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Kennedy Era, 1841 Poplar Avenue, San Diego, CA (2025)

12/24/2025

In the fall of 1956, Ruth Bader Ginsburg walked into Harvard Law School as one of only nine women among more than five hundred men. It had been just six years since Harvard started admitting women at all.
Imagine the weight of those stares. The silence that greeted her when she spoke up in class. The constant need to prove she deserved to sit in that seat.
The dean, Erwin Griswold, invited all nine women to dinner at his home. It was supposed to be a welcome. Instead, he went around the table and asked each woman the same question: Why are you at Harvard Law School, taking the place of a man?
Some of her classmates stumbled through awkward answers. Ruth, ever sharp, replied that she was there to learn more about her husband's work so she could be a supportive wife. It was a subtle blade wrapped in velvet, the kind of answer that satisfied the questioner while quietly mocking the question itself.
But the hostility didn't end at dinner parties.
Women were called on in class for what professors considered comic relief. Certain sections of the law library were off-limits to female students. Ruth recalled being turned away by a university employee who simply said she couldn't enter that room. There was nothing she could do.
While her male classmates were assumed to belong, she had to justify her presence every single day.
And still, she thrived.
Ruth studied late into the night. She raised her young daughter Jane, who had been born the year before she started law school. And then, in her second year, her husband Martin was diagnosed with testicular cancer.
Suddenly she was doing everything.
She attended her own classes and took notes for Martin in his. She typed his dictated papers. She cared for their daughter. She managed a household while her husband underwent radiation treatment. And through all of it, she excelled so greatly that she earned a position on the Harvard Law Review.
Martin recovered. He graduated and accepted a job at a law firm in New York City. Ruth asked the dean if she could complete her final year of Harvard requirements at Columbia Law School so the family could stay together.
The dean refused.
So Ruth transferred to Columbia entirely. She didn't just survive the transition—she became the first person in history to serve on both the Harvard Law Review and the Columbia Law Review. Not the first woman. The first person, period.
She graduated tied for first in her class.
And then, despite her extraordinary record, not a single law firm would hire her.
She was a woman. She was Jewish. She was a mother. As she later explained, the traditional law firms were just beginning to turn around on hiring Jews, but to be a woman, a Jew, and a mother to boot—that combination was a bit much.
Even Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter rejected her for a clerkship, despite glowing recommendations from her professors. The reason was simple: she was female.
It took a Columbia professor threatening to never recommend another student unless a judge gave Ruth a chance before she finally got her first legal job. She clerked for two years instead of the usual one, because she had to prove herself twice as much to be considered half as qualified.
But Ruth Bader Ginsburg was not a woman who accepted limits others tried to impose on her.
She became a law professor at Rutgers, where she discovered she was being paid less than her male colleagues. She and the other women demanded equal pay—and they got it.
She co-founded the Women's Rights Project at the American Civil Liberties Union. She argued six landmark cases before the Supreme Court, winning five. She didn't just challenge discrimination against women; she strategically used cases involving men harmed by gender-based laws to show that rigid s*x roles hurt everyone.
In 1980, President Jimmy Carter appointed her to the U.S. Court of Appeals. In 1993, President Bill Clinton nominated her to the Supreme Court. She was confirmed 96 to 3.
The woman who had been asked to justify taking a man's seat at Harvard became only the second woman ever to sit on the highest court in the land.
For twenty-seven years, she served with fierce intellect and unwavering commitment to equality. Her dissents became legendary—so powerful that Congress sometimes responded by changing the laws she had criticized. She earned the nickname the Notorious RBG, a cultural icon who did twenty pushups well into her eighties and refused to let cancer slow her down.
When Ruth Bader Ginsburg died in September 2020, she became the first woman in American history to lie in state at the United States Capitol.
The doors we walk through today weren't always open.
They were pushed, wedged, and sometimes kicked open by women like her—women who were told their place was elsewhere and refused to listen. Women who were asked to justify their presence and answered by outlasting everyone who doubted them.
Ruth Bader Ginsburg didn't just take a seat at the table. She changed who gets to sit there forever.

12/24/2025

Frances Gumm was just a little girl with a big voice when her mother first handed her pills. "These will help you perform," her mother said. The child was not yet ten years old.
By the time she became Judy Garland and signed with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer at thirteen, she was already trapped in a cycle she never chose. The studio looked at this naturally petite teenager and saw only a problem to fix. Louis B. Mayer, the powerful studio head, called her cruel names that would haunt her for life. At four feet eleven inches, she was never thin enough for them.
The system they created was designed to break her.
They gave her Benzedrine to suppress her appetite and keep her working through eighteen-hour filming days. When she finally collapsed from exhaustion, they gave her barbiturates to force her unconscious for a few hours of sleep. Then they woke her up and started the cycle again.
"They'd give us pep pills," Judy later recalled. "Then they'd take us to the studio hospital and knock us out with sleeping pills. Mickey sprawled out on one bed and me on another. Then after four hours they'd wake us up and give us the pep pills again so we could work seventy-two hours in a row."
She was seventeen years old during the filming of The Wizard of Oz, already addicted to both amphetamines and barbiturates. While audiences fell in love with Dorothy's innocent journey over the rainbow, the girl playing her was being strapped into corsets to hide her developing body, fed only chicken soup and black coffee, and forced to smoke ci******es to suppress her appetite.
The studio called this "maintenance." They called it keeping the machine running.
But something remarkable happened every time she stepped in front of a camera or microphone. All that suffering, all that pain, transformed into something transcendent. Her voice carried a tremor that audiences couldn't quite name but felt deeply. It was the sound of someone pouring their broken heart into every note.
After The Wizard of Oz, MGM kept her working constantly. More films, more press tours, more pills. She had no childhood to speak of, no normal adolescence. While other teenagers worried about school dances and first crushes, Judy was being exploited by the very adults who should have protected her.
Her personal life became a desperate search for the stability she never found as a child. Five marriages, each one beginning with hope and ending in heartbreak. David Rose, Vincente Minnelli, Sid Luft, Mark Herron, Mickey Deans. Some wanted to control her career. Others couldn't handle the chaos that years of abuse had created. The drugs the studio had forced upon her had rewired her brain, leaving her unable to sleep naturally, unable to feel normal without chemical assistance.
Yet through it all, she became a mother. Liza arrived in 1946, Lorna in 1952, and Joey in 1955. She loved them fiercely, even when her own demons made her an unreliable presence. Her children would later speak of never knowing which version of their mother would walk through the door.
After fifteen years, MGM finally cast her aside. The very studio that had manufactured her addiction declared her too difficult, too unreliable, too broken. They had stolen her childhood, destroyed her health, and then discarded her when she could no longer maintain the impossible pace they demanded.
But Judy Garland refused to disappear.
She reinvented herself as a concert performer, bringing audiences to tears with performances that were sometimes brilliant, sometimes devastating to watch. Even when her voice cracked under the weight of everything she had asked it to carry, there was something in her delivery that cut straight to the heart. She sang like someone who had nothing left to lose because, increasingly, she didn't.
The money came and went. Medical bills, legal fees, the cost of trying to numb pain that had roots too deep to reach. She declared bankruptcy, lost homes, found herself playing smaller and smaller venues. The woman who had once been the biggest child star in the world sometimes couldn't afford a hotel room.
By 1969, she had retreated to London. At the Talk of the Town nightclub, she could still draw crowds who remembered her not for the tabloid scandals but for the voice. Even at forty-seven, ravaged by decades of chemical warfare waged against her own body since childhood, she could still summon something magical when she stood before a microphone.
On the morning of June 22, 1969, her fifth husband Mickey Deans found her in their London bathroom. She had died sometime in the night. Coroner Gavin Thurston ruled her death an accidental overdose of barbiturates. Not su***de, he emphasized. Just a miscalculation by someone whose tolerance had been built up over decades of pharmaceutical dependency that began when she was a child.
She was forty-seven years old. She had been chemically dependent for thirty-eight of those years, since before she even understood what the pills were doing to her.
The system that created Judy Garland ultimately destroyed her. But here's what the studio executives never understood: every time she opened her mouth to sing, she transcended their cruelty. She took the pain they caused and transformed it into art that still moves people today.
They tried to control her body, her weight, her very consciousness. They stole her childhood, her health, and her peace of mind. Yet somehow, through it all, that voice remained. Trembling, raw, heartbreaking, but undeniably hers.
Hollywood made Judy Garland a star. But what made her immortal was something they could never manufacture or control.
It was the courage to keep singing, even when everything inside her was breaking.

12/24/2025

In 1970, a woman with a three-person crew and a budget of $115,000 made one of the most important American independent films ever created. It won the International Critics' Prize at the Venice Film Festival, the only American entry that year. Critics compared her to John Cassavetes. And then, for reasons both tragic and infuriating, she never directed another feature.
Barbara Loden's story begins in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina, where she grew up in what she called "hillbilly country." Her childhood was marked by hardship and isolation. Her parents divorced when she was young. She was raised by her grandparents while her mother worked elsewhere and her father disappeared.
At sixteen, she escaped to New York City with money from a car accident settlement. She survived by modeling for detective magazines and romance publications, dancing in the chorus line at the Copacabana, and appearing as a sidekick on The Ernie Kovacs Show. She was blonde, beautiful, and everyone assumed that was the extent of her value.
Then Elia Kazan discovered her.
Kazan was one of the most celebrated directors in American history, with Oscar wins for Gentleman's Agreement and On the Waterfront. He cast Loden in a small role in Wild River (1960), then as Warren Beatty's troubled sister in Splendor in the Grass (1961). On Broadway, she played Maggie in Arthur Miller's After the Fall, a character widely understood to be based on Marilyn Monroe. Loden won the Tony Award for that performance.
By all measures, she had arrived. She was a protégé of one of Hollywood's most powerful men, soon to become his wife. She could have coasted on her looks, her connections, her Tony.
Instead, she spent nine years developing a screenplay about a woman nobody wanted to see.
The story came from a newspaper article about a woman named Alma Malone who had been arrested as an accomplice to a bank robbery. When the judge sentenced her to twenty years in prison, she thanked him. Loden couldn't stop thinking about what kind of desperation could make imprisonment feel like relief.
She wrote a script exploring that question. She sent it to directors. None of them understood what she was trying to do. When she tried to raise money, investors ghosted her. She later recalled that when she showed people her script, she would never hear from them again.
So she directed it herself, even though she was terrified to admit it. She later said she was too afraid at first to tell people a woman was directing because of how they reacted to women behind the camera.
Wanda follows a working-class woman drifting through the coal country of Pennsylvania. She loses custody of her children in a divorce proceeding she barely bothers to attend. She wanders into a bar being robbed and ends up following the thief. She is passive, aimless, invisible. She doesn't fight back against the men who use her. She doesn't transform or redeem herself.
Loden shot the film with a four-person crew: herself as writer, director, and star; her cinematographer Nicholas Proferes; one lighting and sound person; and one assistant. They used 16mm film, available light, and non-actors they recruited on location in Scranton. There were no storyboards, no rehearsals.
The result looked nothing like Hollywood. It was grainy, rough, uncomfortable. And it was brilliant.
The film won the International Critics' Prize at Venice in 1970. Critics praised its refusal to offer easy answers. David Thomson wrote that it was full of unexpected moments, never settling for cliché. Richard Brody of The New Yorker would later call Loden the female counterpart to John Cassavetes.
But in America, Wanda played in exactly one theater in New York. It was never shown in the rest of the country.
Loden spent the next eight years trying to make another film. She collaborated on multiple screenplays with Proferes. She developed an adaptation of Kate Chopin's The Awakening, about a woman who refuses to be confined by society's expectations. She couldn't get financing.
Meanwhile, her marriage to Kazan was deteriorating. According to some accounts, he was dismissive of her directing ambitions, perhaps even resentful of her success. His autobiography later described her with what scholars have called a mix of affection and patronization. By 1979, they had agreed to divorce.
Then came the diagnosis.
In 1978, Barbara Loden learned she had breast cancer. The treatments prevented her from completing The Awakening. The cancer spread to her liver. By the time she and Kazan might have finalized their divorce, she was too sick to proceed.
Four months before her death, Loden was interviewed for a documentary. She was teaching acting classes, still working, still creating. She told the interviewer that her life had been hard too much of the time, but that she had made her peace.
She died in September 1980, at forty-eight years old.
For two decades after her death, Wanda was nearly forgotten. It fell out of circulation, rarely screened, barely discussed. When critics wrote about independent American cinema, they mentioned Cassavetes. They rarely mentioned Loden.
Then something shifted. In 2004, actress Isabelle Huppert championed the film's release on DVD in France. In 2010, the UCLA Film Archive restored Wanda with funding from Gucci and The Film Foundation. The Criterion Collection released it. A new generation discovered what had been lost.
Today, Wanda is recognized as a landmark of American cinema. It has been selected for the National Film Registry by the Library of Congress as culturally, historically, and aesthetically significant. Critics cite it as an influence on everything from Susan Seidelman's Smithereens to the Safdie brothers' gritty New York films.
Barbara Loden made exactly one feature film. She wrote it, directed it, starred in it, and fought for years to get it made. The industry that should have welcomed her talent instead closed its doors. And then cancer took the time she might have used to break them down.
But Wanda survived. It still asks the questions Loden wanted to ask: What happens to women who don't fit? What does desperation look like when it's quiet instead of dramatic? Whose stories deserve to be told?
Loden once said of her protagonist: "She's trapped, and she will never, ever get out of it, and there are millions like her."
She could have been describing the film industry itself. She found a way to tell the story anyway.

12/24/2025

When Elizabeth Ann Seton lay dying of tuberculosis in January 1821, surrounded by the religious sisters she had founded, she reportedly said she wanted to be "wild Betsy to the last." It was a glimpse of the spirited woman who had lived behind the devotion—the socialite, the devoted wife, the grieving widow, the convert who lost everything and built something that would outlast them all.
She was born Elizabeth Ann Bayley on August 28, 1774, in New York City, into one of the most prominent Episcopalian families in the young republic. Her father, Dr. Richard Bayley, was a distinguished physician who would become the first Health Officer of the Port of New York. Her mother died before Elizabeth's third birthday, leaving a grief that never quite left her.
Beautiful, vivacious, fluent in French, and an accomplished musician, Elizabeth grew up among the elite of New York society. At nineteen, she married William Magee Seton, the son of a wealthy shipping merchant. They were deeply in love. Over the next eight years, they had five children: Anna Maria, William, Richard, Catherine, and Rebecca.
Elizabeth was not content with the comfortable life of a society matron. In 1797, she joined Isabella Graham and other women in founding the Society for the Relief of Poor Widows with Small Children—one of the first charitable organizations in the United States founded and managed by women. Elizabeth served as treasurer for seven years, visiting the poor in their homes, nursing the sick, distributing aid.
She had no way of knowing that she would soon become one of the widows she served.
The Seton family's fortune collapsed. The shipping business went bankrupt during conflicts with France. Then William, who had suffered from tuberculosis since his youth, grew desperately ill. His doctors suggested the warmer climate of Italy might help him recover. In October 1803, Elizabeth, William, and their eldest daughter, eight-year-old Anna Maria, set sail for Leghorn.
What awaited them was not healing, but horror.
When their ship arrived in Leghorn, Italian authorities feared they might have brought yellow fever from New York. The Setons were quarantined in a lazaretto—a stone tower on the coast, cold and damp, with bare walls and windows through which the wind whistled. For twenty-five days, Elizabeth watched her husband deteriorate in that bleak prison, coughing blood, unable to warm himself. She tended him, amused their daughter with games, held little prayer services to keep their spirits up.
They were released on December 19. Eight days later, William died. He was buried in the English cemetery in Livorno.
Elizabeth was twenty-nine years old, a widow with five children, stranded in a foreign country.
The Filicchi family—Italian business partners of her husband—took her in. For several months, they sheltered her and Anna Maria, introducing them to the culture of Florence and the faith that shaped their lives. Elizabeth attended Mass with them, toured the churches of Italy, and found herself deeply moved by Catholic belief in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist.
When she returned to New York in June 1804, she was changed.
For nearly a year, Elizabeth agonized over her decision. Her Episcopal minister warned her that Catholicism was "a corrupt and sinful communion." Her friends were horrified. Her godmother disinherited her. But on March 14, 1805, Elizabeth Seton was received into the Roman Catholic Church.
The social cost was devastating. Friends abandoned her. Family members turned away. She found herself a penniless widow—the very kind of woman she had once helped through charity work—now struggling to support five children in a city where Catholics were viewed with suspicion. She tried running a boarding house for schoolboys, but when parents learned she was Catholic, they withdrew their children.
Then came an invitation that would change everything.
In 1808, Father Louis William Dubourg, president of St. Mary's College in Baltimore, invited Elizabeth to establish a school for Catholic girls. She accepted, moving her family to Maryland. By December, other women had joined her work. On March 25, 1809, Elizabeth pronounced vows of chastity and obedience before Archbishop John Carroll—the first Catholic bishop in the United States—and received the title "Mother Seton."
On July 31, 1809, in Emmitsburg, Maryland, the Sisters of Charity of St. Joseph's was formally established. It was the first religious order of women founded in the United States.
The early years were brutal. The sisters lived in a small farmhouse with mattresses on the floor under a leaky roof, surviving on vegetables, occasional salt pork, and a bitter beverage they called "carrot coffee." But they had a mission: to educate the poor.
In February 1810, Mother Seton opened St. Joseph's Free School, providing education to needy girls who would otherwise have had none. It was the first free Catholic school staffed by sisters in America—the foundation of what would become the American Catholic school system.
Tragedy followed Mother Seton even as her mission flourished. Her eldest daughter, Anna Maria, developed tuberculosis and died in 1812 at age seventeen. Her youngest, Rebecca, died in 1816 at age fourteen. Elizabeth herself grew weaker from the disease that had killed her husband and daughters.
Yet the order grew. By the time of her death, the Sisters of Charity had established twenty communities across the country, operating free schools, orphanages, and hospitals.
On January 4, 1821, at forty-six years old, Elizabeth Ann Seton died in Emmitsburg. One of the sisters, knowing Elizabeth loved French, prayed the Gloria and Magnificat with her in that language as she passed.
Her legacy multiplied. In 1828, the Sisters of Charity opened the first Catholic hospital in the United States. In 1856, Seton Hall College was named in her honor. Her spiritual descendants would eventually number in the thousands, serving across the nation and around the world.
And then, more than 150 years after her death, came the recognition.
On September 14, 1975, in St. Peter's Square in Rome, Pope Paul VI spoke the words: "Elizabeth Ann Seton is a saint."
She became the first person born in what would become the United States to be canonized by the Catholic Church.
"St. Elizabeth Ann Seton is an American," the Pope declared. "Elizabeth Ann Seton was wholly American! Rejoice for your glorious daughter. Be proud of her. And know how to preserve her fruitful heritage."
President Gerald Ford declared that day National Saint Elizabeth Seton Day. The little girl who had watched for her father from her schoolroom window, the young bride who had danced at society balls, the grieving widow who had converted at the cost of everything familiar—she had become a saint.
Today, Elizabeth Ann Seton is the patron saint of Catholic schools, teachers, widows, and orphans. Her remains rest in the Basilica at the National Shrine of St. Elizabeth Ann Seton in Emmitsburg, Maryland, where her mission began.
She was, as she always said she would be, wild Betsy to the last—a woman who refused to let loss defeat her, who built an enduring legacy from the ashes of grief, and who proved that holiness is not an impossible standard, but the daily response of love in the ordinary tasks of life.

12/24/2025

Tom Selleck was cast as Indiana Jones

12/24/2025

In the ancient city of Fez, Morocco, there stands a mosque and university that has been a center of learning for more than a thousand years. According to tradition, it was founded by a woman named Fatima al-Fihri in 859 CE.
Her story, as it has been passed down through centuries, begins in the city of Kairouan in what is now Tunisia. Her father, Muhammad al-Fihri, was a successful merchant who believed deeply in education. When political upheaval swept through their homeland, the family joined a wave of migrants traveling west to Fez, a growing city that welcomed scholars, traders, and dreamers from across the Islamic world.
Fez in the ninth century was a place of extraordinary possibility. Under the Idrisid dynasty, it had become a cosmopolitan hub where knowledge flowed as freely as commerce. Arabic, the language of scholarship, connected thinkers from Spain to Persia. The Islamic Golden Age was dawning, and Fez was positioned at its heart.
According to the medieval chronicle Rawd al-Qirtas—The Garden of Pages—written by the historian Ibn Abi Zar in the fourteenth century, Fatima and her sister Mariam were well educated, unusual even for women of means in that era. When their father, brother, and Fatima's husband all died within a short span, the sisters inherited a considerable fortune.
They could have lived comfortably. Instead, both chose to give.
Mariam is said to have built the Al-Andalus Mosque, named for the Andalusian refugees who had settled in that quarter of the city. Fatima set her sights on something even more ambitious: a mosque and madrasa for the Kairouanese community, which she named Al-Qarawiyyin after their hometown.
The traditional account says Fatima began the project on the first day of Ramadan and fasted every day until the construction was complete. She insisted that all building materials be quarried directly on site, so no one could question the legitimate origins of what she had built. Every brick, every beam, every drop of water came from the land she had purchased with her inheritance.
What began as a mosque soon grew into something more.
Al-Qarawiyyin became a gathering place for scholars. Students came to study the Quran, Islamic jurisprudence, grammar, and rhetoric. Over time, the curriculum expanded to include mathematics, astronomy, medicine, chemistry, history, and geography. By the tenth century, it had become one of the most prestigious centers of learning in the Islamic world.
The institution developed what some consider an early form of the degree system. Students who demonstrated mastery of their subjects after years of study received an ijazah—a certificate granting them permission to teach. This practice would later influence educational systems around the world.
Scholars who studied or taught at Al-Qarawiyyin went on to shape history. The geographer Al-Idrisi created maps that guided European explorers during the Renaissance. The historian Ibn Khaldun, considered by many to be the father of sociology, spent time within its walls. The philosopher Ibn Rushd, whose commentaries on Aristotle profoundly influenced medieval European thought, was connected to the tradition it represented.
Even non-Muslims came to learn. According to some accounts, Gerbert of Aurillac studied at Al-Qarawiyyin before returning to Europe, where he eventually became Pope Sylvester II. He is credited with introducing Arabic numerals and the concept of zero to the Western world—knowledge he may have acquired in Fez.
The great Jewish philosopher Maimonides is also said to have studied there after his family fled Cordoba during a period of persecution. Al-Qarawiyyin welcomed seekers of knowledge regardless of their faith—a remarkable openness for any era.
Today, UNESCO and Guinness World Records recognize Al-Qarawiyyin as the oldest continuously operating degree-granting institution in the world. The library, restored in 2016, houses manuscripts dating back over a thousand years, including a ninth-century Quran written in ornate Kufic script on camel-skin vellum.
It must be noted that historians have raised questions about the traditional account of Fatima al-Fihri. Ibn Abi Zar wrote his chronicle more than four hundred years after the events he described. Some scholars find the perfect symmetry of two sisters founding Fez's two most famous mosques too neat to be historical fact. A foundation inscription discovered during twentieth-century renovations suggests the mosque may have been founded by a local governor, not a private donor.
Whether Fatima al-Fihri was a historical figure or a legendary one, the institution attributed to her vision is undeniably real. Al-Qarawiyyin has educated students continuously for more than eleven centuries. It survived the rise and fall of dynasties, the coming of colonialism, and the upheavals of the modern age. It was incorporated into Morocco's state university system in 1963 and continues to operate today.
The story that has been told about its founding—of a woman who chose knowledge over wealth, who invested everything she had in a place where others could learn—has inspired countless people across the centuries. In a world where women's contributions have so often been overlooked or forgotten, the tradition of Fatima al-Fihri has become a powerful symbol of what women have always been capable of building.
Perhaps that is why her story endures, whether rooted in history or legend.
In the library of Al-Qarawiyyin, visitors can see what is said to be Fatima's own diploma in fiqh and mathematics—proof, according to tradition, that she was not merely a patron but a scholar herself. She is said to have attended lectures at the institution she founded until her death around 880 CE.
What we know for certain is this: more than a thousand years ago, someone looked at a plot of land in Fez and imagined not a palace or a marketplace, but a place of learning. Someone believed that knowledge was the most valuable thing one could give to the world. Someone planted seeds that are still bearing fruit today.
The university still stands. Students still study within its walls. The manuscripts in its library still preserve the wisdom of ages past.
And if tradition is to be believed, it began with a woman who dared to dream beyond herself—who understood that true wealth is not what you keep, but what you give away.
That is the story of Al-Qarawiyyin. That is the legacy attributed to Fatima al-Fihri.
Whether history or legend, it reminds us that our choices, our vision, and our commitment to something greater can ripple out into the world in ways we might never fully see.

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