my hair and then cut it all off. I now wear my hair in it’s natural state and it’s beautiful. I would tell my younger me that beauty is not about trying to be what you’re not, but it is about embracing what you are.

    I know hair may seem like a trivial aspect of beauty, but it was so frustrating to me as a child. Heck, it’s still something I work on as an adult!

    kelly @kellynaturally December 2, 2010 at 12:40 am

    >>What would you tell your teenaged self about beauty, given the chance?

    That shaving UNDER your awesome long hair so you can only see said shaved hair when you wear the rest of it up in a ponytail is, um, really not something you’re going to like growing out. Don’t do it.

    >>Would you tell her – him? – to stop worrying and love that nose? That someday, she’ll be thankful for that thick hair? That it wasn’t just you, that acid-wash jeans made everyone look like a dork?

    Ha. Acid washed jeans. I think my self-perception ( beauty-wise) is waning more now, post double c-section and 6 years of tandem/nursing, than I remember it back as a teenager. I think I had other more awful things to worry about back then (note to parents: don’t hate each other in front of your children). I don’t remember worrying over self-image all that much. But, I would, perhaps, advise myself not to toss all those cool rock t-shirts or doc martens. They’d be worth something on ebay now.

    >>What will you tell your daughter, or, for that matter, your son?

    That the only thing that matters… the ONLY THING… is what THEY think of themselves. What THEY like to wear. What THEY think is right. What THEY like to do. And if someone doesn’t like it? That’s that unfortunate person’s concern, not your own. Just be.

    >>What do you look like when you look at yourself through love-colored glasses – or, what would you look like, if you dared put them on?

    It’s harder now, you know, when you start to see wrinkles & gray hairs & belly fat that doesn’t seem to melt away as quickly any more. But when I dare to put those glasses on, I see a mother who is trying her best. A body who has created and nourished two amazing children & who has the scars to prove it (literally & otherwise). An artist. A writer. A being with much wonder ahead. With so much for which to be thankful.
    .-= kelly @kellynaturally´s last blog ..Reconnecting Through Laughter =-.

    Her Bad Mother December 2, 2010 at 4:15 pm

    Oh, I did that shave-under thing. WHY? I would ask myself, WHY?

    KJ December 2, 2010 at 4:22 pm

    I am a newcomer to your blog & I love it!

    When I look at myself through love-colored glasses (it happens occasionally) I see someone who has been through so much that was hard to bear but who still, because of inner strength and despite the hard-fought battles of life, looks like a beautiful & serene woman who has come so far.

    Roberta December 2, 2010 at 4:34 pm

    Once again, you’ve put so beautifully into words some of the things I contemplate for my own daughter. It took me well over 30 years of my life to feel comfortable and satisfied in my own (beautiful) skin. I’m hoping to do better by my next generation.
    .-= Roberta´s last blog ..Two 2 II dos zwei deux =-.

    Varda (SquashedMom) December 2, 2010 at 4:37 pm

    There is so much I would tell my teenage self, less about my looks and more about my insides, but still, I think — go ahead and grow your hair, long curls are better than short. Also? The curly mullet when you’re in your 20′s? DON’T. (can be seen here: )

    You will always be pear shaped, but that’s OK. Enjoy the skinny pear right now, you won;t have that waist forever.

    And even though you are a radical feminist, and that’s wonderful? Please wear a bra.

    Also (VERY IMPORTANT): sex gets better and better, I promise. Wait until you see what happens around 35.

    And? Listen to Marinka – buy Apple stock.
    .-= Varda (SquashedMom)´s last blog ..Laughing beats the alternative =-.

    Marquita December 2, 2010 at 5:02 pm

    Given the chance, I would tell my teenaged self that her hair is NOT her ONLY good feature and please stop damaging it or trying to hide it, just in case it’s the only reason “he” likes her. Because, really, that’s all my poor little teenaged self cared about: “Does he like ME or just my [random feature or body part]?!”

    I would confide that she will miss those long auburn tresses soon enough; the first white hairs will arrive before she turns twenty. And, she will — eventually — be OK with that.

    Oh yes, about “him”: he adores her. Not for her hair or any other physical characteristic; he loves her for her caring, intelligence, creativity, humour, and loyalty. He always saw her as a beatiful woman, not just a girl with pretty hair. Worrying about how she looks “for him” won’t matter; he never did notice the stuff she worried about, anyway.

    He won’t tell her those things for many years, but I’d like to let my teenaged self know that the wait will be worth it. Because, by that time, she will be able to see in the mirror what “he” and others had been seeing all along. A woman who deserves to be loved — and is loved — for who she is, not for what she looks like.

    Lana | RaisedbyPoker December 3, 2010 at 2:50 am

    This piece of slam poetry is the most powerful statement on beauty that I have ever seen. The minute my daughter (and sons) are old enough, it will be the most significant gift I can give them on the subject of beauty. Nothing has ever empowered my as much!

    Kate Makkai – “Pretty”
    .-= Lana | RaisedbyPoker´s last blog ..The Jacket =-.

    Catherine December 5, 2010 at 8:45 pm

    @Lana | RaisedbyPoker, I’ve seen that. It’s AMAZING.

    Megan December 3, 2010 at 4:15 pm

    I would tell my teenage self that being told 1000x that you’re pretty (or smart, or anything) is not a replacement for believing those things of yourself.

    I was always wanting people to tell me that I was pretty. To comment on how smart I was. And so I never stopped to consider how I felt about myself until I was in my 20s and had finished schooling. And then I realized that I did consider myself pretty, and that I was smart, and that if I had just let myself believe those things as a teenager instead of desperately trying to find out if others thought it I would have been a lot less terrified to leave the house every morning.

    Mama Bee December 3, 2010 at 4:25 pm

    Dear Teenaged Bee:

    Yes, this is really me/you, and no, you cannot write an award-winning sci-fi short story about it because that’s already been done.

    However, on that subject: Mrs. Arth’s English class? PAY ATTENTION. You know how you and Tom and Stefan always compete for the top score on your essays? This should be telling you something. Your hair is going to start going grey when you’re 26, but that’s also when you’re going to start writing, and you’ll enjoy that a lot more if you’ve had adequate training. (Also, Tom runs for public office and Stefan becomes a doctor. Good call, girl.)

    Next piece of unsolicited advice (and yeah, I know how much I sound like Mom): PLEASE, for the love of God, get more exercise in college, and no, climbing the huge hill to chapel every day doesn’t count. Yes, your calves will be phenomenal, but you will discover the Wonder and Glory of Casseroles in the dining hall, and wouldn’t it be nice if you could keep that 28″ waist you’ve got right now? I know teeny-tiny Christa Campbell’s waist is so small her boyfriend can put his hands around it, but you know what? Christa Campbell does not turn out to be the be-all and end-all that you think she is, and some day you will truly appreciate the fact that you have curvy hips and a rack she can only dream about.

    Next up: Don’t stress about the boyfriend thing. Really. The funny thing is that of all the guys you’ll date in college, the nice ones will (years later) turn out to be not as nice to women as you thought, and ironically enough, the jerk you date briefly your junior year will turn out to be a published author, an awesome dad, and a decorated military hero. Don’t get married when you’re 21, I beg you. Your gut instinct to graduate and live alone for a year or two is the right one. Trust me on this, OK?

    Your hair. It is never going to look like your sister’s, all right? GIVE IT UP, and enjoy the fact that it’s soft and grows really fast. You look better with no bangs than you think you will, so you can make that change immediately. Fun colors are temporary. Play with them. It’s OK.

    That whole not-tanning thing? Stay with that, and not just because Uncle Dean will get skin cancer in 20 years. (Don’t worry, he recovers.) You want to keep that good skin, because you’ll be mistaken for one of the college students where you work well into your thirties. (Speaking of which – GET YOUR MASTERS DEGREE.)

    Honey, I love you, and not just because you’re a cuter, younger version of me. It takes us a while to get to the point where we can say that, and there are shorter roads to get there than the one I took. Take care of yourself, OK?


    P.S. Don’t go out with Matt EVEN ONCE, slap Eric when he tries to kiss you, and try really hard not to antagonize Frank. I know, I know, the name, but honey, he’d have been a keeper. Just sayin’.
    .-= Mama Bee´s last blog ..Day Four Hundred and Thirty-Seven =-.

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