Documenting the Interactions of Britain and the World

Dr. Jodi Burkett, Op-Ed Columnist

March 2012

When meeting in professional arenas – for example at conferences – historians, perhaps rightly so, talk about their research. Yet, apart from a very small minority, what occupies the minds (and time) of most professional historians is teaching. The UK, like many other countries, has a hierarchy of universities in which those who spend the majority of their time, and derive the majority of their money, from teaching, are at the bottom. I teach at a ‘post-1992’ institution which derives approximately 85% of its income from teaching – teaching clearly matters to my institution. Yet, teaching is often seen as the thing we must do in order to pay for the thing (research) which we actually want to do. Yet, it is also very often the most rewarding (or, at least, immediately rewarding) aspect of a professional historian’s job. It is through teaching, through the communication of our research and knowledge to a captive audience, that we can test the limits, scope and breadth of our knowledge. It is also through teaching that we can rediscover the joy of history – that moment when students put material together (what many Further Education colleges in the UK refer to as the moment ‘the penny drops’) makes a lot of trials and tribulations seem worth it. Read More »

Leslie Rogne Schumacher, Op-Ed Columnist

March 2012

I hope my readers will permit a deviation from the theme of Britain and the World to engage the continuing jobs crisis and the attendant discussions about graduate students taking a “Plan B” approach, a subject that is important not only to our area but to the field of history in general. It is also personally important, as I will defend my dissertation at the end of the term. Next month’s column will see a return to regular programming.

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When I began my PhD studies in 2006 many assured me, just like everyone in the last generation has been, that the imminent retirement of Baby Boomer professors would open up untold numbers of jobs by the time I emerged into the academic world, diploma in hand. As I look forward beyond my graduate career, it is abundantly clear that rumors of the rise of a jobs-filled, post-Baby Boomer academy have been greatly exaggerated. Yet as if the falsity of this portrait isn’t enough, I’ve lately noticed that a troubling narrative has emerged in regard to the whole premise of choosing a career as a history professor. Namely, it has become popular to look at the field of history as bound, inexorably, to a future in which college-level history instruction will be done primarily by harried, faceless wage slaves and administered by a small, diminishing, and hateful/self-hating cadre of permanent faculty. Ergo, the critique generally goes, grad students should get out while they still have the chance to build a “normal” life.

A much-discussed blogpost by Larry Cebula, a professor at Eastern Washington University, is emblematic of the trend in dirgeful writing about the field. The thrust of Mr. Cebula’s article is summed up in the concisely provocative title, “Open Letter to My Students: No, You Cannot Be a Professor.” Tenure is gone, he argues, the pay is less than one gets waiting tables, and the “opportunity costs” of spending a decade pursuing a PhD sets one back in relation to the earning and investment of their age peers. “It isn’t going to happen,” he says, “the sooner you accept this the better.” One has to admire Mr. Cebula’s candor, and certainly many of those who responded to his post thought it a fair assessment of young historians’ prospects in this academic brave new world, such as one who said he no longer writes recommendations for his students if they’re intended for graduate applications in the liberal arts. This isn’t the first time in the last few years that I’ve heard of a professor making this commitment.

Mr. Cebula does at least make sure to note that this situation has nothing to do with the objective quality of students going into American graduate programs, but apparently this is too optimistic a view according to some of those in a position to hire. A panel at this year’s meeting of the AHA saw several prominent historians discuss the ongoing jobs crisis in the discipline. A PhD student who attended this session, L.D. Burnett, has written a truly riveting account of the proceedings, noting an especially uncomfortable moment when a member of the audience said that 90% of the applications he’d seen in his career came from candidates that, in his opinion, not only weren’t qualified for a particular position but didn’t have what it took to be qualified as historians. Putting aside the fact that this feeds directly into the fear nearly all young grad students have that it is only a matter of time before they will be exposed as frauds and drummed out of their programs, remarks on quality don’t really seem to be the problem. As it always has, the academy churns out a whole range of scholars, but what little chaff gets by is far outweighed by the grain.

One is left wondering whether there is any response to the crisis that is constructive and avoids punishing the very students historians hope to get a chance to teach and inspire—students of the species that all historians belong to, no matter whether they sit behind the professor’s desk or before it. The problem with an “it’s for their own good” response to the crisis is not only that it isn’t very useful for offering scholarly aspirants a direction toward some non-scholarly career, but that it doesn’t bring us any closer to changing the current state of affairs. Anthony Grafton and Jim Grossman have hit closer to the mark in a recent article which argues that graduate programs need to, from the start, encourage students to think about using their PhD for careers outside of the narrow realm of traditional tertiary instruction. Still thought-provoking is Lynn Hunt’s 2002 op-ed on the growth of professionalism in academia, which has driven graduate students to motivate themselves with the goal of getting a job rather than indulge a personal zeal for history. All of us who have slogged our way through a PhD can agree with Hunt’s feeling that an obsession with the “vicissitudes of the job market” kills the spirit that drives one to learn, write, and teach.

But though Grafton, Grossman, and Hunt should be given credit for carefully and creatively approaching the issue, I’m not certain that they get to the heart of the problem with the dreaded “Plan B” conversation either. That is, if one is in a graduate program one likely loves teaching and doing research in history far too much to be nearly as fulfilled outside academia as one is within it. Moreover, the drive to continue along the route of one’s scholarly antecedents is very strong, especially given that they sit, manifest, in front of us all along this path—one which they themselves walked not so very long ago. We are who they were, and we want to follow them. And once one gets a taste of teaching history at the college level and finds that he or she likes it, the notion of doing something else obviously feels like a personal and professional failure. The idea of not being a professor of history is terrifying to those of us nearing the end of our graduate career. It is a real and valid fear and, for the health of the atmosphere of collegiality between students and professors, it would be a cruel irony to place the fault at the feet of students whose dedication to the profession precludes a happy shift to an alternative job.

In writing this column I cycled through a number of titles, one of which was “There Is No ‘Normal’ after Graduate School.” Anyone trying to protect the sanctity of Plan A while opening up room for Plan B has to consider that graduate school, by means of its wonderful and terrible trials, changes us, presenting successful candidates with the expectation that they will be welcome at the table with those who’ve already found a seat. This is the obvious result of selecting students who fit the mold of the previous generation of scholars, who can navigate the established channels of degree progress, can integrate themselves into the scholarly community, and can convey their knowledge and their passion to the next generation—all things that, in a wealthier and not too distant past, marked one out for acceptance and success. New PhDs are not lemmings, trudging blindly off the cliff of graduate school into a sea of unemployment. No, we’re prairie dogs, and we want to stay in the burrow with the rest of the colony. These are natural, even instinctive feelings: for me, as for most of my colleagues, a career in history is not a choice but a compulsion. Any solution to the employment crisis in the field cannot hope to be successful unless it takes this fact into account.

By: Rebecka Black, Op-Ed Columnist

March 2012

In February of 2012 the Tate Britain in London opened its newest exhibition Picasso and Modern British Art. The show, sponsored by R.L.M. Finsbury and British Land Company PLC, is meant to explore the influence of Picasso upon Britain’s most noted artists of the twentieth century including Wyndham Lewis, Francis Bacon, and David Hockney. The show, open through July 15, 2012, is a collection of over 150 works – 60, almost half, of which are by Picasso – that trace the influence of Picasso from his London visit in 1916 until his 1960 Tate exhibition. According to the Tate, this show “explores [Picasso’s] extensive legacy and influence on British art [and] how this played a role in the acceptance of modern art in Britain, alongside the fascinating story of Picasso’s lifelong connections to and affection for this country.”[1] This all sounds very romantic but, unfortunately, the show is already under fire for its perceived misrepresentation of Picasso’s “affection” for Britain and his influence on British modern art.

In a recent review of the Picasso show – who are we kidding; it’s a show about Picasso that draws big crowds, not a show about British artists – Jonathan Jones of the Guardian claims “there is no evidence in this exhibition that Picasso ever gave a hoot what British artists thought of him, or a damn for their work.”[2] Apparently after Picasso’s first visit to England in 1910 (he was in London for the infamous Roger Fry Manet and the Post-Impressionists show), according to the exhibition catalogue Picasso was so unimpressed with England’s modern artists he asked “Why, when I ask about modern artists in England, am I always told about Duncan Grant?”[3] Clearly, Picasso expected to hear London had more than one modern artist. I suspect he also found Duncan Grant to be less than modern, considering that by 1911 (after his visit to London) Picasso was already working in his avant-garde Cubist style while Grant had yet to abandon  figural compositions and landscapes.

Jonathan Jones also shows disappointment in his review for what he felt could have been the strongest British artistic connection to Picasso: Francis Bacon. Bacon, like Picasso, is internationally celebrated today for his intense abstraction of forms – most notably the human form. The Francis Bacon gallery in the show includes Bacon’s early works rather than his more abstracted late career works.[4] In his early works, Bacon was not fully working with abstracted forms enough to relay the true influence of Picasso to the viewer. Because Bacon’s early Crucifixion works come across as barely influenced by Picasso, in her review Laura Cumming of The Observer questions how the curators could have thought the less experimental artists included can be understood through Picasso.

Cumming also feels it is not so much a show about influence as it is about “plagiarism.”[5] British artists may well have been inspired by the influential giant that was Picasso – what artist of the twentieth century was not? What this show, according to reviews, seems to be guilty of is depicting how British artists admired and copied Picasso rather than how British artists understood the work of Picasso and then created something inspired by the master, yet unique. With these reviews in mind, what exactly does this exhibition do for British modern art other than continue to perpetuate the notion that British art of the twentieth century was only a late, uninspiring imitation of the avant-garde in Europe?

Whatever the true purpose is for the show – I have yet to see it but I do believe the Tate Britain is aiming to emphasize British modernism’s uniqueness – the negative reviews from its audience cannot help. This exhibition, like any, is intended to educate the public on a particular subject, in this case British modernism. If the reviews are correct, though, and what the show is actually doing is just glorifying Picasso, then perhaps it is just another corporate-sponsored blockbuster exhibition exploiting a big name to bring in the crowds.

Perhaps because of British art’s negative reputation the Tate must rely on such subversive tactics to even begin to change perceptions about 20^th century British art. It would not be unusual for the Tate Britain to do so and in fact may be quite necessary in order to achieve its sincere goal of public education. Since there is a lack of individual philanthropy in today’s international arts community, corporations have taken on the role of sponsoring art exhibitions – especially blockbusters featuring big names like Picasso, King Tut, or the Impressionists that guarantee huge crowds. Of course the motivation for corporations to financially support art exhibitions is self-serving, but the biggest down-side to this partnership is the way in which it perpetuates a stasis of art education through blockbuster shows. According to the reviews, with this show what audiences are likely taking away is not a new, positive understanding of British art; rather they are presented with a Picasso-heavy show with various unknown artists who have seemingly plagiarized the master. This not only is detrimental to the understanding of British art, it perpetuates the artist as genius myth about Picasso and relies on the myth to draw large audiences.

In her article, “Exhibiting the Cannon: The Blockbuster Show,” Emma Baker emphasizes this difficult position in which modern museums, like the Tate Britain, often find themselves.  Through her assessment, one can extrapolate that the “blockbuster” phenomenon, like the Picasso exhibition, is evidentiary of modern society’s limited understanding of art (specifically British art in this instance), which is viewed only as cultural capital – something that can be gained by viewing but not necessarily understood, and this is demanded over true cultural enrichment. The demand for cultural capital has placed museums, like the Tate Britain, in a difficult position wrought with “economic pressure” to rely on capitalist patrons to support their idealistic and non-capitalist driven mission at the expense of educational goals. [6]

Helene von Bismarck, Op-Ed Columnist

March 2012

It is a commonplace to say that the United States of America has been Great Britain’s most important ally since the end of the Second World War. Countless books and essays have been written about the Anglo-American relationship. Some have emphasized the “specialness” of this alliance; others have dismissed this concept by pointing at the frequent disagreements and frictions between the governments of the two countries. On one thing, however, there seems to be widespread agreement: that the United States has always been much more special to Great Britain than Great Britain has been to the United States. This perception results, in part, from the great discrepancy between British and American military might and economic power during the Cold War. After 1945, the argument goes, Great Britain, faced with economic decline and a rapidly disintegrating empire, could only be a junior partner to the American superpower and self-proclaimed leader of the “Free World”. This assumption is just as problematic as it is persuasive, because it can result in a tendency to overlook the role Great Britain and its empire played in the geopolitical thinking and strategic planning of the US Government. Great Britain may have been only one out of many American allies during the Cold War, but that does not mean that its cooperation was at certain times and in specific regions not essential from the American point of view. In other words, a junior partner can be – in spite of his relative unimportance in comparison to the more senior one – a sine qua non to the success of a project.

An example of a region where the US Government regarded British cooperation as essential to safeguard important American interests was the Persian Gulf during the 1960s. Until 1971, Great Britain maintained a special position in this area; a position that was based on a significant military presence as well as political treaties with the local governments. Kuwait, Oman, Bahrain, Qatar and the seven Trucial States (today’s United Arab Emirates) remained under Great Britain’s protection against foreign aggression. Throughout the 1960s, the US Government attached great importance to the preservation of this British presence in the Persian Gulf. The great American expectations in this regard were put in a nutshell by the US Secretary of State, Dean Rusk, when his British counterpart, George Brown, informed him in January 1968 that Great Britain intended to leave the Persian Gulf as part of its general military withdrawal from East of Suez: “Be British, George, be British – how can you betray us?”. Greatly angered and dismayed by the British withdrawal plans, the Johnson Government tried to make Great Britain’s Prime Minister Harold Wilson and his Cabinet change their minds, but to no avail. The Anglo-American relationship had reached a low point.

The reason why the US Government was so keen to see Great Britain’s special position in the Persian Gulf preserved was its firm conviction that this presence had an important stabilizing influence in an area that was of great strategic and economic significance during the Cold War. The relevance to the Western Bloc of the Persian Gulf and its rim states, Saudi Arabia, Iran and Iraq, lay in the vast regional oil reserves. The principal consumers of this oil were Japan and the Western European countries, who imported 75% and 60%, respectively, of their annual oil requirements from the larger Persian Gulf area. Their great dependence on the regional oil reserves made it imperative for the US Government to ensure that the Persian Gulf was not controlled by a hostile power. From the American point of view, the worst imaginable scenario for the Persian Gulf was to fall under the domination of the Soviet Union, which would then be able to use access to the oil reserves as a bargaining tool to hold the Western Bloc to ransom. In addition to these Cold War considerations, the US Government also had direct commercial interests in the Persian Gulf region: to protect the substantial and extremely profitable investments American companies had made in the local oil industry.

During the 1960s, the US Government – supported by the State Department and CIA – remained convinced that the larger Persian Gulf area was an inherently unstable and insecure region. Saudi Arabia, Iran and Iraq all had territorial ambitions which threatened the integrity of the smaller Gulf States. At the same time, the rivaling character of these ambitions seemed to entail the risk of a greater regional conflict, which was – from the American point of view – bound to eventually lead to Soviet intervention. The US Government, therefore, expected Great Britain to continue to act as a protecting power to the smaller Gulf States and prevent the development of a dangerous power vacuum. This was something which the United States felt neither willing nor able to do itself. The State Department regarded it as politically impossible to establish a US presence in the Persian Gulf that was comparable to Great Britain’s special position of influence. The British relationship with the smaller Gulf States had evolved and grown since the middle of the 19th Century and was therefore not easily replaced. Another important reason for the US Government’s unwillingness to get involved in the defense of the Persian Gulf was that the United States found itself becoming more and more embroiled in the Vietnam War as the 1960s progressed. With its forces tied up in Southeast Asia, the United States could not afford to establish a substantial military presence in the Persian Gulf region. Faced with increasingly severe domestic criticism because of the Vietnam War, President Johnson also believed a continued British world role to be essential for presentational reasons. Both Johnson and Rusk regarded it as politically disastrous if the American people gained the impression that the United States had been abandoned by Great Britain in its effort to police the “Free World”.

The example of the Persian Gulf proves the value of analyzing the Anglo-American relationship from the perspective of the US Government. Great Britain’s special position in the Persian Gulf was, until 1968, an important factor in the US strategy to contain communism in the Middle East and deny the Soviet Union access to local oil resources. When the British Government decided to withdraw from the Persian Gulf, President Johnson did not find a way to make up for this significant loss. It was left to his successor, Richard Nixon, to find a solution.

Michael Talbot, Op-Ed Columnist

March 2012

In an effort to encourage Brits to spend their remaining pounds at home rather than splash out on sangria or ouzo in the outer-reaches of the Eurozone, the British Government has launched its ‘staycation’ campaign, asking the public ‘why go abroad in 2012?’. In the newspapers, on the radio, and notably on the television, with this celebrity-strewn advert by the English tourist board, city-dwellers are encouraged to seek that bit of England that really is still green and pleasant. And, as Londoners prepare to be swamped by the masses descending for the Olympics in a summer that may well bring one of the worst water shortages in the South-East in recent memory, the temptation to flee as far as possible without actually leaving these islands will surely overcome a significant number of the capital’s inhabitants.

The Diamond Jubilee in June, if the Golden Jubilee in 2002 is anything to go by, will see the city turned into a true party town, with millions on the streets and in the pubs toasting Her Majesty and generally having a good time. The Olympics seem to elicit a much more divided response. It would be wrong to say that there are not Londoners exciting about the Olympics. Some care about the actual sport, some want to make a fortune from hapless tourists, some masochists want to hang around just to see the madness. A significant number, specifically those who will have to continue to work and commute in central and east London, are highly resentful of the extra strain that will be put on an already creaking infrastructure, particularly the buses and the Tube. Some particularly disgruntled denizens have even developed an alternative tube map designed to keep the extra masses away from central London. Just what sort of quality of experience our visitors will have in this vast and expensive city is anyone’s guess.

And that particular question, of the experience and insights of tourists in London, got me thinking about visitors from the past. When we think of travel and Britain in a historical context, we very often think of Brits abroad, from the Grand Tour to explorers on the edges of Empire, but rarely of the visitors that came here. I will focus exclusively on London here, simply because I rarely think of the country outside of the M25 motorway. As a Turkish friend of mine from Istanbul, having discovered that I had travelled in provincial Turkey quite extensively, described himself as a Turk who had never been to Turkey. I can certainly say of myself that I am a Brit who has barely been to Britain.

Some of the early travel accounts of visitors here are of Italian and French noblemen and intellectuals, and their impressions were not always positive. The homme des lettres Samuel de Sorbière wrote in his Relation d’un Voyage en Angleterre (Account of a Journey in England, 1664) that he had received a less-than-friendly welcome from some of the locals who had never before seen a Frenchman. ‘The cry of “a Mounser, a Mounser,” that is, “un Monsieur, un Monsieur”, that they repeat and shout with all their might, is the first insult they say. But little by little, as they get more agitated, or as someone tries to keep them at a distance or quieten them, they arrive at “French dogs, French dogs”, that is, “chien de François”, which is the honourable epithet that we wear in England.’ De Sorbière dished out his own insults, particularly on that favourite Gallic subject of bashing English food. ‘The English,’ he wrote, ‘are not a people of great taste, and the tables of the great lords, who do not have French cooks, are filled only with large pieces of meat. Bisques and soups are unknown there…their pasty is coarse and badly cooked, and the compotes and jams are inedible.’

Nor have the Brits always been terribly welcoming of their guests. In one of the first incidences of mass tourism in the London area, the 1851 Great Exhibition was at once wondrous and infuriating. An article in the May 1867 edition of Macmillan’s Magazine entitled ‘Gossip about the Paris Exhibition’ reveals something of the British attitude towards the hordes at the Crystal Palace, and perhaps might offer some comfort to those presently awaiting the Olympic crowds:

It seems almost incredible now that [in 1851] Englishmen, not insane in other respects, seriously imagined that the assemblage of an unwontedly large number of foreign tourists in London might be fraught with danger to the British constitution; that precautions were taken and troops collected about the metropolis to guard against some undefined and unknown peril.

And for those currently thinking about cashing in on the Olympics by renting out their rooms at exorbitant fees to trusting foreigners, a John Leech Sketch in the Punch special ‘Memorials of the Great Exhibition’ edition poked fun at the stereotypes of what might happen when an honest Englishman let foreigners into his castle.

From the online archive of cartoonist John Leech, direct link here.

Just over half-a-century after the Great Exhibition, London again hosted the peoples of the world when the Games of the Fourth Olympiad were held in the capital in the summer of 1908.  By that time, foreign cultures were so common in London that The Penny Illustrated Paper of 13 June 1908 was able to reassure foreign visitors that they would find in London ‘a home away from home.’ Have a look at the cartoon below – I particularly enjoy the ‘English spoken here’ in the window of the American shop.

From the Pictorial Gems website, direct link here.

Such xenophobia is somehow part of English culture, more-often joking than malicious. The article in Macmillan’s Magazine in 1867 mentioned above gave some hope for a change after the Great Exhibition: ‘Since then, I think, honestly, European nations have grown to know more about each other; and, if exhibitions have not done away with war, they have modified those instinctive dislikes which the different peoples of Europe entertained towards each other.’ It seems clear, however, that stereotyping other Europeans remains a favoured pastime of those in Europe and its immediate environs, and in many ways this provides something of a barrier to developing a homogenous ‘European’ identity.

What is interesting in the historical context is when visitors from outside of Europe came here.  One very interesting case, revealed in a study by the Turkish historian Mehmet Alaaddin Yalçınkaya, is in the diary of Mahmud Raif Efendi, who was the chief secretary to Yusuf Agah Efendi, the first permanent Ottoman resident ambassador, who lived in London between 1793 and 1797. Mahmud Raif Efendi’s account is interesting for its clarity and relative lack of colour, but there are some fascinating insights into his opinions of what must have seemed like a very distant land indeed.

He spent much time discussing the British system of government, which he thought ‘differs from all others, it being a mixture of monarchy and republic,’ and also reported on British military strength, particularly that of its navy, in some detail. He was somewhat bemused by British finances, and this report from the last years of the eighteenth century will sound particularly familiar in these first years of the twenty-first:

The income of the English government amounts to about twenty-two million pounds sterling, and customs duties make up half of this, and taxes the other half…the government’s revenue is sufficient in peacetime, but in wartime it is obliged to borrow more than twenty million a year from merchants. When we arrived in England, the national debt amounted two hundred and forty million, and in four years, over one hundred and twenty million has been borrowed for the war against France, making altogether three hundred and sixty million.

Reflecting on the three years and nine months of his stay in England, Mahmud Raif Efendi noted that ‘I have been well, despite the unstable nature of the weather, for the climate, although very humid and continually heavy with fog, is not unhealthy. It is even remarkable that foreigners are fitter than the natives.’ He found the city very large, living costs very high (no changes there then), admired the huge windows in the shops of Oxford Street, and was generally praiseworthy of London’s architecture, especially of public squares with gardens.

For some of his final remarks, he gave a rather touching assessment of the inhabitants of the country: ‘The native people…generally dislike outward magnificence…Englishmen are fine men with a serious nature; the women are the most beautiful in Europe. There is a lot of science and education: the people, although coarse, are better educated than those of other nations; they acquire knowledge by reading public papers.’

Those public papers will certainly be crucial in shaping the opinion of the public towards the Olympics this coming summer. Although London papers like The Evening Standard are firmly behind the Games, there is an increasing amount of fear-mongering about London’s ability to cope, not dissimilar to that which appeared in 1851. Things are certainly different from 1908, when having a multicultural city was seen as a negative point. But in the current climate there has been significant public debate from both the government and the media about what constitutes a British identity. Although this has led to some internal soul-searching, the Games will provide useful feedback by getting outside opinion from our international visitors; some of the most valuable and under-used historical sources on early modern Britain are through the eyes of foreigners, especially those from outside of Europe and North America. Moreover, as large numbers of Londoners will undoubtedly take up the government’s suggestion and head out into that very alien landscape that composes the rest of Britain, their experiences as tourists in their own country will provide further insights into just what makes the English English, and the Brits British.

Mark Doyle, Op-Ed Columnist

March 2012

Anniversaries are funny things. Thirty years ago Britain went to war with Argentina to maintain control of the tiny, remote Falkland Islands – or the Malvinas, as the Argentines call them – a leftover patch of imperial red in the South Atlantic that most Britons had forgotten about until Margaret Thatcher reminded them. The upcoming anniversary of the war, which began with an Argentinian invasion on April 2, 1982, is stirring considerable passion in both countries, partly because it coincides with the deployment of Prince William to the Falklands for helicopter rescue training (which Argentina sees as a deliberate provocation), partly because suddenly everybody is talking about Thatcher again (thank you, Meryl Streep), and partly (largely?) because there may well be enormous oil deposits near the islands. Argentina is demanding that the Falklands be handed over to them – or “returned” to them, since the British are accused of having stolen the islands in 1833 – and Britain is insisting that Argentina recognize the principle of national self-determination, which means that the Falklands should remain British as long as the island’s 3,000 inhabitants want to be, which they emphatically do. Read More »