Ah yes, running. I have a stress fracture in my left foot, probably the result of getting back into the Vibrams too soon after the Christmas holidays, when I trained for three weeks in Newtons only. That’s just a guess; maybe all my mileage has been leading to this injury. The point is, I’m out of commission for a while, and it feels really unnatural.

A runner who could not run was out of his element. He would not even think of himself as an athlete; ridiculously there would be a kind of guilt about it; that was the worst part. He would begin to feel uncomfortable around his training comrades and the feeling would be mutual, like a newly wounded soldier among the embarrassed whole ones, who would not wish to be reminded of certain crap game aspects of life.
- Once A Runner, John L. Parker, Jr.

On the one hand, I fully appreciate how much more time I have to just do nothing. On the other hand, with no employment, writer’s block, and no travel on the horizon, it feels like the last of my passions is slipping away. I won’t deny I’m in a bit of a funk over it, but I’m far from beaten down or at the verge of giving up. This isn’t some Disney movie pep talk about looking for the silver lining. This is me accepting responsibility for my own life and not letting challenges get in the way of what I want out of it.

If I can’t work full time? I’ll find an alternative and learn to live with less.

If I can’t travel around the world? I’ll learn to see local things as a traveler would, to keep my mind fresh and my eyes wide open.

If I can’t run? I think this may be the deal breaker. We’ll see how my recovery proceeds.

My guilty pleasure? Browsing jobs in Seoul and imaging what it’d be like if I abandoned everything and returned to Korea as a fresh, not-so-wide-eyed teacher. Even though I can still recall everything I decided in my last days over there – not wanting to be the outsider; tired of instability; wanting a “career” of sorts – the fact remains it’s easy to think those thoughts when you’re sitting in your own apartment and a paycheck is scheduled to be deposited. My work, while enough to sustain me in the Bay Area, hasn’t lead to anything approaching permanency, and I still think like a traveler… even if I do get something, it’s not a life sentence.

I buy lottery tickets, put all my hopes in cover letters, and go about my business. I guess that’s just what I’ve come to realize about work and life: there are no shortcuts, no easy roads to success. True, some are luckier than others, but their luck comes from working with good people and being passionate about what they do. I want that. I was able to work as a successful freelancer in Austin because I spend my university years building connections that weren’t essential to my survival when I was studying, but once I was out in the workforce, they allowed me to thrive. I just need time to do the same over here.

I’m still planning that next big adventure, counting down the weeks until I turn 30, and waiting to hear from a prospective employer in San Mateo. But I’m content. Sempre tem jeito. “…there’s always a way. Don’t drive yourself crazy over stuff now, there’s always a way to work it out in the end.”

It’s only been six weeks since I took that flight from Incheon, and already my world is established. I have a job (well, series of jobs, anyway), a girlfriend, a place to stay, food in the fridge, money in the bank. I’d be lying if I said things are exactly the way I wanted them to be, but things aren’t that bad. Not that they started out that way…

Let’s go back to the beginning. A ten-hour flight between Korea and San Francisco. With the inflight entertainment system broken. I’ve said it before, but travel just seems impossibly easy at times; it’s still so inconceivable to me that I could leave what had become my home for fourteen months and fly across the world in less than a day, to a place where residents know nothing about that world or the people in it. Americans just see strange writing where I see hangul. I hear Japanese, Chinese, and Korean where some just hear gibberish. My world and my experience have grown. And there’s nothing wrong with that, but, in a way, it makes me feel as though I stand out (figuratively, not literally) more in the US than I ever did in Korea (literally, not figuratively); I’ve been to Asia. I’ve seen life on a Buddhist monastery. I’ve traveled places friends couldn’t find even if they Googled their eyes out.

Stateside, people just been getting on with their lives: making money, building bonds, getting distracted by media and consumerism. It’s pretty much as I imagined it to be during my idle time in Uljin, but it’s quite another thing to experience it firsthand. Stores are so massive over here, even compared to the largest E-Mart or Lotte Department Store. The selection is incredible, almost wasteful. I remember seeing a few bags of Pepperidge Farm cookies in my local Family Mart and feeling lucky they had been stocked that day. Now, I can just walk into any Walgreens and find twenty different kinds, spanning half an aisle.

Don’t get me wrong, I know I was pretty much connected to this consumerism even in Korea. The Internet provided access to everything I ever wanted or could conceivably want at the touch of a button. But there’s no substitute for seeing product in person: touching it, smelling it, being reminded of something by it, and finding out it’s on sale. “I didn’t know I wanted these two minutes ago, but now I desperately do!”

Trade-offs. That’s what it all comes down to. In Korea, I have financial security, healthcare, regular hours… but I also will eternally be the outsider, cut off from my American identity, removed from family. On the other hand, I have time to explore my passions. I can honestly say I felt more whole in Korea, as I had time to run, go to the gym, write (case in point; how long has it been since I updated this blog?), read, and keep up to date on the news. For some reason, those things just seem diluted over here, as if I left my interest in the land of the morning calm and the only way to regain it is to go back.

In the US, I have flexible hours, easy access to social circles, more delicious food than I care to eat, and even (recently) a companion. But it seems like everything over here is just at a faster pace than that I want to move. I’m constantly scouring the Internet looking for better opportunities. Every time I see an ad it’s like it takes up a significant amount of memory to compartmentalize and store for later; it’s possible the same thing would have happened if I had understood the subtleties of Korean advertising, but I doubt it. I just seem to constantly be moving and searching while standing still. Ironic, as I left a life of traveling around the world to feel frantic in one place.

I don’t know how things will work out. Right now, I’m living in a safe and clean but ultimately temporary place south of the city. I’m dating someone in Noe Valley. I’m working promotions with Nintendo. I’m still running like crazy. But I feel incomplete.

Anyone else returned to find themselves in the same bind?

Lately, I’m sorry to say I’ve been feeling the former, even towards situations and people completely undeserving of my wrath:

- I discovered a sign that stated the NH Mart would be closed until 2:00 and a man felt the need to go out of his way and explain this in broken English. Instead of being grateful at his desire to help convey useful information, I couldn’t control this feeling of being patronized: “You don’t think I can read??”

- When strangers walk up to me shouting “Hello!”, I don’t even bother to distinguish the ones genuinely interested in talking and those just showing off. I just ignore them. With my clock ticking down, I can only see the latter.

- It’s affected me in the classroom as well. I don’t know exactly when Koreans get the idea that the best response to foreigners writing or speaking the smallest, simplest amount of their language is to open their eyes as wide as they can and clap, but one of my seven-year-old students did it this week when I wrote the name of the new teacher. Usually, I just write off their behavior to childhood, but the fact that it was a mirror image of the response I had witnessed from adults set me off. I was beyond peeved. Like I said, learn to deal with it; things will never change when it comes to Asia and foreign residents.

Looking to the future, I just don’t know. I keep reading news stories about the horrid unemployment rate and it occurs to me I’d be living with my parents if I hadn’t taken the leap and worked abroad. The only thing I can say for certain is that if I find myself in that situation, I’d be more comfortable returning to Korea; I may forever be an outsider here, but at least I’d be independent and answerable to no one.

I’m just uncertain and conveying that uncertainty in my writing, of course. I’m resourceful and smart, so it’s unlikely I’ll find myself homeless or unemployed for too long… I hope. I do look forward to seeing the new Couchsurfing headquarters, meeting new people, and exploring the Bay Area. Every time I see an ad for a travel job, I’m tempted to send it my resume and try another country for a year. But in my heart, I know that time has passed. I want a refrigerator stocked with food I may never eat. I want a place to hang my hat. I thought I wanted the stereotypical American Dream. And as much as I’d like to believe I’ve convinced myself it’s better to be living the life of a vagabond, day-by-day, out of a backpack, I’ve discovered a good balance of each is called for. I want a place to call home and a house to return to after my travels, but I also don’t want to be suffocating in a 9-5 job without the flexibility to take a week off if I feel like driving to Yellowstone or spending time with a friend. So I guess I do strive for the impossible, but isn’t that part of being human?

With American soil soon to be under my running feet, I’ve been asking myself the same question a lot lately: who will I be when I’m not what I am here, in Korea? It should come as no shock to anyone that we all have different personas for dealing with different stages of our lives; you’re never the person you were as a child, nor in high school, in university, working that first job. Some might attribute this as merely growing up, becoming more mature. To an extent, this is very true. But it doesn’t explain how we might revert to our high school personalities when encountering an old friend, and playing the role of the youngest son during holidays and family gatherings. We each have a unique identity, but one I believe is very much a part of our surroundings.

By that token, the me that left the US in 2006 was not the same me after a few months in Japan. I learned to adapt, speak a new language, eat different food, and embrace a foreign culture. I liked that me. It suited me. As much I’d like to have taken him back to Texas in 2008, he wouldn’t come. Not without bringing the entirety of Japan and its people back with him. It’s like they say: you can’t go home again. Not only has home and everything around it changed, but you no longer define yourself solely by the world that once was your family and house. Well, to follow that logic through, you can’t really go anywhere twice.

I’m not leaving Korea. I’m leaving everything I’ve known and the person I’ve become behind. That’s a scary concept.

Recently, I asked a friend living in Portland to do some shopping on my behalf and ship said items to Korea. Nothing too fancy: Reese’s, apple sauce, gingerbread, etc. Some things that are next to impossible to find here. As far as my taste buds were concerned, it was a wise decision. My wallet thought differently; it cost 76USD to deliver 40USD worth of product overseas. You don’t need an accountant to tell you just how stupid that purchase was.

So why did I do it? I’ve always been a sucker for food. Even before I started living abroad, I made frivolously expensive choices about where to eat, what to buy. I regularly drove 30 km to get Rudy’s BBQ in Austin. During my time in NYC, I took the subway with two transfers just to get some of those Magnolia cupcakes. Through all of this, I knew I wasn’t getting out of the food the money I was putting in. I just couldn’t seem to make myself act responsibly in this regard, because, let’s face it, food is so delicious. And when you’ve got a craving and the means to satisfy it, what else can one do?

Here are some of the more ridiculous distances I’ve traveled and money I’ve spent for the sake of food:

• Walking for two hours, including one kilometer through a dirty highway tunnel, to reach a mountainside restaurant in western Japan.
• Using my lunch break for an editing position in Austin, Texas to drive north for 20 minutes to the nearest Whole Foods, grab an overpriced lunch and wolf it down in 20 minutes, and drive back.
• Disembarking the shinkansen at Okayama, en route to Hakata, just to stock up on Dr. Pepper at Jupiter Imports.

I’m not here to talk numbers. I’m not an economist, though I do enjoy The Economist. I’m just a kid from Texas living in Korea who was considering his future in the states as all of this was going on. I’d like to share those thoughts with you.

I did not move to Korea because I couldn’t find a job in America. In fact, I was pretty sure I could have with a little elbow grease and lowering my standards. But I did extend my stay here because of the current economic climate in the US. Was that ignorant? Quite possibly. Telling myself one independent person comfortable with self-employment could be affected by something as immeasurable as unemployment and quality of life is tantamount to saying one can’t walk anywhere in the rain; sure, some will get wet and want to turn back, but others will accept the fact it’s raining and go forth with dignity. I consider myself one of the latter.

So how did I handle the news of this potential default? By considering all my options:

• I could stay at my current job, mentally defunct but financially secure
• I could stick to the plan of returning to the US in October and just hope for the best

The entire time, I wasn’t really thinking of the debt crisis as the problem. The main issue I had was: some of the highest elected officials in the most powerful nation on Earth were acting like idiots, spoiled children, short-sighted political figures who wanted nothing more than leverage. The August 1st outcome is testament to that: nothing has been solved, just pushed back to later this year and the next, at which time I’m certain the same bipartisan bickering and lack of concern for the American people will prevail.

Why would I want to return to a country where the battle for power is more important than those you represent? To some extent, we’ve always known this to be true of our leaders, but the recent crisis certainly threw a massive spotlight on their incompetence. You’d think grassroots candidates get into politics to cut through all this BS and talk plainly and simply to the people about the problems in the system. But that never happens: they get sucked into lethargy and pandering, and we just get more of the same. I didn’t really think Obama the President would be a major change to the system, having already been Obama the Senator, but there was some hope. Not so anymore.

So I guess I’m torn between frustration, helplessness, and just despair about the fate of my country. When one motivated individual has the power to bring the economy to a grinding halt, and another one isn’t willing to take a stand and do what he knows need to be done, what does that say for the rest of us, who watch it unfold and do nothing? I don’t even think we can do anything.

I’m not staying in Korea. Despite the uncertainty of what I may be returning to, it’s still home, and I’ll just have to try and make it better in my own small way.

“Fine”, you say, “let fluency be someone who is fluent to a native speaker in ALL situations.”

Son, Take A Seat…

That is a fine, and unimpeachible definition of fluency. It only has one, tiny tiny flaw. By that definition, particularly in languages with complex cultural aspects like Japanese, NO ONE is fluent, not even native speakers.

We all presume that as native speakers, we are all fluent. After all, most of us only know one language. How can we not be fluent in the only language we speak? An 8 year old native speaker might not have a huge vocabulary, and might not always express everything completely correctly, but no one would suggest that she is not fluent in her own language.

The point I’m making is that strict definitions of fluency are all well and good, but most people don’t realize that a majority of native speakers of a language will find situations where they struggle to be fluent in their own language – for example in conversations about topics they are unfamiliar with, and in areas with unfamiliar protocols.

I’ve talked about my lack of desire to learn Korean in previous video blogs. What it all boils down to is being accepted. Before living in Japan, I (some would say naïvely) believed that learning the local language is a major step towards cultural integration. To some extent, I still believe this to be true. But NOT in Japan or Korea. Why not?

The perception of language, that is, how native speakers view outsiders speaking their tongue, is incredibly important. Sure, I can see how one could learn Korean at a Canadian university from a non-native speaker, and become relatively fluent without ever having spoken to a Korean. But more often than not for language learners there’s at least some contact with someone who grew up with it. You can imagine how nervous one might be when first attempting to use these new skills to communicate.

Think about how non-native English speakers are considered in America. With little empathy and cultural awareness, I would say most Americans treat non-native speakers like complete crap. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I grew up in Texas, and the number of times I overheard things like “Damn Mexicans, if they’re going to live here, why don’t they learn the language?” Putting aside the fact the US has no official language, I’d say the perception of non-native speakers of American English is that of lesser intelligence:

We might bother to consider the people behind the language travesty, this illusion we put up in our minds. Where do these travelers come from? They’re obviously here for a reason, and maybe they’re trying to learn the local language. They could be fresh out of university and brimming with ideas, people perfectly capable of eloquence. But what do we associate with them? Lack of intelligence: you can’t speak properly, so I must be smarter than you. An assumption so far from the truth it’s laughable.

This perception, while insulting and completely unfounded, doesn’t even begin to match how I’ve seen non-native speakers treated in Korea.

If I DO try to speak to you in Korean, please respond to me as an adult communicating in your language. Being told “You’re cute when you speak Korean” is frustrating and patronizing.

I’m speaking Korean to communicate with you, not to entertain you: your language is a language, not a party trick, so please stop responding to my attempts to speak your language as if I’d just performed a really great party trick. Listen to what I say, and answer. Don’t congratulate me as if I were a six-year-old who just tied his shoes for the first time.

Unfortunately, based on my experiences in Korea, being treated as a six-year-old is really giving the listener too much credit. I want to clarify: my Korean is laughable. But obviously I know how to say things like “Hello!” and “How much is it?” after a year in the country. Yet, even when this information is available to people I’m talking to, I’m treated as Roboseyo suggests: less than human, almost like a monkey that’s been trained to spit out a few Korean words.

This could not be more obvious when I use Korean in the classroom. I know kids will be kids, and I’m an anomaly to them as a foreigner. But still, you’d think after being at the same hagwon for years (some of them have been there for all of elementary school) and seeing foreign instructors use simple Korean in and out of the classroom, that the amazement would wear off. As it stands, whenever I discipline a student in Korean for not paying attention by telling him to sit down, be quiet, or simply stop, instead of actually listening to my angry tone and what I’m saying, he or she just giggles and claps, amazed that I was able to speak.

I haven’t had too many experiences speaking to my adult students in Korean, but I can comment on what I’ve seen on Korean TV when foreigners pop up. Take the couple from Eat Your Kimchi on a popular show called Running Man. I had been following their videos for some time and was really excited to see their TV appearance. But… and I mean this with no disrespect to Simon or Martina, or any of the other foreign guests on the show, I really wish they hadn’t done it. Take a look first.

Could you spot the not-so-subtle ways the hosts treated any Korean skills on the part of the foreign guests as a parlor trick? They couldn’t even hold off until someone spoke: the first commentary is “무슨 말…?”, making fun of the fact that a few of them didn’t seem to acknowledge what they had said with a head nod. And when one of the cooks gave his instructions to spread the sauce in Korean, the laugh track kicked in, as if to say: “Yeah, right. Like the foreigners understood that!” I don’t want to give a blow-by-blow account. Watch, judge for yourself.

I know this perception isn’t true of everyone, but it is certainly true for the majority of native Korean speakers. I’m not really frustrated about it anymore, just depressed. Well, just plain sad. Sad at knowing there are so many foreign English speakers out there, wet behind the ears, believing their Korean language skills may someday be used for insightful conversations, when in fact they will be seen as little more than dogs taught to bark on command. Sad at my own realization of this perception; if I had taken Japanese classes at university (i.e. before I lived in Japan), I firmly believe I’d be more fluent right now. Not because I’d have had more experience speaking the language, but because I’d have less experience seeing how native Japanese speakers treat non-native ones.

And so, sadly, that’s where I stand on my Korean. I can learn more and open a few more doors, but ultimately they’ll lead to the same place: amusement for native speakers. That’s not why I want to learn a language, and why I don’t intend to pursue Korean or Japanese after I leave.

It’s the 4th of July today, an American holiday celebrating the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Rather, the draft of the Declaration was signed on July 2nd, but the parchment which now sits on display in Washington DC is the transcribed copy we now consider the cornerstone of American history. In any case, you’re all thinking about BBQs and fireworks, right?

During my two years in Japan I did absolutely nothing to celebrate this day. Although fireworks are very common over there, you can’t exactly find a Chinese market willing to sell you a personal stock like you can in Thailand, Korea, or the US (or China, one would assume). And, it’s difficult to find a place to set them off. Most apartment rooftops are inaccessible, and public parks are pretty exposed. The only place I might have considered using Roman candles in Japan would have been on a beach somewhere along the Osumi Peninsula in southern Kyushu. Even then, probably would have been stopped by police.

In Thailand, the only other American in the area and I raided the local market and found a secluded area of beach facing the Indian Ocean. Nearly blew my hand off with some of those explosives, but it was fun. Although the police probably would have frowned on our behavior, my Thai friend suggested a bribe would have smoothed things over. After all, we were just two crazy Americans lighting the sky on fire.

When the Uljin crowd got together for a combination Canada Day/4th of July party, we decided a beach bonfire would be the best way to wrap up the evening. However, we soon discovered this generally isn’t the best idea on the east coast of South Korea. Since the end of the Korean War in 1953, the South has been very vigilant about keeping watching for DPRK submarines and troop deployments out in the East Sea. In October 1968, over a hundred North Koreans managed to infiltrate the country near Samcheok, a mere hour’s drive from my apartment. As recently as 1996, soldiers from the North have been finding ways to breach the south along the east coast; 26 landed that year near Gangneung, having abandoned a disabled submarine. Only one escaped – the rest were captured or killed. I mean, 1996! Hardly the distant past, yet North Korean troops were on South Korean soil. If they wanted to fit in a little better, they should have just shouted “HELLO!” to the local English teacher. No one would have questioned them.

In any case, it should come as no surprise that a lot of military personnel are deployed along the coast at night to check for surprise incursions. South Korean fishing boats are allowed to operate with the right permits, but otherwise it’s a pretty quiet stretch of sea. In the morning, the soldiers are required to check every bit of coastline (in their assigned area) for footprints.

So when the foreign crowd got together and started dragging firewood to the beach, we suddenly found ourselves facing three soldiers wondering what was going on. It could have been a major problem – innocent civilians have detained by the military over misunderstandings on the coast, but these incidents are very rare. The worst that usually happens is the “offenders” are asked to leave. We were luckier; the soldiers were simply curious, and talked to us for a bit before leaving and allowing the fire to burn.

This one is fresh from Korea. I just finished up two adult classes. As is often the case with these 6:30 AM ones, many students don’t show up. I got four for the beginner class, but only one for the advanced. Since I knew this student to be a fairly competent speaker, I decided to (lazily) forego the planned lesson and indulge him with free talking and Q&A. The direction this conversation turned over time, however, I could not foresee…

He started out discussing some of the problems the nuclear plant was having with the cooling system, which quickly spawned a discussion on the merits and dangers of nuclear power. Apparently, Uljin is not as immune to earthquakes or tsunamis as I had thought; although they are extremely rare – and when they do happen, they’re far from serious – they have enough force to affect the nuclear reactor. I know I was certainly feeling reassured.

I thought that’s where the conversation would continue to flow: talks on nuclear energy, working in Korea, the works. But then came THE QUESTION.

“Can I ask question? How about health insurance in the America?”
(Despite his misuse of articles, I assure you his English is more than sufficient to describe nuclear reactors)

What followed was a full-blown apology on my part for America’s stance on socialized medicine. He explained Korea’s system, in which the government paid for most expenses when it came to surgery, and been hospitalized. When I explained that an uninsured person diagnosed with cancer in the US would most likely die or bankrupt himself and his family and friends, he was shocked, to say the least. Rather, he just couldn’t seem to wrap his head around the idea that a country like America had such a policy. I couldn’t blame him.

“I am concerned about poor and sick people.”

I didn’t use the term ‘pre-existing condition’, but I think my points were clear: sick people cannot be insured under current law (yes, I’m aware that’s now changing), and health insurance outside of a company is pretty expensive for the average American. I told him I would be uninsured upon my return to the US unless I found a job right away or paid for it out of pocket. When I brought it to a personal level, he seemed even more surprised, as if to say: “How can YOU be one of these uninsured people?”

I can’t say I blame him. I take enough risk just visiting the US between my jaunts abroad. Although the times are limited and I don’t really engage in any dangerous work, that’s not the point: I could be hit by a car, come up with some mysterious ailment, or injure myself running and totally screw myself financially.

To give you an example closer to my current home, there’s a story out of South Korea about an American dealing with a conflict of healthcare:

Wes Putman, 26, is lucky be alive after he was hit by a taxicab in Seoul. But now it will cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to bring him home.

Putman was living in South Korea and working as an English teacher. He suffered severe brain injuries when he was hit by the cab on his way home in the spring. Doctors said he will recover better back home in the U.S.

“Wes’ best chance for recovery is in familiar surroundings,” said Melissa Brazier, Putman’s aunt. “He needs to be around people he is familiar with, familiar voices and smells.”

Putman’s mother is with him at the hospital in Korea. He is responding to family but can’t talk and can barely move.

In order to get him home, the family will have to pay for an air ambulance which could cost around $130,000. Putman’s Korean insurance doesn’t cover the trip and since it happened outside the U.S., and they have been unable to get government help.

“It’s the hardest thing our family has ever had to go through,” said Nicole Powell, Putman’s aunt. “We can’t get a straight answer from anybody, we’ve talked to Senators, Representatives, we’ve even called the White House — nobody will help us.”

When I first heard of this incident, my feelings were pretty much across the board: sympathy towards a fellow expat; anger and fear of taxi drivers; condescension at his family for believing the US government would pay to repatriate a citizen working abroad. But most of all – forgive me for saying so – I saw the shortsightedness of his family. Despite the fact that the Korean doctors may believe Putman will recover better in familiar surroundings and around people he knows, he won’t recover at all if no one can pay for his treatment.

In South Korea, he’s insured! The government will pay for most of his hospital care. The cost of bringing him to America, not to mention any additional surgeries or treatments, will more than likely bankrupt everyone he knows because he’s uninsured in the US. To me, standing on the sidelines, the choice seems obvious: keep him in Korea. But I’m not his mother. Still, it seems very shortsighted to simply send him back home, cost be damned.

Again, it’s another reason I hesitate to simply hop the first flight come October 8th. I could sign up for a healthcare plan with some of my savings, but wouldn’t it become superfluous if I found a job with a good company? I’m insured here, and will continue to be so until I pass through immigration (maybe even then – not sure about airport laws concerning insurance). The US stance on opposing socialized medicine – fear of government control of healthcare – isn’t entirely without its merits, but overall, the same reaction that Wes Putnam’s family had to their boy’s plight: shortsighted. The gap between the rich and poor will widen as more people without means struggle to pay medical expenses out of pocket, and those in middle (myself included) will think of ourselves as immortal until some accident brings us back to reality.

That reality is: everyone should have health insurance. No exceptions. If we don’t have a system in place that makes that possible, then the system needs to change.