Journalistic Integrity...

So, yeah, I spend my days copy editing a daily newspaper. I've been there a little over a year and I like it a whole lot less than I did when I started. Sure, the commute is a hassle, the wicked weather that often is Upstate New York in the winter and my different every day schedule that reads more like a retail one are all trying, but those are minor annoyances compared to what make sitting behind the copy desk so arduous. What really, really makes me want to scream on a daily basis is the journalistic standards we don't uphold.

I knew I'd never get rich in journalism, but I got two degrees in it anyway and made it my livelihood. I managed to keep roof over head as a single parent for years when my son was in grade school by taking pictures for, writing in or editing for somebody's publication for years. Often, that involved working a few freelance gigs on the side (like I said, this field is not about the big, fat paychecks), but bringing stories to the masses via staffing or stringing for a newspaper, ezine or print magazine was always a part of the mix. It's not just what I do but who I am.

Sometimes, my side gigs involved teaching college students this fine art. From darkroom fixer-to-water ratios to the wonders of the AP Stylebook and media literacy, I've spent lots of time behind a podium giving instruction. Suffice to say my instructors taught me well and I've done my best to pass that onto the students in which I've given instruction over the last 25 years.

But what I'm seeing on a regular at my copy desk now often flies in the face of one of the most basic tenants of journalism: fair and balanced coverage. See, like justice, journalism is also supposed to be blind and present the information as is.

The publication I now edit has a basic rule about coverage: all fires, major police busts, or anything that involves loss of life, even if it is 60 miles away and on the very outskirts of our coverage area, is to be covered always. Unfortunately, good news that happens in those same areas is often not even mentioned, which creates a huge problem: if you only report bad news about a particular area, you run the risk of totally slanting the coverage and your "fair and balanced" coverage goes right out of the window.

Think about it: if you live in a rural area and all you ever hear about the neighboring cities is bad news, what does that do to you perception of the place? Exactly. It's uneven at best and ethically unsound at worst - yet it's regularly encouraged by management, so much so that no one really even bats an eye about it much.

It hurts to see things we are supposed to stand for ignored, it really does.

As nice as it is to be gainfully employed - as I've grown quite accustomed to eating on a regular basis - I travel to a windowless office daily to do something that goes against most journalistic principles I have. That's a horrible place to be, y'know?

It will make an interesting "what not to do" example for my students someday, though...

Michael Brown: A Conversation With my Son

OK, I tried to avoid it, but now I hafta write about the Ferguson situation.

Yes, I'm a mom who with a son who is only two years older than Michael Brown, the young man who was shot to death by a police officer less than two weeks ago.

As an editor, I spend lots of time each day sifting through wire stories about the unrest and police activity going on in that small town in Missouri. And because there is a television in my workspace, I'm also able to catch press conferences and the like during the day as well.

I gotta tell say this is making me sick.

Lesley McSpadden (R) and Michael Brown Sr. (L), 
parents of 18-year-old Michael Brown,

I'm not going to wax poetic about the travesty that is shooting an unarmed teen to death - not at all.

I won't try to pretend I can do anything but feel helpless when I see the faces of his parents in the photographs that come across my work computer screen.

I will not say how my stomach drops when the footage of the police in riot gear, shields and tanks with scope riffles roll across the television screen.

But I will say this: my son is beginning to stress about it now. And that simply is not OK.

Today, he sent me a text message asking if I'd heard about the latest shooting, this one in St. Louis, which is only a few miles way from Ferguson. His choice of words told me he was upset and not really too sure of what to do with this information.

Turns out he'd spent the last hour or so watching CNN. He'd convinced himself that the latest shooting - specifically the way in which it was covered - was designed to only do one thing: justify the police action (unruly man brandishing a knife is lawfully killed when he refuses to obey a police order). He called it "death by suicide" and couldn't believe how quickly the media jumped on it.

I told him what I tell my journalism students: timeliness - stories of similar vein happening around the same time - is one of  the seven news values that help editors and TV/radio news producers determine if a story should be covered. Because the dissemination of information was a major problem in the tiny hamlet of Ferguson, the larger metropolis of St. Louis did not make the mistake of even tying to appear that there was information being hidden. The press was around because there was breaking news down the street in Ferguson. St. Louis, probably learning from Ferguson's mis-cues, got the information out to the public via the press as soon as they could. Yes, the investigation is ongoing, but transparency is important to help people know what's happening and figure out a way to deal with it.

We chatted for a long time. By the time we were done, he was calmer and a bit more understanding of the process. Yes, he was still upset, but seemed able to find a place to put that, if that makes any sense.

We will talk about it again tomorrow, I'm sure.

But that we have to again tomorrow, is not OK.

Neither is the idea that we even have to have reminder discussions and talk about "what to do if" and think about safer courses of action (he's a martial artist, too).

That is the legacy of situations like this, unfortunately. teachable moments are usually one-shot deals, not gifts that keep on giving.

I feel that sinking thing that lets me know I can't protect him anymore from everything.

And it absolutely sucks...

It Ain't Her Fault

Allergic to stupidity...

What do you get when a few journalists together in a newsroom and a poorly written press release about an attempted rape comes off the fax machine?

Lively debate.

Here's the scenario: the police beat reporter mentioned that the release included a comment from the district attorney's office about the party the victim went to the night she was attacked and that she may have - GASP! - actually consumed alcohol at said party. The release said she was asleep when her attacker snuck into her room and tried to rape her. Yep - asleep. Not "passed out." Not "highly inebriated." Not "sloppy drunk." Just. Asleep.

The reporter and I had the same question: why was it necessary to mention that she'd gone to a party and possibly drank the night she was a victim of a violent crime?

We saw it like this: had the crime been an attempted robbery and she asleep when it occurred, would the fact that she drank have been mentioned? Honestly, I was surprised they did not mention the type of nightgown she was wearing during the attack.

The other two editors didn't agree. They did not see the terms "alcohol" and "party" as faulting the victim, but only as indicators that she was unable to defend herself. "It just goes to illustrate what a scum this guy really is because he attacked someone who obviously could not defend herself," the desk editor said.

Remember, the information said ASLEEP.  Not DRUNK. Another editor said the wording used probably showed that she was drunk because if she wasn't, she might have been able to fight back. A sleeping person, he said, would surely have been able to react.

But nowhere in the info we got did it say she was unable to react. Or that she didn't. That seemed to me to be total speculation.

And as a result, the reporter did not want to include it in the story. The desk editor overruled her - but suggested that she discuss it with the managing editor if she still had a problem with it. The words were still hanging in a bubble above us - like in a cartoon - and the reporter was out of her chair and on her way to do just that. And guess what? It was decided it was OK to include the info about the party as long as it was attributed to the DA who said it.

And my mouth is still hanging open.

Let me fill in some blanks: the other two editors and the managing editors are male. The reporter and I are not.

Did that have anything to do with the idea that the three of them didn't quite seem to get the victim blaming/slut shaming the DA was trying to push via the release? I'm sure it had a lot to do with it.

And I was HOT for the rest of the daggone day.

Just so we're clear, it is never ok to make the victim of any crime the reason s/he was the victim. I have a real problem with the idea that women in sexual assault situations are somehow the exception. What she wore, what she consumed, whether she kissed the assailant are TOTALLY irrelevant when force is involved or a "no" is ignored.

Asleep in your bed in your own home seems like a place to assume you are relatively safe. The assumption of fault on the part of the sleeper is a stretch in my book.

But, I'm sure the DA is betting that more folks in the possible jury pool will be swayed to think that somehow, the victim does bare some onus because, well, she had the audacity to go to a party and possibly drink the night she was attacked. And you know what? The DA might be right.

And that's a total, total shame, IMHO...

Just a regular news day...

Do you ever hear people say that all the media ever covers is BAD news?

You know, I use to argue tooth and nail that such WAS NOT the case. I spent countless hours in front of a classroom full of journalism students, chatting at parties and via Facebook posts telling anyone who would listen that journalists do not create the news, we just tell you what happened.

With my son now in his third year of college, his hefty tuition and dorm fees have forced me to again leave freelancing behind. Today, I am employed as a copyeditor for an upstate newspaper. I see a lot of how stories are chosen for each day's edition, which, of course, I already knew having worked at different times as a reporter, a photojournalist and an editor for newspapers before. I also have quite a bit of say as to what national and state stories run as well (although not so much for the local stories), but suffice to say that the process has started to make me see things on the "what news appears" front a bit differently.

We cover every single fire, accident, fatal situation (accidental or homicide), robbery and fraud story that happens in a five- and sometimes six-county area. Seriously, the local page looks like a who's who in area crime, with an occasional school board or town council meeting thrown in for good measure.

So am I saying that there is no good news that happens there ever? Reading the paper, you'd probably say "Yep."

I still stand by the adage that journalists do not make the news. But I also know that our obligation is to present a fair and accurate account of the goings-on. Fires, murders, rapes, robberies - they are EASY to find, because the police send a press release about it or info as to where the fire is happening comes directly to us via a scanner. We couldn't ignore it if we tried - but it definitely effects the "fair and balanced" part of the equation by presenting an image that is mostly bad. Sadly, my employer isn't the only media outlet doing that (seriously, turn on the 5PM or 11PM television news and note the first 10 stories covered. I bet you money that 90% of them are bad news). The question I wish more producers and more editors would ask is this: Why is Breaking News - the stuff so important we must interrupt everything else to tell you about it - always, always, ALWAYS bad news? How about more of an effort to give us the not so bad news happening out there? Can't we spend even half the amount of time looking for the feel-good stuff - the boy scout walking the elderly lady across the street or the barber who runs a mentoring program for teens on the side - as we do the horrible tragedies?

Would it be so terrible to cover as much good news as bad news for a change?

The city where my employer is located is about 15 percent African-American, yet NOT ONE story of any Black History month event ran during the entire month of February. And not one feature or even minuscule coverage of a Women's History Month event ran during the whole of March either. Seriously - not one story at all. Not fair or balanced in IMHO.

I'm not saying that the bad stuff isn't news, but I think those of us who put that paper together have an obligation to find that balance by looking a whole lot harder for the good stuff. And one feature a week on the Life Section page barely scratches the surface...

What do you think: is the media becoming a beacon of bad news by covering all the scary stories but neglecting the good?

An Open Letter

Dear - well, you know who you are…

The saying "It takes a village to raise a child" means EVERYONE in the village, not everyone except you. Amazing how special you think you are. You aren't. Not even a little.

If a person says they will help then doesn't, it's reprehensible. Either find a way or a willingness to help or keep the promises out of your mouth. See, when you don't come through, the rest of the village is forced to pick up your slack, whether they want to or not. Unlike you, watching the child go under is just not an option for the rest of us.

And just so you know, real adults handle their business. Real adults do what they have to do to make a way out of no way. Real adults may get tired, but they don't do lazy. Sitting around scratching your ass is not an acceptable answer. Real adults get off of theirs and make things happen.

Seriously, you disgust me.

I hope that, for your sake, everyone is not as disgusted with your shenanigans as I am. I hope that when they pick out your long-term care facility or nursing home, they find some way to remember human quality you once had so they will not put you away in a roach motel. Even if they don't, you need to start making reparations now so you will have an occasional visitor then.

Let me wrap this up by reminding you of this: that you are fooling no one - especially not me. If whomever writes your eulogy was taught the same thing my mom taught me about what to say if you can't say something nice, there may be lots of awkward silence during your service. Perhaps a musical selection could be inserted instead. Good luck with that.

Enjoy the rest of your miserable existence,

Felicia

Deliberation

As the mother of a teen son who looks an awful lot like Trayvon Martin, the trial over his murder is very emotionally draining for me - so much so that I cannot yet even write about it. Because it needs to be talked about, here is a guest post from a friend who sums up that thing that I just can't verbalize quite yet very eloquently:

Imitation of Life
by Dena Williams

Well…it’s over – the presentation of the case against George Zimmerman for the murder of Trayvon Martin. The pundits continue to speak, analyze, debate, fuel the contentiousness and profit from this horrendous display of brutality, but here is the thing: they can’t tell me what my life experiences have taught me.

It took all I had to follow and listen to this case dispassionately. I had to. I wanted to divorce myself from the hateful contention of racism and prejudice. I listened as though my own life and the lives of people of color I know depended on it. And it does. Not solely because we could die and often times we do as a result of how we look, but because no matter what we do, how we change our language to speak “properly,” take finishing classes so that we can present ourselves with polish, “professionalism” and etiquette, the burden is always on us to “fit in,” to not be offensive, to not be aggressive. The pressure is on us to blend in, to be likeable. These things, we are told, are the pillars of a successful and productive life – just like George Zimmerman put the pressure on Mr. Martin to fit into what he thought a responsible adult should look like and who had the right to be in that community. There is the rub – and the critical failure of humanity.

My (our) Black skin always puts me behind the eight ball. The quality and content of my character will never be the foremost thing that determines the quality of my existence on this earth. It will, at most, be a mitigating factor which allows non-Black people to learn to live with people who look like me.

When the prosecution and defense teams finally stopped speaking, the Trayvon Martin case reduced me to tears because, as I thought about a profiling incident that happened to me when I was a dorky, teenaged, co-ed in a pink hooded college sweatshirt, it hit me: IT COULD HAVE BEEN ME. It hit me very deeply and personally as I recalled the racism I experienced personally and professionally, the accusations hurled at folks who look like me for just walking into a room. I cried as I looked at Mr. Martin’s parents, who are equally guilty of being Black and birthing a Black child. It’s hurtful because it is doubtful that anyone who has not experienced it will ever understand in the depths of their hearts the loss we suffer because we are born Black. Before we make even a single movement we are judged and convicted. We spend our existence having to counteract the effects of the thought process of non-Black people. We lose our lives and our livelihoods as well as the opportunity to live in quiet, clean and orderly environments. We lose the chance to be educated and afforded the opportunity to choose for ourselves our activities. We loose these things because the people in control of the distribution of resources are not Black.

All we are guilty of is being present before the non-Black people can be off to the races with their assumptions, based upon superficial things that may not reflect our mindset or intentions toward them – just like George Zimmerman was with Mr. Martin. I cannot, in clear conscious, accuse him of purposely setting out to kill Mr. Martin. There simply isn’t enough evidence of that. But I can convict him of profiling and being responsible for killing a human being who was only guilty of being present. Because of his white skin tone, George Zimmerman gets the benefit of the doubt – and he gets to live. Mr. Martin and Black people do not get the benefit of the doubt.

The idea of privacy is something that white people hold onto as a “right,” but Black people are not so naïve as we’ve never had that luxury. People have always taken what was in our possession – our bodies, our children, our family members – and they’ve always listened to our conversations. George Zimmerman was not forced to explain why he did not retreat if he feared for his safety and life, but Mr. Martin was supposed to retreat; he was supposed to just “go home.” He was never afforded the benefit of the doubt that he was in danger – a danger that proved to be very real, because he is dead. He was correct to characterize Zimmerman as a “creepy-ass cracker.” He symbolized his fear and concern, and he is dead. There is no stronger argument for Mr. Martin’s defensive actions that got him shot.

Therefore, my people, we are all at danger, all the time.

© 2013 Dena Williams

"Cindy" for Sandy: A CrossFit Adventure

I love a good challenge as much as the next person - so, yes, when one of my karate students invited us to CrossFit New Windsor to participate in a fund-raiser to help the American Red Cross help victims of Hurricane Sandy, I jumped at the chance.

Before today, I was only a little familiar with CrossFit - and that familiarity came from hearing a few folks discuss it in the grocery store once, seeing a bit of a CrossFit Championship Challenge on ESPN a few months ago and checking out a friend's pics and posts about it on Face Book. What I found out from CrossFit New Windsor owner Frank Volpe was that it's all about improving fitness. "It's where you come to learn how to move your body correctly," he said.

CrossFit workouts are designed to condition the entire body with a combination of plyometrics, weights and other exercises, taking what you can do - like the "Cindy" fund-raiser workout that involved a circuit of pull-ups, push-ups and air squats - for a specific amount of time. Individuals race against the clock to "get 'er done" and try improve with each workout. Improvement means an increase in work capacity which means fitness improvement as well. Sounds like fun, right? Believe me, it is.

Volpe says anyone can start CrossFit regardless of the kind of shape they are in or even if they've never really worked out before. Unlike p90X or "Insanity" workouts, trainers guide you through each exercise, focusing first on safe movement, then consistency of movement and finally intensity. But it still forces you to dig deep to beat the clock. And did I mention there is a different, female-monikered workout each day? "You'll never do the same workout twice," adds Volpe. "Our motto is 'get comfortable with being uncomfortable.'"

Whether crack-of-dawn (morning), after lunch, early evening or pre-prime-time workouts are your thing, CrossFit New Windsor has anywhere from three to six class times to chose from on weekdays and one each on Saturdays and Sundays. And, being so easy to get to from almost anywhere in the Orange County area (located at the Stewart Gym, 343 Sue Kelly Avenue in New Windsor at Stewart Airport - directly across the street from the Orange County Police Academy), there really aren't any excuses NOT to try a class (especially since the first one is free).

Head on over to Cross Fit New Windsor. You really will be glad you did.

Invisible Man

Yesterday on my way to the gym, I saw a young man - maybe a year or two older than my own son - sitting near the traffic light with a "Homeless - please help if you can" sign. He had no gloves and was literally shaking from the cold. And trust me, it was pretty cold here last night.

I only had a dollar on me, which I gave him, but I had already made up my mind I was coming back before he even thanked me. I went home, found a pair of gloves and a scarf stuffed in the closet from last winter and found a blanket we'd gotten years ago as a commemorative prize and brought them back to the traffic light. The young man was so appreciative. While we were talking, a woman drove up, handed him a bag and a $5 bill. He thanked her and told her to drive safely. As she drove away, he looked in the bag and almost cried when he saw what was in it. "I can't believe she brought me SOCKS!" he said as he slipped off his boots and put them on over the little ankle ones he had on. I can't tell you how humbling it was to watch this young man who had just told me he had no idea where he was going to be sleeping tonight get so excited over a new pair of long socks.

We talked for a few more minutes and he told me now he happened to be without roof overhead and out in the cold. His story was a simple one and could easily happen to anyone. One day he had a place to live and the next day he didn't - it really was just that simple.

I asked him what he needed and he said the most pressing things were the simple things: toothpaste, a folding toothbrush and clean boxer shorts (he wears a size 32). He used to have a tent where he would sleep when he couldn't find a shelter or other indoor place, but it had been stolen. It hurt my heart to think about how cold it might get tonight and how he might have to endure it with nothing but the little blanket he'd just been given.

Getting protein on a regular was difficult, he said, but what he misses most about not having a place to call his own was being able to take a hot shower and having a cold fridge in which to store food. "You have no idea how much I miss having a fridge," he told me.

In my head, I saw that young man's face - especially how cold it looked when I first saw him and how incredibly happy a small display of kindness from a passing stranger made it when the woman passing by handed him the socks - all night. The reality is that no matter his circumstances, he is someone's son and used to be someone's neighbor, classmate and friend. There's something incredibly tragic about that, I think.

If my own son or any of my neighbors, classmates or friends ever needs a helping hand from a stranger, I hope they get it, I really do.

You don't have to have a lot to be nice to someone. Kindness costs nothing but time. Spend some today.

Greetings from Snootyville!

Just got word from a co-worker that one of the parents of a client I work with considers me SNOOTY. I work with juveniles in crisis and this parent and I went to high school together 30 years ago. Not only was he a year older, but he was in none of the accelerated classes I was in nor was he one of the standout performers on the track team that I spent the other half of my waking hours on/around. If his definition of SNOOTY is 17-year-old me with my head burried in a book or training six days a week for hours at a time, then I guess I'm guilty as charged.

Here's the scenario: his kid is in a lot of trouble. Facing criminal charges for a pretty violent act he allegedly perpetrated, he also stands the risk of being removed from his home because the arrest for that crime violated his existing probation. Dad seems to think I'm not being supportive enough in court because I don't sit with the family while we're waiting to be called by the judge. I'm not an attorney, mind you, just a case planner trying to make sure he is doing all the stuff the court has asked him to do. But my day doesn't stop just because I'm in court waiting for the judge to finally make it to the bench for this one child. I've got other clients whose needs are just as important, which means I need to text and make calls to coordinate those schedules that I sometimes do in the down time we spend waiting around. It ain't all just about his kid, that's for certain.

Plus, his son has been extremely disrespectful to me in the past, even going so far as to curse me out in the family court waiting room in front of his mother and grandmother because I was telling him stuff about the consequences of non-compliance with the judge's orders that I guess he didn't want to hear. His mom didn't say one word about his behavior, either, other than a half-baked excuse tossed over her shoulder as she jumped up to chase after him.

As his son's Day of Reconning nears, I imagine my former school-mate's family is a little panicked over what might happen to their child. Perhaps I am the convenient scapegoat on whom to blame all that is wrong, who knows? I do hope the family gets what they need, which might involve he and mom stopping for two minutes and realizing that I'm not the one on trial, their child is. The professional that I am will always, always, always do whatever is necessary to assist the families I work with, but there comes a point that they must also be working with me. And their effort should at least match mine, as I don't think it is fair to ask me to go farther or work harder than you are willing to. Neither of us can do it alone. Man up and make your child do what he is supposed to: go to school, report to probation, drug treatment and work. Sitting back and letting him do what he wants will get you nowhere fast. Someone has to be the parent, here - and, as I don't live with him, it can't be me.

Rant over. Ms. SNOOTY signing out...

Pride and Prejudice

My son left this morning at 7:30AM to meet his friends at the train station. They were heading to the Pride Parade in NYC. He was very excited - as it is the first time he's attending ever. I, on the other hand, am a nervous wreck.

He's gone to NYC before with friends. He's even taken the train without me, too. But even though he is heading to one of the most tolerant cities in the world and it is 2012, I'm kind of afraid for his safety.

The reality is that the world is often not a nice place to those who are deemed "different" by societal standards. Besides ridicule and nasty rhetoric, physical violence can also be a reality. It doesn't take a heck of a whole lot to push a crazy, bigoted person over the edge, it really doesn't.

I know I hugged him goodbye, smiled and waved as he pulled out of the driveway to connect with his buddies, but I'll literally be on pins and needles until he pulls back in. Seriously.

He's almost 19. Is there an age or a point where the mommy worry switch gets flipped off? Sigh...

Legacy

This has been a heck of a year so far. I've lost several friends and acquaintances to breast cancer and several more to heart attacks and accidents. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, a call, email, text or Tweet would come about someone else's passing. The memorials and funerals have truly exhausted me, but they have gotten me thinking about legacy a lot more than ever.

My reality is this: I am a breast cancer survivor. Since there is absolutely no cure for this disease, the chance that it could come back with a vengence and take me away from my family is very real. Other than some meories and a few blog posts, what will be left of me after I'm gone? And what will those life left-overs say about me and what I did with my time here on earth?

The frineds whom I lost recently ranged in age from 21 to 65 years of age. Their legacies include their children, their writing, their advocacy and the promise of what life had in store for them had they been here still to live it. They leave behind husbands and wives, children and Internet sisters, girlfriends and parents, relatives and friends who all remembered them "when" - when they were alive and kicking, doing their thing and living life like they had all the time in the world. Sadly, they didn't. How will the memories of who they were live on?

A few days ago, I was asked to write a bio for a presentation this spring. I was warned that writing about myself can be difficult - which I already knew, but I really had no idea why until I sat down to write this particular bio. Most of the people reading it will know me from the world of martial arts, although the award is for teaching outside the dojo. The truth is that I'm more than just a teacher and a karateka, but if you only see me in a gi or behind the podium in a lecture hall, you'd be none the wiser. The difficulty in writing about all you do and all you are, I found, is all about what NOT to include. Who wants their bio to read like they are a superhero?

But isn't that what we all are? Nobody just does one thing all their life - be that world politics, a more mundane day job or heading a fabulous yearly fund-raiser/event. We're all much more of a multi-faceted entity than how we can describe ourselves to someone we're meeting for the first time.

So this is who I am: mom, wife, advocate for at-risk youth, college professor, karate student and instructor, track coach, former soccer coach, dancer, drummer, rabid Prince fan, editor, writer, publisher, photographer, track star, best friend, payer of tuition, chief cook and dishwasher, dog walker, cat litter scooper, blogger, dreamer - still, none of them completely capture my essence.

What I want people to know about me when I am no longer here for them to get to know for themselves is not the sound of my voice or my love of R&B. I want folks to know about my passion for doing what is right - be it in the dojo or with people who expect to learn something from me in the classroom or for folks who stumble across my breast cancer blog. I want people to know that I felt things while I was here - and that I tried my best to do something to help right as many wrongs as I could.

I've learned a little something from every person I've ever come in contact with, too. All of it - the good and the bad - have helped mold me into the person writing this today. As I learn more lessons, I have come to understand that I am still a work in progress - and I hope to be until the day I draw my last breath.

Thanks for being a part of my progress, dear reader. Thanks for letting me be a part of yours, too. But thanks mostly to the wonderful souls who have gone on. The facets you let shine were appreciated more than you could ever know.