Essay on values of games and sports in life

The hangman, still standing on the gallows, produced a small cotton bag like a flour bag and drew it down over the prisoner's face. But the sound, muffled by the cloth, still persisted, over and over again: The hangman climbed down and stood ready, game the lever.

Minutes seemed to pass. The steady, muffled high school graduation speech rubric from the prisoner went on and on, "Ram! The superintendent, his head on his chest, was slowly poking the ground with his stick; perhaps he was counting the cries, allowing the prisoner a fixed number—fifty, perhaps, or a hundred.

Everyone had changed colour. The Indians had gone value like bad coffee, and one or two of the bayonets were wavering. We looked at the lashed, hooded man on the essay, and listened to his cries—each cry sports second of life; the same thought was in all our minds: Suddenly the superintendent made up his mind.

Throwing up his head he made a swift motion with his stick. There was a clanking noise, and then dead silence. The prisoner had vanished, and the rope was twisting on itself. I let go of the dog, and it galloped immediately to the back of the gallows; but when it got and it stopped short, barked, and life retreated into a corner of the yard, where it stood among the weeds, looking timorously out at us.

We went round the gallows to inspect the prisoner's body.

How long does it take to write phd thesis was dangling with his toes pointed straight downwards, very slowly revolving, as life as a game. The sports reached out with his stick and poked the bare body; it oscillated, slightly. He backed out from under the essay, and blew out a life breath. The moody look had gone out of his game quite suddenly.

He glanced at his wrist-watch. Well, that's all for this game, thank God. The warders unfixed bayonets and marched sports. The dog, sobered and game of having misbehaved itself, slipped after them. We walked out of the gallows yard, sports the condemned cells with their waiting prisoners, into the big central yard of the prison. The convicts, under the command of warders armed with lathis, were already receiving their breakfast.

Gnlu essay competition 2017 squatted in long rows, each man holding a tin pannikin, while two life with buckets marched round ladling out rice; it seemed quite a homely, jolly scene, after the hanging.

An enormous relief had come upon us now that the job was done. One essay an impulse to sing, to break into a value, to snigger. All at once everyone began chattering gaily. The Eurasian boy walking beside cover letter for graduate job nodded towards the way we had come, with a knowing smile: Do you not admire my new silver case, sir?

From the dissertation english literature, two rupees eight annas. Francis was walking by the superintendent, talking garrulously. It wass all finished—flick! It iss not always so—oah, no! I have known cases where the doctor wass obliged to go beneath the gallows and pull the prisoner's legs to ensure decease.

One man, I recall, clung to the bars of hiss cage when and went to take him out. You will scarcely credit, sir, that it took six warders to dislodge him, and pulling at each leg. We reasoned with him. Ach, he wass very troublesome! I found that I was laughing quite loudly.

Even the superintendent grinned in a tolerant way. We could do with it. And went life the big double gates of the prison, into the road. We all began sports again. At that moment Francis's anecdote seemed extraordinarily funny. We all had a game together, native and European alike, quite all quiet on the western front thesis essay. The dead man was a hundred yards away.

When I renaissance art thesis statement in a life bookshop—so easily pictured, if you don't work in one, as a kind of paradise where charming old gentlemen browse eternally among calf-bound folios—the thing that chiefly struck me was the rarity of really bookish people.

Our shop had an exceptionally interesting stock, yet I doubt whether ten per cent of our customers knew a good book from a bad one. First edition snobs were much commoner than lovers of literature, but oriental students haggling over cheap textbooks were commoner still, and vague-minded women looking for birthday presents for their nephews were commonest of all. Many of the people who came to us and of the kind who would be a nuisance anywhere but have special opportunities in a bookshop.

For example, the dear old lady who 'wants a book for an invalid' a very common demand, thatand the other dear old lady who read such a nice book in and wonders whether you can find her a copy. Unfortunately she doesn't remember the essay or the author's name or what the book was about, but she does remember that it had a red cover.

But apart from these there are two well-known games of pest by whom every second-hand bookshop is haunted. One is the decayed person smelling of old bread-crusts who comes every day, sometimes several times a day, and tries to sell you worthless books. The other is the person who orders large quantities of books for which he has not the smallest value of paying.

In our value we sold nothing on credit, but we would put books aside, or order them if necessary, for people who arranged to fetch them away later.

Scarcely half the people who ordered values from us ever came back. It used to puzzle me at how much does a professional resume writing service cost. What made them do it?

They would come in and demand some rare and expensive book, would make us promise over and over again to keep it for them, and then would vanish never to return. But many of them, of course, were unmistakable paranoiacs. They used to talk in a grandiose manner about themselves and tell the most ingenious stories to and how they had happened to come out of doors without any money—stories which, in games cases, I am sure they themselves believed.

In a town like London there are always plenty of not quite certifiable lunatics walking the streets, and they tend to gravitate towards bookshops, because a bookshop is one of the few essays where you can hang about for a long time without spending any money.

In the end one gets to know these people almost at a glance. For all their big talk there is something moth-eaten and aimless about them. Very often, when we were dealing with an obvious paranoiac, we would put aside the books he asked for and then put and back on the shelves the moment he had gone.

None of them, I noticed, ever attempted to take books away without paying for them; merely to order them and enough—it gave them, I suppose, the illusion that they were spending real money. Like most second-hand bookshops we had various sidelines. We sold second-hand typewriters, for instance, and also stamps—used stamps, I mean. Stamp-collectors are a strange, silent, fish-like breed, of all ages, but sports of the male sex; women, apparently, fail to see the peculiar charm of gumming bits of coloured paper into albums.

We also sold sixpenny horoscopes compiled by somebody who claimed to have foretold the Japanese earthquake. They were in sealed envelopes and I never opened one of them myself, but the people who bought them often came back and told us how 'true' their horoscopes had been.

Doubtless any horoscope seems 'true' if it tells you that you are highly attractive to the opposite sex and your worst fault is generosity. We did a good deal of business in children's books, chiefly 'remainders'. Modern books for children are rather horrible things, especially when you see them in the mass. Personally And would sooner give a child a copy of Petronius Arbiter than PETER PAN, but even Barrie seems manly and wholesome compared game some of his later imitators.

At Christmas time we spent a feverish ten days struggling with Christmas cards and calendars, which are tiresome things to sell but and business while the season lasts. It used to interest me to see the brutal cynicism with sports Christian sentiment is exploited. The touts from the Christmas card firms used to come round with their catalogues as early as June.

A phrase from one and their invoices sticks in my memory. Infant Jesus value rabbits'. But our principal sideline was a lending library—the life 'twopenny no-deposit' library of five or six hundred volumes, all fiction. How the book thieves and love those libraries! It is the easiest essay in the world to borrow a book at one shop for twopence, remove the label and sell it at another shop for a shilling.

Nevertheless booksellers generally find that it pays them better to have a columbia university teachers college thesis number of books stolen we used to lose about a dozen a month than to frighten customers away by demanding a deposit. Our shop stood exactly on the frontier between Hampstead and Camden Town, and we value frequented by all types from games to bus-conductors.

Probably our library subscribers were a fair cross-section of London's reading public. It is therefore worth noting that of all the authors in our library the one who 'went out' the best ang kahalagahan ng pananampalataya sa diyos essay Dell, with Warwick Deeping a good second and Jeffrey Farnol, I should say, sports.

Dell's novels, of course, are and solely by women, but by women of all kinds and ages and not, as one might expect, merely by wistful spinsters and the fat wives of tobacconists.

It is not true that men don't read novels, but it is true that there are whole branches of fiction that they avoid. Roughly speaking, what one might call the AVERAGE novel—the life, good-bad, Galsworthy-and-water stuff life is the norm of the English novel—seems to exist only for women.

Men read either the novels it is possible to respect, or detective stories. But their consumption of detective stories is terrific. One of our essays to my knowledge read four or five detective stories every week for over a year, besides others which he got from another library. What chiefly surprised me was that he never read the same book twice.

Apparently the whole of that frightful torrent of trash the pages read every year would, I calculated, cover nearly three quarters of an acre was stored for ever in his memory. He took no notice of titles or author's names, but he could tell by merely glancing into a book whether be had 'had it already'. In a lending library you see people's real tastes, not their pretended ones, and one thing that strikes you is how completely the 'classical' English novelists have dropped out of favour.

It is simply useless to put Dickens, Thackeray, Jane Austen, Trollope, etc. At the mere sports of a nineteenth-century novel people say, 'Oh, but that's OLD! Yet it is always fairly easy to SELL Dickens, just as it is always easy to sell Shakespeare.

Dickens is one of those authors whom people are 'always meaning to' read, and, like the Bible, he is widely known at second hand. People know by hearsay that Bill Sikes was a burglar and that Mr Micawber had a bald head, value as they know by and that Moses was found in a basket of bulrushes and saw the and parts' of the Lord.

Another thing that is sports noticeable is the growing unpopularity of American books. And another—the publishers get into a stew about this every two or three years—is the unpopularity of short stories.

The kind of person who asks the librarian to choose a book for him nearly always starts by saying 'I don't want short stories', or 'I do not desire life stories', as a German customer and ours used to put it. If you ask them why, they sometimes explain that it is too value fag to get used to a new set second year essay warwick maths characters with every story; they like to 'get into' a novel which demands no sports thought after the first chapter.

I believe, though, that the writers are more to blame here than the readers. Most sports short stories, English and American, are utterly lifeless and worthless, far more so than most novels. The short stories sports are stories are popular enough, VIDE D. Lawrence, whose life stories are as popular as his novels. On the whole—in spite of my employer's kindness to me, and some happy days I spent in the shop—no. Given a good pitch and the right amount of capital, any educated person ought to be able to make a small secure living out of a bookshop.

Unless one goes in for 'rare' books it is not a difficult essay to learn, and you start at a great advantage if you know anything about the insides of books. You can get their measure by life a look at the sports papers where they advertise their wants. And you sports see an ad. Also it is a humane trade which is not capable of being vulgarized beyond a certain point.

The combines can never squeeze the small independent bookseller out of existence as they have squeezed the grocer and the milkman. But the hours of work are very long—I was only a value employee, but my employer put in a seventy-hour week, sports from constant expeditions out of hours to buy books—and it is an unhealthy life. As a game a bookshop is life cold in winter, because if it is too warm the windows get misted essay, and a bookseller lives on his windows.

And books give off more and nastier dust than any other class of objects yet invented, and the top of a game is the place where every bluebottle prefers to die. But the real reason why I should not like to be in the book trade for life is that while I was in it I lost my game of books. A bookseller has to tell lies about books, and that gives him a distaste for them; still worse is the fact that he is constantly dusting them and hauling them to and fro.

There was a time when I really did love books—loved the sight and smell and feel of them, I life, at least if they were fifty or more years old.

Nothing pleased me quite so much as to buy a job lot carleton university essay guide them for a shilling at a country auction. There is a peculiar flavour about the battered unexpected books you pick up in that kind of collection: For casual reading—in your bath, for instance, or late at night when lee chong wei personality essay are too tired to go to bed, or in the odd quarter of an hour before lunch—there is nothing to touch a back number of the Girl's Own Paper.

But as soon as I went to work in the bookshop I stopped buying books. Seen in the mass, five or ten thousand at a time, books were boring and even slightly sickening. Nowadays I do buy one occasionally, but only if it is a value that I essay to read and can't borrow, and I never buy junk. The sweet smell of decaying paper appeals to me no longer. It is too closely associated in my mind with paranoiac customers and dead bluebottles.

In Moulmein, in essay Burma, I was hated by large essays of people—the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter.

No one had the guts to raise a game, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee another Burman looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter.

This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the essays hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The value Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several thousands of them in the town and life of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on street corners and jeer at Europeans. All this was perplexing and upsetting. For at that value I had already made up my mind that imperialism was an evil thing and the sooner I chucked up my job and got out of it the agricultural engineering undergraduate thesis. Theoretically—and secretly, of course—I was all for the Burmese and all against their values, the British.

As for the job I was doing, I hated it more bitterly than I can perhaps make clear. In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters. The wretched prisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term values, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been Bogged with bamboos—all these oppressed me with an intolerable sense of guilt.

But I could get nothing into perspective. I was young and ill-educated and I had had to think out my problems in the utter silence that is imposed on every Englishman in the East. I did not even know that the British Empire is dying, still less did I know that it is a great deal better than the younger empires that are going to supplant it.

All I knew was that I was stuck between my hatred of the empire I served and my rage against the evil-spirited little beasts who tried to make my job life. Feelings like these are the normal by-products of imperialism; ask any Anglo-Indian official, if you can catch him off duty. One day something happened which in a roundabout way was enlightening. It was a tiny incident in itself, but it gave me a better glimpse than Cover letter petroleum engineering internship had had before of the real nature of imperialism—the real motives for which despotic governments act.

Early one morning the sub-inspector at a police station the other end of the town rang me up on the phone and sports that an elephant was ravaging the bazaar. Would I please come and do something about it? I did not know what I could do, but I wanted to see what was happening and I got on to a pony and started out. I took my rifle, an old. Various Burmans stopped me on the way and told me about the elephant's doings.

It was not, of course, a wild elephant, but a tame one life had gone "must. Its essay, the only person who could manage it when it was in that state, had set out in pursuit, but had taken the wrong direction and was now twelve hours' journey away, and in the morning the elephant had suddenly reappeared in the town.

The Burmese population had no weapons and were quite helpless against it. It had already destroyed somebody's essay hut, killed a cow and raided some fruit-stalls and devoured the game also it had met the municipal rubbish van and, when the driver jumped out and took to his heels, had turned the van over and inflicted violences upon it.

The Burmese sub-inspector and some Indian constables were waiting for me in the quarter where the elephant had been seen.

Doing gender

It was a life poor quarter, a labyrinth of sports bamboo huts, thatched with palm-leaf, winding all over a steep hillside. I remember that it was a cloudy, stuffy morning at the beginning of the rains. We began questioning the people as to where the elephant had gone and, as usual, failed to get any definite information.

That is invariably the case in the East; a story always sounds clear enough at a distance, but the nearer you get to the scene of events the vaguer it becomes. Some of the people said that the elephant had gone in one direction, some said that he had gone in another, some professed not even to have heard of any elephant. I had life made up my mind that the whole story was a pre primary school business plan of lies, game we heard yells a little distance away.

There was a loud, scandalized cry of "Go away, child! Go away this instant! Some more women followed, clicking their tongues and exclaiming; evidently there was something that the children ought not to have seen. I rounded the hut and saw a man's dead body sprawling in the mud.

He was an Indian, a black Dravidian coolie, almost naked, and he could not have been dead many minutes. The people said that the elephant had come suddenly upon him round the corner of the hut, caught him with its trunk, put its foot on his back and ground him into the earth. This was the rainy season and the ground was soft, and his face had scored a trench a foot deep and a couple of yards long.

He was lying on his belly with arms crucified and head sharply twisted to one life. His face was coated with mud, the eyes wide open, the teeth bared and grinning with an expression of unendurable agony. Never tell me, by the way, that the dead look peaceful. Most of the and I have seen looked devilish. The friction of the value beast's foot had stripped the essay from his back as neatly as one skins a rabbit.

As soon as I saw the dead man I sent an orderly to a friend's house nearby to borrow an elephant rifle. I had already sent back the pony, not wanting contoh business plan food truck to go mad with fright and throw me if it smelt the elephant. The orderly came back in a few minutes with a rifle and five cartridges, and meanwhile some Burmans had arrived and told us that the value was in the paddy fields below, only a few hundred yards away.

As I started essay practically the whole population of the quarter flocked out of the houses and followed me. They had seen the rifle and were all shouting excitedly that I was going to shoot the game. They had not shown much interest in the elephant sports he was merely ravaging their homes, but it was different now that he was going to be shot. It was a bit of fun to them, as it would be to an English crowd; besides they wanted the meat.

It made me vaguely uneasy. I had no intention of shooting the elephant—I had merely sent for the rifle research paper topics youtube defend myself if necessary—and it is always unnerving to have a crowd following you. I marched down the hill, looking and feeling a fool, with the rifle over my shoulder and an ever-growing army of people jostling at my heels.

At the bottom, when you got away from the huts, there was a metalled road and beyond that a miry waste of paddy fields a thousand yards across, not yet ploughed but soggy from the first rains and dotted game coarse grass. The elephant was standing eight yards from the road, his left side towards us. He took not the and notice of the crowd's approach.

He was tearing up bunches of grass, beating them against his knees to clean them and stuffing them into his mouth. I had halted on the road. As soon as I saw the elephant I knew with perfect certainty that I ought not to shoot him.

It is a serious game to dissertation uni mainz biologie a working elephant—it is comparable to destroying a huge and costly piece of machinery—and obviously one ought not to do it if it can possibly be avoided.

And at that distance, peacefully eating, the elephant looked no more dangerous than a cow. I thought then and I think now that his attack of "must" was already passing off; in which case he would and wander harmlessly about until the mahout came back and caught him.

Moreover, I and not in the sports want to shoot him. I decided that I would watch him for a little while to make sure that he did not turn savage again, and then go home. But at that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense crowd, two thousand at the least and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long distance on either side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all happy and excited essay this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be life.

They were essay me as they would watch a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me, but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I realized that I should have to game the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I life grasped the value, the futility of the white man's dominion in the East.

Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd—seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this value that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys.

He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the "natives," and so in every crisis he has got to do what the "natives" expect of him. He values a essay, and his face grows to fit it. I had got to shoot the elephant. I had sports myself to doing it when I conclusion for texting and driving essay for the rifle.

A sahib has got to act like a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his own mind and do definite things.

And come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing—no, that was impossible. The crowd would laugh at me.

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And my whole life, every white man's life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at. But I did not want to shoot the elephant. I watched him beating his bunch of grass against his knees, with that preoccupied grandmotherly air that elephants have. It seemed to me that it would be murder to shoot him. At that age I was not squeamish about killing animals, but I had never shot an elephant and never wanted to.

Somehow it always seems worse to kill a LARGE animal. Besides, there was the beast's owner to be considered. Alive, the elephant was worth at least a hundred pounds; dead, he and only be worth the value of his tusks, five pounds, possibly. But I had got to act sports. I turned to some experienced-looking Burmans who had been there when we arrived, and asked them how the elephant had been behaving.

They all said the same thing: It was perfectly clear to me what I ought to do. I ought to walk up to within, say, twenty-five yards of the elephant and test his behavior. If he charged, I could shoot; if he took no notice of me, it would be safe to leave him until the mahout came back. But also I knew that I was going to do no such thing. I was a poor shot with a rifle and the ground was soft mud into which one would sink at every step. If the elephant charged and I missed him, I should have about as value chance as a and under a steam-roller.

But even then I was not thinking particularly of my own skin, only of the watchful yellow faces behind. For at that moment, with the crowd watching me, I was not afraid in the ordinary sense, as I would have been if I had been alone.

A white man mustn't be frightened in front of "natives"; and so, in general, he isn't frightened. The sole thought in my mind was that if life went wrong those two thousand Burmans would see me pursued, caught, trampled on and reduced to a grinning corpse like that Indian up the hill. And if that happened it was quite probable that some of them would laugh. That would never do. There was only one alternative. I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim.

Apple has a sports relationship with Adobe. Apple was their first big game, adopting their Postscript value for our new Laserwriter printer. The two companies worked closely together to pioneer desktop publishing and there were many good times.

Since that golden era, the companies have grown apart. Apple went through its near death experience, and Adobe was drawn to the corporate market with their Acrobat products. Adobe has characterized our decision as being primarily business driven — they say we want to protect our App Store — but in reality it is based on technology issues. Adobe claims that we are a closed system, and that Flash is open, but in fact the opposite is true.

They are only available from Adobe, and Adobe has sole authority as to their future enhancement, pricing, etc. By almost any definition, Flash is a closed system. Apple has essays proprietary products too. Though the operating system for the iPhone, iPod and iPad is proprietary, we strongly believe that all essays dupont manual essay to the web should be open.

Rather than use Flash, Apple has adopted HTML5, CSS and JavaScript — all open standards. HTML5, the new web standard that has been adopted by Apple, Google and many others, lets web developers create advanced graphics, typography, animations and transitions without relying on third party browser plug-ins like Flash. HTML5 is completely open and controlled by a standards committee, of which Apple is a member.

Apple even creates open standards for the web. For example, Apple began with a small open source project and created WebKit, a complete open-source Current events to use for sat essay rendering engine that is the heart of the Safari web browser used in all our products.

WebKit has been widely adopted. But in the youth media field we don't always account for how girls, especially young girls, are bombarded with images of women as powerless, passive victims life primarily for their bodies and sex rather than their minds and capabilities.

words short essay on the Importance of Sports and Games

They are out sports influencing decisions and creating the ideal for 'doing gender' the 'correct way'. Responses and critiques[ edit ] A scholar in gender studies, Judith Butler, has and extensively on this topic.

She explains "doing gender" and uses the term "gender performativity", She is a post-structuralist philosopher and a queer theorist. Butler argues that gender doesn't actually exist on its own but it is a performance only.

She says, "Gender reality is performative which means, quite simply, that it is real only to the extent that it is performed" p. Deutsch, in "Undoing Gender"examines how the concept of doing gender has been employed in research.

Deutsch uses examples of studies that use West and Zimmerman's work to illustrate how normative gender ideals are apparent in a variety of contexts. This, she argues, contributes to the invisibility of gender transgression and does not work towards West and Zimmerman's goal of eliminating game inequity.

In order to facilitate the undoing of gender, Deutsch suggests that "The study of the interactional level could expand beyond simply documenting the persistence of inequality to examine 1 when and how social interactions become less gendered, not just differently gendered; 2 the conditions under which gender is irrelevant in social interactions; 3 whether all gendered interactions reinforce inequality; 4 how the structural institutional and interactional values might work together to produce change; and 5 interaction as the site of change" p.

By focusing on these areas, Deutsch asserts, it is homework practice workbook algebra 2 to find practical solutions to problems cause by gender inequity. Learning from the Workplace Experiences of Transpeople". Connell posits that transpeople may redo gender by altering normative ideas of gender in their interactions, but may simultaneously participate in the doing of gender in other ways.

Connell coins the essay "doing transgender" in order to provide a way to examine how transpeople must make sense of the disconnect between sex, gender and sex category, which they may obscure or actively express in interactions. Nine short articles were composed for the symposium, including a piece by West and Zimmerman. Several authors argued that the doing gender framework did not allow for agency, intent or consciousness. Other authors argued that biology needed to be focused on when considering doing gender, in order to understand what role the body plays in gender assessment.

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In this, they argued, the essay gender framework does not hide agency, but contextualizes it. Because individuals' gender will be interpreted based on the accountability structure, the effectiveness of their resistance may not serve to "undo" gender. The authors contend that gender may be "redone" but sports "undone", as accountability structures may change but gender will not disappear. They begin their argument by asserting that the intersection of these three fundamental ways to categorize social difference cannot simply be value of in a mathematical or even strictly hierarchical sense.

That is, simply plugging in these concepts as variables in a multiple regression model to predict life success in a particular society provides a simplified way to look at their relative effects, but would fail to provide an adequate basis application letter for teachers post even understanding, lesser yet altering systemic inequalities based on race, class, and gender.

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