All or Nothing

n

I love the feeling of sweat pouring down my back after a long workout, or the warm ache in my muscles the morning after my first run in awhile.  I love pushing my body to complete and sheer physical exhaustion.  You could say my fitness soundtrack is usually the John Mellencamp song "Hurt So Good" on repeat.  I love competing with myself, and seeing just how far I can go.  I'm an all or nothing type of girl.  If I'm going to do something, I'm going to give it my best or I might as well not do it at all. 

I take that attitude in all aspects of my life: work, school, personal relationships.  In fact, when I was struggling with school last semester because I had no time and was always stressed to the max, my professor just kept telling me to turn "something" in even if I just threw it together.  I had the hardest time doing that, because I had been raised to do my best and try my hardest.  If I try my hardest at something, there's no need for an excuse, no room for tears, and no shame in the outcome, whether good or bad.  How much I work at something and how much I give myself over to the completion of any given task is sometimes the one thing I can control about a situation.

Being my best self is the one gift that I can give to myself every single day.   I remind myself of this in my dating life all the time.  I can only be who I am, and who I am is always good enough.  It is so hard to see that sometimes, when I meet so many guys who say things like, "You're a great girl.  You're so beautiful.  I love your personality.   You're going to make some man very happy.... but we're such good friends."

Right.  I'm going to make some man so happy-- just not you.  I'm great, and wonderful, and everything you should want.... but no thanks.  Then I start to wonder... what is it?  It has to be me.... if I'm so amazing, and admirable, and attractive... WHAT IS THE DEAL??!!

And then I look down, and I see my arm braces and think, "This must be it.  THIS has to be the reason that I'm 31 and a half and still single.  It's not because I'm not smart or pretty or don't understand football or can't cook a pot roast.  It's these metal sticks and their invisible purple force field."

And for a split second... I want to hurl them out the window.  I want to spew a million curse words and jump up and down and feel sorry for myself, because somewhere in the back of my head, that small chip on my shoulder is telepathically reassuring me that if I just let myself be angry, I'll feel better.  And you know what?  Sometimes I do.   When I come home from a date with a guy who propositions me for sex after one cup of coffee when all we've discussed online before meeting is our desire to find someone else who loves God.... when I am rejected by someone else with a disability because he can't handle the fact that I don't drive.... when a guy cuts a meeting short after 5 minutes in person because he can't deal with the fact that my "injury" isn't "temporary."  Sometimes, I come home and crank up Alanis Morisette full blast and cry and sob into my pillow and just let it out. I worry about whether I'll ever be able to feel my Daddy's hand at my side as he walks me down the aisle; whether I'll get to plan details and go dress shopping with Mama.  "Will I ever hear any tiny voice call me "Mommy?  Should I just give it up now?  Since I can't have it all... do I really deserve anything?"  I let myself feel bad. 

That's ok.  It's healthy.  No one loves herself 100%, 100% of the time.  But this girl... the Alanis- Morisette-screaming, self-pitying, arm-brace-hurling, sailor-mouth....  she's not my best self.  She's not the lady I want to be, and she's certainly not the woman I want to become-- spending the next 10-15 years of my life skulking around my apartment, Miss Havisham-style, ruminating on what might have been.

What might have been is not what is, and what is is all that matters.  The fact is that sometimes guys aren't attracted to me because of my arm braces.  Sometimes it's my hair color.  Sometimes it's my accent.  Sometimes, it's no particular reason at all. 

All I can do is keep waking up every day and giving myself my best.  Whether anyone else sees my best as what they want in their lives is completely ancillary.  If am at my best, I know I'm good enough for me, and I'm striving to please God.  In the end, no matter what happens to me while I'm on this Earth, the effort I put into making myself my best is between the two of us anyway.   

Freedom.

In the days leading up to my skydiving adventure, I had pictured myself jumping feet first out of the plane, charging almost, William-Wallace-style. "Freedom!"

In reality, I could yell nothing. The wind hit my face at such an alarming fast pace that I felt as though I was stuck inside an air conditioner. I wanted to look at my instructor, Mario, and tell him to turn back, but I had made a commitment. My altimeter said 13,000 feet and there was nowhere to go but down. I was going down headfirst.

I had not been nervous the entire day. I had seen other divers take off and land. I had met two lawyers, a cop, and a middle school English teacher. All of them jumped out of planes every weekend and obviously lived to tell about it, so why did I need to be concerned?

From the moment I walked in to Skydive Orange I felt completely at ease. I had been concerned beforehand that the people there would only see my disability and not my potential. My concern couldn't have been less warranted. When I walked in, first person I saw was a man in a wheelchair assembling the day's schedule. All the staff were courteous to me, and no one ever told me that I could not dive. I had done my research beforehand so I knew that it was possible, but sometimes a bad attitude can render even the simplest of tasks impossible. No one at Skydive Orange was anything but positive. From the 60-year-old hippies who were packing the parachutes barefoot on a wrestling mat in the middle of the chaos of divers, to the administrative professional who checked me in and wished me a happy birthday when I handed her my ID, everyone around me exuded positivity and fun.

 I had built this experience up in my head for months.  I wanted to know what it felt like to soar through the sky. I wanted to experience the complete freedom of the free fall. I wanted to see the earth that God has made from the best seat in the house.

Thanks to my good friends, Chris and Jennifer Harper, I was able to do that. They had driven into Fairfax to pick me up and made the 70 mile trek to Orange, Virginia. I was supposed to dive at 2 PM, so Chris, Jennifer, and their kids, Harley, Seth, and Callen (a.k.a. the most well-behaved baby in the world) made sure I was there at 12, so that I could have enough time to suit up and train for my jump.

When we arrived, I was informed that there was a wind delay. No tandem divers were being allowed to jump until the winds died down. And so we waited.

And waited...

and waited...

and waited...

During the downtime, one of the most memorable characters I met was a lawyer who used to be a police officer. To pass the time and lighten my mood, he told me a story of the craziest house call he had ever received. A woman had called the cops because she was literally stuck on her toilet. I’ll spare you the details, but it was the most crazy, colorful thing I've heard in a while.

Eventually I heard my name called over the loud speaker. It was time for ground training, which consisted of a 15 minute class, the essentials of which were:

1)      Skydiving is dangerous.

2)      Safety is important.

3)      Do not walk into the plane propellers.

It all seemed pretty straightforward, but I am evidence that they will let anyone jump out of a plane these days, so it was necessary. I was then placed into groups with a woman named Robin, who was jumping for her 50th birthday. We regrouped with Taylor, a recent high school grad, and her mother. We chit chatted and waited for our instructors to meet us and suit up.

Once Robin's instructor came to find her, I glanced up at the schedule board and noticed that I had been moved into the next group. "Maybe the plane was full,” I thought. I let it go. I watched Robin and her friends go up into the sky and come down, elated.

Next, I watched a group of Asian-American kids, who looked no more than 18, take my spot in line. I began to get perturbed. "What is going on?" At this point, I glanced at the board and I was on a plane all by myself." That can't be right!"  I was looking around for someone with authority to speak to, but everyone I needed was up in the air.

A young man in a blue shirt approached me and said, "Are you Jess? It's time to get dressed."

This just got real.

Before I knew it, two people were helping me dress, and I was being outfitted in a purple suit and a horrible, wedgie-inducing black harness. I met my instructor Mario, who was almost 6'4". We practiced with the harness, and he lifted me off the ground several times while making some slight adjustments for comfort.

We got a 10 minute call and I waddled toward the plane. I begged my videographer, Lambert, not to film that part. An entourage of about seven people loaded me onto the plane. I could have walked up the steps myself, but my crowd surfing entrance into the plane garnered hugs and encouragement from other divers and staff.

As we taxied the runway, I met the stunt divers with whom I was jumping. They were fist-bumping me, and the guy next to me handed a mint and said, "You're going to need this, because your mouth is going to go immediately dry at the door of the plane."

Boy, was he right! As Mario and I scooted toward the door of the plane, I felt the force of the wind sucking me out. I couldn't breathe. My feet dangled over the edge of the door. I looked down and could see nothing but blue and fog and my certain impending death.

We rocked once. Twice. And then, the fall. I don't remember much. White noise. Fear. Excitement.  Mouth-breathing. 

The first parachute deployed. We were still falling, but the fall slowed, and I finally felt I could breathe-at least a little. We were flying around in the air Superman-style, and I was trying to look cute for Lambert, who was videotaping the whole thing. He kept reaching his hand out for me but I was too scared to do anything but keep my hands in the safety position that I had learned during training.

Suddenly I felt a jerk at my harness, and I was standing straight up in the air, or so it felt. My first glimpse of the view in front of me made me instantly grateful that I had been forced to wait until the last jump of the day. The purple, blue, and orange sunset was stealing the sky above the Blue Ridge Mountains with a gorgeous stealth. There are really no words to describe how beautiful Earth looks from that altitude, especially when your vantage is not marred by the glass of a plane window. To be honest, it's probably one of the moments that I have felt the closest to God. I teared up several times as we were approaching the ground, thinking that I wasn't worthy of such an amazing experience. I must have thanked Mario 10 times, even before we landed.

When we landed I was greeted by a chorus of happy birthday. I had not made a big deal out of the day, and hadn't even told Lambert, so I have no idea how everyone knew. It was an amazing end to an amazing day. When we were walking out of the shelter that night, several of the divers, including Mario, told me to come back next year for another birthday celebration. I have no doubt they meant it. Unless, of course, Mario and I go diving with sharks...

The Proposal

One day, it's going to happen. The proposal from a man who loves me. The one moment when I'll wish for time to stop. The question that will be the second most important answer to the meaning in my life.

Yes.

My heart will swell; my eyes will burn, and my cheeks will ache, raw from smiling.

I will want to tell the world. Call my Mama. Call the papers, and shout my blessings from the rooftops. One day it will happen. The beginning of the rest of my life.
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I stood in the kitchen, clutching a red glass bowl in one hand while busying myself in the refrigerator, looking for the salsa.

I was famished. I'd just come back from fetching you at the airport and it was later than I would normally eat. My head was hurting and I couldn't wait for the food we'd ordered to arrive.

You had pushed me into the kitchen when I'd started to feel dizzy. "You need to eat, baby, " you chided. "We can't have you sick."

So there I was, still in the clothes I wore to work, a figure hugging dark purple dress, black tights and knee high boots. I was stooped over the bottom fridge shelf, holding the door open with a crutch.

I could feel you watching me.

You slowly laid your hand at the small of my back, careful not to cause me to startle.

"Jess," you whispered. Your voice was tender, different.

I turned to face you and watched you kneel, shakily, on both knees. The bowl dropped from my hand to the cream laminate floor in the tiny kitchen without shattering.

My breathing quickened. There was a pain in my throat. The pressure of anticipation. I'd waited for this for so long. For you. Specifically for you.

The next few minutes were a blur. You told me you loved me more times in 5 minutes than I'd heard in 2 years, and I knew you knew how I felt. I adored you.

You Loved Me Too. Me! You wanted me for your wife. For the mother of your children.

I was, you said, the only person you could ever love enough to marry.

You pulled me toward you and I grasped your shoulders, pushing myself against the wall.

You kissed me in a way you never had before. Deep and passionate but still soft. My knees buckled and feeling the sway, you placed your hand at my waist.

When you pulled away, I wanted to scream for joy. Call the papers. Call my Mama Shout my blessings from the rooftops.

There you were in my arms, my soon-to-be husband.

But I couldn't. Call my Mama. Call the papers. Scale the rooftops.

My happiness was a lonely place. A hard bench in a deserted wood meant only for two. You and me.

No one else would approve.

--------------------------------------------------
One day, it will happen. The proposal from the man I love. Someone who loves God, Christ, and my soul, in that order.

My heart will swell; my throat will pulse, and my cheeks will ache, raw from smiling. And I will know that I have waited for so long for this moment. For you. For your love. But specifically for you.

Yes. You.

My Special Person

When I was a little girl, I loved playing house and pretending I was coming home from work to cook dinner for my husband and kids.  I would go through a lot of "imaginary husbands," sometimes 3 or 4 a week.  They were usually based on soap opera character names I'd heard at my babysitter's house or little boys I knew.

You could say that I've always felt "called" to be a wife and a mother. 

It's not because anyone told me that I had to be someone's wife, or that I grew up thinking single people weren't just as awesome and happy, but.... I admired my parents' marriage.  I wanted what they had.  They laughed together.  They seemed stronger together than apart.  They were best friends, and had been for such a long time. 

As a young kid, I didn't always see the struggles that made them strong or the tears that came before their laughter. 

All I could really see was love. 

When I would talk to my mom about getting married someday, she always said, "It will take a special person to love you forever."  As I grew older, especially into my teenage years, this statement started to bother me.

Why did it have to be a special person?

Wasn't I loveable enough for any guy?

How special did this person need to be? 

Wasn't I good enough to be somebody's wife?

I see now more than ever, though, that she's exactly right.

It hit me when I moved into my 2 bedroom apartment last week, and all of my boxes and belongings were strewn in the front two rooms.

I needed help.  Lots of help. 

I wanted to just pick up a box and move it to the correct room, but I couldn't.  I have an awesome brain, but I needed some brawn.  I not only needed someone to help because he felt he had to, but more than that, because he wanted to. 

The thing is, it takes a special person for everyone.  A person who is ready to love us for who we are, flaws and all... and not just for our flaws, but for the things about us that can't be changed, whether good or bad.

We all have boxes to move and bags to carry, but the trick is in finding the right set of arms, willing to pick up the box for you when it becomes too heavy.

I need someone who not only sees me for me and loves me for me, but who thinks that I am enough for him--who wakes up most days thinking that he is lucky I'm around.

That person, whomever he is, is already incredibly special, and I hope I find him.

Super (Cambodian) Man Saves Shopper and Draino from Shady Marijuana Enthusiasts

In college, I studied abroad in Strasbourg, France during the second semester of my sophomore year.  I lived in an apartment with 5 other girls from my undergrad.  The experiences we had together (and not-so-much-together) are worth many a blog post (perhaps even a book) themselves.

Every story, no matter how short, should have at least one superhero.  One masked man or woman of superhuman repute who swoops down from lofty heights to save a damsel or a dude in a moment of great distress.

Ahmed was my Strasbourgois superhero.  I was walking home to my apartment on rue de Bouxwiller (affectionately known to us as Boux) from the hardware store at Les Halles, the Strasbourg mall.

Yes, the mall had a hardware store.  The once-German then-French then-German-again-then-French-finally town of Strasbourg was quite efficient when it came to optimal store placement.

Because you never know when you might need some Draino with your fresh baguette and new sleek black-silhouetted ensemble.

In fact, I was leaving the store with a bottle of industrial strength de-clogger  when I was cornered by two men.  These men looked to be in their early twenties.  One was wearing a backwards cap with the Italian soccer team logo and the other some sort of t-shirt and jeans.  Both had greasy faces and looked as though they hadn't showered in a few days.

The guy in the cap took a step toward me and touched me on the arm.  "Do you like hash-hish?" he asked.

"No, I don't smoke," I said.  I started to walk in the opposite direction and greasy t-shirt guy grabbed my arm, "Hey, pretty girl, come with us.  We'll show you a good time."   

"I gotta...go..." I stammered. Both guys were in front of me now, blocking my exit, laughing.  My muscles started to tense.  The smell of fear welled in my nostrils.  My breath quickened.  How was I going to get out of here?

Before I could make another move, a voice from behind me boomed, "Stop! If you hurt her, I will kill you!"

I turned to face my rescuer.  He was dark-skinned and muscular, though of average height, dressed in a t-shirt in jeans, and looking pretty greasy himself.
 
"Great... I'm being passed off from one weirdo to another, I thought."
He spoke again, "Hi, my name is Ahmed.  Are you an American?"

Crap.... my strong accent had given me away again.  "Yes," I said, barely audible.

Ahmed beamed.  "I am from Cambodia. I love America.  It is the great melting pot.  I have always wanted to go there.  Please, my friend, if you ever need anything, just call for Ahmed.  I will help you."

"Ok," I said, and with my assailants nowhere in sight, he left.

I crossed the street, Draino in hand, and walked with purpose toward my house.  I was passing the front entrance of the mall, when who should reappear, but Italian Cap and Greasy Shirt.

I did not hesitate.

"Ahhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmeeeeedddddddddd!?!?" I screamed from my core.  I was sure he was long gone, but was hoping against hope  that I was wrong. 

I froze and looked down. The plastic shopping bag slipped from my fingers onto the ground.  I felt Greasy Shirt's presence in front of me, and Italian Cap's hands around my waist.  I closed my eyes and positioned my elbow to aim between his legs.

"STOP! I told you to leave her alone!" a familiar voice blared.

I felt the arms at my back release me and heard feet beating fast on the pavement.  I was still in a daze.

Ahmed handed me my bag and placed his hand gently on my back.  "Are you ok?  Did they hurt you?"

I shook my head no.  I was unable to speak.  He walked with me for a few minutes as I regained my composure, and as we approached Boux, he told me goodbye with a smile.

I walked into my apartment, unsure how I was going to explain what had just happened to the other girls.  Did I even want to tell them?

I went about my businessin our bathroom, pouring Draino into the shower drain. I set the bottle on the bathroom counter, walked into my bedroom, and shut the door.

"Drained," I muttered to myself-- and I wasn't talking about the shower.
 

Puttin' on the Ritz...

On Saturday, I met a friend at the Pentagon City Mall and I decided to take a cab home because it was raining and there was trackwork on the Metro. I walked over to the Ritz-Carlton, which was just next door, and the doorman handed me a free bottle of water and ushered me into a cab. As I was getting into the cab, my mind flashed back the last time I was at that same hotel.

I was living in Springfield, VA at the time and had taken the bus from the Metro to the Pentagon City Mall  for a hair appointment at the Regis salon. I don't usually go to such a fancy place, but I was celebrating.  I had just passed the Virginia Bar and wanted to treat myself to a new, professional, lawyerly 'do. 

The bus had just pulled up at the mall and as I was rolling down the bus ramp in my power chair, my left foot rest fell off.  It had been damaged from catching one too many times in the automated gate at the apartment community where I lived (quite an inevitable fate--that gate HATED ME, I tell you). 

I couldn't do anything about my predicament in the middle of the crosswalk, so I just picked up the foot rest and carried it into the mall with me.  I thought, "I'm not going to let this slow me down."

My hair appointment was at 9:45, but most of the major stores in the mall didn't open until 10.  I was there by 9, early enough to grab some breakfast and window shop on the way into the salon.  I was going to make a morning of it.

I rolled over to the elevator to ride down to the food court.  As I neared the sign on the door, I felt the color drain from my face... the elevator was out of service until the following day.  Not only did this mean I couldn't get to my breakfast on the lower level, it also meant that I couldn't get to my hair appointment on the 3rd floor.

There I sat, stunned, clutching a broken footrest in one hand and a bruised spirit in the other.  I was silently debating the merits of returning home or hanging out at ground level for a while when a hand lightly touched my shoulder.

"Do you need some help?" I heard a man say.  I looked up at a handsome gentleman in his late thirties/early forties with a smile on his face.  He had copper hair, brown eyes, and evidence of past laughter written around his mouth and eyes.

"My name's Ken, " he said "Are you a lawyer?"  I looked down, grateful that I'd worn my UK Legal Clinic t-shirt.

"Yes."  I answered.  I then rehashed the whole ordeal: passed bar, hungry tummy, missing footrest, broken elevator, fleeting hair appointment.

"We'll get you there," Ken said.  I was a little skeptical about following a strange man I'd just met, but in a public place, I felt relatively safe.  He proceeded to lead me to every major department store--all of which we found closed, elevators inaccessible.

He just smiled and said, "Come with me." As we exited the mall and walked into the Ritz together, I began to worry.  "Where is this man taking me?"  He led me into a restaurant with a huge breakfast bar and said, "Have anything you want--on me."  Made to order omlets, fruit, bagels, the selection was amazing.  I tried to protest, but he said, "I insist," so I helped myself to a few pieces of fruit and a bagel.

While I was eating, he came by the table with another gentleman.  "Jessica, this is James.  He is an engineer with the hotel and I think he can fix your footrest."

I ate while James worked, and by the time I had finished my breakfast, the bent footrest was newly attached to my chair.

"Hurry!" Ken said.  "While you were eating I rescheduled your appointment for 10:15, and we're going to take the Macy's elevator to get you upstairs to the Regis in time.  Ken personally escorted me all the way to the salon.  I thanked him profusely and asked for his contact information, but he refused saying, "It's ok.  This is the least you deserve.  I wish I could give you so much more."

As I sat in the chair, Ken looked at the stylist and said, "Make her as beautiful as possible.... though honestly, I don't know how you can make her any more beautiful than she already is."

And with that, he left.

I sat through most of the appointment in shock over what had just transpired, and when I went to the register to pay, the receptionist said, "Your friend took care of the bill."

WHAT???

I was amazed.  I couldn't speak.  Tears were welling in my eyes.  No man (other than a family member) had ever done something so nice for me, and I didn't even know his name.  I didn't deserve this... I couldn't thank him.

I felt so thankful. Shocked.  Cared for.  Loved, even, in a way.

To this day, I think about Ken and the Regis adventure every time I'm in Pentagon City, to remind myself of a few things.

1) Random acts of kindness do exist.
2) Chivalry is not dead.
3) And if a man I barely know can care about me enough to be so kind, then a man who knows me well should want to do the same.

Most importantly though, I try to be like Ken, giving to others, no matter who or where they are, if I see they have a need I can fulfill.

To me, caring for those in need is one of the main reasons we were put on this Earth, and I am the type of person who shows love best through service, even if I'm not always in the best position to serve.

Thanks, Ken, wherever you are, for helping me, encouraging me, and allowing me to learn from your example.
  

You're the Inspiration.....

I can't count how many times each week someone tells me that I am "inspirational."  I never know how to respond to such a compliment....

I suppose I should say, "thank you," but often I am left too dumbfounded to respond.

The encounter often goes something like this.*

I'm headed toward the bathroom on my floor at work.  I press the automatic door-open button.  The motor on the door stalls.  Nothing happens. 

Still (obviously) needing to use the bathroom, I push my back and behind into the door to slowly guide it open.  Another woman headed in my direction sees me struggling and offers to help.  I decline her offer, because I really can open the door myself, and I would probably fall over if she took it from me since the whole weight of my backside is now pressed firmly against it.

"Thank you, but I've got it, " I say.

"You're so inspirational, " she says with a smile.

There is an awkward silence as I ponder what she has just said.  Am I inspirational because I can:
a) Respond to her offer of help?
b) Open a door without asssistance? 
c) Go to the restroom without aid?

Even though I'm unsure just what I've done to inspire her, I'm glad she seems inspired.... and also, that I finally made it into the door.  I avoid answering her by looking down as I hurry into the restroom stall.

Later in the same day, I get into a cab.  I am always particularly inspirational to the cabbies in our Nation's Capital; sometimes they are enthralled by my very existence.

Cabbie: "Where do you work?"

Me: "I work for the DC government."

Cabbie: "Oh, so you work in there in the cafeteria..." (points toward the food court in my building).

Me: "No.  I'm a lawyer."

Cabbie: "So you answer phones for the lawyers?"

Me: "I answer my own phone.  I am a lawyer."

Cabbie: "Really, so who cooks and cleans your house for you while you are at work?"

Me (bewildered): "No one.  I cook and clean when I get home."

Cabbie (with mounting, considerable shock and awe): "But your parents must help you with that, right?"

Me: "Well, I have plenty of friends and neighbors who help me with things sometimes... but I do not need my parents' help."

Cabbie: "So.... you really can cook?!?"

Me: "I hope so. I love food too much to starve to death."

Cabbie: "And clean the floors?"

Me: "Yep."

Cabbie: "And get yourself ready for work?"

Me (rolling eyes at this point) "Yep."

Cabbie: "Wow!  That is AMAZING!!!!"

Really, Cabbie?? 

Amazing??

I'm not so sure.

You know what I think is amazing?

A double rainbow.

The Navy Seals who found Bin Laden.

The guy who walked a tightrope across Niagra Falls.

Those things and people are amazing. 

Me coming home to make a tuna sandwich?

Nope.

A baked potato?

Nah.

How about a Mexican casserole?

Well.... it might have a little something on the double rainbow, but I'm pretty certain it falls just a smidge short of true inspiration.

I am just like anyone else in this town-- trying to make a living, help others daily, and lead a happy, productive life.  I put on my pants the same way you do every morning.  It just might take me 3.7 seconds longer.

Do those 3.7 seconds make me inspirational?  No, no more so than my decision not to give up on myself and just leave the house without pants.

My day-to-day life is not lived to inspire, but to aspire.  I start each day with a set of goals and I make it my business to accomplish them before the day is through.

Don't we all?

Same game. Same aim. Different attack.






*The conversations above are re-enactments of actual conversations in which I have been engaged by other people.  The names of all of the parties have been omitted to protect their identities, though unfortunately, nothing could be done to mask their ignorance.