ENGLISH PAPER

Ropela

HowEverythingTurnsAwayArticle.pdf

Home >English homework help >Article writing homework help >ENGLISH PAPER

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

HOW EVERYTHING TURNS AWAY

How do we know what questions to ask? This is such

a different assignment from the kind I am accustomed to. It’s a

sort of reversal, for me, because each day, as I answer the

cascade of e-mails that come in through my website, or the

letters that publishers forward, I find myself again and again

trying to answer questions. Some of them silly, like “What is

your favorite color?” (which seems to be a favorite of 10-year-

old girls) and some of them irritating, like “How many books

have you written?” – irritating because you want to say, “Don’t

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

you know how to look things up? Don’t they teach “library

skills” any more, for god’s sake?”

Nobody suggests that I ask questions.…or even to

think about the asking of questions.…and yet I think it is the

task of the writer of fiction, always, to ask. But you did. Thank

you for that.

I began preparing this speech when I was on vacation

recently. I actually took my laptop with me to a Caribbean

beach where I was sharing a rented house with a group of close

friends. In fact, though they needled me about the fact that I

was holed up with my computer while they were out snorkeling

and kayaking, the question put to me by the University of

Richmond – “How do we know what questions to ask?” –

provided a lot of dinner table conversation each evening, as

eight people from eight different professions—a Unitarian

minister, a sculptor, a scientist, a restaurant owner, a composer,

among others—argued and debated “how do we know what

questions to ask” and okay, I confess, ate too much and drank a

substantial amount of wine.

I listened to, and participated in, all of those

conversations and I suppose I took bits and pieces of those

opinions each time I went (reluctantly) back to my computer,

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

and maybe I incorporated them into my own thoughts as I

worked.

Then I came home, back to snowy Boston, back to

reality, with my tan fading even as I got off the plane. I dumped

leftover sand out of my sandals and Windexed the spit out of my

snorkeling goggles and put them away, and weighed myself and

decided to go on a diet, and I went back to real life and back to

my computer.

Then I was blindsided. This was about two weeks ago.

The phone started to ring and the e-mails came non-stop.

(Some of them were because I had been a clue….54

across, to be precise….in the New York Times crossword puzzle

the week that I was away. It was amazing how many people do

that puzzle, and of that number, how many of them got in touch

with me. It included a man in Texas whom I last saw when he

was a boy, 50+ years ago, in high school.)

But the thing that whacked me upside the head, as it

were, was something else. There were newspapers and radio

stations calling, asking for a statement, because in two separate

places in the United States…Florida and Missouri, as it

happened…books of mine had incited controversies. People were

taking sides. Hearings were being held. In one case (Lake Wales,

Florida) the book in question, (a light-hearted novel published

way back in 1982) the school board actually voted to ban the

book, to remove it from the school libraries.

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

In Kansas City, a hearing was scheduled for this week

to decide the fate of The Giver. Someone e-mailed me, and I

quote: “The forces of evil are coalescing” (and he was on the

side wanting to retain the book!) Emotions were very high.

So I answered questions, made statements, did

telephone interviews, wrote letters, and for a period of several

days was completely distracted and did not go back to the

speech I’d begun writing.

One morning I checked the Kansas City newspaper to

see what frenzied outbursts had newly appeared, and I read

this, from a woman who wanted to ban The Giver: “The lady

(that would be me) writes well, but when it comes to the ideas

in that book, they have no place in my kid’s head.”

And from another: “Everything presented to kids

should be positive and uplifting...”

And you know the phrase that came to my mind, as I

read those? The phrase I had given the University of Richmond

as a title for this speech:

HOW EVERYTHING TURNS AWAY.

Let me explain that.

I was asked, probably six weeks or so ago, to provide

a title for this talk, and it was much too soon…I had not yet

thought about what I would say. I knew, of course, because it

has been provided to me, what the theme of this series was to

be: “How do we know what questions to ask?”

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

Thinking about that question, (hastily, because I had

to provide a title), I thought: We don’t. We don’t have a clue.

Then I thought: Why don’t we?

And the answer that came to me was: Because we

turn away. A phrase from an Auden poem came to my mind.

(I happen to be a great fan of W. H. Auden. Once, in

fact, at a dinner party, the talk turned to poetry, and a man

sitting on my left—a complete stranger, someone I had never

met before that night—asked me what my favorite line from all

of poetry was. I replied, “Lay your sleeping head, my love,

human on my faithless arm” and he looked absolutely terrified

and quickly turned to the person on his other side).

HOW EVERYTHING TURNS AWAY.

It’s true, I think, that we turn away from things.

We turn away sometimes because it is too painful,

and we don’t want to face it (I have a close friend, a dear and

honorable man, who cannot go to the Holocaust Museum); and

sometimes we turn away simply because it is too hard, and asks

more of us than we have to give.

And sometimes we are simply not paying attention.

The poem by Auden from which the line comes is

called “Musee des Beaux Arts” and the final stanza speaks of an

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

actual painting that hangs in the Museum of Fine Arts in

Brussels.

….In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have

seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

I had quoted it back in 1990, in accepting the

Newbery Medal for Number the Stars a book set in Europe in

1943, a time when too many people turned away.

Suddenly, thinking of that poem, and reading the

words of the frightened people in Kansas City, it all began to

come together in my mind.

I wanted to call up my friends from the preceding

week in the Bahamas—who had all, after our vacation together,

gone their separate ways—and tell them. I didn’t, though. I am

telling you, instead.

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

First, because we don’t have the painting in front of

us, let me describe the scene: It is actually called “Landscape

with the Fall of Icarus” and it’s a complex landscape. A farmer

wearing a bright crimson shirt is guiding a plough behind a

horse in the foreground, and beyond him, past a border of

shrubbery, another man, a shepherd, stands beside his dog

while his sheep graze nearby. Behind him, across a vast bay, a

great city rises, and surrounding the bay, jagged cliffs and

mountains emerge. Several sailing vessels are moving through

the turquoise water; and all of it is bathed in a golden light from

the low sun beyond.

In the lower right hand corner of the painting, in a

place where the sea is dark, shadowed by one of the ships, two

bare legs are visible in the water. You can almost hear the

thrashing sounds and feel the anguish of the drowning boy.

And it’s not just a drowning boy; it’s a colossal

tragedy. He has flown! Up to the sun! His attempt is amazing,

and his failure is monumental; he has flown higher and he has

fallen farther than any human ever has.

And no one is noticing.

They’re too busy, maybe. They’re in a hurry, perhaps.

They have somewhere to get to. Or perhaps it is just too

demanding, too scary, too sad.

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

And the expensive delicate ship that must have seen

Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,

had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

How everything turns away.

Thirty-three years ago my son Ben, then eight years old, took

his pet rabbit, Barney, out of his cage and let him nibble and

scamper in the lawn of our front yard. He had done it many

times before. But on this particular summer day, a neighbor’s

German Shepherd came bounding out of his own yard nearby

and grabbed Barney Bunny by the neck.

Somehow Ben rescued Barney and came into the

house holding him, and I examined the mortally injured rabbit—

its eyes glazing, a bit of blood leaking from his mouth—and had

to tell Ben that his pet was probably not going to survive. We

talked sadly about it, Ben and I, and the he left the kitchen, still

cradling his dying pet in his arms.

After a while I went to see how and where he was, and

from the upstairs hallway I could see that he had taken Barney

into his bedroom and placed him in his bed. The bedcovers were

drawn up to the rabbit’s chin, the long ears were neatly spread

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

on the pillow. Ben was lying beside him. I tiptoed away, not

wanted to intrude.

Some time later Ben came to me and told me that

Barney had died. Together we planned a funeral.

And Ben explained what he had been thinking about

as he lay there beside Barney. He was remembering, he told me,

the saddest sentence he had ever read. Page 171 of Charlotte’s

Web.

“No one was with her when she died,” was the

sentence.

“Everything presented in a book for a child should be

positive and uplifting,” the woman in Kansas City said last week.

There is nothing “positive or uplifting” about a

solitary death.

But there is something profoundly moving about a

man, a gifted writer, E.B. White, who was able to put down on a

page eight words…”No one was with her when she died”… that

went to the heart of a little boy and taught him something about

loneliness and loss.

How everything turns away? That writer didn’t avert

his eyes from something painful. I wish I had known him. I hope

I’ve learned from him. He knew what questions to ask.

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

In 1992 I sat down to wrote the book that ultimately would be

titled THE GIVER. Probably THE GIVER is the main reason that

I have been invited to speak to you here tonght, because it is the

best-known (and most controversial) of my so-far 32 books.

There is always a period of time, after I have written

a book, before it is published, when I begin to worry that my

brain has simply run out and become empty, the way a cookie

jar does, and all the good stuff is good; only a stiff raisin and

some stale crumbs left. I worry then that I will never be able to

write the next one.

I was in that period...that frightening “Oh my God, I

will never have another idea. My career is over” phase in the fall

of 1992 when I took a trip to Virginia.

It was something I did very frequently then, flying

from Boston, where I lived, to Charlottesvile, renting a car,

driving west to Staunton. My brother was a doctor there. My

parents, in 1992, were 86 and 87 years old, and they were

failing. A few months before, Jon and I moved both of them to a

nursing home not far from his office. He was able to see them all

the time. I flew down whenever I could.

During that visit in 1992, I went, as I always did, first

to see my mother in the medical section of the nursing home,

the secotion where she lay bedridden, fragile and blind, attached

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

to an oxygen hose. She would die within a few months, and I

think both of us, she and I, knew that that was coming. Perhaps

we were both in an odd way welcoming the idea of it; I know that

on her 86th birthday, not long before, when I had read her the

cards that had come, she chuckled and said, “Well, at least no

one wished me happy returns!”

She was quite ready to leave life behind.

But she did not want to leave her memories untold.

Her mind was quite intact, her memories quite clear, and during

my visit she simpy wanted to tell me the stories from her past.

Inconsequential, some of them: a dog she had had as a child; a

naughty escapade of her little brother; a summer evening walk

with her father. But she went on as well to reminisce about her

high school and college years, her meeting my father. Their

marriage. The birth of her first child, my sister; and that

memory diverted her to another, some years later, to the

December morning when her first child, my sister Helen, died.

I knew that had been the saddest day of her life—it

had been mine, as well, to that point (now, having lost a child of

my own, I can no longer say that)—and I tried, sitting there by

her bed, to move away from it, to direct her to other topics,

other memories. But she lingered there, telling the details of it,

neeeding to remember the anguish of it, for a long time.

When she tired and drifted off to sleep, I went to the

other section of the nursing home, the assisted living wing

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

where my father was. He was up and about, shuffling a bit,

leaning on a cane, but still teasing the nurses aides—one of them

was named Patsy and he always called her Patsy Cline and sang

a few phrases —“Crazy, Crazy fer feelin’ so loneleee”—to her,

making her giggle. He always remembered me when I came. He

showed me off: “This is my daughter, she writes books, she lives

in Boston.” to people who could not have cared less.

But he had lost his own past. He didn’t remember his

own childhood, his career, the places we had lived, the cars he

had loved—he was a car guy—the travels, the war, any of it.

And he didn’t remember my sister. “What was her

name?” he asked, when I mentioned her. “Helen,” I told him, and

showed him a picture of the two little girls. He frowned at it and

shook his head. “And you say she died? How did that happen?”

Driving my rental car back to the airport I began to

think about all of that. What if there were a medication, maybe a

shot, they could give Dad, and he would remember Helen?

But how sad that would be, for him. He was there, too,

with her when she died. Why make him remember that day?

Well, then, I thought, not wanting to let go of the

“what if” that makes a writer’s imagination ease into high gear:

What if there were a shot to give Mother? It wouldn’t take away

all those happy memories she enjoys so much...but if it could

just obliterate the day her daughter died?

For a writer, the question is most often “what if...?”

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

And so, from the ”what if” of my father’s failing

memory, and from my own musing about the compromises we

make, I created a world—not a large one; a small

community—set in the future, in a time when technology had

advanced in ways that would make human existence

comfortable and safe through the manipulation of memory.

But for me, because I write for a young audience, the

questions that incite and inspire a book must always be

presented through the consciousness of a young person. And so

I created a boy, and I named him Jonas.

Here is how I create a character. He (or in many

cases, she) appears, fully-formed, in my mind. I have a very

visual imagination. I can see the character. Most often he or she

tells me his or her name. That was true in this case.

I saw a boy, young, barely adolescent, ordinary in

appearance. His name was Jonas.

I moved into him and looked out through his eyes. His

world was pleasant and well-organized. He had family, friends,

things to do.

But there was also a feeling (for me, the writer) of

something amiss. I wasn’t certain, myself, what it was. It was

like being six, examining the drawing labeled “What’s wrong wih

this picture?” on the back of the cereal box. Everything looks

right. But then you find the little things: the shoe that has no

laces, the cat with only one ear.

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

I knew something was wrong. I did not know yet,

myself, what is was, when I began the book with this sentence:

“It was almost December, and Jonas was beginning to be

frightened.”

Then I forced myself to look very, very closely at the

world this boy lived in. It was like picking up a rock in a swamp

and seeing the toxic filth underneath, the oozing, slimy,

squirming things that hide out of the daylight. The things that

we don’t want to see. The things we would like to turn away

from.

“Everything we present to kids should be positive...”

the woman in Kansas City said.

I got an email this morning (Wednesday morning,

March 9th, is when I am writing this part) from a 26-year-old

woman who wrote:

I read

the book The Giver when I was about 18 years old

and I really identified with the message of

how … when we become so afraid of experiencing pain

and difficulty,we become afraid of life itself.

She went on to tell me things about her experiences

and about decisions she had made based on what she had

learned from reading that book years before. Her decisions had

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

to do with facing pain. She had, in essence, chosen not to turn

away.

Sixty eight years ago this month, in March of 1937, I was born

in Honolulu. My father, though he was an oral surgeon by

profession, was also a very fine photographer, a collector of

cameras. My mother always compained that evry time we

moved (and we moved often, he being a career Army officer) he

would stake out a place for his darkroom before she had figured

out where she could set up her sewing machine.

My first photograph…or the first photograph of

me…was taken, by my father, when I was 36 hours old. My

name was different then. They had named me Sena, for my

Norwegian grandmother, and that was my name until she was

notified; then she sent a telegram insisting that they give me an

American name, and so I was renamed Lois Ann for my father’s

two sisters.

And there were countless photographs thereafter.

Movies, too. In the same years that Gone with the Wind and The

Wizard of Oz were being filmed, my father was filming …quite

professionally in quality…my sister and me toddling in the

gardens surrounding our home in Wailua, on the island of Oahu.

It seems laughable now, in the world of TV and

computers and VCRs, but throughout my childhood, it was

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

always an exciting night when we could talk Dad into showing

the home movies. Look: there’s Daddy on a horse! And here’s

mother pouring milk for the two little girls. (We always

wheedled Dad into showing that scene backwards, so that the

milk amazingly jumped back into the pitcher). Look: there’s Lois

on the beach at Waikiki, with a pail and shovel.

I want you to hold this picture in your mind: a small

blonde girl, new to the world, on a tropical beach, laughing as

the breeze blows her sun hat, and she reaches up to hold it on

her own head. Behind her the turquoise water laps gently at the

white sand.

Are you able to see the little girl on the beach? Keep

her there, in your mind.

Now turn your visual imagination into a split screen

because I want you to hold onto the image of the little girl but I

want you to see another scene as well.

This is a scene of a town, a fictional town called

“Omelas” from a story by Ursula LeGuin. I can’t do it justice and

I wish I had time to read you her words. She describes a town

beside a bay, and it is vibrant with color: flags on the boats in

the harbor, red roofs on the houses, painted walls, gardens and

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

parks…and processions on the day of celebration she describes:

people moving, wearing robes; music playing, people with

tambourines and flutes; children calling to one another, birds

flying above; broad green meadows beyond the town, and joyous

clanging of bells. Horses with their manes braided with flowers.

Young people dancing and singing. Prosperity and abundance.

Split your screen again. Move your mind to a

different place and time. Picture now, as well, an eleven year old

girl on a green bike. She is wearing boys’ high-top sneakers

because she yearns, secretly, to be a boy, and she looks for ways

to make herself seem boyish and brave,

It is 1948. I have just finished sixth grade, and my

father…the career military man…has now moved his family to

post-war Japan. We go by ship from New York, down through

Panama, across the Pacific, a journey of many weeks, and my

father is waiting for us in Japan, and the green bike is waiting

there for me, too.

He moves us into an American style house (to my

disappointment, because I had envisioned a house with sliding

walls and straw-matted floors) surrounded by other Western-

style houses and all of it encircled by a wall.

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

But the bike is my freedom. I ride the green bike

again and again through the gate of the compound’s wall into

the bustling section of Tokyo called Shibuya.

I slow my bike when I discover a school, and I linger

there, watching, when the children in their dark blue uniforms

play in the schoolyard. One boy, just about my age, stares back

at me. We look intently at each other.

Then I mount my bike again and ride away.

Now you should have three images. One, a little girl

on a beach in 1940. Second, an amazing place, a place of

vibrant celebration—an imaginary town called Omelas, created

and described by Ursula Le Guin. And finally, a gawky seventh-

grader on a green bike in 1949.

I want to show each of them to you again.

I have the actual film at home, transferred from my

father’s old movie film to a video. It was someone else, watching

the video once in my living room, who pointed out what was in

it, what had always been there. As the child plays blissfully in

that sunshine, with the Pacific lapping against the sand near her

feet, as she laughs and reaches for the bonnet that has been

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

lifted by the breeze….behind her, small on the horizon, moves

slowly across, blurred in the distance, a battleship. It is the

Arizona, headed into port at Pearl Harbor.

It contains 1,100 men who will be dead soon.

It was a tragedy unfolding, and the three year old

child plays as children will, and how was she to know? But as

an adult, watching the film again and again…I simply focused

only on myself. The blondeness of me. The happiness of me. I

never looked beyond.

“You have the capacity to see beyond, “The Giver tells the boy.

And perhaps we all do. But beyond is where the hard

things are.

How everything turns away.

What do we look away from in the second scene? This

time I am going to use Ursula LeGuin’s actual words:

In a basement under one of the beautiful public

buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of

one of its spacious private homes, there is a room.

It has one locked door, and no window. A little

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

light seeps in dustily between cracks in the

boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window

somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the

little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted,

foul-smelling heads stand near a rusty bucket. The

floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as

cellar dirt usually is. The room is about three

paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or

disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting.

It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six,

but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded.

Perhaps it was born defective, or perhaps it has

become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and

neglect. It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles

vaguely with its toes or genitals, as it sits

hunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and

the two mops. It is afraid of the mops. It finds

them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the

mops are still standing there; and the door is

locked; and nobody will come. The door is always

locked; and nobody ever comes, except that

sometimes--the child has no understanding of time

or interval--sometimes the door rattles terribly

and opens, and a person, or several people, are

there. One of them may come in and kick the child

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

to make it stand up. The others never come close,

but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes.

The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled,

the door is locked, the eyes disappear. The people

at the door never say anything, but the child, who

has not always lived in the tool room, and can

remember sunlight and its mother's voice, sometimes

speaks. "I will be good," it says. "Please let me

out. I will be good!" They never answer. The child

used to scream for help at night, and cry a good

deal, but now it only makes a kind of whining, "eh-

haa, eh-haa," and it speaks less and less often. It

is so thin there are no calves to its legs; its

belly protrudes; it lives on a half-bowl of corn

meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its buttocks

and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits

in its own excrement continually.

They all know it is there, all the people of

Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others

are content merely to know it is there. They all

know that it has to be there. Some of them

understand why, and some do not, but they all

understand that their happiness, the beauty of

their city, the tenderness of their friendships,

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

the health of their children, the wisdom of their

scholars, the skill of their makers, even the

abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers

of their skies, depend wholly on this child's

abominable misery.

They would like to do something for the child. But

there is nothing they can do. If the child were

brought up into the sunlight out of that vile

place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted,

that would be a good thing indeed; but if it were

done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and

beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be

destroyed. Those are the terms.

The people view the child, know that it is there ache

for it.

But their comfort depends upon the child’s misery,

and so they find a way to live with that knowledge.

They do so by turning away. To do otherwise would

cost them too much.

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

Finally, there is the girl on the bike. She left Japan when she

was fourteen. She grew up here and there, went to college,

married, had children, eventually grandchildren. She became a

writer.

It’s not true to say that I thought often about the

Japanese boy, the one from whom I had turned away, to whom I

had been afraid to say hello. But from time to time,

remembering my childhood, his face, his solemn look, swam into

my memory.

In 1994, when “The Giver” was awarded the Newbery

Medal, a picture book called “Grandfather’s Journey” was

awarded the Caldecott. Its author/illustrator was Allen Say.

Allen is Japanese, though he has lived in the USA since he was a

young man.

He gave me a copy of “Grandfather’s Journey” and

inscribed it to me. In return, I signed “The Giver” to him, writing

my name in Japanese below my usual signature. He chuckled,

looking at it, and asked me how I happened to be able to do that.

You can picture the ensuing conversation.

“I lived in Japan when I was eleven, twelve, thirteen,”

I explain.

“What years?” asks Allen Say.

“1948,49,50. I was born in 1937.”

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

“Me too. We’re the same age. Where did you live?”

“Tokyo,” I tell him.

“Me too,” he says. “What part?”

“Shibuya.”

“So did I! Where do you go to school?” Allen asks me.

“Meguro. I went by bus each day.”

“I went to school in Shibuya.”

“I remember a school there,” I tell him. “I used to ride

my bike past it.”

Silence. Then: “Were you the girl on the green bike?”

Allen and I are close friends now. But we had lost 57

years of friendship because we had both turned away. To do

otherwise—in that place and that time—would have been too

hard.

More and more, in the alienated and frightening world

we live in now, I think it is essential that we enter the dark

places, and to face what is too painful, too hard, what costs too

much. We have to look at what is in the distance, on the

horizon. To listen to the language we don’t understand. And to

face the horrible thing in the locked room..

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

I think we…and by we I mean you and me, and the

young people whom I address in my books…we must look at and

ask questions about poverty and pain and injustice, about

hunger and genocide and ignorance, about greed and power. It

all, I think, comes down to one question and that is the one that

we should know, always, to ask. We should ask it of the chained

child in the basement, of the young men on the slow-moving

ship, of the one who speaks another language. We should ask,

“In what way are we connected to one another?”

One of the reasons they have been debating The Giver

in Kansas City (where, incidentally, the school board finally

voted unanimously to retain the book in the schools) is because

of what it says about the story on the inside of the book jacket:

In the telling it questions every value we have taken

for granted and reexamines our most deeply held beliefs.

Why, I wonder, are people so afraid to do that?

I feel very strongly that we should question our own

beliefs and rethink our values every single day, with open minds

and open hearts.

We should ask ourselves again and again how we are

connected to each other.

Lois Lowry University of Richmond March 2005

And we should teach our children to do so, and not to

turn away.

Thank you.