Archive for the ‘racial issues’ Category

Just a couple days ago my daughter said her daddy was “blue” because the shirt he was wearing was blue. Apparently I was red because that was the color of my shirt. I was beginning to think perhaps it is true what some people claim to believe… Kids are colorblind to skin.

I’ve never honestly felt that way; that children, or people in general are colorblind to race. It’s natural to recognize someone looking different than you, or out of the ordinary. Whether it’s someone with red hair, blond hair, brown skin—whatever. We aren’t blind, and it’s ok to notice these things. But do children?


Tonight, my daughter dropped a bomb on me: “Mom, why are you brown and I’m not?”

“What?” I looked down at my shirt, to see if that’s what she meant. But she clarified just as I was checking.

“Your skin. Why is your skin brown, and mine’s not?” She asked.

“Yours isn’t?” I thought it might be best to answer her question with questions to see where she was coming from.

“No. See?” She held up her arm for me to inspect.

“Well, who told you that?” I immediately became suspicious of kids at school. Kids at school are always bringing new things to her attention. She just started a new preschool, and maybe someone said something about us after drop off.

“Well, Daniel Tiger says…” (She broke out in a tune) “In some ways we are different, and in some ways, we are the same.”

Damn that tiger.

No really, it’s not his fault, or any fault at all. In the episode on the PBS show the differences they highlight are a kid walking using braces, and not everyone having a tail. From what I can tell, my daughter taking it to the skin color discussion was all on her own.


“That’s right,” I said. “But what color are you?”

She wasn’t sure how to answer this either, she looked around the room, maybe for a comparison.

“Well, my kitchen is white…”

“Yes…” I said. Waiting to hear more. “Like you?” I questioned.

“No.” She said.

“Oh ok, well what’s daddy? Is he brown too?” I asked, trying to see where she was going with this.

“No, he’s yellow. Like me.” She decided.

“Oh ok,” I answered. “What about your brother?”

“He’s yellow too,” she professed. “Me, and daddy and [my brother] are yellow. And only you—“ she stopped to change her mind. “You and Snoop are brown.”

The dog and I are brown. I smiled, as I learned the workings of my preschooler’s thoughts of the world.

“Ok. And is brown pretty?” I braced herself for her answer. But I was really curious what she’d say.

“No,” she responded point blank.

“Why not?” I asked her.

“Because brown’s not my favorite color.”

“Is mommy pretty?” I asked.

“YES!” And she dove into my lap for a hug.


Oh great what now. “Yes?”

“Can we play with blocks now?”

And as quickly as that, the conversation was over.


Later, after she was tucked into bed, then came back out of her room sneaking some extra mommy time, she brought it up again while pointing to a photograph of herself against her daddy’s skin and said: “I don’t want my skin to be this color.”

This comment shocked me the most out of everything, but again, I tried to stay cool and keep with the questions, versus answers.

“Why not?” I asked her.

“Because I’m brown, and that’s not my favorite color.”

“Oh, well what color do you want to be?” Again, I braced myself for her answer.

“Purple.” She said.

I took a small sigh of relief. Apparently I’m ok with my daughter wanting to be purple. I just said “ok” (whatever kid!). It was late and she was trying to delay bedtime at this point.

“You’re beautiful the way you are.”

As I suspected all along, kids aren’t colorblind, they notice things. Though it’s not always on her mind that “mommy is brown.” For some reason it came to her mind in this moment, and was gone the next. The same thing happens with conversations with my husband. I don’t constantly think about being married to a white dude… Or even dwell on the fact that I’m black. It rarely comes up at home because we’re just mommy, daddy, wife, and husband; adorable kids… A family.

Biracial-questionsShe’s exploring and learning about the world around her, in all sorts of aspects of her little life right now. I think. I hope. No, I PRAY it’s a long time before we have a deeper skin color conversation that deals with wanting to be colors other than purple. But who knows, maybe it will never happen. And if it does (because honestly, I suspect every child, every color at some point wishes they could look like someone else) I hope… No, I pray it will be as cool, collected, and humorous as it was tonight.

I was writing this post for my BabyCenter blog today but my dear friend Stacey-Ann beat me to the topic. I was actually kind of glad because I can lift the filter a bit more here. You know, be a little more blunt about this topic without the backlash from less-understanding readers (ya’ll get me, cause you read me more frequently). For instance, this wasn’t the headline I had in mind for my other blog.

Every once in a while someone will ask me and my husband what our parent’s thought, about us dating and getting married. “Did they care that you’re black/ he’s white?” It’s a question many interracial couples hear.

“No big deal,” I tell them. Really, it was 2004, and we’re all past that, right?

People say they don’t notice color or race, or anything of that sort. “I’m colorblind,” I always hear. As if it’s awful to notice we’re different. It’s ok to notice that we aren’t the same. We are different. The problem lies when you see simple differences like skin color, as a bad thing.

Cheerios recently debuted a commercial featuring an adorable biracial girl talking to her white mother and black father. I didn’t catch the commercial on TV, but I saw it online and thought it was charming. Did I notice the interracial couple? Sure. Seeing them portrayed in a mainstream advertisement makes me smile, because if advertisers are more comfortable showing interracial relationships, maybe that means society is getting used to it too. Yea, sure, that’s what I thought.

I’ve heard people say if you want to lose faith in humanity, read the comments on YouTube. People can hide behind the computer screen with a made up username linked to a fake email address and say whatever rude, degrading or racist remark they want to say. Unfortunately that was the case, even with this cute Cheerios commercial.

Commenters lashed out and called it “disgusting” and said that it made them “want to vomit.” That’s just the beginning. The comments got so bad that they had to be disabled on the video. Comments out, but Cheerios says the commercial stays.

Camille Gibson, vice president of marketing for Cheerios, told Gawker, “Consumers have responded positively to our new Cheerios ad. At Cheerios, we know there are many kinds of families and we celebrate them all.”

Since the news has been buzzing about the controversy surrounding this very non-controversial commercial, many have come out in support of the brand. People are thanking Cheerios for showing diversity in their advertisement, and standing by their decision. And I’m standing by Cheerios and all of their delicious (honey nut) goodness.

And let me tell you something anonymous racist internet commenters. You make ME want to vomit. You suck. And I pray that I don’t know any of you in real life. Because if you act one way to my face but then are so much of a closet coward that you have to spend your evenings spitting disgusting bigoted remarks over the internet where no one can see you, we’d need to have a serious coming to Jesus.

So this time an advertisement gets some criticism for showcasing a mixed family. Truthfully, it doesn’t surprise me. But someone has to break the ice. I’d bet by the time my biracial son and daughter are older and dating, seeing families like ours, and kids like them, featured in commercials will hardly get a second glance. And no one will even think to ask what their parent’s thought about them dating someone of a different race.


Does it surprise you that people responded negatively to a commercial featuring an interracial couple?

I think it’s absolutely wonderful when people tell me they want to adopt, but from time to time I’ll hear people say things that make me go “hmmm.”

My favorite line is “Ooh, I want one.” Referring to a black child. Kids aren’t puppies. You don’t buy one from a breeder, or pick one out at a shelter. It’s a human being, and you get what you get.

I don’t know if it’s because Angelina Jolie and Sandra Bullock made it cool, but for a while I was beginning to wonder if it was some kind of strange fad.


When I lived in Utah I saw this all over the place. I’m going to be honest, at first I was a little concerned. I met mothers frustrated with their daughter’s kinky black hair who didn’t have a clue how to manage it, and black children who had never seen people who look like them. And worse… reading stories of parents who abused these children. Thankfully the latter was not as common.

When I attended Black Student Union at BYU, there were events for these families to come and socialize with one another and, I guess, let their kids see other children who look like them. I asked the parents how they came about adopting transracially and heard a variety of responses.

One mother told me she wanted a biracial child because she thinks they’re adorable, another told me the waiting list was so long for white children so they broadened their search. Another told me it was more affordable.

A baby on sale? That broke my heart, but I’m giving them all the benefit of the doubt. While their initial intentions may have been questionable to me, I pray they’re loving parents.

These days my feelings aren’t so harsh toward families who want to adopt transracially. In fact, I think it’s great that people can open their hearts to children who don’t even look like them, and take them in as their own forever. It’s a sad fact, but according to some studies, black children are 7 times less desirable than other children. This is why there are programs that offer subsidies to help families adopting a black child. And let’s face it… There aren’t enough black families adopting either.

I think (hope) counselors do this anyway but I’ve thought of some advice for parents choosing to adopt a black child.

1. Learn how to manage black hair: Take a class, ask for help, do what you’ve gotta do so your daughter doesn’t have a matted mess that can’t be tamed and has to be cut.
2. Study black-culture and history to share with your child.
3. Have a variety of books, dolls, and toys that show people who look like them too.
4. Get involved in diverse play groups, so your child can see others who also look like them.

I also found a helpful article with more information on transracial adoption.

Actually, I think the list above is great for anyone. Being in an interracial marriage myself I am trying to be more aware of my daughter’s growing variety of books, dolls and immersion.

When people say “Black babies are so cute!” Not that I don’t agree, but is that specifically why you’d want to adopt a child? Ultimately a family is a family. Love is most important, and you don’t have to look like your children to love them.

Someday I’d like to adopt, possibly after I have one more biological child. But I’d like to think that race wouldn’t be a deciding factor in my decision.

I’m interested in hearing from others who have considered or who have adopted transracially. What has your experience been? Would you adopt outside of your race?

As I narrowed down baby names for my daughter before she was born, of course I was greeted with suggestions, ideas, and questions about what we liked.

I was caught off guard when someone asked if I’d name her Shaniqua.

Yes, because my name is Jennifer and Shaniqua is the first name that came to my mind.

This wasn’t the only time people have brought names like this to my attention. Why they think it’s fitting I’m not quite sure.

It’s also strange to me when people say I “don’t look like a Jennifer.” What that’s suppose to mean, I’m not sure.

Think I’m kidding? Think they’re kidding? Yea, that’s what I thought too when one of my former bosses suggested I change my name to something more “ethnic.”

A lot of people are intrigued by my job. People ask if I wear shorts under the news desk (thanks Anchor Man), if I have makeup artists, if I use my real name, the list goes on.

No, I don’t wear shorts, (but sometimes I’ll wear jeans), I do my own makeup, and I use my own name. But at my first news job, in a small town in Southern Utah, that almost changed.

After my first day the general manager brought into our tiny little office and sat me down. The main anchor, one of my mentors was with him.

“What do you think of changing your name to Keisha?” He asked me.

I laughed. Then looked around the room, realizing I was the only one laughing. My friend did give a sympathetic shrug, which made me think she thought it was about as strange as I did but couldn’t tell me right then and there.

“Are you serious?” I asked. Totally stunned.

He was.

He went on and gave me some explanation about my last name sounding French-Creole and that having “Keisha” as a first name “fit.”

“Think about it,” he told me.

I said I would but there was no thinking about it. I was not changing my name. Especially not to Keisha.

I did call my family, then my friends and laughed about it with anyone who would listen. To this day I still have to chuckle a little when I think back to that moment because I honestly don’t know what was going through his mind.

My name is Jennifer. My siblings: Heather, Michael, Lauren, Kimberly. None of them are stereotypical names you’d hear on the Top 60 Ghetto Black Names list. They are, however, found in the most popular names of the year list. I didn’t want my daughter’s name on either. My mother’s reasoning for her decision was different than mine. She would say “do you want to get a job?” Which sounds harsh but some research shows “black-sounding” names on resumes don’t do as well next to the same resume holding a “white-sounding” names.

Deciding what to name your children is a beautiful thing. The coolest thing is that it’s your choice. Some are more unusual, and others are more common, but no one should be pigeon holed into a name because of how they look.

And for your entertainment…I guess. The “Top 60 Ghetto Black Names.”

Being in an interracial relationship, one of the first things people ask us is “what did his parents think?”

People usually ask what they thought before asking what my parents thought. I’m not sure why, because he’s the lucky one. … I mean that in a non-conceited way. Of course I’m lucky too but when people ask me what his parents thought it comes across–to me–as if they would be the ones, if any, to disapprove. But why?

I’ll admit, I was more nervous about meeting his parents and family than I was about him meeting mine, despite my having a strict father who tried to tell me I needed to marry a “strong black man.” I knew ultimately it wouldn’t matter to them what my intended husband looked like, but how he treated me. The hesitation I felt toward meeting his family was more based on past experiences with people I was friend with, and their families reactions.

My white friends growing up didn’t always seem to have parents who would have supported them either way. I mean, maybe they would have had it come to that, but based on what I heard–Things like “it’s against the Bible to date outside your race” or “My father would not like it if I had a black boyfriend” their parents weren’t so keen on the idea.

Having been raised hearing those things in the Georgia, I never knew what to expect if a white guy were to bring me home.

So… This new boyfriend of mine–a white guy from Utah–and I, had only been dating something like a week when he told me his parents wanted to meet me. What the…?

I can’t remember asking him flat out if they knew I was black, but I knew they did. Something about the way he was so overly excited about me meeting them. I had an inkling they’d be fine with it.

It’s weird even writing this down just now. That they’d be fine with it. I wasn’t ashamed of being me, being black and who I am, but I worried about a possible supremacy attitude I sometimes saw and heard growing up in Georgia. I worried because I liked this guy so much, and I’d hate for some punk parents to screw it up for us.

“My dad is excited to talk to you about BYU.” That’s one of the only prefaces I remember him telling me before going to his house.

Ok, great. I thought. There’s at least one thing we’ll have in common.

But we actually had a lot in common.

I don’t remember much of what I talked about with my then-boyfriend’s dad, but I remember thinking he was very nice and very funny–of course still true to this day.

His mom wasn’t home during all of this, and I was actually most nervous about meeting her. I heard she grew up in Atlanta and well… I did too and I know all to well that everyone isn’t so friendly, especially when it comes to racial issues.

I’ll never ever forget the moment I met his mother. This smooth guy I was dating had an awesome idea that we should go downstairs and watch some TV white we waited for her to get home. Of all the shows he chose to watch he picked the movie Friday.

If you aren’t familiar with Friday, it’s basically a stereotypical comedy about some pot-smoking friends (Ice Cube and Chris Tucker) in an urban neighborhood avoiding drive-bys and gangster thugs. If you know me, you know this isn’t my typical choice of movie. But he’s always found this kind of stuff hilarious.

So amidst his laughter, his mom starts walking down the stairs to the basement. I tell him someone is coming–Thinking he’d get the hint to change the channel. But instead he pauses the movie. And the frame he just so happens to stop on was something between this…

And this…

So his mom, who’s never met me before joins us downstairs with a giant freeze-frame of thugness all over the big screen, and her son is hanging out, watching this with his new black girlfriend.

I’ll be honest. I don’t remember that conversation at all because I was so horrified. I’m a big believer in first impressions make a difference and I didn’t feel like that was the best one for me to give.

When she left I asked him what he was thinking… ‘Great, now your mom is going to think I’m some kind of bad influence on you.’

But he laughed it off and assured me his mom knows him and knows he watches stuff like that all the time.

It’s true. Growing up he asked his mom to buy him Snoop Dogg cassettes, and probably other hip hop and R&B music.  I’ve even seen pictures of him as a young boy, with his blond hair and pretty blue eyes wearing his wind breakers, listening to his Walkman (he says Snoop was playing at the moment) and his Paula Abdul poster hanging behind him. He’s always been very… Cultured. I guess you could say.

The following weeks I joined him and his family for Sunday dinners, and family parties. I met all of his local extended family just a week later, including his uncles, aunts, and cousins. And shortly thereafter I met his grandparents, who had just returned from a mission trip to Australia. Not one person batted an eye to the fact that he was dating a black girl. No one cared.

I even remember later having conversations with some of his family about the fact that nobody cared. I think part of it could be because religion was a more important commonality to them, but since then I’ve seen even that doesn’t make them disapprove of someone.

Looking back and remembering this experience has really made me realize not everyone has the same opinions on interracial relationships. Growing up I felt like it would be a lifelong battle if I decided to marry someone outside of my race, but luckily for me, it hasn’t been.

Sure, there are occasions where we encounter things that make us go “hmmm” but that hasn’t happened with his family. Nor with mine… But I’ll go more into my side some other time.

I know for a fact I don’t care about race in regards to who my daughter decides to date or marry. What about your children?

When I pictured what our daughter would look like I hoped she would have my eye shape and my husband’s eye color. He has very wide, stunning blue eyes. They were the first thing I noticed when I saw him, and still one of my favorite physical qualities of his.


I like the almond shape of my eyes though, and thought they’d look striking in a lighter color on our little girl.

But what do you know, she got the exact opposite. And they couldn’t be cuter.

Last week I was in a hair shop buying some rollers when another black woman walked in and asked the man behind the counter if they sold color contacts. I stood by and watched as he pulled the case of display contacts out from their hiding space under the register, and watched as the woman looked them over.

She was beautiful. When she looked up I noticed she had lighter eyes than mine. Very light. And based on her purchase inquiry, they were most likely colored contacts. It reminded me of a phase I went through. Starting in high school, and through most of college I wore gray colored contacts. Grey sounds weird but they looked a pretty hazel when I wore them. I didn’t wear glasses, and I didn’t need contacts. My vision is perfect. They were strictly cosmetic.

I liked the way they made me look–Different. I stood out, and got compliments almost daily on my “beautiful” eyes.

I wore them when I met my husband, on television, even at our wedding. He preferred I didn’t wear them, but I liked them so I kept the habit. It wasn’t until I did an internship in Atlanta the summer before I graduated college that I decided to toss them.

There was a reporter I looked up to who took me under his wing. He was the youngest reporter at this powerhouse station, and he also happened to be black. He always told me what he thought straight up, and was never afraid to hold back with me.

I’ll never forget what he asked me:

“Why don’t you do you?”

“What?” The question caught me off guard. I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Why are you pretending to be someone you’re not? You don’t need to change the color of your eyes.”

I pointed out another reporter at the station who was doing the same thing but he didn’t take that as an excuse, and told me I should get rid of them.

So I did.


The next day I went in for the first time in a long time, with the eyes I was born with.

“See, you have beautiful brown eyes,” he told me. “Dark brown eyes, the ones you were given.”

Thankfully, we’ve remained friends over the years and he continues to be a mentor of mine and give me advice when I need it.

That conversation has stuck with me a long time and I often have to check myself and remember to just “do me.”

I’m glad I learned this lesson and came to love myself, and my eyes before my daughter was born. Her eyes were light gray for a day, but turned as black as mine by day two.


They’re big and wide like her daddy’s and dark like mine. They’re mine and his. They’re beautiful, and perfectly mixed

Boy or girl? No one knows except the baby’s parents, and their two sons. This story of a genderless baby has made headlines the past few weeks across the world.

I’m sure it’s not the first time a parent has decided to leave their child’s gender unknown to friends and family, but for some reason this is a hot topic right now in mommyland.

One of the first things I thought when I first heard of the “gender neutral” philosophy was “these parents must have all boys.” Let’s be honest. You’ve seen me and how I dress Lil’ J. There’s no way I could have stuck to dressing her up in neutral clothes and skipped the dresses and bows. It’s not to say I think she shouldn’t wear pants or clothes in colors other than pink, but it’s just my preference (not the pink, the dresses). And her room is like an explosion of pink. But what else would you expect when that’s my favorite color? I’ve always been a girlie girl and I wanted to experience that with my daughter.

If I had had a son I wouldn’t have stuck with blues and greens, but I probably wouldn’t have decorated his nursery in pink frills; but I will admit, if I had had son after son and was still longing for a girl, I’d be totally cool with painting my boy’s toenails and get them some dolls if that’s what they wanted, and called us a gender neutral family.

I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works, and that there’s more thought behind this lifestyle rather than the color and style of their wardrobe and what kinds of toys they play with. So I’m trying to see where this Canadian family is coming from.

38-year-old Kathy Witterick and David Stoker have only allowed their midwives and two sons to know the gender of their third child Storm.

“The idea that the whole world must know our baby’s sex strikes me as unhealthy and voyeuristic,” Witterick said in a letter to ABC News.

Personally, I don’t know who this lady or her kid is. I don’t care if she wants to share or not nor do I care if her child has a penis or a vagina. I also HIGHLY doubt the whole world really cares, in fact, I don’t think it matters. To anyone. I think people are just curious. For heaven’s sakes, sue us for asking a common question about a cute baby, sheesh.

I mean really… Do they believe strangers are dying to know what their child is so they can buy the baby a frilly tutu if it’s a girl and plan her future career as a homemaker? Or if it’s a boy so they can say how great he’ll be at sports and how manly the little-tike looks?

My guess is this mom is doing this partly to raise attention to her “gender neutral” beliefs and to show that girls and boys don’t have to fall into certain gender roles yada yada yada. But deep down I truly believe there is a bigger motivation here. Motivation to do what she thinks is best for her baby. Trying to protect her baby from something she sees wrong in the world. And I can’t really blame her for that. In fact, I’m a little jealous it’s that easy for her.

I don’t know if I witness gender stereotypes in the same light she does. I don’t think boys or girls have to act a certain way. Maybe I’m missed this drama when I was in school because any stereotypes targeted toward my gender were overshadowed by a whole other issue–Racial stereotypes.

Wouldn’t it have been nice for my mother to have decided before my birth that no one would know my race. So no one could judge me right off the bat for the way I looked and decide whether or not they were going to like me based on the color of my skin.

Yep. That’s me.

So no one else could say I was ugly because I was different. Or that they didn’t want to be my friend because I was black.

If my mom could have shielded my race from the world maybe I wouldn’t have had to deal with the questions about why I “talk white.” Or why I didn’t listen to rap. I mean, all black people like rap right? And wear weave?

Maybe if no one knew I was black I wouldn’t have been told how I was supposed to talk and supposed act because black people are suppose to talk and act the same. Every single one of us.

Wouldn’t it have been nice if only she, my doctor and siblings new my identity, and I could reveal to the world, when I understood, and when I was ready to share my racial genetic make up?

But no. Its not that easy. I, like everyone else in the world had to learn through experience how tough the world can be. How crude and stupid some stereotypes are, and how you cant let them define you.

And that’s ok. Because it made me who I am today…

Read the rest of my post today on MyBrownBaby.

When I imagined my daughter before she was born I saw her with dark skin and light eyes. Instead she came out light skin with dark eyes. The complete opposite.

I didn’t brace myself for the reality of this possibility. The possibility that my daughter could have skin as light as my husband and not look anything like me at first glance. I knew it could happen. I just didn’t think it would.

Forever Bliss Photography

Growing up in the south where racial issues are still tense, and the predominant races are black and white, kids were forced to choose sides. It may not have been as obvious as team captains choosing teammates for their kickball team, but it was noticeable, and people would call you out for it.

The black kids hung out with the black kids and the white kids hung out with the white kids. And if you decided to cross the line in the sand you were considered a sort of traitor of your own race. Blacks who had white friends were nicknamed “Oreos” and whites who had black friends were called “Wiggers.” I still can’t help but feel disgusted toward the terms.

So much in our world is black or white. The gray area is gone. This goes for race too. Especially in our country.

Many are so quick to call President Obama “Black” although he’s half white as well. I’ll admit I do it. I was one of the women who was so angry when Tiger Woods corrected people when they called him “the first Black golfer to be #1” saying he was the first Thai/Black. Why was he ashamed to be called black?

My husband took the opposing stance. Why should he denounce his mother’s side of the family because society says he has to choose?

Back then, there were no if ands or buts about it. My children would choose. And they’d choose their black side. Because that’s what they’d look like, and that’s what society would label them as anyway. Claiming to be “mixed” felt like a shot at me. As if it wasn’t a good thing to be called what I’m called.

But then my daughter was born. Her skin as light as my husbands and eyes as dark as mine. She’s a beautiful mix of both of us and I the thought of making her choose one side–My side–seems wrong.

She’ll grow up facing questions I never had to deal with. The oh too common “what are you?” question on the playground will come up time and time again. While no harm is intended I can understand how it would feel embarrassing at first, or sound extremely rude to people like me. But the more multiracial people I meet, the more I’m hearing they got used to it, and would just smile and explain.

According to the census bureau, by 2050, minorities will be the majority with the number of mixed-raced children is on the rise. I don’t know what it’s like to be biracial but I’ve met some who told me they felt like they had to choose a side in order to fit in, or feel accepted my family members or social groups. A section of this TIME article calls this the “forced-choice dilemma.”

It goes on to say that these days mixed-raced children don’t feel the need to choose a side but share their background with pride.

Seeing more and more interracial marriages around me, and more mixed-raced children in result, I can see the forced-choice problem as a dying dilemma. I’ve decided to squash it at my house.

I may choose her dinners, wardrobe, and even try to choose her social circles; but today I’ve decided I won’t make her choose my race over her own.

Hi! I’m Jennifer Borget


I'm a part-time journalist, full-time wife and mother striving to make the world a better place and inspiring others to do the same. This is the space where I share my journey in making the most of every day.

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