the story of my life essay tagalog

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ANG KWENTO NG AKING BUHAY

(The story of my life) Part 1

Nais kong ibahagi ang kwento ng aking buhay sa inyo upang mas lalo ninyo akong makilala. Nais ko ring magsilbing halimbawa ang kwentong ito kung paano ninyo ipapahayag sa Tagalog ang inyong mga sarili.

Nais kong simulan ang aking kwento noong ako ay bata pa.

Bata pa lang ako ay nararamdaman ko na at nakikita ang kaibahan ko sa aking mga kapatid. Ako ang pinaka maliit sa kanilang lahat. Medyo mas mapusyaw din ang aking balat kaysa sa kanila. Malaki ang pagkakahawig nila sa aking ama. Kayumanggi ang kanilang kulay, makapal ang maitim na buhok at may magandang hugis ng ilong, makapal ang kilay at pilik-mata ng bilugan nilang mga mata samantalang ako ay sadyang iba ang hitsura sa kanilang lahat.

Ako ay may manipis na hibla ng buhok, hindi rin ito masyadong maitim. Medyo singgkit na paibaba ang aking malilit na mga mata. Pandak ang tawag nila sa akin dahil masyado akong maliit kumpara sa ibang mga bata na kasing edad ko. Sa kabila ng mga pagkakaibang iyon, mahal ako ng aking mga kapatid. Ramdam ko ang kanilang pag-aasikaso at pagmamalasakit sa akin, lalong-lalo na ang ate ko na matiyang nag-aalaga sa akin at sa isa ko pang nakababatang kapatid.

Masarap alalahanin ang aking kabataan. Masaya kami noong naglalaro sa aming bakuran kasama ang aming mga kalarong kapitbahay. Naglalaro kami ng tagu-taguan, gumagawa kami ng bahay-bahayan, nagluluto-lutuan kami, at kung minsan, naglalaro din kami ng patintero at Chinese garter. 

Hanggang sa dumating ang isang araw na sadyang nakakakalungkot isipin at balikan. Isang araw, nakita na lang ng ate ko ang nakababata kong kapatid na nakalutang sa balon sa likod ng aming bahay. Wala na itong buhay at malaki ang tiyan dahil sa dami ng tubig na nainom nito. Sa matinding takot, hindi malaman ng ate ko ang kanyang gagawin.

Wala noon ang aming mga magulang na nag-aani ng mga kalamansi sa ilaya sa bukid kasama ang aking mga nakatatandang dalawang kapatid na lalaki. Tanging ang ate ko lamang ang kasama namin sa bahay na dapat ay nag-aalaga sa akin at sa nakababata kong kapatid. Subalit dahil sa pagkalibang nito sa paglalaro ng bahay-bahayan kasama ako at ang aming kalarong kapitbahay, hindi niya namalayan na nakapuslit na pala ang aking nakababatang kapatid at nagpunta sa likod ng aming bahay kung saan naroon ang malalim na balon na aming pinagkukunan ng tubig.

Takot na takot ang ate ko at hindi malaman ang gagawin. Humingi siya ng tulong sa aming kapitbahay upang maiahon ang wala ng buhay na katawan ng aking nakababatang kapatid. Mabilis ang mga pangyayari, ang sumunod na pangyayari na aking natatandaan, kasama ako ng aking ate na nagtatago sa loob ng bahay ng isa naming kapitbahay dahil sa takot niyang mapagalitan ng aming mga magulang. 

Ilang buwan marahil ang nakalipas pagkatapos ng isidenteng iyon, kasama ako ng aking ina na lumuwas ng Maynila. Ako ang pinakabata at nangangailangan ng pagkalinga ng isang ina. Hindi niya alam na siya pala ay nagdadalang-tao na sa aming bunsong kapatid.

.May plano na pala noon ang nanay ko na hiwalayan ang aking ama. Ginawa niyang dahilan ang pagkalungkot sa pagkamatay ng aking nakababatang kapatid upang payagang makaluwas ng Maynila. Tumuloy kami sa kanyang mga pinsan pansamantala habang naghahanap ng aming magiging bahay. Hindi ko na maalala ang kanilang mga pangalan. 

Makalipas marahil ang ilang araw, may ipinatayong maliit na bahay-bahayan yari sa pinagtagpi-tagping yero at sako ang aking ina katabi ng bahay ng kanyang mga pinsan. Mayroon kaming isang maliit na higaaan kung saan kami ay magkatabing natutulog at isang maliit na lamesa kung saan kami kumakain. Sa labas nito, mayroong isang malaking kalan na gawa sa malaking lata. Dito nagluluto ang aking ina ng mga nilagang mais na kanyang ibinebenta sa palengke araw-araw. Ito ang kanyang naging hanap-buhay noon hanggang lumaki ang kanyang tiyan. 

Bago dumating ang kanyang kabuwanan, natuton kami ng aking ama. Nalaman niya ang planong pakikipaghiwalay ng aking ina sa kanya at hindi ito pumayag doon. Muli silang nagsama at kalauan ay nagpatayo ng isang maliit na bahay na gawa sa kahoy, malapit sa may sapa, malawak na palayan at bukid na may mga tanim na kamote, mais at mga pakwan. Kalauan, kinuha ng aking mga magulang ang aking mga kapatid sa probinsiya at isinama nilang paluwas sa Maynila. Muli kaming nagsama-sama bilang isang pamilya.

Ang aking ama ay nagtabaho bilang kargador sa palengke at ang aking ina naman ay may nakuhang isang maliit na pwesto at nagtinda ang mga damit na pambata. Tumutulong din noon ang aking mga nakatatandang kapatid na lalaki sa pagtitinda ng mga plastik na lagayan ng mga pinamili sa palengke. Ang aking ate ay nag-aalaga ng aking bunsong kapatid habang ako naman ay nag-aaral sa kindergarten sa isang pribadong paaralan na pagmamay-ari ng isang organisasyon galing sa ibang bansa sa Amerika.

Bago matapos ang aking pag-aaral sa kindergarten, sa hindi ko malamang dahilan, ang aking ama at mga kapatid ay umuwi ng probinsiya samantalang ako naman ay kasama ng aking ina na lumipat ng bahay sa bayan ng Rizal. Tumira kami sa kanyang kaibigang tomboy. Doon na ako nagpatuloy ng aking pag-aaral ng elementarya.

 *** Marami pang nangyari pagkatapos nito. Ikukwento ko sa inyo sa susunod. Hanggang sa susunod na na kwento ng aking buhay. Maraming salamat sa inyong pagbabasa. Hanggang sa muli.

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Our life story [TAGALOG]

6 years ago · 1 · our heartache

Sa bawat araw na lumilipas,

ang mga litratong kumupas

sa aking isipan ay

bumabalot sa puso kong ito.

Dahan-dahan nang umuulit

ang bawat sakit at mapa-pait

na mga ala-alang ika’y

aking nasaktan.

Gumuguho na ang mundo ko.

Naglalakad sa sarili kong abo.

Ngayon nandito ako sumisigaw, naliligaw -

sa mundong naiiba sa mundong natatanaw.

Ngayon nandito ako umiiyak, naghihintay sa -

iyong ngiti dito sa’king panaginip.

Sa bawat yugto na aking likha

ay mga malungkot na tadhana.

Pinipilit gumising,

umaasang mamulat ang mata

Dahan-dahan ko’ng ginuguhit

ang bawat tamis at mala-lambing

sakin’ naghihintay.

Gumuguho na ang puso ko.

Namulat na ang mga mata’ng ito.

Ngayon nandito ako dahan-dahang natatanaw -

ang mundong aking gawa mula sa aking luha

Ngayon nandito ako tumatakbo, inaabot ang -

iyong kamay at ang iyong pusong makulay.

Sa pagikot ng mundong ito,

ang nais ko ika'y aking mapasaya.

Ang tinago kong mga luha

sa iyo ay aking iniwan na sa mundo ko.

Ngayon nandito ako na yumayakap sa iyo

Patawarin mo ako, nasaktan ko puso mo.

Ngayon nandito ako hindi nang bibitawan pa ang

Iyong kamay dito sa’ting kuwento ng buhay.

kuwento ng buhay.

Please read our commenting guidelines before responding. Read now .

You are commenting as a guest. To choose your username either log in or sign up .

If you see a comment that is unsupportive or unfriendly, please report it using the flag button.

Marahil ito ay isang uri ng pagmamahal.

Isang misteryong minsa'y tumatagal.

Marahil ito ay isang pagsubok.

Salitang lohikal na di maipapasok.May mga bagay na di maitatangi,

Tulad ng isang pusong sawi.

Magmahal ma'y di maiwasang masaktan.

Sapagkat ang pagmamahal ay lubusan.Sa iyong kinatatayuan, natanaw mo na ang patutunguhan.

Sa susunod na pagkakataon, huwag mo na tong bibitawan.(Yuu)

Idk if they view me weak or what. I have a hard time speaking up sometimes when I should ..I'm afraid of people... Of losing certain people. I test without bein...

I just turned 50, I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life, and haven't really felt like trying at all. Today I actually put effort into my appearance. S...

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Example Of Essay On My Life In The Philippines

Type of paper: Essay

Topic: Mind , Friends , Family , Home , Parents , Friendship , English , City

Published: 02/02/2020

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I always looked forward to being a teenager. I imagined myself going to the mall, watching movies with my friends, or simply hanging out at each other's houses. At 13, I already mapped out my summer plans and the only thing left to do was for summer to arrive. However, as fate would have it, my grandfather suddenly passed away in May 2005. While grieving at his sudden loss, my parents decided to send me to the Philippines to study English. They thought that it was the best way for me to learn the English language. I was instantly aghast at the idea because the plan was for me to stay with an aunt I hardly knew, a country I was not familiar with, and a language I hardly understood. When my parents talked me into it, they painted a picture of warm, sunny weather, and beautiful sceneries to visit. In my young mind, the idea of living away from my parents excited me and scared at the prospect of living in a place too far from them. I initially thought about my friends. I also thought about how my summer plans changed suddenly. I was a wreck full of questions: Will I be able to fit in? Will I have new friends? Can I adjust in my new environment? With so many questions in mind, I slowly resisted the idea. But my parents were firm in their decision to send me to the Philippines and live with my aunt and brother. In two months after my grandfather passed away, I flew in the country. From the airport, we travelled farther up North of Manila to Baguio City. While Manila was hot and humid, Baguio City was the total opposite. Pine trees lined up the roads and the breeze chilly. Spring and autumn define the Philippine weather and strangely, the country has only two seasons, the dry (sunny) and wet (rainy) seasons. Clear skies as well as nice and accommodating people make up for a relaxing atmosphere. Popularly known as the City of Pines, scenic attractions and a rich cultural heritage attracts both local and foreign visitors all-year round. Sunflowers surround the hills from November to May as other wild flowers grow along the hillsides. Despite the tranquil weather, peaceful ambiance, and friendly people, I still found myself terrified and reluctant to make friends with the other kids in the neighborhood. Wherever I looked, my eyes searched for my friends, hoping that they would miraculously enter the gates of my new international school. I felt really sad and alone even though my classmates comforted me. But the language barrier isolated me from the rest of them. As they laughed at each other's jokes, I stared at them blankly while I deciphered what they just said. I struggled with English and Tagalog, the local dialect. I could not adjust in my new environment because I knew in my heart I wanted something else. Because I could not communicate with them easily, the more I felt alone, confused, and resentful. In my young mind, I could not comprehend how my parents could allow me to study away from them and live with virtually strangers. My aunt and her family became my second family and through them, I slowly coped and understood the language. Auntie often told me that I should give my new classmates a chance to know me as much as to give myself an opportunity to know them as well. She advised that I should stop comparing my Filipino classmates with my own classmates back home lest I judge them without the benefit of knowing them on a more personal level. I did as she told me and I slowly removed the walls I built around myself. Soon, I realized I have nice and kind friends just as the ones I have back home. I gradually warmed up to all of them and soon, I already spoke in English and Tagalog faster just like them. Why? Because entire class served as my personal tutor. As months passed by, I found myself enjoying Baguio City especially the Crystal Caves, Burnham Park, Camp John Hay, Mines View Park, and the Maharlika Mall where I buy locally made arts and crafts. I remember the times my cousins and I would bike around Burnham Park and ride the boats in the manmade lake pure bliss indeed! Soon enough, Baguio became my "home away from home". In all these, I still remember Auntie's advices on making friends and withholding judgment before knowing another person. Had I not listened to her, I would probably have ended lonely, friendless, and depressed at the tender age of 13. In addition, the experience helped me become independent as it gave me courage to pursue life and my dreams on my own. Thanks to my Auntie, all the lessons she taught me are still with me as I use them to guide me in my everyday relationships with others.

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How to Write a Life Story Essay

Last Updated: May 28, 2023 Fact Checked

This article was co-authored by Alicia Cook . Alicia Cook is a Professional Writer based in Newark, New Jersey. With over 12 years of experience, Alicia specializes in poetry and uses her platform to advocate for families affected by addiction and to fight for breaking the stigma against addiction and mental illness. She holds a BA in English and Journalism from Georgian Court University and an MBA from Saint Peter’s University. Alicia is a bestselling poet with Andrews McMeel Publishing and her work has been featured in numerous media outlets including the NY Post, CNN, USA Today, the HuffPost, the LA Times, American Songwriter Magazine, and Bustle. She was named by Teen Vogue as one of the 10 social media poets to know and her poetry mixtape, “Stuff I’ve Been Feeling Lately” was a finalist in the 2016 Goodreads Choice Awards. There are 11 references cited in this article, which can be found at the bottom of the page. This article has been fact-checked, ensuring the accuracy of any cited facts and confirming the authority of its sources. This article has been viewed 101,196 times.

A life story essay involves telling the story of your life in a short, nonfiction format. It can also be called an autobiographical essay. In this essay, you will tell a factual story about some element of your life, perhaps for a college application or for a school assignment.

Preparing to Write Your Essay

• If you are writing a personal essay for a college application, it should serve to give the admissions committee a sense of who you are, beyond the basics of your application file. Your transcript, your letters of recommendation, and your resume will provide an overview of your work experience, interests, and academic record. Your essay allows you to make your application unique and individual to you, through your personal story. [2] X Research source
• The essay will also show the admissions committee how well you can write and structure an essay. Your essay should show you can create a meaningful piece of writing that interests your reader, conveys a unique message, and flows well.
• If you are writing a life story for a specific school assignment, such as in a composition course, ask your teacher about the assignment requirements.

• Include important events, such as your birth, your childhood and upbringing, and your adolescence. If family member births, deaths, marriages, and other life moments are important to your story, write those down as well.
• Focus on experiences that made a big impact on you and remain a strong memory. This may be a time where you learned an important life lesson, such as failing a test or watching someone else struggle and succeed, or where you felt an intense feeling or emotion, such as grief over someone’s death or joy over someone’s triumph.

• Have you faced a challenge in your life that you overcame, such as family struggles, health issues, a learning disability, or demanding academics?
• Do you have a story to tell about your cultural or ethnic background, or your family traditions?
• Have you dealt with failure or life obstacles?
• Do you have a unique passion or hobby?
• Have you traveled outside of your community, to another country, city, or area? What did you take away from the experience and how will you carry what you learned into a college setting?

• Remind yourself of your accomplishments by going through your resume. Think about any awards or experiences you would like spotlight in your essay. For example, explaining the story behind your Honor Roll status in high school, or how you worked hard to receive an internship in a prestigious program.
• Remember that your resume or C.V. is there to list off your accomplishments and awards, so your life story shouldn't just rehash them. Instead, use them as a jumping-off place to explain the process behind them, or what they reflect (or do not reflect) about you as a person.

• The New York Times publishes stellar examples of high school life story essays each year. You can read some of them on the NYT website. [8] X Research source

Writing Your Essay

• For example, you may look back at your time in foster care as a child or when you scored your first paying job. Consider how you handled these situations and any life lessons you learned from these lessons. Try to connect past experiences to who you are now, or who you aspire to be in the future.
• Your time in foster care, for example, may have taught you resilience, perseverance and a sense of curiosity around how other families function and live. This could then tie into your application to a Journalism program, as the experience shows you have a persistent nature and a desire to investigate other people’s stories or experiences.

• Certain life story essays have become cliche and familiar to admission committees. Avoid sports injuries stories, such as the time you injured your ankle in a game and had to find a way to persevere. You should also avoid using an overseas trip to a poor, foreign country as the basis for your self transformation. This is a familiar theme that many admission committees will consider cliche and not unique or authentic. [11] X Research source
• Other common, cliche topics to avoid include vacations, "adversity" as an undeveloped theme, or the "journey". [12] X Research source

• Try to phrase your thesis in terms of a lesson learned. For example, “Although growing up in foster care in a troubled neighborhood was challenging and difficult, it taught me that I can be more than my upbringing or my background through hard work, perseverance, and education.”
• You can also phrase your thesis in terms of lessons you have yet to learn, or seek to learn through the program you are applying for. For example, “Growing up surrounded by my mother’s traditional cooking and cultural habits that have been passed down through the generations of my family, I realized I wanted to discover and honor the traditions of other, ancient cultures with a career in archaeology.”
• Both of these thesis statements are good because they tell your readers exactly what to expect in clear detail.

• An anecdote is a very short story that carries moral or symbolic weight. It can be a poetic or powerful way to start your essay and engage your reader right away. You may want to start directly with a retelling of a key past experience or the moment you realized a life lesson.
• For example, you could start with a vivid memory, such as this from an essay that got its author into Harvard Business School: "I first considered applying to Berry College while dangling from a fifty-food Georgia pine tree, encouraging a high school classmate, literally, to make a leap of faith." [15] X Research source This opening line gives a vivid mental picture of what the author was doing at a specific, crucial moment in time and starts off the theme of "leaps of faith" that is carried through the rest of the essay.
• Another great example clearly communicates the author's emotional state from the opening moments: "Through seven-year-old eyes I watched in terror as my mother grimaced in pain." This essay, by a prospective medical school student, goes on to tell about her experience being at her brother's birth and how it shaped her desire to become an OB/GYN. The opening line sets the scene and lets you know immediately what the author was feeling during this important experience. It also resists reader expectations, since it begins with pain but ends in the joy of her brother's birth.
• Avoid using a quotation. This is an extremely cliche way to begin an essay and could put your reader off immediately. If you simply must use a quotation, avoid generic quotes like “Spread your wings and fly” or “There is no ‘I’ in ‘team’”. Choose a quotation that relates directly to your experience or the theme of your essay. This could be a quotation from a poem or piece of writing that speaks to you, moves you, or helped you during a rough time.

• Always use the first person in a personal essay. The essay should be coming from you and should tell the reader directly about your life experiences, with “I” statements.
• For example, avoid something such as “I had a hard time growing up. I was in a bad situation.” You can expand this to be more distinct, but still carry a similar tone and voice. “When I was growing up in foster care, I had difficulties connecting with my foster parents and with my new neighborhood. At the time, I thought I was in a bad situation I would never be able to be free from.”

• For example, consider this statement: "I am a good debater. I am highly motivated and have been a strong leader all through high school." This gives only the barest detail, and does not allow your reader any personal or unique information that will set you apart from the ten billion other essays she has to sift through.
• In contrast, consider this one: "My mother says I'm loud. I say you have to speak up to be heard. As president of my high school's debate team for the past three years, I have learned to show courage even when my heart is pounding in my throat. I have learned to consider the views of people different than myself, and even to argue for them when I passionately disagree. I have learned to lead teams in approaching complicated issues. And, most importantly for a formerly shy young girl, I have found my voice." This example shows personality, uses parallel structure for impact, and gives concrete detail about what the author has learned from her life experience as a debater.

• An example of a passive sentence is: “The cake was eaten by the dog.” The subject (the dog) is not in the expected subject position (first) and is not "doing" the expected action. This is confusing and can often be unclear.
• An example of an active sentence is: “The dog ate the cake.” The subject (the dog) is in the subject position (first), and is doing the expected action. This is much more clear for the reader and is a stronger sentence.

• Lead the reader INTO your story with a powerful beginning, such as an anecdote or a quote.
• Take the reader THROUGH your story with the context and key parts of your experience.
• End with the BEYOND message about how the experience has affected who you are now and who you want to be in college and after college.

Editing Your Essay

• For example, a sentence like “I struggled during my first year of college, feeling overwhelmed by new experiences and new people” is not very strong because it states the obvious and does not distinguish you are unique or singular. Most people struggle and feel overwhelmed during their first year of college. Adjust sentences like this so they appear unique to you.
• For example, consider this: “During my first year of college, I struggled with meeting deadlines and assignments. My previous home life was not very structured or strict, so I had to teach myself discipline and the value of deadlines.” This relates your struggle to something personal and explains how you learned from it.

• It can be difficult to proofread your own work, so reach out to a teacher, a mentor, a family member, or a friend and ask them to read over your essay. They can act as first readers and respond to any proofreading errors, as well as the essay as a whole.

Expert Q&A

You Might Also Like

• ↑ http://education.seattlepi.com/write-thesis-statement-autobiographical-essay-1686.html
• ↑ https://study.com/learn/lesson/autobiography-essay-examples-steps.html
• ↑ https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/fulfillment-any-age/201101/writing-compelling-life-story-in-500-words-or-less
• ↑ Alicia Cook. Professional Writer. Expert Interview. 11 December 2020.
• ↑ https://mycustomessay.com/blog/how-to-write-an-autobiography-essay.html
• ↑ http://www.ahwatukee.com/community_focus/article_c79b33da-09a5-11e3-95a8-001a4bcf887a.html
• ↑ http://www.nytimes.com/2014/05/10/your-money/four-stand-out-college-essays-about-money.html
• ↑ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xY9AdFx0L4s
• ↑ https://www.medina-esc.org/Downloads/Practical%20Advice%20Writing%20College%20App%20Essay.pdf
• ↑ http://www.businessinsider.com/successful-harvard-business-school-essays-2012-11?op=1
• ↑ http://www.grammar-monster.com/glossary/passive_sentences.htm

About This Article

A life story essay is an essay that tells the story of your life in a short, nonfiction format. Start by coming up with a thesis statement, which will help you structure your essay. For example, your thesis could be about the influence of your family's culture on your life or how you've grown from overcoming challenging circumstances. You can include important life events that link to your thesis, like jobs you’ve worked, friendships that have influenced you, or sports competitions you’ve won. Consider starting your essay with an anecdote that introduces your thesis. For instance, if you're writing about your family's culture, you could start by talking about the first festival you went to and how it inspired you. Finish by writing about how the experiences have affected you and who you want to be in the future. For more tips from our Education co-author, including how to edit your essay effectively, read on! Did this summary help you? Yes No

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[#RapplerReads] Filipino short stories for beginners

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Just like everything else, reading has its off days too. If you’re a reader, you might be well aware of the days when you can’t concentrate on a single word on the page. 

We all have our own ways of getting over a reading slump. Some people buy even more books. Others take a break from reading altogether. Personally, I prefer reading short stories. 

[#RapplerReads] Carving a space for Filipino stories in genre fiction with Isabel Yap’s ‘Never Have I Ever: Stories’

If you’ve been following our #RapplerReads pieces for some time now, you might have noticed that I’ve recommended a couple of short story collections. It’s one of my favorite genres to read, especially in the mornings while having my breakfast. 

For those of you who are confused, a short story is basically any prose narrative that is shorter than a novel and focuses on a few characters, a linked set of events, and usually one theme. Since each story is self-contained, it’s easier for a reader to focus on it. That’s how it helps me get over my slumps.

[#RapplerReads] To Filipinos who want to go abroad…

The Filipino short story

Like most forms of literature, there are many kinds of short stories: flash fiction, drabbles, and fables, to name just a few. But my favorite is the Filipino short story.

The Filipino short story has its roots in the American colonial period, the time English was established as the medium of instruction in all schools. Following this, writers began publishing literary works written in English in the Philippines Free Press, the College Folio, and Philippines Herald. In 1925, Paz Marquez Benitez “Dead Stars” became the first successful short story in English written by a Filipino.

Even during this time, critics already observed that Filipino writers excelled in the field of the short story. Of course, the genre evolved as writers gained more access to other mass media, became more involved in literary workshops and seminars, and participated in literary awards. Because of all these, I believe that the genre has only become even more engaging and superb in recent years. 

Are you interested in getting over a reading slump or taking a chance on a new genre? Let me help you get started with this list of Filipino short story books I’ve enjoyed.

The Likhaan Anthology of Philippine Literature in English from 1900 to the Present

If you can only purchase one book on this list, let it be this one. The Likhaan Anthology is probably my best buy from college. Meant to serve as a textbook for a college-level course in Philippine literature in English, it helps readers gain an understanding of the classics in this field.

In this anthology, you can read “Dead Stars” and other masterpieces of the short story genre, such as works by Estrella D. Alfon., N.V.M. Gonzalez, and Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo. It also offers an insightful look into the conventions and growth of the Filipino short story from Jose Y. Dalisay Jr. 

Here’s a bonus: you can also get access to works from other genres including poetry, essays, and drama. 

The Woman Who Had Two Navels and Tales of the Tropical Gothic

Widely considered as one of the best Filipino writers, National Artist Nick Joaquin’s seminal works were first published in the US by Penguin Books. Aside from the titular work, his much-anthologized works “May Day Eve” and “The Summer Solstice” can also be found in this book. This is definitely a must-have not just for all Nick Joaquin enthusiasts but also for enjoyers of Philippine literature.

How to Pacify a Disraught Infant: Stories

If you’re looking for more modern short stories, this would be a good place to start. Written by one of my favorite writers – and former professor – Anna Felicia C. Sanchez, this book is composed of easy-to-read, relatable, and heartwarming pieces on marriage, motherhood, and other issues most Filipinos grapple with.

Allow me to reiterate poet Conchitina Cruz’s review of the book: “​​Sanchez’s clear-eyed and crisp storytelling honors both her fictional women and their real-life counterparts, whose difficulties, though not unfamiliar, are far from obsolete.”

Isang Gabi sa Quezon Avenue at Iba Pang Kuwento

This one’s for all the Marites around. Dedicated to “ Sa mga tsismoso’t tsismosa [Those who love to gossip],” Mar Anthony Simon Dela Cruz’ book is a collection of 12 stories written in Filipino. While not everything in the book follows the traditional format of a short story – one story is a forum discussing celebrity Jhake Vargas – each of the works in this book has tsismis [gossip] at its core. 

If you’re looking for a fun read or to improve your knowledge of the Filipino language, this may be the book for you. 

The Kindness of Birds

When I’m in a more pensive mood, this is the book I read. Merlinda Bobis’ book is for more advanced and emotional readers. It’s a collection of linked short stories, connected by common characters and the symbolism of birds. Published during the pandemic, the stories pay homage to kindness and the kinship between women and nature. I believe that this is a must-read for any woman that finds herself in isolation during difficult times. 

This August, join us in celebrating Buwan ng Wika by reading a Filipino short story or two. Don’t forget to post your reads and tag #RapplerReads so we can see them! – Rappler.com

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The Story of My Life

Helen keller, everything you need for every book you read..

Welcome to the LitCharts study guide on Helen Keller's The Story of My Life . Created by the original team behind SparkNotes, LitCharts are the world's best literature guides.

The Story of My Life: Introduction

The story of my life: plot summary, the story of my life: detailed summary & analysis, the story of my life: themes, the story of my life: quotes, the story of my life: characters, the story of my life: symbols, the story of my life: literary devices, the story of my life: theme wheel, brief biography of helen keller.

Historical Context of The Story of My Life

Other books related to the story of my life.

• Full Title: The Story of My Life
• When Written: Early 1900s
• Where Written: Cambridge, MA
• When Published: 1903
• Literary Period: Gilded Age/Progressive Era
• Genre: Memoir
• Setting: Tuscumbia, Alabama; Boston, Cambridge, and Wrentham, Massachusetts; New York City and Niagara Falls, New York
• Climax: Helen, despite the doubts of her friends and family and in the face of institutional bureaucracy, passes her entrance exams and is admitted to Radcliffe College at Harvard University
• Antagonist: Self-doubt
• Point of View: First person

Extra Credit for The Story of My Life

Highly Adaptable. The beautiful language, moving message, and intriguing characters which are all encompassed within The Story of My Life have made it one of Helen Keller’s best-known works and rich fodder for adaptation and reinvention. William Gibson adapted Helen and Anne’s story into a teleplay, The Miracle Worker , in 1957, and later rewrote the script for Broadway. In 1962, Gibson’s play was adapted into a feature film starting Anne Bancroft as Anne Sullivan and Patty Duke as Helen Keller. The film was an instant success and was nominated for five Academy Awards. Bancroft and Duke won the Oscars for Best Actress and Best Supporting Actress, respectively.

Retiring to the Philippines

Magazine for expats thinking of retiring to the Philippines

A Personal Story of Life in the Philippines

August 14, 2013 by J.J. Claire 8 Comments

Gary, as you have said in many ariticles, it is not only about the low cost, but about the Filipino people. For me, the people are real, not plastic. They seem to be people who look forward to the best, often expecting the worse, and take what life gives.

I did my first military tour in the Philippines as a single man. I went on to college and got an officer commission. My third commissioned duty station was the Hospital at Cubi Point, [Subic Bay], Philippines. I went there as a married man, taking along my Filipina wife and daughter. My wife and I have now been married well over 37 years. My 34 year old daughter reminds us often that we are no longer ‘spring chickens’, or a rooster in my case. This year marks, finally, a special bench mark for the wife and I. Even being new parents, [adopting a 2 year old grandson], we will both have more than enough to support the child in the USA. That means far more than we need to support him in the Islands of Paradise.

Retiring in the Philippines

This fall, my wife will soon turn 62 and I will turn 65. I still work some, preaching and doing funerals. I have been granted an increase in my small VA pension. My wife found out that she will get far more in SS than she ever expected. We had not really kept up with her earnings as we had with mine.

Our grandson, if adopted, will get a good share, [%], of my earning every month. Our goal is to bank that money and invest the funds for his future, including college. We also plan to have him learn both English and Filipino, and hopefully Spanish and possibly Chinese. I found that I can be in the USA and do my own work, do the laundry, gardening, upkeep and ECT, and work a modest amount of sweat and still not be much farther ahead each month. Even with a good income, SS, VA and military pension; my activities would be limited. OR, I could/can go to the Philippines, enjoy life there and be with family and friends who really seem to care.

Life In The Philippines

I can take all the family to the beach and enjoy the whole day, men drinking, women cackling among themselves, and children playing. My grandson can be part of a close knit family. I can get him a real dog, a cat or two, a rabbit, a goat, a few chickens and even a pony in the Philippines. In short, my grandson can experience having things around that he could only see here in Texas. He can also experience the tilling of our land and the growing of his food, some of his own food, from ground that he can see each day.

We can get the local boys, really men, who can work hard if given the proper leadership, to assist us with gardening, and landscaping. We can grow a great deal of fine flowers, plants, vegetables and fruits. We do not have to go far to pick our own tomatoes, cucumbers, squash and mangoes.

We can pick fresh bananas and if a few go soft, we can make banana bread.

Sure, we can get bananas from the store, and use the soft bananas for banana bread in the Philippines, but the idea of doing so is almost totally different.

Having the boys around means that I have someone who can take my grandson to school, do the laundry, cook meals, assist with the marketing and do a lot of the other ‘chores’ that many older people find a bit too much, as they reach a point in their lives where doing so requires’just too much work’.

We, both the wife and I, as well as baby boy, can enjoy the good life, and not have to do the heavy work in order to do so. My years of working hard are long behind me. I know that more than anyone else.

My wife is also slowing down. She is looking forward to seeing those social security checks start coming in. She is looking forward to traveling and just visiting old friends, going to the beach with some of the family she dearly loves. She is also looking forward to paying for and guiding the college life of many of her grand nieces and nephews. A small bit of tuition money can and prayerfully will, make a big difference in the lives of many of the younger generation. Some of the younger generation will be lazy and not do well in college, but at least we will give those willing to try a chance that otherwise, without us being there, they would not have. We do look forward to attending a few graduation over the next few years.

I have actually retired three times, and still work some. I have more passive income than I need to support the three of us. I also enjoy working and earning active income. My wife will be in a unique position where she can also earn active income, if she were to choose to do so. I am also a seat of the pants type guy. I do not plan things that far ahead. If you are a person who expects everything to be well done, well organized and of superior workmanship, The Philippines may not be the place for you. I see a fair number of expats who go to the Philippine Islands, [often because it is cheaper], and then complain about the laid back nature of the general population. I know that in going to the Philippines, things are different. Just as NY, California and Texas are different, so are their differences between the RP and the various areas of the USA. I am not going there expecting little Galveston, NY or LA, Oakland or San Francisco. I know that living in our area of the Philippines. I also know that some areas of the islands are much more developed than our area. I know that some areas are also far less developed than our humble area of Marinduque.

I also like it warm weather, not hot, but warm, and definitely not cold. Even in the south, I have far to much winter to satisfy me. Sure in the islands we have storms, but it is warm all the time. The people are there, helping me make repairs after each and every storm. Those same people get me eggs from the coops. They get the mangos at the very top of our mango trees.

They pick our bananas and jack fruit, and bring the wife coconuts for pies, cookies and her almost daily coconut water drinks. My accidents have been few when using a vehicle. I have learned to be defensive and to slow down when I drive. I walk almost every place I need to go and find the exercise is great for my waist line.

I eat better, fresher food, and food that does not have all the hormones in it. I am also able to grow a good deal of what goes on my own table after spending just a few months in the islands. That is sort of the pro of living in our area of the islands of paradise.

Part of the con is that my wife worked her behind off to leave the island. Now I want to put her back on the island, a kilometer from where she grew up and just inches from the problems she left and never wants to encounter again. She is now called ”the wife of the foreigner”, even though she was born and raised on that humble island. Our island is not as well developed as where Gary McMurrain lives. But for me, I am willing to risk the hardships in order for my grandson to experience the family ties and the close cultural events that take place each day.

I am looking at getting my wife a home in Manila or on the mainland of Luzon. She wants to be able to shop, go out to dinner and see a show. The Island of Marinduque is not able to lend much in this regard.

Still, one and all, fellow readers, I believe that life can be better in and on many areas of the Philippines. I am looking forward to leaving the USA for there soon.

I was able to get tickets and paperwork, [paperwork long overdue], to take our grandson to the Philippines. We are now looking forward to our golden years with pride and pleasure.

You Might Also Like...

August 14, 2013 at 8:40 am

Gary, You write beautiful stories. I have ofton thought about retiring to the Philippines with my Filipina wife and our small child. However, it always comes back to the same thing. I am worried about Denue Fever. Is this a legitimate worry?

August 19, 2013 at 2:56 am

Thank you much. This particular article was written by one of our guest writers, JJ Claire.

I would not say that Dengue Fever is a real worry but it is something to be aware of. I think most of the people who die from Dengue are those who delay going to the hospital for several days. Several in our family had Dengue and with prompt, immediate treatment, it is not normally fatal. The day time mosquitoes are the carriers of Dengue. Keeping one’s living area clean and free from attracting the Dengue carrying mosquitoes is a great prevention. Old tires and used drink bottles that catch rain water are two big attractions for mosquitoes. Have a great day!

August 17, 2013 at 9:27 am

Thank you much, Garry. This particular article was written by our guest writer, JJ Claire.

I would not say that Dengue Fever is a real worry but it is something to be aware of. I think most of the people who die from Dengue are those who delay going to the hospital for several days. Several in our family had Dengue and withl prompt, immediate treatment, it is not normally fatal. The day time mosquitoes are the carriers of Dengue. Keeping one's living area clean and free from attracting the Dengue carrying mosquitoes is a great prevention. Old tires and used drink bottles that catch rain water are two big attractions for mosquitoes. Have a great day!

December 17, 2014 at 11:45 pm

I am looking forward to living in the Philippines in June of 2016, 1.5 years from now. Many of the same reasons you state I also look forward to. I have been to PI 7 times so far, I plan to return for vacation in April 2015 for my 8th trip there. I realize living there daily will be different from vacationing there. I do look forward to doing things on my own time there in PI. I am not a rich man money wise but I should be OK, in general.

I wish everyone a Merry Christmas and God Bless.

December 6, 2015 at 4:39 pm

Hi rjjj111,

I, too, have been to the Philippines 7 times and married my Filipina bride there. We do not know when we will be able to move there and I will be working for another four years before retirement, but hopefully it will not be too long after that. My asawa is from Cebu province and it seems to be the best place for us to live, though she keeps dropping hints about Baguio–a good place to go to get away from the heat. If you have more than $1,000 a month USD retirement income then you should be able to live a comfortable life in the PI but if you have more than that you will do well. God bless you, too, in your life and travels. Bob.

December 6, 2015 at 4:28 pm

Dear J.J., you wrote two years and almost four months ago and I am only now reading your story. Thank you for what you wrote. Family life is very important and I am glad for your grandson that you want the wholesome “country” life for him. You said that you want to buy a house for your wife in Manila or some other place in Luzon. Have you considered Cebu City, which is a lot closer to your place than is Manila? Also, Cebu is not in typhoon alley, while Luzon is. Though not as big as Manila, Cebu has a lot to offer by way of shopping malls, entertainment and places to see, and the traffic congestion is considerably less than it is in Manila. I wish the best for you and your family. Bob.

February 14, 2019 at 11:46 am

I am trying to locate a little girl that was born there the summer of 1983. Her Mom’s name is Rhea, Her american father is David Moret. Can you guide me?

February 19, 2019 at 2:35 am

Hi robin, can I have a more detailed information about the mother? Rhea is a really common name and a nickname here in the Philippines. Do you have more information like full name of the mother or baby? And their locations?

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5 Inspiring Success Stories Of Pinoys Who Challenged Their Fate

Filipinos are known to be hardworking and resilient. Some choose to take care their family to bring food to the table. Some go the extra mile and take up multiple jobs.

Withstanding the challenges of life and daily battles to fight poverty, many of our fellow Filipinos go above and beyond survival. Below are some stories that prove perseverance and hard work pave the way for fulfilled dreams.

From security guard to certified lawyer

Roy Lawagan was a security guard at Commission on Audit Office in LA Trinidad, Benguet. He studied criminology at University of Baguio and successfully finished his law degree at Saint Louis University along with 1,731 lawyers.

While his wife was pregnant with their now-four-year-old daughter, he was also attending night classes on his first year at law school. He didn’t make the cut at his first attempt during the 2014 bar exams. This, despite enrolling to a review center.

So he parried up and reviewed on his own for the November 2015 bar exams and aced it.

Honest cab driver gets scholarship grant

Taxi driver Reggie Cabututan was rewarded a one-in-a-million opportunity when he returned a luggage of Australian businessman Trent Shields. The luggage contained important belongings such as documents, gadgets, and cash.

Shields was in a hurry when he alighted the cab to Calle Uno Coworking Space in Quezon Hill at Baguio City and left an estimated P1 million worth of items.

Cabututan was awarded a scholarship grant worth P220,000 from the Vivixx Academy and Coder Factory for a six-month coding booth camp this coming June 2017.

He was also guaranteed a slot for an internship that could land him a job with a starting salary of P1.7 million.

Former domestic helper now a critically acclaimed photographer

Twenty-year-old Xyza Cruz Bacani flew to Hong Kong nine years ago along with thousands of Filipino employees to work as maids. Her goal back then was to fund her brother’s education.

Her passion for photography was given a chance four years ago when her employer lent her some money to buy a Nikon D90, her first camera.

It was her mission to use her passion to raise awareness on abuse as she witnessed and documented violence in the country.

She caught the attention of a San Francisco-based Filipino photographer, who saw her photos on social media. International publications, among them the New York Times Lens blog, started featuring her work.

She then became a recipient of a fellowship by the Magnum Foundation, a prestigious scholarship to study for six weeks in New York.

Street vendor turned millionaire skincare magnate

Filipinas are very particular with skincare routines—and Leonora Lim capitalized on that opportunity. Teaming up with her daughter Mercedita Lim, a licensed pharmacist who formulated a type of astringent during the ’90s, she repacked skincare products and sold them door-to-door.

This small-time sideline has grown into a lucrative business and became the skincare staple RDL. Last year, RDL Pharmaceuticals Laboratory Inc. signed a business partnership with an Indonesian firm.

Janitor thrived passing the 2016 bar exam

Ramil Comendador may seem like an ordinary guy working at the Malabon Commission on Elections (Comelec) as a janitor. Unbeknownst to his colleagues, he had been going to law school for five years at the Universidad de Manila.

Aside from pursuing his studies, he was supporting his wife and two children in Bicol. “Gusto ko lang pong sabihin sa kanila na kaya po nating putulin ang cycle ng kahirapan. Magsumikap lang. Huwag isiping mahirap,” he said in one interview.

Know an inspiring Pinoy story? Share it in the comments.

http://news.abs-cbn.com/business/11/29/13/squatter-millionaire-businessmans-success-story

http://www.rappler.com/move-ph/27693-taxi-driver-lawyer-driven-success

http://news.abs-cbn.com/special-report/03/11/08/janitor-entrepreneur-steve-tamayos-sojourn

http://manilastandard.net/business/power-technology/234765/filipino-techpreneur-finds-success-in-silicon-valley-.html

http://www.choosephilippines.com/specials/people/2898/rags-riches-5-stories-hardwork-and-success/

About the author

eCompareMo eCompareMo is the No. 1 financial e-commerce site in the Philippines. Follow us on Twitter and Instagram: @ecomparemo.

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A Story Of My Life Essay

The Story of My Life Interesting enough, my life began on a Thursday night, on December 17, 1987 In Atlanta Georgia, where I was delivered at 9. Pm to my mother, Ruth Dye and father, Tony Jiffies. I was the second child for my father and the third for my mother. I Just didn’t know anybody or where I would end up In life after that moment. As I grew up, my life changed at each milestone In a person life. I had a rough and very fun childhood.

Essay Example on Story Of My Life Sample

I remember playing outside with family and friends, eating around the dinner table with my family and sleeping with my grandmother until I was 15 years old. My life was filled with more great memories than the bad, even though lived in poverty stricken neighborhood. My grandmother never once, made it seem that way because she made sure we were fed, bathe and had clean clothes and shoes on our feet.

Even though, neither my mother nor my father was in my life, when I was younger, my father decided to change that when I was 15 years old.

He wanted me to be more than cousins that had three kids on their hips and one on the way. He told me, “If you are ready to leave, you can go with me, right now. ” I was hesitant at first, but I decided this might be my chance to get out of the situation I was In. At that point, my grades had started slipping, I started not to go to school, but I know I TLD want that for myself.

Proficient in: Communication

“ Really polite, and a great writer! Task done as described and better, responded to all my questions promptly too! ”

I took that leap of faith and I went with my dad and the rest Is still writing its story.

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My Life Story, Essay Example

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The beginning of my life was quite traumatic as my father was killed before I was born during the war in Liberia. My mother raised me as a single parent and sent me to school at the age of five, with the help of the UNHCR. Because of the help of UNHCR, I was able to learn things I would not have learned if they have not been there to support my studies and all the other needs that my mother and I had to get by with. This is why I thank them for their generosity.  After middle school, the only help from the UNHCR was for things such as medication and health supplies, so getting proper education became as an issue for my family. My mother struggled and we worked through the crisis until the American government approved us to come to America in the year 2005; this proved to be one of the best days of my life as it gave me a better sense of seeing the hope that is still there to get me and my family off from struggles that we have to deal with.

The memories of my life have caused me to despise the idea of even writing about it. I have realized since birth that life was not easy, and that it is full of strife that I and my family needed to survive. These experiences did not leave so much of a good thought in me and I think that writing about it even makes the situation harder to contemplate with. Nevertheless, I am hoping I could give a bit of distinction on what life has been for me and how it has created a better person in me through time through this writing.

Let me star by introducing my country of origin. Sierra Leone is a beautiful country in West Africa, with a lot of resources. Most people visit the country in search of diamonds; nevertheless, this resource has been the source of good reputation and war at the same time. This is why Sierra Leone is most known for diamonds and the civil war that last for a decade in the country. This war did not only destroy the country but also the lives of the people who have become alienated in their own nation; finding no protection for their lives because of the oppression they have to deal with from foreign elements who come into exploit the diamond resources of the country.

Before the war, my mom used to tell me how beautiful the country was, how people use to come from other countries to come get education, do good businesses, and how tourism has caused many people from other nations to come over for vacation. When she tells me stories like this, it makes me think more about how much better the country could have been without the war. The last war that lasted for a decade which started in 1989 was prolonged a few more years after that. It is because of these circumstances that I lived at least half of my life under the constraints of war.  It is also for this reason that I am not as interested as others are in sharing their life stories as I see mine as a mere blot of ink that has marked my history pitch black.

Although this is the case, I appreciate the fact that this writing activity might bring me into a deeper realization of my role as part of my country and as a supporter of my friends. I hope to bring better lives to my people, however, doing so requires immense effort and serious thinking which I could accomplish through writing down my experiences and reflecting on them through this activity.

One good thing about living in Sierra Leone is being able to mile with foreigners. Even in the middle of the war years, some white people from America and Europe come to visit the country. They use to bring all the children together, walk around with them, and tell them stories of where they from, and even play with the young ones. It is because of these instances that I realized my desire to get out of my country, learn more from outside in foreign nations and embrace a better option of living that is available for me and my family.

Education in Sierra Leone was one of the best in all African counties. During the British regime, education in the country was clearly effective and designed to help the young ones advance academically. However, in the long run, such system has been affected by the war as well. The poverty-stricken communities are almost choice-less when it comes to the education they could get that they even need to transfer to the city just to be able to get good education. As for myself, I attended nursery, kindergarten, and primary school in Sierra Leone. These days were both the best and worst days of my life. Learning in school was fun, but the journey going to school was harsh due to the war years. The two learning shifts make it hard for us to learn as much as well need. It give us only five hours in school every day which means we have to cover as much activities as needed within the given five hours of learning. I really did not like the morning shift because I have to wake up 6 am in the mooring to get ready for school. But my family used to wake up 5 am in the morning to pray, which makes my mom wake us up at 4 am in the morning. This goes on for a long time, and at some point, I have to get used to it; somehow, this attitude helped us a lot during the war years. Most of the time, the rebels are attack in the morning around 3 to 4 am. Most people are sleeping at this time and it makes it easier for them to accomplish their scrupulous missions during the said times. I remember one night when the rebels attacked and I was getting ready for school. The next thing I heard was a big and loud sound and people are screaming at the same time while they are running and calling their family members names. Most people were saying “Dan day cam o” which means “the rebels are coming”.  It took quite some time for tragic nights to end. For several years, we lived in fear for the coming of the rebels and remaining awake at such an early hour helped me and my family to be alert all the time.

Before the war, everything was much easier to handle. No worries loomed our heads and school was really fun. I remember going to school with my friends, walking and talking about what we going to do, what movies we should watch, what kind of games we should play tonight, and how we are going to study. We wear uniforms to school and only black and white shoes and socks. Like any other student, I did not like taking home works so much. It was such a drag for me to spend so much time learning even after school hours. Nevertheless, I know all these works helped me develop further.

Everything changed when I started studying ‘the American way’. Unlike the structured system in Sierra Leone, I had the chance to learn through particularly understanding what we are reading in class. I am able to realize the connection of my lessons to my personal being. I have learned how to academically survive and become more serious about my studies. I began to enjoy every bit of my education as I know the worth it has on me as I embrace a better life in America for me and my family.

The system of learning in America that I hope would be taken into account by the government in Sierra Leone is the provision of good and free education to students all the way through high school and some community colleges. Education is very important especially for individuals who have had to deal with the pressures of war. People need to realize that they have better hopes in life, and embracing such opportunities through getting good education is necessary. Today, only 50% of the students actually finish school all the way to college. It is because of this that only a few individuals get to find good jobs which further increases the poverty level in the country. I believe that with the attention of the government focused on improving educational provisions for the young ones, the country would be able to accomplish better options of living for the people and

Poverty in Sierra Leone makes it harder for people to live, go to school, have food for their family, have jobs, business, and everything else. We all know Sierra Leone is one of the richest countries in the world when it comes to resources, but yet we are one of the poorest countries in the world today because of the war years. War destroys lives and people living in war stricken countries are stripped off from every possibility of living better lives and embracing better options of being satisfied with what they do. This results to the increase of the number of uneducated individuals and increased violence in the country. Poverty makes it really hard for citizens to rely on the government like most people do in America.

In America, the government has social welfare programs that help citizens until they can make it on their own. If Sierra Leone can establish some of these programs, poverty in the land could be controlled accordingly. It is good to hear though that the country fairs better today that it ever did before when it was still under the war era. People are coping with the changes and are trying to deal with poverty in a much positive manner. I expect that in the coming years, more positive changes will come into place and more people would be given a better chance in life.

No, there is no better place than home. Sure, I have had bad experiences in Sierra Leone, but I also have good memories that remind me of what my country is capable of. Like any other individual who was able to see the good years in Sierra Leone, I would like to bring back the prosperity and peace that the country has. However, to do that, I first need to attend to myself, my personal capacities to improve in life for myself and my family. Once I have achieved such accomplishment, then I can face the possibility of engaging in a more remarkable process of helping my countrymen embrace a better life in Sierra Leone. When I come back to my country, I want to be prepared to help my fellowmen, especially the children in giving them the chance to experience the educational provisions I have received here in the United States.

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My Story Was Told in ‘Hotel Rwanda.’ Here’s What I Want the World to Know Now.

By Paul Rusesabagina

Mr. Rusesabagina is the president and founder of the Hotel Rwanda Rusesabagina Foundation.

This week, the world will again turn its eyes toward Rwanda. April 6 marks 30 years since the start of one of the most horrific events in modern history, the 1994 Rwandan genocide. Nearer in time but not unrelated, it has been just over one year since I left Rwanda and returned to the United States, released from prison after 939 days in captivity .

I have not yet spoken at length about what those years in a Rwandan prison were like, or about the daily reality for Rwandan political prisoners who, like me, found themselves behind bars for exercising their freedom of expression. It has been a long year of physical and emotional recovery that has allowed me finally to put pen to paper again, and I expect the healing process will last the rest of my life.

The experience of being kidnapped, tortured, imprisoned and silenced by those whom I had used my voice to criticize is difficult to describe. At many times during my captivity I believed I would be silenced for good, and that I would never again see my wife, my children and my grandchildren. But today I am a free man. And as we face this important and difficult milestone, I feel grateful to be able to join with my fellow Rwandans and reflect on what, if anything, we can take from this terrible chapter of our shared history.

For me and for so many Rwandans, the 1994 genocide remains the focal point of my life. The months of April to July 1994 were a time of incomprehensible horror, in which our beautiful country was dragged into hell by brutal violence and killings on a scale previously unimaginable. At some points in the crisis, as many as 10,000 people were butchered in a day, primarily by machetes and other crude weapons. Even now, three decades later, and even for those of us who saw the killings firsthand, it is impossible to process the depravity and the gravity of the loss.

At the time, I was the manager of the Hôtel des Mille Collines in Kigali, Rwanda’s capital, where I tried to protect not only my own young family but also the 1,268 people who sought shelter within the walls of the hotel. Their bravery, and our daily macabre dance with death, became the backdrop of the 2004 film “Hotel Rwanda.” This film brought to the screen our compromising, negotiating and begging with our would-be executioners to try to keep the waiting militia at bay.

This experience is still difficult for each one of us to relive. I am grateful to have survived it. I am also grateful for the two personal lessons I decided to take from living through this atrocity. The first: Never, ever, ever give up. This is what sustained me when I was kidnapped in August 2020 by an operative of the Rwandan intelligence services and wrongfully detained in Rwanda on charges of terrorism and other crimes, along with others who were critical of the current government. The second: Words are our most effective weapons when we are confronted by those who seek to oppress and victimize others.

Both of these lessons are on my mind today, as the world considers the state of Rwanda 30 years after the genocide brought us to our knees.

Now Rwanda is viewed by many nations as an important global partner — a partner that has bravely rebuilt itself into a thriving and inclusive modern society. But it is increasingly difficult to remain blind to the jailing — and even the disappearances and killings — of those who criticize or challenge the Rwandan government’s power. Independent journalists, human rights advocates and opposition political parties are nearly absent from the landscape of Rwandan civil society today. This is not a reconciled or inclusive society; it is an authoritarian state.

The rest of the world should stop looking the other way. As a global community, we are being confronted with the rise of authoritarianism and the co-opting of institutions meant to support basic liberties, such as the freedom of press, speech and association. Throughout the world, politics is being used as a tool to promote division, and in some cases violence, in order to gain or maintain power. We continue to see the fundamental human rights that we fought so hard for being upheld only for certain people in certain circumstances. And, as is so often the case, the vulnerable members of society are the ones who pay the greatest price. Rwanda, which today lacks strong democratic institutions and free and fair elections, is not immune to these problems.

I believe that it becomes the role of those of us who have been empowered by our circumstances to speak out, to act as a check on abuses of power and to resist the erosion of our fundamental rights. It is imperative to speak against those who seek to reduce civic space and basic freedoms for their own political gain, choose to fuel violence for profit and openly engage in brutal wars for material wealth. This becomes our work, even if speaking out puts us in the direct line of fire, as it has for me and my family.

Thirty years on from the Rwandan genocide, there is still cause for hope. We can see young Rwandans all over the world continuing to advocate genuine reconciliation and the building of a democratic Rwanda, despite the overt risks of doing so. We can see the bravery and unfailing resolve of the women of Iran and Afghanistan and those who support them. We can see the open resistance of people in Myanmar, Ukraine, Syria and Sudan standing up to tyranny and oppression. Their courage reminds us that it is our collective duty to counter autocratic regimes and policies and promote equality and, above all, peace.

This is my prayer, and hope, for the next 30 years, for Rwanda and beyond.

Paul Rusesabagina served as manager of the Hôtel des Mille Collines in Kigali during the Rwandan genocide, a story later told in the film “Hotel Rwanda.” In 2005, he received the Presidential Medal of Freedom from President George W. Bush. He is the president and founder of the Hotel Rwanda Rusesabagina Foundation.

The Times is committed to publishing a diversity of letters to the editor. We’d like to hear what you think about this or any of our articles. Here are some tips . And here’s our email: [email protected] .

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Crying Myself to Sleep on the Biggest Cruise Ship Ever

Seven agonizing nights aboard the Icon of the Seas

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Updated at 2:44 p.m. ET on April 6, 2024.

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MY FIRST GLIMPSE of Royal Caribbean’s Icon of the Seas, from the window of an approaching Miami cab, brings on a feeling of vertigo, nausea, amazement, and distress. I shut my eyes in defense, as my brain tells my optic nerve to try again.

The ship makes no sense, vertically or horizontally. It makes no sense on sea, or on land, or in outer space. It looks like a hodgepodge of domes and minarets, tubes and canopies, like Istanbul had it been designed by idiots. Vibrant, oversignifying colors are stacked upon other such colors, decks perched over still more decks; the only comfort is a row of lifeboats ringing its perimeter. There is no imposed order, no cogent thought, and, for those who do not harbor a totalitarian sense of gigantomania, no visual mercy. This is the biggest cruise ship ever built, and I have been tasked with witnessing its inaugural voyage.

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“Author embarks on their first cruise-ship voyage” has been a staple of American essay writing for almost three decades, beginning with David Foster Wallace’s “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” which was first published in 1996 under the title “Shipping Out.” Since then, many admirable writers have widened and diversified the genre. Usually the essayist commissioned to take to the sea is in their first or second flush of youth and is ready to sharpen their wit against the hull of the offending vessel. I am 51, old and tired, having seen much of the world as a former travel journalist, and mostly what I do in both life and prose is shrug while muttering to my imaginary dachshund, “This too shall pass.” But the Icon of the Seas will not countenance a shrug. The Icon of the Seas is the Linda Loman of cruise ships, exclaiming that attention must be paid. And here I am in late January with my one piece of luggage and useless gray winter jacket and passport, zipping through the Port of Miami en route to the gangway that will separate me from the bulk of North America for more than seven days, ready to pay it in full.

The aforementioned gangway opens up directly onto a thriving mall (I will soon learn it is imperiously called the “Royal Promenade”), presently filled with yapping passengers beneath a ceiling studded with balloons ready to drop. Crew members from every part of the global South, as well as a few Balkans, are shepherding us along while pressing flutes of champagne into our hands. By a humming Starbucks, I drink as many of these as I can and prepare to find my cabin. I show my blue Suite Sky SeaPass Card (more on this later, much more) to a smiling woman from the Philippines, and she tells me to go “aft.” Which is where, now? As someone who has rarely sailed on a vessel grander than the Staten Island Ferry, I am confused. It turns out that the aft is the stern of the ship, or, for those of us who don’t know what a stern or an aft are, its ass. The nose of the ship, responsible for separating the waves before it, is also called a bow, and is marked for passengers as the FWD , or forward. The part of the contemporary sailing vessel where the malls are clustered is called the midship. I trust that you have enjoyed this nautical lesson.

I ascend via elevator to my suite on Deck 11. This is where I encounter my first terrible surprise. My suite windows and balcony do not face the ocean. Instead, they look out onto another shopping mall. This mall is the one that’s called Central Park, perhaps in homage to the Olmsted-designed bit of greenery in the middle of my hometown. Although on land I would be delighted to own a suite with Central Park views, here I am deeply depressed. To sail on a ship and not wake up to a vast blue carpet of ocean? Unthinkable.

Allow me a brief preamble here. The story you are reading was commissioned at a moment when most staterooms on the Icon were sold out. In fact, so enthralled by the prospect of this voyage were hard-core mariners that the ship’s entire inventory of guest rooms (the Icon can accommodate up to 7,600 passengers, but its inaugural journey was reduced to 5,000 or so for a less crowded experience) was almost immediately sold out. Hence, this publication was faced with the shocking prospect of paying nearly $19,000 to procure for this solitary passenger an entire suite—not including drinking expenses—all for the privilege of bringing you this article. But the suite in question doesn’t even have a view of the ocean! I sit down hard on my soft bed. Nineteen thousand dollars for this .

The viewless suite does have its pluses. In addition to all the Malin+Goetz products in my dual bathrooms, I am granted use of a dedicated Suite Deck lounge; access to Coastal Kitchen, a superior restaurant for Suites passengers; complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream (“the fastest Internet at Sea”) “for one device per person for the whole cruise duration”; a pair of bathrobes (one of which comes prestained with what looks like a large expectoration by the greenest lizard on Earth); and use of the Grove Suite Sun, an area on Decks 18 and 19 with food and deck chairs reserved exclusively for Suite passengers. I also get reserved seating for a performance of The Wizard of Oz , an ice-skating tribute to the periodic table, and similar provocations. The very color of my Suite Sky SeaPass Card, an oceanic blue as opposed to the cloying royal purple of the standard non-Suite passenger, will soon provoke envy and admiration. But as high as my status may be, there are those on board who have much higher status still, and I will soon learn to bow before them.

In preparation for sailing, I have “priced in,” as they say on Wall Street, the possibility that I may come from a somewhat different monde than many of the other cruisers. Without falling into stereotypes or preconceptions, I prepare myself for a friendly outspokenness on the part of my fellow seafarers that may not comply with modern DEI standards. I believe in meeting people halfway, and so the day before flying down to Miami, I visited what remains of Little Italy to purchase a popular T-shirt that reads DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL across the breast in the colors of the Italian flag. My wife recommended that I bring one of my many T-shirts featuring Snoopy and the Peanuts gang, as all Americans love the beagle and his friends. But I naively thought that my meatball T-shirt would be more suitable for conversation-starting. “Oh, and who is your ‘daddy’?” some might ask upon seeing it. “And how long have you been his ‘little meatball’?” And so on.

I put on my meatball T-shirt and head for one of the dining rooms to get a late lunch. In the elevator, I stick out my chest for all to read the funny legend upon it, but soon I realize that despite its burnished tricolor letters, no one takes note. More to the point, no one takes note of me. Despite my attempts at bridge building, the very sight of me (small, ethnic, without a cap bearing the name of a football team) elicits no reaction from other passengers. Most often, they will small-talk over me as if I don’t exist. This brings to mind the travails of David Foster Wallace , who felt so ostracized by his fellow passengers that he retreated to his cabin for much of his voyage. And Wallace was raised primarily in the Midwest and was a much larger, more American-looking meatball than I am. If he couldn’t talk to these people, how will I? What if I leave this ship without making any friends at all, despite my T-shirt? I am a social creature, and the prospect of seven days alone and apart is saddening. Wallace’s stateroom, at least, had a view of the ocean, a kind of cheap eternity.

Worse awaits me in the dining room. This is a large, multichandeliered room where I attended my safety training (I was shown how to put on a flotation vest; it is a very simple procedure). But the maître d’ politely refuses me entry in an English that seems to verge on another language. “I’m sorry, this is only for pendejos ,” he seems to be saying. I push back politely and he repeats himself. Pendejos ? Piranhas? There’s some kind of P-word to which I am not attuned. Meanwhile elderly passengers stream right past, powered by their limbs, walkers, and electric wheelchairs. “It is only pendejo dining today, sir.” “But I have a suite!” I say, already starting to catch on to the ship’s class system. He examines my card again. “But you are not a pendejo ,” he confirms. I am wearing a DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL T-shirt, I want to say to him. I am the essence of pendejo .

Eventually, I give up and head to the plebeian buffet on Deck 15, which has an aquatic-styled name I have now forgotten. Before gaining entry to this endless cornucopia of reheated food, one passes a washing station of many sinks and soap dispensers, and perhaps the most intriguing character on the entire ship. He is Mr. Washy Washy—or, according to his name tag, Nielbert of the Philippines—and he is dressed as a taco (on other occasions, I’ll see him dressed as a burger). Mr. Washy Washy performs an eponymous song in spirited, indeed flamboyant English: “Washy, washy, wash your hands, WASHY WASHY!” The dangers of norovirus and COVID on a cruise ship this size (a giant fellow ship was stricken with the former right after my voyage) makes Mr. Washy Washy an essential member of the crew. The problem lies with the food at the end of Washy’s rainbow. The buffet is groaning with what sounds like sophisticated dishes—marinated octopus, boiled egg with anchovy, chorizo, lobster claws—but every animal tastes tragically the same, as if there was only one creature available at the market, a “cruisipus” bred specifically for Royal Caribbean dining. The “vegetables” are no better. I pick up a tomato slice and look right through it. It tastes like cellophane. I sit alone, apart from the couples and parents with gaggles of children, as “We Are Family” echoes across the buffet space.

I may have failed to mention that all this time, the Icon of the Seas has not left port. As the fiery mango of the subtropical setting sun makes Miami’s condo skyline even more apocalyptic, the ship shoves off beneath a perfunctory display of fireworks. After the sun sets, in the far, dark distance, another circus-lit cruise ship ruptures the waves before us. We glance at it with pity, because it is by definition a smaller ship than our own. I am on Deck 15, outside the buffet and overlooking a bunch of pools (the Icon has seven of them), drinking a frilly drink that I got from one of the bars (the Icon has 15 of them), still too shy to speak to anyone, despite Sister Sledge’s assertion that all on the ship are somehow related.

Kim Brooks: On failing the family vacation

The ship’s passage away from Ron DeSantis’s Florida provides no frisson, no sense of developing “sea legs,” as the ship is too large to register the presence of waves unless a mighty wind adds significant chop. It is time for me to register the presence of the 5,000 passengers around me, even if they refuse to register mine. My fellow travelers have prepared for this trip with personally decorated T-shirts celebrating the importance of this voyage. The simplest ones say ICON INAUGURAL ’24 on the back and the family name on the front. Others attest to an over-the-top love of cruise ships: WARNING! MAY START TALKING ABOUT CRUISING . Still others are artisanally designed and celebrate lifetimes spent married while cruising (on ships, of course). A couple possibly in their 90s are wearing shirts whose backs feature a drawing of a cruise liner, two flamingos with ostensibly male and female characteristics, and the legend “ HUSBAND AND WIFE Cruising Partners FOR LIFE WE MAY NOT HAVE IT All Together BUT TOGETHER WE HAVE IT ALL .” (The words not in all caps have been written in cursive.) A real journalist or a more intrepid conversationalist would have gone up to the couple and asked them to explain the longevity of their marriage vis-à-vis their love of cruising. But instead I head to my mall suite, take off my meatball T-shirt, and allow the first tears of the cruise to roll down my cheeks slowly enough that I briefly fall asleep amid the moisture and salt.

I WAKE UP with a hangover. Oh God. Right. I cannot believe all of that happened last night. A name floats into my cobwebbed, nauseated brain: “Ayn Rand.” Jesus Christ.

I breakfast alone at the Coastal Kitchen. The coffee tastes fine and the eggs came out of a bird. The ship rolls slightly this morning; I can feel it in my thighs and my schlong, the parts of me that are most receptive to danger.

I had a dangerous conversation last night. After the sun set and we were at least 50 miles from shore (most modern cruise ships sail at about 23 miles an hour), I lay in bed softly hiccupping, my arms stretched out exactly like Jesus on the cross, the sound of the distant waves missing from my mall-facing suite, replaced by the hum of air-conditioning and children shouting in Spanish through the vents of my two bathrooms. I decided this passivity was unacceptable. As an immigrant, I feel duty-bound to complete the tasks I am paid for, which means reaching out and trying to understand my fellow cruisers. So I put on a normal James Perse T-shirt and headed for one of the bars on the Royal Promenade—the Schooner Bar, it was called, if memory serves correctly.

I sat at the bar for a martini and two Negronis. An old man with thick, hairy forearms drank next to me, very silent and Hemingwaylike, while a dreadlocked piano player tinkled out a series of excellent Elton John covers. To my right, a young white couple—he in floral shorts, she in a light, summery miniskirt with a fearsome diamond ring, neither of them in football regalia—chatted with an elderly couple. Do it , I commanded myself. Open your mouth. Speak! Speak without being spoken to. Initiate. A sentence fragment caught my ear from the young woman, “Cherry Hill.” This is a suburb of Philadelphia in New Jersey, and I had once been there for a reading at a synagogue. “Excuse me,” I said gently to her. “Did you just mention Cherry Hill? It’s a lovely place.”

As it turned out, the couple now lived in Fort Lauderdale (the number of Floridians on the cruise surprised me, given that Southern Florida is itself a kind of cruise ship, albeit one slowly sinking), but soon they were talking with me exclusively—the man potbellied, with a chin like a hard-boiled egg; the woman as svelte as if she were one of the many Ukrainian members of the crew—the elderly couple next to them forgotten. This felt as groundbreaking as the first time I dared to address an American in his native tongue, as a child on a bus in Queens (“On my foot you are standing, Mister”).

“I don’t want to talk politics,” the man said. “But they’re going to eighty-six Biden and put Michelle in.”

I considered the contradictions of his opening conversational gambit, but decided to play along. “People like Michelle,” I said, testing the waters. The husband sneered, but the wife charitably put forward that the former first lady was “more personable” than Joe Biden. “They’re gonna eighty-six Biden,” the husband repeated. “He can’t put a sentence together.”

After I mentioned that I was a writer—though I presented myself as a writer of teleplays instead of novels and articles such as this one—the husband told me his favorite writer was Ayn Rand. “Ayn Rand, she came here with nothing,” the husband said. “I work with a lot of Cubans, so …” I wondered if I should mention what I usually do to ingratiate myself with Republicans or libertarians: the fact that my finances improved after pass-through corporations were taxed differently under Donald Trump. Instead, I ordered another drink and the couple did the same, and I told him that Rand and I were born in the same city, St. Petersburg/Leningrad, and that my family also came here with nothing. Now the bonding and drinking began in earnest, and several more rounds appeared. Until it all fell apart.

Read: Gary Shteyngart on watching Russian television for five days straight

My new friend, whom I will refer to as Ayn, called out to a buddy of his across the bar, and suddenly a young couple, both covered in tattoos, appeared next to us. “He fucking punked me,” Ayn’s frat-boy-like friend called out as he put his arm around Ayn, while his sizable partner sizzled up to Mrs. Rand. Both of them had a look I have never seen on land—their eyes projecting absence and enmity in equal measure. In the ’90s, I drank with Russian soldiers fresh from Chechnya and wandered the streets of wartime Zagreb, but I have never seen such undisguised hostility toward both me and perhaps the universe at large. I was briefly introduced to this psychopathic pair, but neither of them wanted to have anything to do with me, and the tattooed woman would not even reveal her Christian name to me (she pretended to have the same first name as Mrs. Rand). To impress his tattooed friends, Ayn made fun of the fact that as a television writer, I’d worked on the series Succession (which, it would turn out, practically nobody on the ship had watched), instead of the far more palatable, in his eyes, zombie drama of last year. And then my new friends drifted away from me into an angry private conversation—“He punked me!”—as I ordered another drink for myself, scared of the dead-eyed arrivals whose gaze never registered in the dim wattage of the Schooner Bar, whose terrifying voices and hollow laughs grated like unoiled gears against the crooning of “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.”

But today is a new day for me and my hangover. After breakfast, I explore the ship’s so-called neighborhoods . There’s the AquaDome, where one can find a food hall and an acrobatic sound-and-light aquatic show. Central Park has a premium steak house, a sushi joint, and a used Rolex that can be bought for $8,000 on land here proudly offered at $17,000. There’s the aforementioned Royal Promenade, where I had drunk with the Rands, and where a pair of dueling pianos duel well into the night. There’s Surfside, a kids’ neighborhood full of sugary garbage, which looks out onto the frothy trail that the behemoth leaves behind itself. Thrill Island refers to the collection of tubes that clutter the ass of the ship and offer passengers six waterslides and a surfing simulation. There’s the Hideaway, an adult zone that plays music from a vomit-slathered, Brit-filled Alicante nightclub circa 1996 and proves a big favorite with groups of young Latin American customers. And, most hurtfully, there’s the Suite Neighborhood.

I say hurtfully because as a Suite passenger I should be here, though my particular suite is far from the others. Whereas I am stuck amid the riffraff of Deck 11, this section is on the highborn Decks 16 and 17, and in passing, I peek into the spacious, tall-ceilinged staterooms from the hallway, dazzled by the glint of the waves and sun. For $75,000, one multifloor suite even comes with its own slide between floors, so that a family may enjoy this particular terror in private. There is a quiet splendor to the Suite Neighborhood. I see fewer stickers and signs and drawings than in my own neighborhood—for example, MIKE AND DIANA PROUDLY SERVED U.S. MARINE CORPS RETIRED . No one here needs to announce their branch of service or rank; they are simply Suites, and this is where they belong. Once again, despite my hard work and perseverance, I have been disallowed from the true American elite. Once again, I am “Not our class, dear.” I am reminded of watching The Love Boat on my grandmother’s Zenith, which either was given to her or we found in the trash (I get our many malfunctioning Zeniths confused) and whose tube got so hot, I would put little chunks of government cheese on a thin tissue atop it to give our welfare treat a pleasant, Reagan-era gooeyness. I could not understand English well enough then to catch the nuances of that seafaring program, but I knew that there were differences in the status of the passengers, and that sometimes those differences made them sad. Still, this ship, this plenty—every few steps, there are complimentary nachos or milkshakes or gyros on offer—was the fatty fuel of my childhood dreams. If only I had remained a child.

I walk around the outdoor decks looking for company. There is a middle-aged African American couple who always seem to be asleep in each other’s arms, probably exhausted from the late capitalism they regularly encounter on land. There is far more diversity on this ship than I expected. Many couples are a testament to Loving v. Virginia , and there is a large group of folks whose T-shirts read MELANIN AT SEA / IT’S THE MELANIN FOR ME . I smile when I see them, but then some young kids from the group makes Mr. Washy Washy do a cruel, caricatured “Burger Dance” (today he is in his burger getup), and I think, Well, so much for intersectionality .

At the infinity pool on Deck 17, I spot some elderly women who could be ethnic and from my part of the world, and so I jump in. I am proved correct! Many of them seem to be originally from Queens (“Corona was still great when it was all Italian”), though they are now spread across the tristate area. We bond over the way “Ron-kon-koma” sounds when announced in Penn Station.

“Everyone is here for a different reason,” one of them tells me. She and her ex-husband last sailed together four years ago to prove to themselves that their marriage was truly over. Her 15-year-old son lost his virginity to “an Irish young lady” while their ship was moored in Ravenna, Italy. The gaggle of old-timers competes to tell me their favorite cruising stories and tips. “A guy proposed in Central Park a couple of years ago”—many Royal Caribbean ships apparently have this ridiculous communal area—“and she ran away screaming!” “If you’re diamond-class, you get four drinks for free.” “A different kind of passenger sails out of Bayonne.” (This, perhaps, is racially coded.) “Sometimes, if you tip the bartender $5, your next drink will be free.”

“Everyone’s here for a different reason,” the woman whose marriage ended on a cruise tells me again. “Some people are here for bad reasons—the drinkers and the gamblers. Some people are here for medical reasons.” I have seen more than a few oxygen tanks and at least one woman clearly undergoing very serious chemo. Some T-shirts celebrate good news about a cancer diagnosis. This might be someone’s last cruise or week on Earth. For these women, who have spent months, if not years, at sea, cruising is a ritual as well as a life cycle: first love, last love, marriage, divorce, death.

Read: The last place on Earth any tourist should go

I have talked with these women for so long, tonight I promise myself that after a sad solitary dinner I will not try to seek out company at the bars in the mall or the adult-themed Hideaway. I have enough material to fulfill my duties to this publication. As I approach my orphaned suite, I run into the aggro young people who stole Mr. and Mrs. Rand away from me the night before. The tattooed apparitions pass me without a glance. She is singing something violent about “Stuttering Stanley” (a character in a popular horror movie, as I discover with my complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream Internet at Sea) and he’s loudly shouting about “all the money I’ve lost,” presumably at the casino in the bowels of the ship.

So these bent psychos out of a Cormac McCarthy novel are angrily inhabiting my deck. As I mewl myself to sleep, I envision a limited series for HBO or some other streamer, a kind of low-rent White Lotus , where several aggressive couples conspire to throw a shy intellectual interloper overboard. I type the scenario into my phone. As I fall asleep, I think of what the woman who recently divorced her husband and whose son became a man through the good offices of the Irish Republic told me while I was hoisting myself out of the infinity pool. “I’m here because I’m an explorer. I’m here because I’m trying something new.” What if I allowed myself to believe in her fantasy?

“YOU REALLY STARTED AT THE TOP,” they tell me. I’m at the Coastal Kitchen for my eggs and corned-beef hash, and the maître d’ has slotted me in between two couples. Fueled by coffee or perhaps intrigued by my relative youth, they strike up a conversation with me. As always, people are shocked that this is my first cruise. They contrast the Icon favorably with all the preceding liners in the Royal Caribbean fleet, usually commenting on the efficiency of the elevators that hurl us from deck to deck (as in many large corporate buildings, the elevators ask you to choose a floor and then direct you to one of many lifts). The couple to my right, from Palo Alto—he refers to his “porn mustache” and calls his wife “my cougar” because she is two years older—tell me they are “Pandemic Pinnacles.”

This is the day that my eyes will be opened. Pinnacles , it is explained to me over translucent cantaloupe, have sailed with Royal Caribbean for 700 ungodly nights. Pandemic Pinnacles took advantage of the two-for-one accrual rate of Pinnacle points during the pandemic, when sailing on a cruise ship was even more ill-advised, to catapult themselves into Pinnacle status.

Because of the importance of the inaugural voyage of the world’s largest cruise liner, more than 200 Pinnacles are on this ship, a startling number, it seems. Mrs. Palo Alto takes out a golden badge that I have seen affixed over many a breast, which reads CROWN AND ANCHOR SOCIETY along with her name. This is the coveted badge of the Pinnacle. “You should hear all the whining in Guest Services,” her husband tells me. Apparently, the Pinnacles who are not also Suites like us are all trying to use their status to get into Coastal Kitchen, our elite restaurant. Even a Pinnacle needs to be a Suite to access this level of corned-beef hash.

“We’re just baby Pinnacles,” Mrs. Palo Alto tells me, describing a kind of internal class struggle among the Pinnacle elite for ever higher status.

And now I understand what the maître d’ was saying to me on the first day of my cruise. He wasn’t saying “ pendejo .” He was saying “Pinnacle.” The dining room was for Pinnacles only, all those older people rolling in like the tide on their motorized scooters.

And now I understand something else: This whole thing is a cult. And like most cults, it can’t help but mirror the endless American fight for status. Like Keith Raniere’s NXIVM, where different-colored sashes were given out to connote rank among Raniere’s branded acolytes, this is an endless competition among Pinnacles, Suites, Diamond-Plusers, and facing-the-mall, no-balcony purple SeaPass Card peasants, not to mention the many distinctions within each category. The more you cruise, the higher your status. No wonder a section of the Royal Promenade is devoted to getting passengers to book their next cruise during the one they should be enjoying now. No wonder desperate Royal Caribbean offers (“FINAL HOURS”) crowded my email account weeks before I set sail. No wonder the ship’s jewelry store, the Royal Bling, is selling a $100,000 golden chalice that will entitle its owner to drink free on Royal Caribbean cruises for life. (One passenger was already gaming out whether her 28-year-old son was young enough to “just about earn out” on the chalice or if that ship had sailed.) No wonder this ship was sold out months before departure , and we had to pay $19,000 for a horrid suite away from the Suite Neighborhood. No wonder the most mythical hero of Royal Caribbean lore is someone named Super Mario, who has cruised so often, he now has his own working desk on many ships. This whole experience is part cult, part nautical pyramid scheme.

From the June 2014 issue: Ship of wonks

“The toilets are amazing,” the Palo Altos are telling me. “One flush and you’re done.” “They don’t understand how energy-efficient these ships are,” the husband of the other couple is telling me. “They got the LNG”—liquefied natural gas, which is supposed to make the Icon a boon to the environment (a concept widely disputed and sometimes ridiculed by environmentalists).

But I’m thinking along a different line of attack as I spear my last pallid slice of melon. For my streaming limited series, a Pinnacle would have to get killed by either an outright peasant or a Suite without an ocean view. I tell my breakfast companions my idea.

“Oh, for sure a Pinnacle would have to be killed,” Mr. Palo Alto, the Pandemic Pinnacle, says, touching his porn mustache thoughtfully as his wife nods.

“THAT’S RIGHT, IT’S your time, buddy!” Hubert, my fun-loving Panamanian cabin attendant, shouts as I step out of my suite in a robe. “Take it easy, buddy!”

I have come up with a new dressing strategy. Instead of trying to impress with my choice of T-shirts, I have decided to start wearing a robe, as one does at a resort property on land, with a proper spa and hammam. The response among my fellow cruisers has been ecstatic. “Look at you in the robe!” Mr. Rand cries out as we pass each other by the Thrill Island aqua park. “You’re living the cruise life! You know, you really drank me under the table that night.” I laugh as we part ways, but my soul cries out, Please spend more time with me, Mr. and Mrs. Rand; I so need the company .

In my white robe, I am a stately presence, a refugee from a better limited series, a one-man crossover episode. (Only Suites are granted these robes to begin with.) Today, I will try many of the activities these ships have on offer to provide their clientele with a sense of never-ceasing motion. Because I am already at Thrill Island, I decide to climb the staircase to what looks like a mast on an old-fashioned ship (terrified, because I am afraid of heights) to try a ride called “Storm Chasers,” which is part of the “Category 6” water park, named in honor of one of the storms that may someday do away with the Port of Miami entirely. Storm Chasers consists of falling from the “mast” down a long, twisting neon tube filled with water, like being the camera inside your own colonoscopy, as you hold on to the handles of a mat, hoping not to die. The tube then flops you down headfirst into a trough of water, a Royal Caribbean baptism. It both knocks my breath out and makes me sad.

In keeping with the aquatic theme, I attend a show at the AquaDome. To the sound of “Live and Let Die,” a man in a harness gyrates to and fro in the sultry air. I saw something very similar in the back rooms of the famed Berghain club in early-aughts Berlin. Soon another harnessed man is gyrating next to the first. Ja , I think to myself, I know how this ends. Now will come the fisting , natürlich . But the show soon devolves into the usual Marvel-film-grade nonsense, with too much light and sound signifying nichts . If any fisting is happening, it is probably in the Suite Neighborhood, inside a cabin marked with an upside-down pineapple, which I understand means a couple are ready to swing, and I will see none of it.

I go to the ice show, which is a kind of homage—if that’s possible—to the periodic table, done with the style and pomp and masterful precision that would please the likes of Kim Jong Un, if only he could afford Royal Caribbean talent. At one point, the dancers skate to the theme song of Succession . “See that!” I want to say to my fellow Suites—at “cultural” events, we have a special section reserved for us away from the commoners—“ Succession ! It’s even better than the zombie show! Open your minds!”

Finally, I visit a comedy revue in an enormous and too brightly lit version of an “intimate,” per Royal Caribbean literature, “Manhattan comedy club.” Many of the jokes are about the cruising life. “I’ve lived on ships for 20 years,” one of the middle-aged comedians says. “I can only see so many Filipino homosexuals dressed as a taco.” He pauses while the audience laughs. “I am so fired tonight,” he says. He segues into a Trump impression and then Biden falling asleep at the microphone, which gets the most laughs. “Anyone here from Fort Leonard Wood?” another comedian asks. Half the crowd seems to cheer. As I fall asleep that night, I realize another connection I have failed to make, and one that may explain some of the diversity on this vessel—many of its passengers have served in the military.

As a coddled passenger with a suite, I feel like I am starting to understand what it means to have a rank and be constantly reminded of it. There are many espresso makers , I think as I look across the expanse of my officer-grade quarters before closing my eyes, but this one is mine .

A shocking sight greets me beyond the pools of Deck 17 as I saunter over to the Coastal Kitchen for my morning intake of slightly sour Americanos. A tiny city beneath a series of perfectly pressed green mountains. Land! We have docked for a brief respite in Basseterre, the capital of St. Kitts and Nevis. I wolf down my egg scramble to be one of the first passengers off the ship. Once past the gangway, I barely refrain from kissing the ground. I rush into the sights and sounds of this scruffy island city, sampling incredible conch curry and buckets of non-Starbucks coffee. How wonderful it is to be where God intended humans to be: on land. After all, I am neither a fish nor a mall rat. This is my natural environment. Basseterre may not be Havana, but there are signs of human ingenuity and desire everywhere you look. The Black Table Grill Has been Relocated to Soho Village, Market Street, Directly Behind of, Gary’s Fruits and Flower Shop. Signed. THE PORK MAN reads a sign stuck to a wall. Now, that is how you write a sign. A real sign, not the come-ons for overpriced Rolexes that blink across the screens of the Royal Promenade.

“Hey, tie your shoestring!” a pair of laughing ladies shout to me across the street.

“Thank you!” I shout back. Shoestring! “Thank you very much.”

A man in Independence Square Park comes by and asks if I want to play with his monkey. I haven’t heard that pickup line since the Penn Station of the 1980s. But then he pulls a real monkey out of a bag. The monkey is wearing a diaper and looks insane. Wonderful , I think, just wonderful! There is so much life here. I email my editor asking if I can remain on St. Kitts and allow the Icon to sail off into the horizon without me. I have even priced a flight home at less than $300, and I have enough material from the first four days on the cruise to write the entire story. “It would be funny …” my editor replies. “Now get on the boat.”

As I slink back to the ship after my brief jailbreak, the locals stand under umbrellas to gaze at and photograph the boat that towers over their small capital city. The limousines of the prime minister and his lackeys are parked beside the gangway. St. Kitts, I’ve been told, is one of the few islands that would allow a ship of this size to dock.

“We hear about all the waterslides,” a sweet young server in one of the cafés told me. “We wish we could go on the ship, but we have to work.”

“I want to stay on your island,” I replied. “I love it here.”

But she didn’t understand how I could possibly mean that.

“WASHY, WASHY, so you don’t get stinky, stinky!” kids are singing outside the AquaDome, while their adult minders look on in disapproval, perhaps worried that Mr. Washy Washy is grooming them into a life of gayness. I heard a southern couple skip the buffet entirely out of fear of Mr. Washy Washy.

Meanwhile, I have found a new watering hole for myself, the Swim & Tonic, the biggest swim-up bar on any cruise ship in the world. Drinking next to full-size, nearly naked Americans takes away one’s own self-consciousness. The men have curvaceous mom bodies. The women are equally un-shy about their sprawling physiques.

Today I’ve befriended a bald man with many children who tells me that all of the little trinkets that Royal Caribbean has left us in our staterooms and suites are worth a fortune on eBay. “Eighty dollars for the water bottle, 60 for the lanyard,” the man says. “This is a cult.”

“Tell me about it,” I say. There is, however, a clientele for whom this cruise makes perfect sense. For a large middle-class family (he works in “supply chains”), seven days in a lower-tier cabin—which starts at $1,800 a person—allow the parents to drop off their children in Surfside, where I imagine many young Filipina crew members will take care of them, while the parents are free to get drunk at a swim-up bar and maybe even get intimate in their cabin. Cruise ships have become, for a certain kind of hardworking family, a form of subsidized child care.

There is another man I would like to befriend at the Swim & Tonic, a tall, bald fellow who is perpetually inebriated and who wears a necklace studded with little rubber duckies in sunglasses, which, I am told, is a sort of secret handshake for cruise aficionados. Tomorrow, I will spend more time with him, but first the ship docks at St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Charlotte Amalie, the capital, is more charming in name than in presence, but I still all but jump off the ship to score a juicy oxtail and plantains at the well-known Petite Pump Room, overlooking the harbor. From one of the highest points in the small city, the Icon of the Seas appears bigger than the surrounding hills.

I usually tan very evenly, but something about the discombobulation of life at sea makes me forget the regular application of sunscreen. As I walk down the streets of Charlotte Amalie in my fluorescent Icon of the Seas cap, an old Rastafarian stares me down. “Redneck,” he hisses.

“No,” I want to tell him, as I bring a hand up to my red neck, “that’s not who I am at all. On my island, Mannahatta, as Whitman would have it, I am an interesting person living within an engaging artistic milieu. I do not wish to use the Caribbean as a dumping ground for the cruise-ship industry. I love the work of Derek Walcott. You don’t understand. I am not a redneck. And if I am, they did this to me.” They meaning Royal Caribbean? Its passengers? The Rands?

“They did this to me!”

Back on the Icon, some older matrons are muttering about a run-in with passengers from the Celebrity cruise ship docked next to us, the Celebrity Apex. Although Celebrity Cruises is also owned by Royal Caribbean, I am made to understand that there is a deep fratricidal beef between passengers of the two lines. “We met a woman from the Apex,” one matron says, “and she says it was a small ship and there was nothing to do. Her face was as tight as a 19-year-old’s, she had so much surgery.” With those words, and beneath a cloudy sky, humidity shrouding our weathered faces and red necks, we set sail once again, hopefully in the direction of home.

THERE ARE BARELY 48 HOURS LEFT to the cruise, and the Icon of the Seas’ passengers are salty. They know how to work the elevators. They know the Washy Washy song by heart. They understand that the chicken gyro at “Feta Mediterranean,” in the AquaDome Market, is the least problematic form of chicken on the ship.

The passengers have shed their INAUGURAL CRUISE T-shirts and are now starting to evince political opinions. There are caps pledging to make America great again and T-shirts that celebrate words sometimes attributed to Patrick Henry: “The Constitution is not an instrument for the government to restrain the people; it is an instrument for the people to restrain the government.” With their preponderance of FAMILY FLAG FAITH FRIENDS FIREARMS T-shirts, the tables by the crepe station sometimes resemble the Capitol Rotunda on January 6. The Real Anthony Fauci , by Robert F. Kennedy Jr., appears to be a popular form of literature, especially among young men with very complicated versions of the American flag on their T-shirts. Other opinions blend the personal and the political. “Someone needs to kill Washy guy, right?” a well-dressed man in the elevator tells me, his gray eyes radiating nothing. “Just beat him to death. Am I right?” I overhear the male member of a young couple whisper, “There goes that freak” as I saunter by in my white spa robe, and I decide to retire it for the rest of the cruise.

I visit the Royal Bling to see up close the $100,000 golden chalice that entitles you to free drinks on Royal Caribbean forever. The pleasant Serbian saleslady explains that the chalice is actually gold-plated and covered in white zirconia instead of diamonds, as it would otherwise cost $1 million. “If you already have everything,” she explains, “this is one more thing you can get.”

I believe that anyone who works for Royal Caribbean should be entitled to immediate American citizenship. They already speak English better than most of the passengers and, per the Serbian lady’s sales pitch above, better understand what America is as well. Crew members like my Panamanian cabin attendant seem to work 24 hours a day. A waiter from New Delhi tells me that his contract is six months and three weeks long. After a cruise ends, he says, “in a few hours, we start again for the next cruise.” At the end of the half a year at sea, he is allowed a two-to-three-month stay at home with his family. As of 2019, the median income for crew members was somewhere in the vicinity of $20,000, according to a major business publication. Royal Caribbean would not share the current median salary for its crew members, but I am certain that it amounts to a fraction of the cost of a Royal Bling gold-plated, zirconia-studded chalice.

And because most of the Icon’s hyper-sanitized spaces are just a frittata away from being a Delta lounge, one forgets that there are actual sailors on this ship, charged with the herculean task of docking it in port. “Having driven 100,000-ton aircraft carriers throughout my career,” retired Admiral James G. Stavridis, the former NATO Supreme Allied Commander Europe, writes to me, “I’m not sure I would even know where to begin with trying to control a sea monster like this one nearly three times the size.” (I first met Stavridis while touring Army bases in Germany more than a decade ago.)

Today, I decide to head to the hot tub near Swim & Tonic, where some of the ship’s drunkest reprobates seem to gather (the other tubs are filled with families and couples). The talk here, like everywhere else on the ship, concerns football, a sport about which I know nothing. It is apparent that four teams have recently competed in some kind of finals for the year, and that two of them will now face off in the championship. Often when people on the Icon speak, I will try to repeat the last thing they said with a laugh or a nod of disbelief. “Yes, 20-yard line! Ha!” “Oh my God, of course, scrimmage.”

Soon we are joined in the hot tub by the late-middle-age drunk guy with the duck necklace. He is wearing a bucket hat with the legend HAWKEYES , which, I soon gather, is yet another football team. “All right, who turned me in?” Duck Necklace says as he plops into the tub beside us. “I get a call in the morning,” he says. “It’s security. Can you come down to the dining room by 10 a.m.? You need to stay away from the members of this religious family.” Apparently, the gregarious Duck Necklace had photobombed the wrong people. There are several families who present as evangelical Christians or practicing Muslims on the ship. One man, evidently, was not happy that Duck Necklace had made contact with his relatives. “It’s because of religious stuff; he was offended. I put my arm around 20 people a day.”

Everyone laughs. “They asked me three times if I needed medication,” he says of the security people who apparently interrogated him in full view of others having breakfast.

Another hot-tub denizen suggests that he should have asked for fentanyl. After a few more drinks, Duck Necklace begins to muse about what it would be like to fall off the ship. “I’m 62 and I’m ready to go,” he says. “I just don’t want a shark to eat me. I’m a huge God guy. I’m a Bible guy. There’s some Mayan theory squaring science stuff with religion. There is so much more to life on Earth.” We all nod into our Red Stripes.

“I never get off the ship when we dock,” he says. He tells us he lost $6,000 in the casino the other day. Later, I look him up, and it appears that on land, he’s a financial adviser in a crisp gray suit, probably a pillar of his North Chicago community.

THE OCEAN IS TEEMING with fascinating life, but on the surface it has little to teach us. The waves come and go. The horizon remains ever far away.

I am constantly told by my fellow passengers that “everybody here has a story.” Yes, I want to reply, but everybody everywhere has a story. You, the reader of this essay, have a story, and yet you’re not inclined to jump on a cruise ship and, like Duck Necklace, tell your story to others at great pitch and volume. Maybe what they’re saying is that everybody on this ship wants to have a bigger, more coherent, more interesting story than the one they’ve been given. Maybe that’s why there’s so much signage on the doors around me attesting to marriages spent on the sea. Maybe that’s why the Royal Caribbean newsletter slipped under my door tells me that “this isn’t a vacation day spent—it’s bragging rights earned.” Maybe that’s why I’m so lonely.

Today is a big day for Icon passengers. Today the ship docks at Royal Caribbean’s own Bahamian island, the Perfect Day at CocoCay. (This appears to be the actual name of the island.) A comedian at the nightclub opined on what his perfect day at CocoCay would look like—receiving oral sex while learning that his ex-wife had been killed in a car crash (big laughter). But the reality of the island is far less humorous than that.

One of the ethnic tristate ladies in the infinity pool told me that she loved CocoCay because it had exactly the same things that could be found on the ship itself. This proves to be correct. It is like the Icon, but with sand. The same tired burgers, the same colorful tubes conveying children and water from Point A to B. The same swim-up bar at its Hideaway ($140 for admittance, no children allowed; Royal Caribbean must be printing money off its clientele). “There was almost a fight at The Wizard of Oz ,” I overhear an elderly woman tell her companion on a chaise lounge. Apparently one of the passengers began recording Royal Caribbean’s intellectual property and “three guys came after him.”

I walk down a pathway to the center of the island, where a sign reads DO NOT ENTER: YOU HAVE REACHED THE BOUNDARY OF ADVENTURE . I hear an animal scampering in the bushes. A Royal Caribbean worker in an enormous golf cart soon chases me down and takes me back to the Hideaway, where I run into Mrs. Rand in a bikini. She becomes livid telling me about an altercation she had the other day with a woman over a towel and a deck chair. We Suites have special towel privileges; we do not have to hand over our SeaPass Card to score a towel. But the Rands are not Suites. “People are so entitled here,” Mrs. Rand says. “It’s like the airport with all its classes.” “You see,” I want to say, “this is where your husband’s love of Ayn Rand runs into the cruelties and arbitrary indignities of unbridled capitalism.” Instead we make plans to meet for a final drink in the Schooner Bar tonight (the Rands will stand me up).

Back on the ship, I try to do laps, but the pool (the largest on any cruise ship, naturally) is fully trashed with the detritus of American life: candy wrappers, a slowly dissolving tortilla chip, napkins. I take an extra-long shower in my suite, then walk around the perimeter of the ship on a kind of exercise track, past all the alluring lifeboats in their yellow-and-white livery. Maybe there is a dystopian angle to the HBO series that I will surely end up pitching, one with shades of WALL-E or Snowpiercer . In a collapsed world, a Royal Caribbean–like cruise liner sails from port to port, collecting new shipmates and supplies in exchange for the precious energy it has on board. (The actual Icon features a new technology that converts passengers’ poop into enough energy to power the waterslides . In the series, this shitty technology would be greatly expanded.) A very young woman (18? 19?), smart and lonely, who has only known life on the ship, walks along the same track as I do now, contemplating jumping off into the surf left by its wake. I picture reusing Duck Necklace’s words in the opening shot of the pilot. The girl is walking around the track, her eyes on the horizon; maybe she’s highborn—a Suite—and we hear the voice-over: “I’m 19 and I’m ready to go. I just don’t want a shark to eat me.”

Before the cruise is finished, I talk to Mr. Washy Washy, or Nielbert of the Philippines. He is a sweet, gentle man, and I thank him for the earworm of a song he has given me and for keeping us safe from the dreaded norovirus. “This is very important to me, getting people to wash their hands,” he tells me in his burger getup. He has dreams, as an artist and a performer, but they are limited in scope. One day he wants to dress up as a piece of bacon for the morning shift.

THE MAIDEN VOYAGE OF THE TITANIC (the Icon of the Seas is five times as large as that doomed vessel) at least offered its passengers an exciting ending to their cruise, but when I wake up on the eighth day, all I see are the gray ghosts that populate Miami’s condo skyline. Throughout my voyage, my writer friends wrote in to commiserate with me. Sloane Crosley, who once covered a three-day spa mini-cruise for Vogue , tells me she felt “so very alone … I found it very untethering.” Gideon Lewis-Kraus writes in an Instagram comment: “When Gary is done I think it’s time this genre was taken out back and shot.” And he is right. To badly paraphrase Adorno: After this, no more cruise stories. It is unfair to put a thinking person on a cruise ship. Writers typically have difficult childhoods, and it is cruel to remind them of the inherent loneliness that drove them to writing in the first place. It is also unseemly to write about the kind of people who go on cruises. Our country does not provide the education and upbringing that allow its citizens an interior life. For the creative class to point fingers at the large, breasty gentlemen adrift in tortilla-chip-laden pools of water is to gather a sour harvest of low-hanging fruit.

A day or two before I got off the ship, I decided to make use of my balcony, which I had avoided because I thought the view would only depress me further. What I found shocked me. My suite did not look out on Central Park after all. This entire time, I had been living in the ship’s Disneyland, Surfside, the neighborhood full of screaming toddlers consuming milkshakes and candy. And as I leaned out over my balcony, I beheld a slight vista of the sea and surf that I thought I had been missing. It had been there all along. The sea was frothy and infinite and blue-green beneath the span of a seagull’s wing. And though it had been trod hard by the world’s largest cruise ship, it remained.

This article appears in the May 2024 print edition with the headline “A Meatball at Sea.” When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

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