A few weeks before Erin Rae Osenbaugh sent her proposal for an educational memorial to the Tower Garden Memorial Committee at The University of Texas at Austin in May 2001, at the end of another semester in which students in the Tower class once again communicated with and were sometimes taken seriously by UT's administration, at home in Austin I saw on CNN that some students at Penn State were making national news. The contemporaneity of these two events occurred to me only a decade later.
As reported on CNN, three hundred to five hundred students had occupied the student union for a week and were demanding protection, increased hiring of minority faculty, and more diversity programs at the university in response to repeated death threats against African American student leaders delivered via obscenity-laced letters and in protest of Penn State's unwillingness to investigate as related the apparent homicide of an African American man near campus. Explained Black Caucus President LaKeisha Wolf, "As the Black Caucus was trying to raise awareness of the failure of Penn State to increase diversity, we began getting more and more letters, and they actually became more threatening." Wolf, a 21-year-old senior, received four death threats, including a letter that said, "We are determined to rid this place of this black blight on our community. Those like you have been run off or killed" (CNN).
From the vantage of Austin, Texas, something seemed badly broken not only at Penn State but also in the communities surrounding it.
In the seven years I'd lived in Austin and worked in the Division of Rhetoric and Composition and the Department of English at The University of Texas at Austin, I had seen the power of undergraduate protopublic classrooms for discussing and addressing common problems. I had also become more comfortable taking a public role in print, on radio, and in person -- with television I was never comfortable -- addressing controversial topics of common concern, and my work had been supported and sometimes appreciated by colleagues, deans, and even university administrators. Further, I had learned about and taken an active role in student movements for educational equity in response to the Hopwood v. Texas affirmative action decisions. It was clear to me from observing students in my classes and on campus that racial diversity and educational equity were in the public interest.
Then I received an invitation to apply for a job in the Department of Communication Arts and Sciences at Penn State -- actually the department was still called Speech Communication when I was asked to apply. Because I've never been successful at keeping a journal -- my writing life is, instead, public (newspaper reporting, news editing and page design, op-eds, speeches, conference presentations, occasional articles and book-like objects) -- it is nearly miraculous that the following fragment of personal writing from that time survived four different laptops over nearly two decades:
Each time I have tried to live in the twentieth or the twenty-first century, I have come back to these three valleys to see how the time and space away measured on me. Never have the valleys been so alluring, layer after layer, Susquehanna to Penns to Brush and then to Nittany; so I have to say four valleys, not three. I measure myself by these valleys, by moving through them, among them, away from and back to them. Valleys can come to be my only architectonic, and I can come to be satisfied by little else. Pennsylvania is so heavy with valleys and their peculiar ways -- so heavy that the inventional structure of those valleys and their particulars sometimes colonize and people my whole mind. Years and years ago I began to learn to think by traveling among these four valleys and their sisters -- Sugar, New Lancaster, Bald Eagle, and back. Meanwhile, Austin waits down there, hot and dry as my heart when it is lonely. And I wonder how I’ll be able to return to the budding -- but it’s not budding: that’s the thing -- twenty-first century. Not budding but groaning, the earth below Austin -- a city growing at a pace beyond control.
While I found solace and inventional richness in the valleys of Central Pennsylvania, I learned from my students of color at Penn State that they often experienced the vast rural green emptiness as threatening, even terrifying. I chose to return to Penn State in part to help reinvent the land grant -- but to do it right in terms of race and class. Instead, after I’d arrived and talked with new colleagues about the events of “The Village,” I learned quickly that such critical work was not encouraged. One colleague in English who left Penn State as the Sandusky scandal unfolded counseled me, “Don’t talk about that. It would upset Graham.”
My Rhetorical Yoknapatopoi
I was a Faulknerian before I learned about and fell in love with rhetoric. To tell the truth about the injustices he saw and felt in the segregated South, William Faulkner, sitting in Oxford, Mississippi, created an imaginary county, Yoknapatawpha, in which nearly all of his novels and stories take place. Faulkner thought through -- that is, internally deliberated -- the injustices of the first four decades of the twentieth century via writing about the specifics of his imaginary topos, Yoknapatawpha. In my inventional ear, Yoknapatawpha became Yoknapatopoi, a way of denominating my architectonic topoi, those places -- literal and/or figurative -- to which I return repeatedly for invention to begin and to begin again.
I use the Y-word to emphasize the immanent power inherent in language itself to aid individual and collective reinvention. I use the word Yoknapatopoi, I use language in general, to highlight the power -- faculty, dunamis, capacity -- of thinking-through-language in all of its materiality and immateriality. Because -- again -- language is no transparent medium. As Richard Lanham reminds us in his Handlist of Rhetorical Terms under the entry on puns,
President Kennedy, not knowing that "Berliner" nicknamed a local kind of breakfast roll, declared "Ich bin ein Berliner" and thereby proclaimed to the crowd, "I am a doughnut," thus playing a breakfast role -- r-o-l-e -- he had not intended.... When President Kennedy stood before a tense multitude at the Berlin wall and proclaimed himself a doughnut, he inadvertently threw the toggle switch that electrifies the pun. One pole of the switch yields the regular dependable language which tells us about the real world outside, the world where he too, like his listeners, was a Berliner. The other pole directs us into the chance-ridden, self-referential and self-pleasing world of language itself -- where, if we are not careful, we all turn into doughnuts. The pun is what perception psychologists call a "bi-stable illusion," one of those pictures which, looked at one way, is a rabbit and, another a duck. The eye, more consistent than the mind, cannot see both at the same time but instead puts our mind into a high-frequency oscillation between the two worlds. And the two worlds bear a high allegorical charge, the Berlin [world] being the world of the philosophers, a world where language is a translucent windowpane to a preexistent world beyond it, the doughnut [world] being the world of the rhetoricians, where the windowpane is an opaque painting of a constructed reality no longer "beyond" it. Thus we can say that the pun, at its heart, unites in oscillation the two poles between which the whole scheme of Western education, the rhetorical paideia, has vibrated for two and a half millennia. That is why the bad reputation of the pun pretty well coincides with the repudiation of the rhetorical paideia in favor of Newtonian science. (126-27)
That oscillation, those two poles, or those two towers, that arcing and sparking of language and meaning that goes on, potentially into infinity but which needs to be stopped if meaning is to be made and if judgment is to be reached, however ephemerally -- that is what I call the rhetorical holy spirit. And that phrase, like several of the other architectonic topoi to which I return again and again and again -- like robins in the spring, to that window, tap tap tap -- is one of my rhetorical Yoknapatopoi. Penn State, obviously, is another. And Andrea Dworkin’s Mercy is another. Memory keeps our commonplaces inventionally close at hand.
Incivility and Symbolic Violence
The first road talk I had to give after the arrest of Jerry Sandusky, the firing of Joe Paterno and Graham Spanier, and the death of Joe Paterno -- and the nearly simultaneous and sudden death of my eldest sister, Sarah Jane -- was at a conference on symbolic violence at Texas A&M at the end of February 2012. The conference was organized by faculty in the Department of Communication Studies. The call for papers, written, according to Jennifer Mercieca, by James Arnt Aune, described an emerging area of concern for scholars of rhetoric:
The attempted assassination of U.S. Representative Gabrielle Giffords in February 2011 seemed to confirm the fears of many observers that public discourse in the United States had reached a dangerously low level of civility. The distinction between persuasion and force dates back to ancient Greek civilization, yet it remains unclear how rhetoric and communication relate to violence. This conference is an interdisciplinary exploration of the following issues: Why do so many people find cultural representations of violence pleasurable? Do images and arguments ever cause violence directly, or is it the case, as Justice Holmes said, that "every idea is an incitement"? Are legal sanctions against incitement to racial, religious, or gender violence appropriate in a liberal democracy? Most violence in the world today is done in the name of religion; how does religion work to legitimate or eliminate violence? How did torture become acceptable in the United States after 2001? What does it mean to speak for or speak as a victim of violence? The liberal arts are founded on the notion that reading good books can make us better people, but can reading bad books make us worse people? If so, how? Is there a distinctive political rhetoric of justification of violence? Viewed from the standpoint of the rhetoric of inquiry, what are the most persuasive explanation-forms that account for violent conduct and symbolic violence?
Preparing my remarks for the Texas A&M Symbolic Violence conference shuttled me back to a perennial heartache in the form of an author whose work I return to again and again, often, frankly, against my will: Andrea Dworkin, radical antipornography feminist and sometime strange bedfellow of the radical right. When a friend gave Dworkin a draft of what would become a chapter from my book Citizen Critics -- about public responses to her novel Mercy -- Dworkin wrote me a typed letter, four pages, single-spaced. After telling me that no one had ever treated her work so fairly, she ripped me a new one for citing Aristotle. “I remain baffled,” she wrote, “by the place of Aristotle’s thought in the work of you fully intellectualized women.”
I opened my plenary remarks at the conference with a few sentences from Chapter 1 of Andrea Dworkin’s Mercy, written in the voice of a nine -year-old:
You get asked if anything happened and you say yes well he put his hand here and he rubbed me and he put his arm around my shoulder and he scared me and he followed me and he whispered something to me and then someone says, but did anything happen. And you say well yes he sat down next to me, it was in this movie theater and I didn’t mean to do anything wrong and there wasn’t anyone else around and it was dark and he put his arm around me and started talking to me and saying weird things in a weird voice and then he put his hand in my legs and he started rubbing and he kept saying just let me . . . . and someone says did anything happen and you say well yes he scared me and he followed me and he put his hand or hands there and you don’t know how many hands he had, not really … you don’t know anything and no one needs to believe you about anything because you are stupid or crazy and so you don’t know how to say what happened and you say he kept saying just let me . . . . and I tried to get away and he followed me and he . . . . followed me and he . . . . and then they say, thank God nothing happened.
Here Dworkin is describing the sexual assault of a child, in that child’s voice. Attempting to speak the unheard, Dworkin is describing violence in a way that feels violent -- yet a feeling of violence that, when felt, brings shame at how paltry a thing that feeling is next to what is felt by those who have suffered actual, not symbolic, violence.
Who tends to get accused of incivility? Who tends to get away with incivility? Who tends to suffer consequences from symbolic violence? Who tends not to suffer consequences from symbolic violence? What can be said and what cannot be said? What is heard, when, and by whom? And what, though said, seems never to be acknowledged? There can be symbolic violence in words unspoken, words that people are afraid to say or are made to feel ashamed for knowing that they – for the sake of justice or self-preservation -- must say.
I ask you to imagine a house three doors away from my house, a house consistently described as “modest,” sometime in the spring of 2002, months before I returned to Penn State from The University of Texas at Austin. In that house, imagine speech -- words that if they had been spoken might have prevented more actual violence from occurring. Imagine a young assistant football coach trying to say what happened . . . words that he does not want to say to his former coach and current boss -- a man in his mid-70s, a national figure, a Catholic. A man who once said publicly in response to charges of sexual assault against a Florida State football player, "A cute girl knocks on the door, what do you do?” (Washington Post).
We do not know what exact words Mike McQueary did or did not say to Joe Paterno about what he saw in the shower of the football facility. But it’s clear, even without all the details, that child sexual assault and abuse is one of those things that all too many institutions for far too long have been all too happy to ignore. When everyone else is looking the other way, one act of what power might call "incivility" can redirect the attention of the powerful -- or, better, of us all.
This Penn State Life
On December 18, 2009, Public Radio International broadcast a This American Life episode titled "#1 Party School." The hour-long episode reported on the binge-drinking culture at Penn State and, as the program stressed repeatedly, on college campuses more generally. A spate of bad publicity about dangerous drinking at Penn State had reached an apex -- Sarah Koenig, the episode's producer, paraphrasing Damon Sims, Vice President for Student Services at Penn State, called it "a kind of tipping point" -- with the death of 18-year-old Joseph "Joey" Dado. Joey Dado went missing in the early morning of September 20, 2009, after a night of reportedly moderate drinking, capped off with a visit to an on-campus fraternity recruiting him to rush. Joey Dado's body was found in an outside stairwell thirty-nine hours after he was reported missing. He died from falling fifteen feet onto concrete between two buildings directly across the street from the fraternity. He was walking alone, and he fell, and he died.
I first heard that a student was missing when my phone rang Monday morning, September 21. I had given students in my Rhetoric and Public Controversy course that semester my phone number the previous Thursday, when the class conducted an outside-the-classroom activity for Constitution Day. The students, having read the US Constitution and Penn State's AD-51, which outlines policies for expression on campus, decided their project would focus on what they saw as the inconsistencies in the policy, sometimes called the "Free Speech Zone" policy. When my phone rang, I didn't recognize the phone number but answered anyway; the 724 area code is from southwestern Pennsylvania, so the prospect of it being someone who really wanted or needed to speak to me was likely.
On the phone was Nicole Dado, the missing student's sister, and she sounded scared. A student in my class, she was calling to ask me to contact the local newspaper to try to persuade the Centre Daily Times, where I had worked as a news editor for two years between my undergraduate degree at Penn State and my master's degree, to put information about Joey's disappearance on its website. The CDT editors were refusing to publicize a missing person report fewer than twenty-four hours old. I told Nicole I would contact the paper, and I did. The hard work of Joey's family -- in particular his two elder sisters, both Penn State students at the time -- in getting individuals and groups if not institutions to pay attention to the fact that a reliable person was missing impresses me to this day.
I realize that knowing Joey's sister and hearing from her about his disappearance might make me respond more vehemently to Joey's death and Penn State's reaction than I would to a student whose sibling I do not know. Yet a further element of Joey Dado's death -- and of This American Life’s “#1 Party School" -- wants attention: the role that the corporatization of higher education may play in violent incidents on our campuses, particularly but not only our land grant and other large public universities.[6 ]
Corporatization of public universities -- unlike corporatization of private enterprises, including commercial and even formerly public media -- is not about maximizing profits for shareholders per se. It is about maximizing the flow of private money -- including alumni dollars and tuition -- in order to make up for public funds that have shriveled to almost nothing. Public universities, like radio and the internet and scores of other public goods funded by public money, have become not only privatized but corporatized. Penn State is particularly ripe for this diagnosis. Its status is hybrid: it is neither wholly public nor wholly private, despite its land grant history and status. That is why, at least as of this writing, its budget does not have to be open to public scrutiny, even after the Pennsylvania legislature passed a statewide Freedom of Information Act and Governor Ed Rendell signed it into law (Belson).
The corporatization of higher education involves a structural subordination of facts to public relations -- and to secrecy -- both in academics and in athletics (Bracken). Penn State was a leader in the movement to attract corporate funding. In 1992, Penn State signed “an unusual $14 million, ten-year contract that makes Pepsi-Cola the official beverage of Penn State,” reported Anthony DePalma in the New York Times. “Pepsi has been given exclusive rights to stock its products in all soda vending machines, supply all soda fountains, advertise exclusively on the giant scoreboard at the 94,000-seat Beaver Stadium, fill all the soda cups at Joe Paterno's games -- and to plaster its new slogan ‘You Got the Right One Baby! Uh-huh!’ in corners of the 21 campuses” (DePalma). While Professor of Philosophy Joseph C. Flay reportedly viewed such a development as dangerous -- “the implication [is] that the university's good name is available to the highest bidder, and that any deal that brings in enough money is now acceptable” (DePalma) -- university officials defended the agreement.
Penn State, and indeed most American colleges and universities, already have close relations with many corporate sponsors, and in many instances the money reaches much deeper into the classroom than does the Pepsi contract. For example, Penn State has a major endowment grant to support research into the genetics of the cocoa bean, with the money provided by Hershey Foods. (DePalma)
A few decades later, however, deadly consequences of the corporate funding of academic research in a culture of institutional secrecy suggest Flay was on to something.
In 2010, Penn State’s High Pressure Combustion Laboratory agreed to do research about why airbags were exploding for Honda and automobile airbag manufacturer Takata (Ivory and Tabuchi). Honda and Takata paid Penn State to conduct the research but did not release the findings (Cohn), and the Penn State researchers published the research without identifying Honda or Takata, despite their conclusion that “[i]t is clear from the results that the PSAN propellant does exhibit dynamic burning behavior” (Essel, Boyer, Kuo, and Zhang) -- findings that both Honda and Takata say were inconclusive (Ivory and Tabuchi). By the time Takata acknowledged the problem and apologized in 2015, at least nineteen million vehicles had been recalled and, as of 2016, at least sixteen people had been killed by exploding Takata airbags (Reuters). While secrecy around funded research is not unique to Penn State, any standpoint of values not limited to corporate cost-benefit analysis prompts questions about whether the research funds were worth the loss of life.
Shouldn’t even commissioned research with life-and-death consequences be made public? And shouldn’t all public universities that receive any public funds have public budgets?
At minimum, shouldn’t the deaths of undergraduates and others on and around our campuses be not only mourned but actively remembered so that something might be learned institutionally from the losses?
Required viewing for anyone who wants to understand the institutional culture of secrecy that created the conditions for the Sandusky scandal, Aaron Matthews' superlative 2007 documentary The Paper, which focuses on The Daily Collegian in the context of media education, chronicles the Penn State administration’s daily practice of working against transparency and shared reality. When the university administration -- athletic or academic -- didn’t want to answer a question, it just ignored the question and denied access to the reporter. Reporters at the student paper trying to cover the issue of campus sexual assault? Don't return their calls. Students at the campus radio station criticizing the administration? Try to shut them down.
Near the end of Act Four of This American Life’s “#1 Party School," then-Penn State President Graham Spanier is interviewed by Koenig about why the university doesn't make tailgates alcohol-free. After the interview, Koenig paraphrases a comment by Spanier that is at the heart of the problem of public memory on college campuses. Koenig paraphrases Spanier, and I am quoting Koenig here: "Joe Dado's death, Spanier said, won't have any meaning for next year's freshmen."
As a scholar of rhetoric and memory -- institutional and public memory in particular -- and as someone who has studied and struggled with the causes and consequences of remembering and forgetting in organizations and institutions for three decades, I take Spanier's point. That every student, or even most students, will know the name “Joe Dado” or the facts surrounding his death -- or learn from them -- is unlikely. Yet it is not impossible. Most importantly, it certainly was not out of Spanier's power to do something to try to prevent the forgetting.
In the context of the elements of corporatization I have outlined above, it is difficult not to conclude that Spanier -- like the administration at The University of Texas at Austin, which, after the 1966 shootings and several subsequent suicides, closed the Tower observation deck for more than 20 years -- did indeed want the death of Joe Dado to be publicly forgotten. In the pursuit of education, with knowledge about what collaborative conversation and deliberation can do in protopublic classrooms, I will continue to do everything I can, in this case at least, to make sure Spanier is wrong. To that end, I'll keep teaching This American Life’s “#1 Party School,” and I’ll also keep teaching Robin Hoecker's honors thesis, “The Black and White Behind the Blue and White,” which chronicles the events of "The Village" in 2001 and argues that incidents of racial unrest have been cyclical at Penn State, a conclusion that resonates with my experiences over nearly four decades at Penn State.
My former advisee Dave Tell asked me a few years after I returned to Penn State as a faculty member why I'd chosen to title my Summer 2000 job talk "Confessions of a Free-Range Rhetorician." He said he got the point about "free-rangedness," but why the word "Confessions"? I told him I didn't remember, and it's likely I told the truth: there is a great deal of what happened to me between 2002 and 2014 that I often wish I could not remember. And I’m learning that remembering it all does not serve me anymore.
In any case, I answered Dave's question honestly: I was confessing out the soul, an echo of Allen Ginsberg's "Howl," to my possible future colleagues in that job talk -- that although I had replied to their invitation to apply for this job, I had no intention, particularly after the successes of my public scholarship at my previous position, to turn myself into a narrow scholar of any one of the well-disciplined areas of rhetorical scholarship in the speech/communication tradition. I confessed to them that I was disciplinarily polyamorous -- that I held rhetoric as a vulgar, amateur, and trivial scholarly and, equally important, public practice. And that I was returning to my alma mater to help reinvent the land grant for the twenty-first century, but to do it right in terms of race and class as well as gender. The job offer suggested they understood. After a difficult dozen years walking around feeling like Pig-Pen (he of Peanuts, not of The Grateful Dead), I have begun to reclaim my writing voice. These recollections are part of that process. Just as important, though, are the future collaborative interventions I anticipate with students in what I conceive as protopublic classrooms: spaces where students can together learn through their individual and collaborative agency and with support from me and from each other how to practice rhetoric in ways that will provide them collective energy to reinvent their shared world.
I confessed in my job talk -- and I will again here -- that for me undergraduate classrooms remain vital sites for rhetorical study and practice, for paideia, equally as important as graduate seminars, conferences, colloquia, and other locations and events research universities assume superior.
At huge research universities, undergraduates can too often feel the educational equivalent of what Doris “Granny D” Haddock called “political abandonment” and what Meira Levinson called “civic disempowerment”: many undergraduates feel they have no agency and are valued only as tuition-paying units. I have taught large lecture courses twice in my career. One of the times was Fall 2011, when about one hundred and fifty students were enrolled in my Communication Arts and Sciences 201: Introduction to Rhetorical Theory, a one-semester zoom through the history of rhetorical theory from the pre-Socratics to the present. I’ve often compared the velocity of material in CAS 201 to “travelling twice the speed of sound, it’s easy to get burned” (Nash).
I was teaching CAS 201 in Fall 2011. In quick succession in early November, the grand jury investigation of Jerry Sandusky, Tim Curley, and Gary Schultz became public; Curley and Schultz vacated their positions; Paterno announced he would resign at the end of the current football season; and the Penn State Board of Trustees fired Paterno and Spanier (Chappell). CAS 201 met in a large, steep chemistry lecture hall, complete with a faucet and sink down front and square yards of glorious blackboards as well as a computer and projector. I used slides for only a few class sessions because I insisted the students take notes while they read and during lecture to facilitate active learning. I also asked them to read out loud from the textbook to facilitate class discussion -- which is possible, even in that auditorium-like setting.
Satellite trucks had started showing up that weekend, and by Tuesday, November 9, news of Curley’s and Schultz’s arraignments on charges of making false statements to the grand jury and of failing to report the possible abuse of a child were international news. When we met for CAS 201 on Wednesday, November 10, it was clear that we had to devote at least some of our class time -- in short supply because the National Communication Association Conference was the following week -- to discussing what was going on around us. I looked up at the students -- some whose names I knew, most whose I confess I did not -- and raised my arms toward them. I asked them how they were doing. A few talked about being interviewed by television reporters. The vast majority -- by show of hands -- said they had not talked about the developing story in their other classes. Three student-athletes reported that they had been told not to talk to anyone about what was going on -- not friends, not family.
After a few minutes of listening to each other and, well, being affected together, I said,[7 ] “My classes regularly revolve around public controversy, sometimes even controversies on our own campuses. But I never want to waste our time -- your time, or my time. But what do we here together in this room right now -- because after this semester this unique mix of humans will never be in the same room together, ever again -- What do we have together that no one else has -- right now -- to help understand what is going on, right now? We have 2500 years of rhetorical theory at our disposal. So take a minute -- call it reviewing for the final if you like -- and go through the figures we’ve read and discussed this semester. Go forward or backward. Or start with Erasmus. Or Ramus. What does rhetorical theory help you understand about what’s going on outside?”
Count to three. Chloe Thatcher’s hand reached toward the distant ceiling.
“Chloe?”[8 ]
“Dr. Eberly, I know you said there are things you don’t like about Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca.” It was true. “You said you don’t really like the idea of ‘the universal audience.’” I had. And the imperfection of the concept continues to nag at me. But in a required large lecture class, sometimes expressing reservations about the material can bring students to its defense. “Well,” Chloe continued, her fellow students leaning down to hear her.
It’s like we here at Penn State are a particular audience, and we see things and judge things a certain way. And the media and people who aren’t here, they’re the universal audience, and they’re seeing us and judging us -- and judging everything that’s going on -- from an entirely different point of view than most of us here, in this particular audience. They have criteria most of us don’t have. The idea of the universal audience helps me understand why people are judging us so harshly.
Several of Chloe’s classmates nodded their heads. More raised their hands. After about fifteen minutes we returned to the readings for that day. And that night, after the board of trustees decided to announce the firing of the nearly universally loved Joe-Pa at almost ten o’clock at night (Viera), thousands of Penn State students rioted in the streets (Schweber). I will not equate college students rioting after a football coach was fired with people demanding en masse basic economic and human rights. However, I still can’t help but think of the words of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King: “a riot is the language of the unheard.”
6. The indescribably horrific agony and death in February 2017 of Penn State sophomore Mike Piazza -- who, after a hazing ritual involving binge drinking fell down a flight of stairs onto a basement floor and was left for twelve hours by fraternity members who “treat[ed] him like a rag doll” (Dickerson) before they called 9-1-1 – also occurred in a fraternity house across the street from where Joey Dado died.7. My remembered remarks in CAS 201 are taken from notes I made in late November 2011.
8. Again from my notes.
