Saturday, January 18, 2014

. A New Day .

I've decided to leave Turn Around and Say Hello for a new venture. I hope you'll follow me there.

You can find me at www.teamthumann.com.

I'll probably leave this blog up for awhile, and then, eventually, take it down.

Thank you all so much for your continued love and support.

Becky

Saturday, January 11, 2014

. Trendy McTrenderson .

I've noticed a trend lately - a lot of blogs are starting to look the same. It's disheartening to see some of the "big time blogs" allll doing the same ol' thing. In fact, I've taken several of them off of my bookmark list.

I adore lists, so here are six things that I'm annoyed with lately:

1) Gold circle stickers. They're everywhere. I've seen them appear on at least four blogs. Major blogs. Big ones. House of Smith. Jones Design Co. [Love them. Hate the stickers.] The stickers are everywhere and suddenly I want gold circle stickers and there's not one dang gold thing in my house.

*Shudder*

I don't do gold.

2) Glossy red lipstick. Hold the ho train up for a second. If red ain't your color, don't buy it. Someone needs a smack or two from their momma. Just because 8,000 people are blogging about how they love red lipstick, that doesn't mean that you need to love it, too. Put the red lipstick down. And put the gold circle stickers down, too.

3) Perfectly pictured wrapped presents. Lawd. Sometimes I think women spend more money on wrapping paper than they do the gift. And then they place them around their picture perfect tree and then ... gasp ... they blog about how picture perfect everything is.

And hold up a minute. Is it about the gift? Is it about the wrapping paper? No. C'mon man.

4) Wreaths. Gracious sakes, I've seen the same pom-pom wreath tutorial about 9,000 times. Are you like me? Would you rather just buy the wreath than make 45 white pom poms from yarn and then artfully arrange them on a wreath mold thing? I bet you're like me.

5) Chalkboard everything.  Do you know how hard chalkboard paint is to paint over? Yea. They don't tell you that, do they? Nope. They sure don't.

6) Picking a word for the year. What does that even mean? Why would you condense your year into one word? Why would you even try? And believe me ---- I've read the rationale, and honey, I still don't get it. What if you want to pick two words? And why are the words so vague? Play? Love? Hope? Rely? Wtf does it all even mean?!

Since I still adore lists (and I really don't adore being such a negative nelly), here are five things that you should definitely read:

1) Little Reminders of Love. Because I love her. And red lipstick IS in her color palette and good gracious, she's good. So good.

2) LLH Designs. "Insecurity's best cover is perfectionism." Nailed it.

3) The Bauble Department. Girl and her huz bought a boat, quit their jobs, and ... well. You can read the rest. And read the rest. Please.

4) Defining My Happy. This lovie wrote her latest blog post in her fake Halloween glasses because they make her feel more official. I really like that about her.

5) Flower City Fashionista. Despite the fact that I am anything BUT a fashionista (I'm writing this in jeans and a fleece pullover, for heaven's sake), I super love Jenny. The linked post is one of my absolute favorites. Being a grown up is hard work, sista.

xo, B.

. Six Month Check Up .

Things I know for sure: 

1) Small Objects = Massive Pain: Toy trucks? Awesome. Rattles? Perfect. Square shaped blocks? Even better. Lay all of those out on the floor while you're trying to distract a distraught six month old and suddenly, you have a minefield of pain. It only takes one time to step on a triangle block before you decide your kid needs to have the best imagination ever because they don't get to play with anything anymore.

2) Poop Gate Is A Real Place: And we've been there. Twice. I thought I was being Super Mom when I decided TT would take the eight hour road trip to Chicago on in style - onsie style. Our kid gets super hot in his carseat. [Sidenote: Is that a problem with everyone else? How do you deal?] We put him in baby leggings, so if he got hot, we could take them off. I thought I was being so smart. 

And that's when it usually happens, don't you know. When you think you've totally nailed that parenting thing. Right? 

And then you're suddenly three hours from home and your baby poops like a man and the carseat is full of grossness and you're standing in a gas station (or Lowe's the second time) parking lot laughing so hard you about pee yourself as your husband begrudgingly cleans up a giant Poop Gate mess. 

3) Sneezing is Funny: Tuck has recently started to eat out of his highchair. That whole hot mess is a different story altogether, but the kicker here? Not only is your kid going to get messy, but you are, too. Because the first time he gets bananas up his nose, he's going to sneeze. And he's going to sneeze at the precise moment that you put another spoonful of bananas in his mouth. And that banana mush is going to go alllllll over - not just you, but the highchair, the walls, the ceiling fan, the cabinets, and the floor. And then, he's going to laugh. Because sneezing is funny. [You'll laugh, too. Trust me.]

4) The Favorite Toy Dilemma: Order more than one of your kid's favorite toy. I lost Tuck's favorite wubbi one night. Pandemonium ensued. The next day, I ordered two more - just to be on the safe side. And then, we got home only to find his favorite wubbi in the washer. Of course. 

5) Everything Bad Happens At Night: Whatever "bad" it is, usually involves stumbling your half awake self into the nursery and tripping over a toy block or truck, or - my absolute favorite - whacking your foot on the rocking chair. It's not going to matter if there's a night light. It's not even going to matter if the hall light is on. Because every dim light at 1:45 a.m. is like the sun shining in your squinting eyes and your one half eye open isn't going to see anything. Not even the dog. 

6) It's all worth it. Trust me. 



xo, B. 

Sunday, November 24, 2013

. Sunday Words .


  • I read Meg Fee. Do you? If you don't - you definitely should. She's intelligent and so, so gifted. She always has a section - "What I'm Listening To" - and I love it. It's always something different than what I'm listening to. Anyway, tonight, it's Sara Bareilles. The cut of the piano ... I just can't get over it. 


  • Have you played around at all with Luvocracy? It's like some kind of shopping website ... only like Pinterest. I'm not quite sure what I'm doing yet, but here you go. By the looks of things? I'm way, way late to the par-tay.
  • Have you been watching the Hallmark Channel? I can't stop myself. It's like one low budget movie after another and I just can't look away. They've been playing Christmas movies non-stop for what seems like weeks now and I'm kind of ashamed to say that I'm okay with it. 
  • I'm sort of over Facebook lately. Is there anyone else out there that's feeling me? I think I've said it 100 times in the past three weeks - if it weren't for my family? I'd leave that Facebook thing behind like Bestie Betsy and I left behind Piggy from The Blind Date From Hell. What is it about our generation that makes us feel like we need to over-share? And I'm guilty, too. Heavens. Way guilty. But really, what's up with us? And don't even get me started about the people that have been all up in my biz this week that just ... don't need to be. Ya know? 
  • The besties and I had a girl's night last night, and dang ... we had a good time. I'm talking like belly laughs and hands banging on the table trying to catch our breath. We FaceTime'd with some friends a town away that were at a bar ... played on Tinder (which .... WHAT is that?!) ... and generally just made awesome choices. I love us, and there is nothing - NOTHING - that quite tops a girl's night. 
  • Do yourself a favor. Make an Avett Brothers station on Pandora. Try not to rock out in your kitchen while making spaghetti on a Saturday night. I double dog dare you. 
I love you, 

Bec

Saturday, November 23, 2013

. The Saturday 1-2-3 .

1. Narratively: Human Stories, Boldly Told ...

{From their website: Narratively is a community of talented storytellers who are devoted to uncovering and sharing in-depth local stories with a universal appeal.}

2. Today I Found Out ...

{Because he was batshit crazy. And anyone that watches The Following (on Fox with Kevin I-Love-Him Bacon) knows that he inspires seriously crazy cult-like behavior (Edgar, not Kevin) and I'll never, ever, ever read The Tell-Tale Heart the same way ever again. So. That's that.}

3. The Minimalists ... I love them.

{From their website: Ryan pauses for a moment to let it all sink in. Two-thirds of the crowd is nodding with vigor, the other third looks skeptical. Ryan blinks hard from the stage lights and continues, “If this all sounds a little preachy, I’m sorry. I am not here to preach to you. I’m not saying that you have to do—or that you should do—anything. The truth is that I know many of you are just like me. You’re unhappy with the status quo, unhappy with what you’re supposed to do with your life, just unhappy with the way things are. And so was I. But then I chose to circumvent the status quo. And so can you.”}

xo, B.

PS - Google images for "honest slogans" ... funny.

Monday, November 18, 2013

. Boys for Breakfast: Chapter Three! .

Pardon me for the space between chapters. I've been writing all of this after ten p.m. each night. After the dishwasher, after the bebe, after the grading, lesson plans, and committee work ... I have this. And I'm so excited that I do.

Special thanks again to Ruth Phillips Oakland {her book HERE}, Lucy Parker, and new on board -- my friend Kristi, who helped HERE and HERE. Love them.

Did you miss the first chapter? The second? Find them HERE.

Love you like I love my new, super UNCRACKED iPhone.

Bec

---

Chapter Three:

Locke spent the night.

Like I said. I’m weak.

For a moment there, I thought maybe if I just shut my eyes tightly enough, or if I sighed in just the right places, things might just be what they once were. You know, in those first few months? When everything was just perfection? When we were sitting at that dining room table in Little Italy and the only thing we could think about was when we would be laying in bed together later that night? When he looked over his wine glass at me as he ordered and it felt like he was appraising me … and not the menu? When his fingers reached across the table and lightly – just ever … so … lightly … traced over my grandmother’s ring on my finger?

I wore my red coat that night, and on our way home, he stopped me in the middle of a crosswalk. In the middle of the people passing through, cutting around us, and in the middle of the traffic noise, he told me I was beautiful.

Maybe if I traced up and down his back slowly enough … dragged my nails lightly enough … pushed him to slow down, to relish, to remember those first few days together …

There was a day we shared in the park. It was raining. I think we might’ve been on our way home from work, and I think I had on my yellow rain boots. I was in this big hurry. My hair was already a mop – soaking wet and my fingers were freezing. But he slowed me down, tugged at my waist, pulled me closer to him. And there, in the middle of the park – he showed me what it was to go slow.

Here in this cheap hotel room, where I could only smell the bad soap in the bathroom and could hear the icemaker in the hallway – this wasn’t the Locke I had loved.

No.

As my foot dragged up his calf, and as his lips found mine once ... maybe twice, I realized that this wasn’t him at all.

It wasn’t until the flight home, when I had completely gorged myself on bad airplane food, too many carbohydrates, and one too many glasses of wine that I finally figured out that no, no it sure wasn’t enough for me.

A girl likes to feel like she’s the only one.

Even if the other option is a girl with burnt, fake blonde hair and an ill-fitting pencil skirt.

A girl likes to feel like she’s the most important, the most sacred.

Even if the other option is the Ambrosias of the world.

A girl doesn’t like to feel like she’s settling.

You know, I’ve determined throughout the course of my dating life that there is a certain need, on my part, to let things go on my own terms. When I couldn’t control Locke at his office with that white-trash whorebag, I went into a tailspin. For three months, I moped around and waited for him to call me.

And then he didn’t. And then, I took a chance on love and flew to see him.

And you know what? He was still the same guy. He was that guy at the party that everyone loved to be around. When the hair flopped into his eyes and he pushed it away, he was the guy at the party that every girl wanted to take home. And he was the guy that would forever be an enigma.

And it didn’t hit me, you know? It didn’t hit me until I was halfway home from the airport in some dirty cab that smelled like the corner deli … olives and pickled grossness.

Locke Sullivan didn’t need me.

And that was the most freeing thought – I wanted someone that needed me. I wanted someone that needed me every single day. I wanted someone that missed me, called me, loved me. And that man wasn’t Locke.

And that’s exactly how I felt as I lugged my 800 pound suitcase back home in the dark. I felt like I was settling with a man that kind of thought I was kind of interesting, and really thought I was just easy … someone to hang on his arm at business dinners, someone to make polite conversation with at various functions, someone to moan at just the right time, sigh at just the right time, and “finish” at just the right time.

I flipped the light on in my little studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen and turned on my Bose Soundlink. Things were going to get real … real fast.

I tossed my hair into a pony and dropped my suitcase handle inside the door. Bruce Springsteen started singing about Glory Days and I pulled my plant out of the sink. I chewed my lip and contemplated calling my mom.

For what? I mused. What was she going to say? What could anyone say? Looks like you really just wasted a year of your life on a broken Locke? Funny.

I leaned against the windowsill and stared out at the twinkling lights. Of all of the people in this flipping city … I find him. It’s like Disaster always found me - hunted my ass down.

In the space between songs, I huffed out a deep breath and went to my closet. I pulled out a glittering party dress and dialed Laur.

“Get dressed, biyotch. We’re going out.” I turned on the shower and waited for it to get warm. I was dying to get this sheen of airplane off of my skin.

Laurent was chewing on something. Wasn’t it past dinnertime? I had no idea. I was still halfway between Spain and Home and my head was fuzzy with repressed irritation at Locke.

Swallowing, she asked what the occasion was.

“I just feel like letting off some steam.” I picked through my shoes and found the heels I was looking for.

“What kind of dress?” I heard silverware hitting the sink. I knew it would be days before her dishes would be washed. Laur and I had tried to live together in those first few months we were in the city. It didn’t work out. She was a hot mess when it came to organizing … and dishes … and laundry.

“Slutty with just a touch of I’m not interested.” I looked at the black number hanging on my bathroom door.

Laur let out a heavy sigh. “Sounds like the kind of night my liver will not appreciate in the morning.”

I tugged off my leggings and sweater. “I’ll be over an hour.” I looked at the clock in the bathroom. It was almost ten p.m.

“Sounds like you mean business. I’ll get ready.” I could hear her own shower start in the background.

You know? That’s why I like Laurent. She’s always up for letting off some steam. And I’ve got some steam.

An hour and a half later, she took one look at me knew what was up. “You slept with him?” Her eyes were wide as she toed on a heel.

“Couldn’t help myself,” I muttered. “He’s a man that knows how to push my buttons. He knows I just can’t say no.” Suddenly, the bottom of my wine glass was oh-so-interesting.

“Last I checked, it was pretty simple. How about ‘Uh, no thanks, not while there are half naked girls answering your damn door.’ Doesn’t seem that hard, Lettie.” She poured herself another glass. 

“Ugh! I know! And I felt like such a pushover! Do you know I’ve been home for like four hours now and haven’t contacted him? We’re supposed to be a couple and he didn’t even wonder if I’d made it back okay. Who does that? What kind of man just … isn’t concerned?” I took another drink just to calm my hands. I was resolute. I would not call him.

“Locke Sullivan?” She looked at me like I was crazy and zipped the back of her heels. “I’ve told you from Day One that the man is only concerned about one thing …” Her eyes widened. “And it ain’t your eyes, pretty girl.”

I cross my legs on her barstool. I knew exactly what she was talking about. And if I was being honest? I knew it all along.

“I know, I know. God, I just feel so wound up. I just feel like really tying one off tonight, ya know? Really living it up - getting out of control.” I eyed Laurent as I took another drink. “When was the last time we really … got after it?”

Laur stopped what she was doing and stared at me. “Is this one of those nights? One of those nights where I’m going to have to stop you from calling every single man you’ve previously known and your mother? Because if that’s the road we’re headed down, you give me your phone right now. Nothing sucks more than trying to pry your phone from your ear while keeping my skirt from riding up while telling your momma that no, you don’t need to go to the hospital and yes, it’s just a bad case of the flu.”

“One time, Laurent. That happened one time!” I drained my glass and hopped up ready to dance, or walk, or drink, or talk … anything, but sit still.

We found ourselves at a familiar bar in Midtown. Loud music wafted through the speakers and people were standing shoulder to shoulder. Shoving our way to the bar, Laur and I each ordered shot of tequila and an amaretto sour. As we waited, my foot tapped to the beat.

I tossed back the tequila and for once in my life, it actually tasted good. Laur’s face squeezed together as she shook off the sting, and I sucked on a lime.

Yes. It was going to be one of those nights.

Laur took my hand and practically dragged me to the small dance floor that was brimming with people. And that’s where we stayed for a good two hours. My hair was matted to my neck and my feet started to get sore. I’d lost track of how many drinks I had, whose hands were on my hips, how many times I’d gone to pee.

It felt good, you know? It felt good to swing my hips to the music, to turn around and see a man look me up and down and smile that little half smile. It felt good to turn back around and give him the cold shoulder. God, it felt good to feel desired.

The bar started to thin out around one. A couple of barstools opened, so Laur and I took a breather. The bartender added two more drinks to our tab and I sucked through my cocktail straw like I was drinking water.

“Does your boyfriend know you’re wearing a dress that short?”

I was facing Laurent and saw her eyebrows rise to her hairline. Then, she sort of did this half-shrug thing that she’s famous for in three states. She was about to leave me. Damn her.

“I need to use the ladies room … I’ll be right back.” She kissed my cheek and, resigned, I turned to face the man standing a touch too close behind me.

“Excuse me?” And there he stood and for a second, I was terrified that I had dribbled my drink down my chin, or that maybe I hadn’t applied enough deodorant, or that I had lime stuck in my teeth … still.

“You know,” he drawled … I couldn’t tell if that was an Irish lilt, or if he was just drunk. “Your dress. Awfully short to be dancin’ around like that.”

“What’s it matter to you?” I raised my chin and sucked on my straw again. A blue button up, dark jeans, luscious, long dark hair and a smoldering – and I do mean smoldering smile … I smacked my lips.

He leaned in much too close to my sweaty self and whispered in my ear. “If you were mine – I’d be dancing with you. He obviously doesn’t know what he has.”

I’d be lying if I said my body didn’t immediately respond. Half of Manhattan responded, I think.

“How do you know there is a he?” I put my empty glass back up on the bar and picked up my clutch.

His eyes raked over me. “Because you’re dancing like he’s been acting the maggot.”

Definitely Irish. Definitely smoking hot.

“Maybe that’s just how we normally roll.” I stood up as if I was about to leave.

As if. It would’ve been some kind of sin against humanity to leave him.

He nodded up at the bartender, who did some kind of man nod in understanding. Magically and much quicker than it had happened in the first part of the night, a drink was produced for me. I eyed it suspiciously.

“Have a drink with me.” His tongue traced his lower lip and I couldn’t deny it – it did look delicious. My drink, I mean. Not his lip.

I sighed.

I had to put up some kind of fight.

“Augustus,” he said, pushing his hand out to me. “Augustus Ryan.” He slid into Laurent’s seat and motioned to my drink after I shook his hand. My panties almost dropped.

“Scarlett.” Last names at 1:30 a.m. in a bar? I don’t think so. This girl’s momma didn’t raise a fool.

“Nice to meet you … Scarlett.” He smirked at me.

I sat back down, silently admitting defeat. What can I say? My interest was piqued. And yours would be too, if you saw his ass in those jeans.

“So if there isn’t a he in the picture, what are we celebrating?” He took a long pull from his Guinness.

I shrugged my shoulders and tried to look impassive or … anything … but drunk. “I just got back from vacation.”

“Ahhh,” was all he said. That was it. Clearly, he wasn’t a conversationalist, but did it matter? No. I’d rather that mouth be put to better use. He stoked his stubble with his long fingers in a maddening way that made me want to feel it on my own fingers.

Seconds ticked by and I sucked again on my cocktail straw. I really should slow down.

I should’ve slowed down two hours ago.

“Not much of a talker, huh, Augie?” I bit my lower lip and pretty much thought I was the most hilarious person this side of Manhattan.

He looked at me with a lopsided grin that I hadn’t noticed before. He leaned forward, yet again in my space, and said, “I’m much better at doing.”

Suddenly, I was even more hot than before. And dizzy. Definitely dizzy. Where the hell was Laurent?

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I retorted, suddenly exhausted by it all. By Spain. My flight. The dancing. His one-liners.

He winced as I stood quickly and had I been sober, I probably would’ve analyzed it a little more closely. “No. Actually I don’t,” he spit out. He sat back on his stool and suddenly, as if conjured by my own thoughts, Laur was there.

“Peter called. I’m going to head back. You going with me or …?” She eyed Augustus Ryan and then looked back at me.

Duty. Friggin duty to Locke Sullivan won out. Above all, I felt as though I had made some sort of idiot commitment to him in Spain, and damn, I was nothing if not faithful. “No, I’m coming with you. We can split a cab.” We linked arms and I leaned heavily on my friend. “Nice to meet you, Augie.”

A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. “You too, Scarlett …?”

I laughed as I turned away. Nothing like knowing you’ve still got it and then nothing like leaving it right on behind, even if what you were leaving behind was a stupid amazing cross between Bradley Cooper, George Clooney (in those good ER years), and a sweet, sweet Gerard Butler.

“Sampson!” Laurent called my last name out over her shoulder. “Scarlett Sampson!”

I could’ve killed her. I probably should’ve – Lord knows she probably deserves it.

By the time we hit the street, I’d already forgotten. Our locked arms steadied both of us as we traipsed down the deserted sidewalks. Laur hailed a cab effortlessly, and soon, we were both quiet and heading back to her apartment.

“You sure you can get back to your apartment? You can sleep on my couch if you need to.” She squeezed my hand.   

I rested my head on her shoulder. “Nah. It’s alright. I’ll be fine.”

Our cab stopped outside her door and she got out just as Peter was arriving. Ever constant Peter. He would make an honest woman out of her if she would just let him, I mused. Each time Savoy left, he came right on back … even though she keeps breaking his heart … he’s still constant.

My eyelids started to get droopy and I sagged against the seat. My feet would be sore tomorrow, but I didn’t care. It felt so, so good to dance – just dance, for once. For the first time in three months, I finally felt a little more like … me.

The next morning – wait … was it the next afternoon? I don’t know. All I know was that it felt like there were ten thousand suns shining right into my half opened right eye. My phone was ringing. And ringing. And ringing again. The only person that calls me that much is my mother.

Half-heartedly, I reached my arm out and moved my hand up and down. Phone. Phone. Phone. How is it possible that it’s so loud, but it’s not right next to my ear?

Finally, finally, I pressed the talk button and blessed silence ensued.

“What?” I croaked. My voice was scratchy from screaming over the music last night.

“Jesus, Scarlett! Where the fuck have you been?”

Locke?

Oh shit. Belatedly, I realized how I was all I am woman, hear me NOT CALL YOU AT ALL last night. I guess he really did care if I made it home or not.

“Mmmm … Laur and I went out.” His voice was much, much too loud and I buried my head deeper into the pillow.

“Damn it, Scarlett! I’ve called you about eight thousand times. Would you mind telling me why you felt it was unnecessary to answer any ONE of those phone calls?”

I could hear him pace.

Meh.

“I didn’t hear my phone.” I cleared my throat and pulled my comforter over my head. I’m pretty sure I still had my dress on.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Oh, my head hurt too much for this bullshit. “Can we talk about this a little later?” I’m sorry, did I miss the, ‘I was worried about you’ speech? No? I didn’t think so.

“Are you out of your ever loving mind, Scarlett?” His breath was coming out in these short, mad gasps. He really was pissed. “Where are your priorities?”

My hangover was sort of clouding my judgment, but this one wild, true, and clear thought banged into my head over and over again like the jackhammer I could hear three streets over: He didn’t need me.

I closed my half-opened right eye.

“Goodbye, Locke.” I hit the end button and shut off my phone.


The last thing I can remember before passing back out was that I wanted a man made me the priority.

. This Man .

"What kind of peace do I mean? What kind of peace do we seek? Not a Pax Americana enforced on the world by American weapons of war. Not the peace of the grave or the security of the slave. I am talking about genuine peace, the kind of peace that makes life on earth worth living, the kind that enables men and nations to grow and to hope and to build a better life for their children -- not merely peace for Americans but peace for all men and women -- not merely peace in our time but peace for all time. I speak of peace because of the new face of war. Total war makes no sense in an age when great powers can maintain large and relatively invulnerable nuclear forces and refuse to surrender without resort to those forces. It makes no sense in an age when a single nuclear weapon contains almost ten times the explosive force delivered by 11 of the Allied air forces in the Second World War. It makes no sense in an age when the deadly poisons produced by a nuclear exchange would be carried by wind and water and soil and seed to the far corners of the globe and to generations yet unborn. 

[...]

"I speak of peace, therefore, as the necessary rational end of rational men. I realize that the pursuit of peace is not as dramatic as the pursuit of war -- and frequently the words of the pursuer fall on deaf ears. But we have no more urgent task.

"Some say that it is useless to speak of world peace or world law or world disarmament -- and that it will be useless until the leaders of the Soviet Union adopt a more enlightened attitude. I hope they do. I believe we can help them do it. But I also believe that we must reexamine our own attitude -- as individuals and as a nation -- for our attitude is as essential as theirs. And every graduate of this school, every thoughtful citizen who despairs of war and wishes to bring peace, should begin by looking inward -- by examining his own attitude toward the possibilities of peace, toward the Soviet Union, toward the course of the cold war and toward freedom and peace here at home. ..."

Excerpt from John F. Kennedy's Commencement Address at American University in Washington, June 10, 1963
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