Biting The Big Apple

I was only there for about a week. Yet that was all it took. I have fallen in love with New York.

Admittedly, I did find it a bit difficult to look past the countless bags of trash that are amassed on the city sidewalks at night. And yes, there are very unique scents that seem to be characteristic to New York in its entirety. And yes, descending into the subway tunnels felt a lot like walking down the first flight of stairs that lead to Hell. And yes, the humidity there makes me feel gross. And yes, some of the people do seem to be uber standoffish. And yes, I did fear that someone was going to either snatch my wallet or touch my butt when riding on crowded subway cars. And yes, I did wish that getting around was as easy as hopping into someone’s personal vehicle at times. And yes, it does appear that New York could very well be America’s most expensive city. And yes, I do think that the air there was potent enough to shave about 7.4 years off of my life.
Yet, once you look beyond these minor complaints, you’ll be able to see that I LOVE NEW YORK!

The greatest thing about life on the Eastern seashore is the close proximity to Europe. And I do not love this simply because tickets to London are cheaper in New York than they are in Los Angeles. Instead, it is the visible importation of European city design and architecture that pleased me so. The congestion of the city, which is a curse to some cities, is instead a gift from New York to its visitors. Step foot in Manhattan. Aimlessly walk with your head down. If you should manage to avoid being hit by an angry cab driver, I guarantee that you will stumble upon some noteworthy building, statue or other cultural artifact.

Actually taking up residence there would be no easy task. Nevertheless, the trip to New York is one that should be made by all lovers of city life and those who are intrigued by cultural melting pots. In essence, New York is one massive cultural experiment. Name a type of person. Name a type of food. Conjure up imagery of the most ridiculous circumstances capable of existing under the loose thresholds of reality, and you’ll likely be able to find it in New York.

Although the city did manage to force me into relieving my account of about a grand, it was the activities accompanied by no cost of admission that hooked me the most. It was standing in Times Squares as a tourist and being approached and then chastised by others tourists for being a tourist incapable of assisting them in the pursuit for further tourist activity. It was the ride on the subway. It was sitting between a Blackberry-addicted businessman on one side, and an avant garde student from the fashion institute on the other side. It was the police force in front of Radio City Music Hall with their assault rifles. It was the NYSE and the daily buzz along and around Wall Street. It was the unsafe driving of foreign taxi drivers. It was the two 30+ Italian guys and the Dutch courage that accompanied their alcohol consumption which led them to want to quarrel. It was the odd guy behind the counter in Starbucks. It was getting off of the train and overlooking the plight of Jamaica, Queens. It was getting back on the train and transporting to one of the comfy cottages in Long Island. It was the ride into Brooklyn Heights to live life like The Huxtables. It was the taxi ride across the Brooklyn Bridge that ended at Wall Street and immersed me in the lifestyle of investment bankers. It was running into Alex Rodriguez and then people watching while eating at Serafina. It was flirting with the waitress at the pizza place. It was the scores upon scores of beautiful women that paraded around the streets of NY, showcasing beauty unparalleled by most forms of beauty that I had seen up to that point in my life. It was sitting on the subway and realizing that the seat next to me would not be taken because I am a perceived by many as an intimidating Black man. It was leaving NY and being able to say that I ate at a place that serves nothing but rice pudding. It was taking the tour through the UN and hearing Jay Z receive multiple shout outs for his humanitarian efforts in Africa. It was the countless number of events and activities and images that are now embedded in my mind that knocked me off of my feet and made me fall face-flat in love with New York.

I rolled all of things little things into a ball. I flavored this ball with both the good and the bad. I painted the ball red and added a stem on top. And last, but not least, I took a bite out of the city. I took a bite out the Big Apple. And much to my surprise, I loved the taste.

Music makes me high.

FUCK!

Honestly, I used to be “that guy”! That guy with the CD collection capable of wooing the masses. The CD collection that could assist me in winning the heart of an unsuspecting young lady that stumbled into my passenger seat or into my bedroom. The CD collection that could convert my worst enemy into my best friend once we had the opportunity to bond over some of the classic albums that I had in my possession.

But I am no longer that guy.

Sadly enough, some worthless hoodlum took it upon himself to rob me of my crown jewels. Thousands of dollars worth of CDs, now in the hands of some undeserving prick that resorts to petty thievery when looking to expand his musical repertoire.

Upon learning of this grave transgression, I felt empty. I almost fainted. Life felt purposeless and I contemplated canceling my plans to play basketball with a few of my amigos. However, there were a few saving graces in my violated vehicle.

Jagged Edge – Feist – Mozella – Rihanna – Kanye West – Colbie Caillat

The tasteless bastard had a grain of decency and decided to leave these albums in my car. He has probably already discovered that my eclecticism is too much for him to handle and likely regrets not robbing a car equipped with a larger selection of gangster rap that glorifies the lifestyle that he fantasizes about and strives to lead.

Dwayne Wade once said, fall down seven times, stand up eight. I’m going to do just that. I will rebuild my collection. My music catalog will return to its prior glory. Come October 2nd, J. Holiday and Trey Songz will be adding to the mix. From there, the sky is the limit.

Any suggestions for CDs to add to my collection?

My thirst for the adverse.

I think that some of the smallest challenges in life are capable of filling me with the motivation to tackle some of the world’s larger ills.

When I was a child,  I would do foolish, innocent things. For instance, while in a swimming pool I would push the limits of holding my breath under water. Sometimes I would fail and suffer the burn of inhaling chlorine-laced water through my noise. Other times, I would emerge from the water triumphant. 

Later in life, I would find joy in challenging myself academically. My teachers would rave about my potential and cause me to wonder just how well I could perform scholastically. At first it was a matter of transitioning to honors classes. After that, it was an internal drive to dominate every subject. No matter what the course, I wanted to prove to myself that I could master it.

These days, an assortment of challenges brings me joy and helps me measure my worth via my willingness to take risks. Be it approaching the prettiest girl in the club. Wooing her with my personality and charm. And if I’m lucky, ultimately fooling her into liking me – even if it is only for a brief moment in time. Because it’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all – right? 

As I write this passage, I sit with my newly purchased guitar staring at me. No. I don’t know a damn thing about music. I can’t read music. I can’t write music. I can’t sing (unless you love a poorly done falsetto). I’ve never had any formal exposure to musical instruments. Yet, I’m mentally preparing myself to tackle this challenge, just as I have tackled other challenges in the past.

There is something motivating about being the underdog. There is something exciting about taking on the unknown. And there is nothing more fulfilling that achieving what you set out to achieve. And if you aim for the stars, as they say, even failure will lead you to the clouds. 

These small feats are rather underwhelming unto themselves. Yet, when you piece them together, they emerge as a mosaic of success capable of inspiring even the most feeble of hearts. They remind me that there will be stepping stones leading to every major accomplishment. No matter how daunting the task may appear, if I attack the problem piece by piece. There is no magic bullet that’ll change the world. But in my quest to change the world, I’m going to start with myself. By fully understanding who I am, I’ll better understand how I can approach life and work in a manner to leave a positive mark on the world.

It’s more than just a saying used by Gilbert Arenas, Reggie Bush and the rest of the ADIDAS gang. It’s a way of life. It’s what forces me to discard my shells of fears and go after the unknown. To make the foreign familiar. To make the wild tame. To climb Everest – just because it’s there. 

Impossible is nothing!

Black Men Stare…a lot…

A dichotomy exists.

As a Black man, born and raised in Southern California, I have come to expect one of two responses from other Black passersby (or standers by) that acknowledge my presence.

On the benign end, other males of African descent simply nod at you. Some ask, “how are you my brother?” Others still simply give you a look that is worth a thousand words. These facial expressions often scream: “I’m glad I’m not the only motherfucking Black person here!”

I love these moments. These brief exchanges that have led many to believe that some sort of innate Black male camaraderie exists. For brief moments in time, it appears as if all Black men get along. As if we walk around with our skin serving as a testament to our involvement in this not-so-secret fraternity of Blackness. We bond briefly and then move forward with our tasks at hand; never allowing the Brotherhood to distract us away from our daily mission.

Yet, every yin has its yang. Every Shaq has its Kobe. Every Biggie has its Pac. Every Black man driving has its police officer. I believe you get the picture.

For some reason that exists beyond my realm of understanding, other Black men opt to meet me with unwelcoming glares. Sometimes they’re in the car right next to me while I’m stopped at the traffic signal. In some cases, they’re walking past me while I’m shopping in the mall with my cousin. Sometimes they’re waiting to be seated at the restaurant while I’m walking out after enjoying a delectable meal. I swear it seems like they’re everywhere. And I swear, that without fail, they are looking at me. They are pointing their unpleasant mugs in my direction and showing their distaste for my person.

I vowed while in high school, to keep my head off of a swivel when dealing with other Black males. I mean, the only time that I go out of my way to break my self-imposed rule is when one of my Black male counterparts is being accompanied by a beautiful young lady. But otherwise, I want nothing to do with them – at least in the “I like to shoot mean glares at strangers” sense. I don’t want to see what kind of shoes they have on. I don’t want to ask them where they got their tattoos done. I don’t want to see what kind of car they drive. I just want the silent head nod, the “how are you”, or nothing at all.

How much of a treat do I really pose to other Black males? Why do I bring them so much displeasure? Is it something about me or are Black males conditioned to view their brothers as a competitor; as the enemy?

The notion of a Black male brotherhood is a façade. The notion of a Black community that is interlinked throughout American is a myth. As far as I can see, the unity in this “community” is missing in action. Of course there are roots to this evil held closely by history. However, Black men must take the initiative and work to stop perpetuating this venom that is stagnating the “Black cause.”

I beg of you Black men. Stop staring at me. Just because you see me in the streets, homey you definitely don’t know me.

Oprah…for President???

The presidential fund-raising circuit heated up this past weekend, as Oprah Winfrey’s endorsement rang to the tune of about 3.2 million bucks for one, Mr. Barack Obama. After delaying the presentation of her seal of approval, Ms. Winfrey pulled out all of the stops by hosting a star-studded event at her estate in Santa Barbara. She has sent authors on their way to millions, built careers for other TV personalities and turned an assortment of “nobodies” into household names. But with her assertive involvement in Obama’s run, Winfrey is attempting to show just how big of a deal she really is.

Yet, as we sit back and watch her first real stab at national political sponsorship, it begs a number of questions: 1) why did Ms. Winfrey side with race over gender and, 2) why in the world isn’t Oprah running for president herself?

Let’s seriously think about it (and I hope I’m not the first to have done so), Winfrey basically encompasses the gist of both of the Democratic frontrunners. Obama is Black (at least in the eyes of the dumbed-down and superficial American public), Oprah is Black. Hilary is a woman, Oprah is a woman. Roll them both up into one ball and you get a Black woman with more power than most people in the world and with more adoring fans than the gentleman that currently resides at 1600 Pennsylvania. Just like clockwork, Oprah could shatter the aspirations of all those seeking the Dem nomination and find herself in the drivers seat for the 2008 election, given the unlikelihood of a Republican victory next November (like most things in life, this is debatable.)

She has the money necessary to shake things up. And given the participation of other Hollywood personalities in the upcoming election, why wouldn’t throw her hat into the mix? The likelihood of this happening is slim-to-none, and reports say that Slim just boarded a flight to Tahiti. But it’s great to think about what an Oprah-led America would be like:

There wouldn’t be a First Man; there would be a First Beau – because her relationship with Stedman has yet to break into the marriage realm. Winfrey would be able to communicate with most leaders around the world with ease, because face it, everyone watches her show. She’d be able to further advance her philanthropic efforts and convince those with deep pockets to fund educational outfits like her Oprah Winfrey Leadership Academy for Girls right here in the US. She’d also be able to bring in Dr. Phil as her Secretary of State – needless to say he would be assassinated during his first diplomatic tour. And last but not least, the people of America would become avid readers. Lord knows that Oprah can pick a helluva book when she sees one. There is certainly no reason to believe the book club would cease once she hit the Oval Office.

This is all an imaginative exercise. But seriously, Oprah will at the very least be MY write-in candidate.
Harpo in ’08 anyone???

A Love-Hate Relationship

It’s been a while since my last entry. I was busy meditating and preparing myself mentally for a weekend getaway to Sin City. For the 3rd time since my 21st birthday, I ventured into the belly of the beast and emerged unscathed.

However, I must say that the excitement that builds while I await my trips to Las Vegas is counteracted by the disdain that I develop for the city during my actual visits. These mixed emotions troubled me. So I did what any logical man in my position would have done – I made a list. My list contains that things that I both love and hate about everyone’s favorite desert oasis:

Expensive nightclubs/expensive drinks/expensive women/gambling/winning money/losing money/Las Vegas has the highest number of double D breasts per capita in the WORLD/free drinks while gambling/beginner’s luck/foreigners/smoke-filled casinos/brunch at the Bellagio/sipping margaritas next to two really old women/our cheap ass room at the Sahara/running into people from Stanford/dancing with that fat girl at Pure/bonding with strangers while gambling/bonding with strangers while watching sports/bonding with strangers while checking out women/going to bed at 4 am/conversations with cab drivers/watching prostitutes proposition Johns/those guys on the Strip that hand out those nasty ass cards with naked women on them/those nasty ass cards with naked women on them/wondering if I just saw Elvis Presley hanging out with Wayne Newton/drunken dancing/window shopping/spending too much money when window shopping isn’t enough/seeing B-level and lower celebrities/knowing that I was in town the same weekend that OJ Simpson got arrested/the confusion of going through my cell phone and trying to remember which name and number goes with which face/being in Vegas to celebrate Mexican independence/the woman with front titties and back titties/the woman with the taper that was nicer than mine/wondering what my mother would think if she knew how I behaved in Vegas/knowing how proud my father would be of my behavior in Vegas/trying not to get alcohol spilled on my white shirt at Jet/cranberry juice and Grey Goose/cranberry juice and Belvedere/Patron and Sprite/the old guys with hot women in VIP/beautiful bartenders/bartenders that try to rip you off because they think that you’re too wasted to do simple math/tipping bartenders immediately after they try to rip you off/discussing the wonder of Celine Dion with your boys/waking up with alcohol still in your system, only to start drinking again well before noon/wondering what it would be like to chill in a suite at the Wynn/the unbelievable line at Tao/gambling while waiting for your flight/breaking a sweat while walking home from the club/constantly tinkering on the brink of dehydration/seeing the Las Vegas lights from out of our airplane/Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas/Leaving Las Vegas…

These are just a few of the things that make Las Vegas the mecca that it is. The reasons why I can’t wait to get there and why once making it there, I can’t wait to get home.

Thank you Las Vegas, I love/hate you.

September 11th marks the era…

Clearly this won’t always be the case, but September 11th falls on a Tuesday this year. For the first time since bin Laden’s boys came through and crushed the buildings, artists will be able to use the date as ammunition for their pending releases.

The fall of the Towers did not prevent Jay Z from releasing the first volume of the one-volume-too-many-and-there-were-only-two Blueprint series. Much to the delight of New Yorkers and hip hop heads across the globe, Jigga dropped a classic. Start to finish, the album overflows with a soulful vibe that few would have come to expect from a hardened veteran coming out of one of New York’s housing projects. But it happened. And quite frankly, the rap world hasn’t been the same ever since.

Kanye West ushered in a new regime of music. West left his imprint all over the Blueprint. Although he may not have been the lead architect in the venture, he wasn’t very far behind Mr. Carter. Without West’s foundation, it is uncertain whether or not the album would have managed to firmly solidify Jay Z’s position as the G.O.A.T. – sorry LL!

Now Mr. West finds himself in strikingly similar position. With his pending release next Tuesday, Kanye has a unique opportunity to elevate his superstar status to a level rarely reached by rap acts in a pop-driven American culture. Because of the musical drivers in American society, many view “going pop” as a viable channel to attaining the glitz and glamour associated with winning the hearts of White America. Artists seem to stand at a fork in the road that forces them to choose between going left and keeping it real, or going right and crafting friendly albums aimed toward achieving mass consumption.

Next Tuesday, music fans will be privileged to watch Mr. West assert his lyrical muscle and showcase his musical genius while going up against 50 Cent’s third major release, Curtis. Fans will be forced to once more make a statement about the current state of rap music and the direction in which it’s headed. Given the early arrival of both albums on underground music sites, I’ve had the opportunity to listen to each project a number of times. And I can only pray that hip hop fans casts their votes with me in hip hop’s version of Election Tuesday.

Now, this discussion could easily shift into one aimed at identifying the merits found in the mixture of tough talk and corny pop found on 50’s album versus the musicality and the message found on Kanye’s album. But not everyone views the game through the same lens as me. So I’ll let Kanye assist me as I close:

Good morning
On this day we become legendary
Everything we dreamed of
I’m like a fly Malcolm X
Buy any jeans necessary
Detroit Red cleaned up
From the streets of the league
From an eighth to a key
But you graduate when you make it up outta the streets
From the moments of pain
Look how far we done came
Haters sayin’ ya changed
Now ya doin’ ya thang

Hopefully it’s time to get away from the high school raps that grown ass men continue to spit. Time to get away from the talk of guns going off and drugs being sold. Kanye West is right – it’s time for Graduation!

Wheels of Change?

Do you think with your penis? I do. Or at least I thought I did. But apparently I’m getting old.

Now read this closely: I am not suffering from erectile dysfunction. However, Little Dontae is no longer the weather vane pointing in the direction of every easy female target that I see.

Just hours ago, I was amazed at how composed I remained when a scantily clad female friend from high school showed up at my front door. I didn’t take the outfit to be a sign of her ulterior motives. Instead, I just chalked the outfit up to the sudden increase in temperature we’ve been experiencing here in SoCal – fucking global warming!!!

Anyway, I also detected a bit of change when I went to Rasputin last week and picked up a few new cds. I was able to vibe to the Talib Kweli and Common albums, because they’re “conscious” rappers. However, there were a few too many bitches and hoes on the new UGK album. It served as a reminder to me: I don’t know shit about pimpin’.

Moral of the story – my penis has become far more selective and my musical tastes are rapidly evolving. Goodbye Ja Rule, hello Jamie Cullum. Goodbye nasty girls, hello classy ladies.

Short and sweet. The wheels of change are in motion.

Stepping Out

Ever since I left home for college, I’ve experienced a slight sinking sensation in my stomach each time I see my mother’s name of my cell phone’s caller ID screen. I’ve always feared that her call would bear some element of bad news about my family members that I left behind. The family members that I sometimes feel that I’ve abandoned.

Throughout much of freshman year, I internalized a ton of guilt. I couldn’t understand for the life of me why I wasn’t experiencing any signs of homesickness. I mean, don’t get me wrong – I missed my family. However, I did not miss the environment that accompanied those familial interactions. So instead I continued to press ahead, full steam. I would simply wait for my loved ones to make contact with me instead of voluntarily invoking these reminders of homes; both the good and the bad.

Yet, of late, I’ve felt some of those feelings of guilt resurface. Now that my collegiate experience is complete and I can in many respects write my own ticket – I’ve opted instead to move slightly further away from my family than I already am. Instead of truly exploring the laundry list of opportunities that exist for me in the greater Los Angeles area, I have decided to journey down a new path and to great a new beginning elsewhere.

My mother’s phone calls scare me. I always assume that she has news of a love one lost or some other tragedy that has gripped the family. I also fear for news regarding positive things and momentous occasions that my distance prevents me from experiencing firsthand. It’s almost as if I wish that my old life could co-exist harmoniously alongside my new life. Admitting that this desire isn’t even remotely possible has been hard. Instead, I try to find new ways to maintain my connection to the past and pray that sporadic short-term visits can sustain the bonds and relationships that played a large role in helping me advance to the point I’m at today. Much to my dismay, I’ve found this to be quite the challenge…

I always marvel at the ability of my collegiate friends to stray away from home, take the road less traveled and go it alone in some random city located in some random state or occasionally in some random country. Seeing their willingness to depart and start anew leaves me in awe. It makes me question what it is about me that makes me want to stay close to my home base. It leads me to worry about my development and my seemingly deep-seeded inability to let go.

Sitting through sociology lectures that aimed at explaining the behavior of people like myself that grew up under conditions similar to those I grew up under was always quite entertaining. These were the lectures for which I had to do very little preparing. I would often skip the required reading and show up to lecture ready to hear a group of professors and students tell me everything that I should know about myself! Twas no surprise for me to hear on multiple occasions that families like mine (minority? poor? both!) were often close because members relied on each other for survival. When one’s chips were down and they had no one to turn to, they could always fall back on the familial structure in hopes of making it through. This rang true in my ears because this is exactly what I saw whenever members of my immediate family or from another sector of my extended family were in need. My family took care of me. We took care of each other.

However, much to my surprise I learned that things unfolded differently in others families. You see, it’s not that these families don’t take care of each other. It’s just that, these families can take care of each other in different ways. Sons and daughters are encouraged to go out and defeat the ills plaguing the world while mothers and fathers keep things stable at home. If the unpredictable Gods throw a glitch into the matrix, mommy and daddy know the routes to take in order to rectify the situations and return to the calm after the storm.

Sons and daughters can explore more uncertain opportunities because they know that there will be a helping hand for them if things fall apart – and we all know that things do fall apart frequently. Even if this handed hand must be extended from afar, it can and will be extended without delay. This continues to amaze me as I often assess how distance significantly dilutes the support efforts of members of my family. More distance seems to equal more aloneness and more aloneness generates more insecurity and uncertainty. Heightened uncertainty in turns generates a greater desire for me to go back to where it all started. For me to shun the opportunities and return to what I know is safe, even if the pitiful conditions of the environment would suggest otherwise.

So now I sit in the midst of forcing myself toward this uncertainty. Praying that my peculiar upbringings have afforded me enough resourcefulness to overcome the pending adversity that the future holds. I’m hoping against hope that my family will understand my reasoning and respect my decisions, even if it results in me playing a diminished role in their lives. Yet quietly expecting claims that I’ve “turned my back on my family” and accusations that I have “forgotten where I come from.”

So I watch the actions of my peers. I attempt to borrow from their world views on family and opportunity. Slowly but surely I am struggling to negotiate my role in the world and my role as a member of my family. And as tough as it is for me to say this, I am prepared to put ME first.

Any suggestions?

Shrinking Horizons

During my freshman year of college, I was duped into reading a book by one of my humanities professors. He urged me to do more than the simple skimming that I had admitted to doing a few weeks before. So I accepted the challenge and began to pour over Alex Kotlowitz’s carefully worded piece on a delicate topic.

The book was about two young black boys growing up in the “ghetto.”

And trust me, I already know, you’re probably thinking to yourself that it’s no surprise that I (young black boy/man from the ghetto) would be able to relate to the book. But aside from all of the anecdotes about gangs and violence and seemingly endless poverty and struggle, there was one theme that jumped out at me.

At the time that I was reading the book, I had never really left the state of California. Born and raised on the outskirts of Los Angeles (frequent stops made in Compton, Watts and South Central), I knew very little about what the rest of California had to offer. Let alone the rest of the world.

My reality existed within a very small, narrow and skewed perimeter. My only insight into what was happening in the rest of the world came from books and television. Friends of mine did little to enhance my knowledge of non-hood affairs because they too were restricted by the urban jungles that many like myself in America call home.

A 3-hour drive east to Las Vegas didn’t count. A 3-hour drive due south to Tijuana didn’t count either. Before deciding on which college I wanted to attend, I had never even been on an airplane. After deciding on which college to attend, I opted for the comfort, and of course the prestige, of a private institution that had firmly established itself as the heart of Silicon Valley – unsurprisingly, I was still stuck in California.

Shortly after completing the book, I would set my sights on breaking out of the box that I had lived in for nearly two decades. It started with a few trips to the South and carried over into a small-scale tour of Europe during my time spent studying at Oxford. From these experiences I found a sense of satisfaction that no book or television show could accurately bestow upon its audience. I saw firsthand the remains of history and personalized those stories that had for many years been fed to me. By learning about the people and places that I had never come into contact with, I was ultimately learning so much more about myself.

I’m currently eagerly anticipating a long overdue trip to New York. I mean, anybody who’s anybody has been to New York! So to validate my role as a somebody in the world, I’m going to take my first bite out of the Big Apple.

Other trips in the works include Vancouver, Toronto, Chicago and somewhere in South America.

Each time I return, I bring with me nuggets of hope that will likely inspire those following in my footsteps to do the same.

Many argue that civil society in America is dead. I’d say they’re partially correct. In neighborhoods like the one in which I was raised, there was little effort made by residents to interact with the people that lived right next door to them. Distrust, fear and ignorance all appeared to play a role in separating the units that at many points in history made America strong by pushing the country forward and affecting change.

It is true: it takes a village to raise a child. But if you deprive a child of this village and entrap him in geographic location that falsely presents itself as a microcosm of the world, trouble should be expected. More must be done to expand the horizons of children. If they see what the world has the offer, it is without doubt that they will aspire to learn more about the world and work to change it.