The Ides of March- 15 Things that Happened on My Birth-Date

44 BC - Julius Caesar is Assassinated 

 

 

 

1391 - Anti-Jewish Riots Occur in Seville, Spain as a Precursor to the Spanish Inquisition

 

 

1493 - Christopher Columbus Returns to Spain from the Americas After His First Voyage Across the Atlantic

 

 

1783 - George Washington Convinces Disgruntled Military Officers Not to Launch a Coup Against the US Congress

 

1820 - Maine is Admitted to the US as its 23rd State

 

1892 - Jesse W. Reno Patents the Reno Inclined Elevator; the World's First Escalator

 

1907 - Finland Becomes the First Country in Europe to Give Women the Right to Vote

 

1917 - Nicholas II, the last Tsar of Russia, Abdicates Bringing an End to the Three Hundred Year Old Romanov Dynasty

 

1939 - Nazi Forces Occupy Czechoslovakia 

 

1951 - Iranian Prime Minister, Mohammed Mossadegh, Nationalizes Iran's Oil Industry. This Paved the Way for a CIA Backed Coup that would Overthrow Him, Restore the Shah to Power and return oil rights to US and British Companies

 

1965 - In a Joint Address to Congress, American President Lyndon Johnson Asks Both House to Ensure Voting Rights for All Americans in the Wake of The Civil Rights Act

 

1972 - Francis Ford Coppola's 'The Godfather' Premiers in New York City

 

1985 - The First Internet Domain Name is Registered (symbolics.com) 

 

1990 - Mikhail Gorbachev Becomes President of the Soviet Union. 

 

 

2011 - Activists in Syria Call for a "Day of Rage" Across The Country to Protest Against Their Government. At Least Two Hundred People Protest in Damascus and the Syrian Uprising Begins.

 

 

Hospitalization- Waiting in the Void

It was one Monday ago; my second week in Kansas and my third week in the US.

In the living room, I was standing across from my father who was sprawled out on a blue recliner. Five men were buzzing around him. Paramedics and EMTs in blue sweatshirts and sheriff's deputy in brown watching them. They were attaching cords to my dad's chest, reading indecipherable lines on strips of red paper rolling out of little machines in duffel bags.

 I stood in my black jacket alongside one of my sisters (home from college for Spring Break) as my mother calmly searched her laptop for information on their insurance plan. I listened as my father talked to these men, who had swept into our home in a tide of sirens and flashing lights. He told them what he had told us a half hour or so earlier. There was pain radiating from the center of his torso. He was sweating and disoriented.

Was it a heart attack? We didn't think so. Nevertheless it was serious. My mother sister and I had could see that and the men we called confirmed it.

A stretcher was wheeled in through the front door and the men helped my father walk the two or three steps he needed to take to get into the recliner.  

 It was then that I put words to a new feeling rising inside me: "When you called 911, you gave him to them."  

 My family was "Putting his life into someone else's hands." When I thought of this phrase before, I had always pictured the situation it described from the perspective of the person who's well being was in danger. Yet as my mother left with the ambulance and my sister and I stayed behind, I experienced these words from the side of one invested in that ambiguous life but unable to influence the next stage.

I was in a void, a void of inaction and uncertainty. Each new bit of information my mother texted us from the ER unveiled a little more about my father's condition. Every time something new was revealed, we would go instantly to Web MD or one of the other medical sites to fill in any remaining gaps.

As the night passed the culprit was revealed; pancreatitis. Some time after that my sister and I made the trip to the hospital and saw our father off to his room. We drove home with our mother, leaving our dad to the care of his nurses and their morphine.We were a little more knowledgeable of the circumstances we found ourselves in. Yet still, over the next few days we continued waiting in the void. This was all we could do. Yet there were times when that was the last thing I wanted to do.

We people, and perhaps we Westerners above all others, spend much of our lives trying to control and shape our destinies. We believe we should be able to control everything about our lives. We try our hardest to boil the madness and ambiguity of life into simple full proof formulas that will enable us to achieve all we want and avoid any pitfalls.

In truth, we control o so very little of what happens to us. Uncertainty and change are the monarchs of our existence not rebellious elements within it. 

Yet we can look Uncertainty in the face and smile without giving into Fatalism. Humankind has a remarkable ability to bounce back. The days passed the men and women we had trusted in were able to make my father's inflamed pancreas settle. Chances are he will be home today or tomorrow thanks to their tireless work.

He will have to have other procedures after this. Nevertheless, the worst is over and the void, which I've grown accustomed to, is receding. And there will be many laughs and times of joy ahead for my family in this, our world of Ambiguity. 

Here and There -Thoughts on Reverse Cultural Shock

 

A little over a week ago I came back to the US from Thailand. Moving from country to country, continent to continent is something I'm used to. That said, I still get reverse culture shock every time I come back to the country of my birth. Though the world is always getting smaller, there are some big differences in the way cultures across the world think and operate. If you're an ex-pat, one of your biggest challenges is often having to readjust some aspects of your self to fit the particular culture you find yourself living in at that time.

 

I thought I'd share some of the recent experiences that made me a bit discombobulated as I try to put myself into America mode after being abroad for another two years.

 

 

-Instinctively Wanting to Say Thank You in Another Language Besides English

 

When I came back to the US last Thursday, I touched down in San Francisco so I could meet up with some friends. Staying in the Bay Area meant that I was in close proximity to a number of immigrant communities and a diverse range of cultures. 

In some ways this made the process of going back easier. At the same time, encountering so many nationalities behind the counter of a restaurant or store instinctively made me want to say thank you in one of the languages I've used over the years besides English. This was, I'll add, regardless of whether the person in front of me knew said language or not. I was able to catch myself most of the time though I still ended up saying 'Kup Khun Krap' in Thai to an Afghan man.

 

-Remembering that Trains Do Arrive On Time Here

It's not just trains though. Everything here arrives on time...or they're supposed to. Planes, trains, automobiles. They're expected to be fueled up, checked out and ready to go when you are. People are flustered or outraged if there's a long delay. 

 

A timetable in a train or bus station in Thailand or Egypt is often outdated or only followed half-heartedly. It's a surprise in those corners of the world if anything takes off on time without some sort of delay. 

As such, I tend to be skeptical or schedules and timetables everywhere, though they're far more revered in the States than in the other places I've lived.

 

 

-Being Awkwardly Cautious when Crossing the Street 

 

The fact that laws and regulations are regularly enforced in the US makes me extra cautious. That's especially true when I cross the street. Unlike other parts of the world you can't always bolt across in the middle of traffic. For the most part, pedestrians in the States use the cross-walks and drivers stop for them as they move. I'm used to this system now, just as I'm used to bolting in other countries. However, for the first few days that I'm back on US soil, I find myself standing awkwardly on certain sidewalks resisting the urge to suddenly sprint through the gaps between two cars to get to the other side.

 

 

 -Seeing Impoverished White People

My longest experiences abroad have been in countries where there the majority of the population is not Caucasian. While I'm living there, the only other White Westerners I see are people working abroad like myself, retirees tourists. All of them are okay financially, in contrast to some (not all) but some of the local population. Put more simply, you don't see white people begging or sleeping on the street in Bangkok or Cairo.

In Oakland or DC or Chicago, that's not at all the case. It can be jarring to remember that not everyone is as well off in the West as you might think.

-Understanding Everything that Everyone is Saying 

I have smatterings from a variety of languages stuck in my head, from Thai to Arabic. However, I'm only fluent in English. As such, when I'm outside the US I can only understand bits and pieces of conversations that are going on around me in another language. 

This all changes when I'm back in the States. Suddenly, everyone around me speaks the same language I do and it can overwhelm my ears.

-The Bluntness of American Speech

Americans are direct and very blunt. This isn't in and of itself a bad thing. However, when you come from Southeast Asia, where hospitality and politeness are extremely important and vital matters are handled in a roundabout way, it can be a little shocking. 

-You Can't Really Tell Who is a Foreigner and Who Isn't at First Glance 

 

Americans are an extremely diverse people. A person being of Asian, Hispanic, Middle Eastern, or African descent isn't an accurate gauge for whether someone is or isn't American. This a beautiful aspect f American life and it can also be a challenging one for those re-assimilating after being gone for a while. Even though you're American and even though the internet still makes you feel connected to the States, you do miss certain developments in the culture. And at a first glance, you're expected to know how to act and how to speak all the time. 

Departure, Farewell and Liberation- Saying Goodbye Again

After almost two years of living in Chiang Mai, I'm saying goodbye once again. It's been a great and liberating experience for me to come back to the city I grew up in. I've loved reconnecting with Thailand while also experiencing a very different side of it through my time in it's education system. While the job wasn't always easy, I grew from it and for perhaps the first time in my life I feel a strong sense of confidence and assurance. It wasn't until my last few days on the job in late January that I realized how far I had come since those chaotic first few days of trying to reign in the first graders. It wasn't as I wound up my time at PRC that I saw how well I could deal and manage thirty eight little kids. As I hugged half a dozen 1/10 kids for the last time, trying my best to soothe a few red and teary eyes, I saw how much I meant to some of these children.

 While it's been hard to say goodbye once again, to the school, to the kids, to my hometown and the people I've gotten to know here I don't feel bad about it. I don't feel sadness or reluctance to depart. I'm certain that it's time for me to go. I'm looking forward to my future studies and the new frontiers I'll be opening up in the US. I'm also looking towards what comes after. To teaching jobs in schools across the globe and the realization that my time back in Thailand has helped lay the foundation for what comes next.

 Not only do I feel hopeful but, more importantly, I feel liberated. From what, you might ask? From myself.

 When I came back to Thailand in 2013 I was returning for two reasons. First, I wanted to reconnect with my hometown after seven years of being away. Second, and just as important as the first, I wanted to jump into a new field 'teaching' and in the process hopefully discover a new sense of purpose and center my life once again.

 It was very important to me to find a new life for myself, especially after I reluctantly left Egypt due to visa issues and a ton of personal hardship and heartache.

 In sum, I came back to look for something new amongst the familiar. After such a long passage of time the city was very different. It had ballooned in size. New malls were everywhere. Areas far out from the center of the town which had been empty when I left in 06 were now covered with trendy cafes and upscale shops. Most of the people I had known had departed as well. I made new friends though, and I made a new life.

 Living here as an adult, I dealt with the first time with adult problems. I paid rent and dealt with traffic and commutes. As an adult, my life in Chiang Mai was completely different.

 Yet the easy going spirit of he city remained the same. The hospitality and flexibility of Thai culture remained unchanged and there were just as many if not more open minded ex-pats to help open windows to new frontiers.

 Discovering that the home of yesteryear was gone did not make me despair. Instead, I reforged myslef with new steel with an old hammer and anvil.

 That in and of itself makes me feel deeply accomplished.

 I am now liberated. Now that I know for sure the world I knew is gone. Now that I know I've been able to build a new house on it's foundations. I know I can make a home anywhere. Wherever my soul feels like flying to.

 I've lived the ex-pat life and I will continue to live it. I've called many different places home from New York to Kansas, from Cairo to Chiang Mai. There is no other way I would choose to live. 

  In every place I've gone parts of me are deposited locked away in a metaphorical bank box waiting to be opened if I ever choose to set foot there again. And yet I'vee taken as much as I've given. The part you leave creates a vacant space and that hole is filled in by the place you've been. As such, you also take a part of each world you visit with you.

 I am taking Chiang Mai with me, as I've always done. And I am so grateful to have been able to come back and love it one more time.

 Much Love, Now and Always

Sean

Six Letters, Six Students- A Farewell

Last week, I decided to leave my school early. The decision was not an easy one but I am certain it was the right one. In the coming weeks, I'll try and write more about the thoughts and developments which prompted me to leave four weeks before the year ended. For now, I'll say that personal reasons and dissatisfaction with work, combined with  being accepted into a US based teacher certification program (which starts in March), convinced me that the best thing for my life at present was to go back Stateside. I'll be in Kansas City for the next seven or eight months to work through the program and do my student teaching. Afterwards, I hope to teach the history or the social sciences at an international school somewhere in the world.

 Although I'm certain that my decision to leave a little early was the right one, it was still hard to say goodbye to my students. Despite the hassle and difficulties that often arise in the classroom, I feel a strong love and attachment to the little six and seven year olds who also have filled the past two years with joy.

 It was a privilege to share their lives for a time. And there are six I want to write to here and now. 

 

-To Bio, the hardest working and most well behaved first grader.

I can't tell you how much your presence in my most difficult class made my darkest days so much brighter. You were in a class filled with so many apathetic students and yet you remained so attentive and so eager to participate in everything. I don't know how many adults in a similar situation would continue to be so steadfast. I hope you never lose that drive, that determination, that desire to be good despite what everyone around you is doing. On the other hand, I hope your greatest strength doesn't also become a weakness. I hope that your desire to respect authority doesn't stunt your creativity but allows it to grow. No matter what though, know you'll always be my superhero. 

-To Suveer, the most helpful boy ever.

Thank you for your endless eagerness. Thank you for your unfailing smile. Thank you for always waiting at the door to my office with your book in hand to show me where your class was at that day. Thank you for always being eager to lend a hand and help out whether it was by turning on the projector, testing out my markers, translating instructions or choosing a book.

-To Tua-O, the environmentally conscious genius.

 Tua-O, I know I haven't always been on good terms with you. I'm sorry that you found my after-school classes boring. Please know I never meant to make you upset. The truth is you were right on many occasions when you argued with me about leaving early. You, already fluent, able to tell me about wind turbines and explain the concept of evaporation in your second language, never belonged there in those after-school programs. You should be in an international school, not taking lessons with kids who are still learning how to put short sentences together about animals. However, you do have much to learn especially when it comes to being with others. If you can be as wise as you are brilliant, I truly believe you will do anything.  

 -To AA, the worst troublemaker.

 You were, like so many of the boys I met these past two years, difficult. But most distressing to me was how you could be so mean spirited and cruel. It was your pension for inflicting pain that convinced that children were not truly innocent. Each time I saw you in class you tested my resolve. You challenged me at every turn and you showed no respect to anyone including me. Some would call you a problem child. I called you, though never to your face, an asshole. Yes, it may seem harsh or cruel to talk about a seven year old boy in that way. But that is what you were. Please know though, that calling you out for this does not mean I am apathetic or cold towards you. Quite the opposite. I would still die for you as I would for any of the obedient students who sat still in their chairs. I've seen your energy in the classroom. I've seen your determination with certain activities. You have a charisma even at your young age. If you could harness that energy and determination you could be so much. Perhaps, no one in your life has told you this yet. Perhaps, I failed as a teacher to open your eyes to this. I hope you meet someone down the line who will.
 

-To Len, the jolly little dough-ball.

 You were always so warm and cheerful in the classroom. You started out wayward and distracted. Now, you focus so much more and do almost every assignment. I know you don't know this but this is a triumph for me. Whenever a student finds the will to participate it makes us teachers at the front all the more relieved. It alleviates some of the doubts, the weariness, the apathy that always hangs around our office desks in those moments of silence where we say 'What the hell am I accomplishing here?' For that little morsel of relief and ratification, I thank you.  

-And finally to Nana, the girl from another world.

 The first student I ever bonded with. I know I haven't seen you too much since last year. Know though that I've never forgotten your name when I've spied you on the playground between class periods. I've seen how you've shot up since first grade and how you stroke the leaves and massage the petals of the flowers outside your new building. Know that I will never forget you. You taught me much in that year we spent in the classroom together. I could tell straight away that you were different, lost in your own world and oblivious to the chaos of your thirty seven peers. Some would say you were learning disabled. I myself did. In hindsight I don't believe that was accurate. You were actually enabled in ways most of us aren't. The fact that I could somehow infiltrate your universe and become a part of it, is something that makes me feel proud. I will treasure the times you  wandered in the office and stay by my desk, standing still long enough for me to pull out flashcards and be astonished at how you seemed to absorb just about everything I had said in class despite having never looked me in the eye. I know it's not easy being so removed from everyone. I hope you can find others among your peers to share your majesty with. I hope someone can give a name to your wonderful state and provide you and those who love you with the right information. I hope they cultivate you as the rose you are, not the orchid they want you to be.   

Remember Charlie and Don't Forget Ahmed- Thoughts on Charlie Hebdo

Writing about the Charlie Hebdo attack and the violence that took place in its aftermath is difficult for me. Last night, after I finished eating with my parents, all I could do in my small apartment was think about what happened in France. I spent several hours in my apartment alternating between scanning social media for reactions and watching Al Jazeera's coverage of the standoff with the shooters. 

Yet as mulled over whether to discuss the nature of Islam or the marginalization of European Muslims there was one face and name that kept popping up in my mind. 

The man in this photo is Ahmed Merabet. He was one of two police officers killed by the Kouachi brothers in their attack on Charlie Hebdo's main office which also resulted in the deaths of ten other innocent people. According to the Guardian  and a number of other media outlets, Ahmed was assigned to the area where the building was located. On foot, he went to the scene of the shooting and confronted the attackers in the street as they were fleeing the scene. He was shot during the ensuing engagement and was then executed with a bullet to the head as he lay wounded on the pavement. The scene was captured on amateur video. 

Still shot from the video.

I think there are a few reasons why Ahmed's story in relation to the tragedy of the Hebdo attack has stuck with me. First, he shared much in common with the men who killed him. Like them he was Muslim, like them he was of North African descent, like them he was raised in France and was a member of that country's often marginalized minority community of immigrants and immigrant descendants. Yet on that day when the masked militants and the uniformed officer met each other in the streets of Paris, their ensuing battle represented how despite sharing such similar backgrounds their lives had followed radically different paths. 

With so much media coverage of the attack focusing on free-speech, the nature of Islam as a religion of violence or peace, and the struggle to find an appropriate response to extremism, I think it's important that Ahmed's life and the lives of the many, many Muslims like him are not muffled by calls of outrage, finger pointing and name calling. 

I don't deny that Islam as a faith as a number of issues and problems. I've studied them academically. As someone who has read the Qur'an and the Sunnah, studied Islamic law and the works of Muslim scholars, I know firsthand about the verses, commentaries, fatwas that drive extremist elements in Muslim communities. Extremism is real, repressive practices inspired by religious teachings are real. 

However, in this post this is not what I would like to focus on, even though these are incredibly important topics.

What I would like to focus on is this. There are many Muslims like Ahmed Merabet who follow paths in their own communities that are different from violent Salafis and Jihadis. There are many Muslim voices denouncing religious violence in their communities (Malala Yousafzai for one). There are Muslim organizations who donate generously to charities that benefit many people. And then there are many, many others who simply want to live lives in peace and dignity and who won't decapitate you with a scimitar for sharing a different opinion, or a different faith.

I firmly believe this not just because of what I have read or watched but also because of what I have lived through.

I've spent a lot of time in countries with large Muslim populations. I studied in Egypt for four months in 2009 and traveled for a month through Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Israel and the West Bank. 

Between 2010 and 2012 (two and half years) I lived in Cairo. I worked in an Egyptian graphic design company alongside Egyptian Muslims and Christians. I witnessed the Arab Spring, the first open elections in that country's history, and the rise of Islamists like the Muslim Brotherhood. 

In my time in the Middle East, I got to know Muslims. I ate with Muslims, drank coffee with Muslims, smoked shisha with Muslims (too many times), fasted with Muslims during Ramadan and occasionally had a beer or two with them. 

Sure, it wasn't all sunshine and exotic joyful dances to Bedouin music in the desert. I saw widespread poverty.  Through female friends I learned of the pain caused by widespread sexual harassment of women. I saw the negative and all consuming power that firebrand imams (preachers) can have over an uneducated and illiterate congregation. I heard tearful stories of persecuted Christians who felt that their grievances were easily dismissed by their Muslim colleagues and peers.  Too many times, Muslim friends I knew and loved would share dark and sinister opinions about Jews and Atheists that would make me cringe. 

And yet, and yet for me to say that these negative aspects are what solely defined the people I know there would be slander. 

Yes they share the same God as ISIL, read the same Qur'an Osama Bin Laden did, read some of the same Hadiths that the Kouachi Brothers read, and no doubt listen to a few very similar sermons delivered at Friday noon prayers in their local mosques or prayer halls. But they are not Bin Laden or the Kouachi Brothers. 

They are Tamer, the aspiring screen writer, Scorsese fan and aspiring author who I shared fantasy and sci-fi story ideas with. 

They are Mohamed, the graphic designer at my company, who despite belonging to the ultraconservative Salafi movement, had no qualms about putting women in bikinis on the covers of our magazines and joking with me (a kafr) over shisha. 

They are Ingy, the aspiring English translator and kindergarten teaching assistant who fell in love with the game Dutch Blitz. 

They are Fatimah, the college student who introduced me to Arab literary giants like Naguib Mahfouz and Alaa al Aswany. 

They are Nada, the sweet veiled woman designer at my company who became one of my closest friends.

They are Bassem, the cycling scrawny artist who loved discussing the merits of his country's Revolution with me. 

They are Ismail, one of the most generous people I've ever met in my entire life. A man from a small and highly conservative oasis in the desert who opened the doors of his house to many of his Western friends allowing me to visit his beautiful hometown.  

They are Ghalis,  The company courier and Islamist who sometimes argued with me over politics but told me that I was 'the best American' he had ever encountered.

They are Mo, a dear but troubled friend who would discuss life and love with me over a few beers at my apartment despite believing that alcohol should be illegal.  

They are the woman in a black face veil who, when my parents were visiting me, warned me about a potentially volatile protest on a day when they were supposed to leave. 

They are doormen at the hotel my mother and father stayed at during the Revolution who courageously guarded them throughout the night of looting. 

They are the cab driver, who on a particularly rough night generously comforted me like an uncle when I inextricably broke into tears over a personal issue. 

I could list many more but twelve his enough. Twelve individuals to match the number of victims killed at Charlie Hebdo, including Ahmed Merabet.

I don't ask that you take these names as atonement for the attack. I don't ask you not to analyze or criticize the teachings of Islam. I don't ask you to believe that all 1.6 billion Muslims on this planet are perfect people. All I ask is that when you think of Charlie Hebdo you don't forget Ahmed or any of the other millions of Muslims across the world like the ones I've listed who live their lives, and are not above helping, befriending and loving one of the non-believers that a pair of brothers would have shot dead. 
  

Some friends.

Voices in the Black Tunnel- Battles with Depression

A year has come. Yet I don't feel to delighted at the prospect of facing three hundred and sixty five more days. 2015 doesn't fill me with hope. I know have plenty to look forward to. I've only got two full months left until the school-year ends in Thailand and I complete a second year at PRC. I will be studying for an advanced teaching certificate in March. Most likely I'll be student teaching at the school I graduated from. When that's over, I'll be flying back to the US for my younger sister's wedding. I've got new story and book ideas I want to invest in. I've worked on building these universes over this Christmas break. To top it all off, my parents came and celebrated the holidays with me.



I have much to be thankful for, much to look forward to. And yet for the past three days I've felt sadder, lonelier and more depressed than I have in a long time. Somehow negativity and cynicism keeps managing to snuff out the lights that end of the dark tunnel I find myself stumbling through. I know what's happening to me. I've been here many times before. Yet somehow that doesn't make it easier this time.



I've struggled with depression for most of my life. And while it's gotten easier for me to deal with my self-hatred there are some times when I wonder if I'll ever be fulfilled. There are some days when I wonder if the voices are right. What if I have wasted my life? What if I have failed as a writer? What if no one can ever truly love me? What if I am a terrible teacher, brother, son, friend? What if I'm too stupid, abnormal, unattractive, unmotivated to do any of the things I want to? Would it be better if I died now?



In the center of this darkness, weakness doubt and loathing are all I feel. I am paralyzed by despair. As irrational as it might seem, I believe whole heartedly during these times that I am the only one on earth who has ever wrestled with the shadow. I try not to compare myself to others but I can't help it. Everything about me appears so small and pathetic compared to others. The lives of my friends and peers that I glimpse on Facebook look infinitely better than my own. My inferiority complex comes into play. I feel stuck and lost and imagine that no one else I know could possibly feel this. 'Everyone else has their lives figured out,' a voice in the tunnel spits at me, 'what the fuck is wrong with you, worthless cunt!'


Not surprisingly, the onslaught prompts me to think about death. Ending it all sometimes seem preferable to having to endure the voices. After a time, you take what they say to heart. You start to believe you have wasted yourself, that you are worthless, that there's no point in you going on.



For me, I've been fortunate enough to have been able to crawl my way to the end of the tunnel, to eventually find some light or have a dear friend with a lantern find me and pull me out. I've been fortunate to learn how to use cognitive techniques to find new voices to combat the dark ones. Yet finding definitive self-worth, learning to focus on myself and not others, and understanding that I am okay now, as I am, are still tough lessons to learn.




I will never rid myself of depression. I harbor no illusions that I will be completely free of my issues somewhere down the line. But each time I pass through the darkness and come out I feel a bit more prepared to face the next one. And that is something I can be proud of. Coming through the other side is something I can always look forward to.