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Sarah Davis

Sarah Davis was a Black Registered Nurse, mother, advocate, and teacher whose love for her disabled son Andy burned with an intensity that could turn ice cold when anyone dared underestimate him. Born around 1960, she worked full-time as a nurse before Andy's needs increased, then went part-time/per diem in fall 1995 to homeschool him after years of watching the school system warehouse her brilliant son in Room 118 with picture books, treating him as intellectually disabled when his cerebral palsy affected his body, not his mind. She was warm and approachable—until you threatened her son. Then you met the fury of a Black mother fighting institutional racism and ableism, her voice turning deadly cold, every word deliberate and weighted. She didn't need to raise her voice because the fury spoke for itself. She fought IEP meetings with medical knowledge and nursing credentials that should have given her credibility but didn't erase the racism that made doctors dismiss her concerns. She documented everything, spoke their language, never backed down. When Andy scored in the 85th percentile on the CHSPE and the testing center flagged his scores for review, her response was ice: "You meant you didn't think a disabled Black kid could score in the 85th percentile." She co-taught the homeschool cooperative with Ellen and Greg Matsuda, teaching English and Literature, watching Andy analyze To Kill a Mockingbird at a college level—proof that Room 118 had been wrong about everything. She wrote "When My Black Disabled Son 'Surprised' Everyone" in 1998, speaking truth that other Black disabled families recognized as their own experience. She was exhausted but unbreakable, carrying guilt over the Room 118 years balanced by hope from watching Andy thrive. She had no regrets about pulling Andy from school, about sacrificing career advancement, about any choice she made to protect her son. Watching Andy's success was vindication that she had been right all along.

Early Life and Background

Sarah Davis was born around 1960 in California, likely in Los Angeles or a nearby area. The canonical record did not document specific details about her childhood, parents, siblings, or early family life, though she grew up in a Black family that was probably working or middle class.

From an early age, Sarah was smart and driven, someone who wanted to help people. She chose nursing as her career because it was stable, meaningful, and allowed her to work in a helping profession—a path that would later give her both the medical knowledge to advocate for her son and the credibility that was still not enough to overcome racism.

Sarah attended nursing school in the late 1970s or early 1980s, earning her RN degree. She worked in hospitals, clinics, and various medical settings, proving herself good at her job and showing deep care for her patients. Through these years, she came to understand medical systems from the inside, learning how they worked and where they failed people—knowledge that would become invaluable in ways she couldn't yet imagine.

Sarah met Marcus Davis, a paramedic, likely through the medical field. Both of them worked in helping professions, and both of them were Black professionals navigating predominantly white medical systems. They bonded over their shared values and experiences, finding in each other a partner who understood the unique challenges they faced. They married in the mid-to-late 1970s.

Education

Sarah's formal education culminated in her RN degree earned in the late 1970s or early 1980s. Her nursing training had given her medical knowledge, understanding of systems and bureaucracy, and the ability to speak "doctor language"—skills that proved invaluable but insufficient against the twin barriers of racism and ableism.

Her most significant education came through advocating for Andy. She learned everything she could about cerebral palsy—what it meant, what Andy needed, how to advocate for him. She learned special education law from Ellen Matsuda, learned which regulations to cite and when, learned the specific language to use with administrators who tried to dismiss her concerns. She learned to document everything meticulously, to use medical terminology strategically, to channel rage into productive advocacy.

She learned painful lessons about systems. She learned that fighting didn't always work, that sometimes you couldn't change the system and had to remove your child from it instead. She learned that being a Black mother meant being dismissed even when you had professional credentials. She learned that disabled Black kids faced compounded discrimination—racism and ableism intersecting to doubly marginalize her son.

She learned about teaching through the homeschool cooperative, discovering she could educate effectively when given the freedom to meet Andy where he was. She taught English and Literature, facilitating rich discussions between Andy and Cody, watching her son perform college-level literary analysis. Her education in what Andy was truly capable of came through witnessing his brilliance firsthand once Room 118's barriers were removed.

She grew from someone who trusted systems to someone who understood their fundamental failures. She evolved from fighting within the system to protecting her son by leaving it. She learned to forgive herself for the Room 118 years, to channel guilt into productive advocacy, to hope despite exhaustion and fear.

Personality

Sarah presented with quiet strength, a Black woman in her late thirties to early forties who carried herself with professional but warm demeanor. She was naturally warm and approachable—the practiced presence of a nurse who knew how to manage difficult situations, someone who made others feel cared for and seen.

But when it came to Andy, something fundamental shifted. She could go from warm to ice cold in seconds when Andy was threatened or dismissed. Her voice, usually warm and measured, could turn deadly cold. She didn't raise her voice because she didn't need to. Every word became deliberate and weighted when she was advocating for Andy, her controlled fury more devastating than any shout.

Her body language became intensely protective around her son. In meetings, she sat close to Andy with her hand on his shoulder or wheelchair, maintaining direct eye contact when advocating for his needs. She waited for Andy to finish his sentences and never finished them for him. She listened to his stutter without impatience, respecting his intelligence even when communication was difficult.

She was fiercely protective, willing to fight doctors, insurance companies, school systems—any institution that failed her son. She became sharp and furious when Andy's needs were dismissed or minimized, channeling maternal love into advocacy that would not accept less than he deserved. She was "done" with people who didn't take her son seriously.

She carried bone-deep exhaustion from years of constant advocacy, working full-time and then part-time, coordinating medical care and therapy and education, fighting systems that resisted every step. The tiredness never quite left her face, though she rarely complained.

Guilt haunted her, particularly around the Room 118 years. She questioned why she hadn't pulled Andy out sooner, why she kept trying when she knew the school was wrong. Rage burned beneath her controlled exterior—at schools that failed Andy, at doctors who dismissed him, at the testing center that flagged his scores, at every person who assumed incompetence. She had learned to channel that rage productively, but it was always there.

Yet hope sustained her. She saw Andy thrive in homeschool, watched his relationship with Cody develop, witnessed his intelligence finally being recognized. His success proved that fighting had been worth it, that the struggle mattered, that her son could have the life he deserved.

She processed stress through action and caregiving, drawing on her nursing skills to manage crises with calm competence. She handled difficult emotions by channeling them into advocacy, by documenting and fighting and refusing to back down. She connected with others through shared understanding—other mothers of disabled children, particularly Black disabled families who faced the same compounded discrimination.

Sarah was propelled forward by fierce maternal love and the determination to ensure Andy had everything he deserved. She was motivated by the belief that he was brilliant and capable, that his disabilities required accommodation not lowered expectations, that the system had failed him rather than the other way around.

She was driven by the need to fight any system that assumed incompetence when looking at her son. She was motivated by desire to help other Black disabled families, to speak truth so they knew they were not alone, to create systemic change rather than just individual accommodations.

She was motivated by Andy's success—every milestone proving that fighting had been worth it, that all the exhaustion and sacrifice led to this: her son having the life he deserved. Watching him thrive was vindication that she had been right all along.

Her fears ran deep. She feared SUDEP (Sudden Unexpected Death in Epilepsy), feared medical emergencies, feared for Andy's future—would he be okay? What happened when she was not there to advocate for him? She feared watching him be dismissed over and over, feared the world would never see what she saw when she looked at him.

She feared that the Room 118 years had caused irreparable harm. She carried guilt about not pulling Andy sooner, questioned why she kept trying when she knew the school was wrong. She feared she had failed him during those years, that she couldn't get them back.

She feared racism and ableism continuing to doubly marginalize Andy—his pain dismissed, his intelligence questioned, his humanity denied. She feared that even when he proved himself, people would treat it as surprise rather than confirmation of what he had always been.

As Sarah moved from her thirties into her forties and beyond, watching Andy grow from teenager to young adult to advocate in his own right, certain aspects of her personality deepened while her core strength remained constant.

Her advocacy skills sharpened through years of practice and the confidence that came from being proven right. When she wrote "When My Black Disabled Son 'Surprised' Everyone" in 1998 and "Teaching My Son Taught Me He Was Never Broken" in 1999, she expanded her advocacy beyond just Andy to helping other families, speaking at conferences, becoming a voice for Black disabled families who recognized their own experiences in her words.

Her exhaustion was ongoing—the bone-deep tiredness of constant advocacy didn't disappear—but hope sustained her as Andy's success continued. His achievements at PCC, his transfer to four-year university, watching him become an advocate—all proof that the struggle had been worth it.

Her guilt over the Room 118 years may have softened with time as Andy's success provided evidence that despite those years, he survived and thrived. Yet the awareness of what was stolen from him, years he could never get back, likely remained painful.

What matured was her wisdom about systems and advocacy, her ability to mentor other families through similar battles, her understanding of how to channel rage productively. She grew in forgiving herself while maintaining fierce standards for systems that failed disabled kids.

What remained constant was her ice-cold fury when anyone threatened or underestimated Andy, her refusal to back down, her fundamental belief in his brilliance and capability. She remained warm and approachable—until you threatened her son. Then you met the fury of a Black mother who had fought too hard and too long to accept anything less than what he deserved.

Cultural Identity and Heritage

Sarah Davis was a Black mother and registered nurse whose life had been defined by the specific labor that Black women perform when their children are failed by every system designed to serve them. She carried nursing credentials that should have given her authority in medical settings but didn't erase the racism that caused doctors to dismiss her as an "anxious mother" even as her son vomited blood in a waiting room. She spoke "their language"—medical terminology, IEP regulations, the precise bureaucratic vocabulary that white parents used to get what their children needed on the first ask—and it was still not enough, because the language had never been the barrier. The barrier was a system that looked at a Black woman advocating for her disabled Black son and saw neither her expertise nor his intelligence, only the assumptions that were in place before she opened her mouth.

The particular cultural weight Sarah carried was the intersection of Black motherhood and disability advocacy—two forms of labor that were both invisible and relentless. Black mothers of disabled children fought on two fronts simultaneously: the ableism that presumed their children incompetent and the racism that compounded that presumption, making it harder to access services, harder to be believed, harder to get a sleep apnea diagnosis that took twenty-five years because every doctor attributed the symptoms to "just part of his CP" rather than investigating further. When Ellen Matsuda—a white state disability rights official—showed up at the ER with her badge and got Andy seen in five minutes after Sarah's nursing expertise had been dismissed for over an hour, the brutal arithmetic of American healthcare was laid bare: a white woman's institutional authority accomplished in minutes what a Black woman's medical knowledge and maternal desperation could not accomplish in an hour. Sarah knew this. She called Ellen because she knew this. The knowledge did not make it less enraging.

Sarah's writing—"When My Black Disabled Son 'Surprised' Everyone"—spoke to the specific experience of Black families whose children's achievements were treated as miracles rather than evidence of what had always been there. Her ice-cold fury when the testing center flagged Andy's scores was not just maternal protectiveness but the accumulated rage of a Black woman who had spent sixteen years watching her brilliant son be warehoused, dismissed, and underestimated, and who understood that even when he proved himself, the proof was received as surprise rather than confirmation. That surprise was the racism. The fact that Andy's 85th-percentile score was flagged for review while white disabled students' scores would not have been—that was the system working exactly as designed, requiring Black disabled people to be exceptional just to be believed as competent.

Speech and Communication Patterns

Sarah's voice was usually warm, measured, and professional—the practiced tone of a nurse who knew how to manage difficult situations. She spoke with calm authority born from years of medical practice and parental advocacy.

But when dealing with ableism or racism, her voice could turn deadly cold. She didn't raise her voice because she didn't need to. At the CHSPE registration when the registrar questioned whether Andy should even take the test, Sarah's voice went ice cold: "Process his registration." When she called about flagged test scores, her tone cut through bureaucratic evasion: "You meant you didn't think a disabled Black kid could score in the 85th percentile."

She had learned to speak "official language" when fighting systems, using medical terminology and professional credentials strategically. She knew which regulations to cite, what language administrators responded to, how to document and present cases for maximum effectiveness. With medical professionals, she demonstrated her nursing knowledge while maintaining controlled fury when they dismissed her concerns.

With Andy, her communication reflected deep respect and patience. She waited for him to finish sentences, listened to his stutter without impatience, asked questions that centered his voice and choices. During Cody's crisis, she asked "How are you really doing, baby?" and didn't accept his reflexive "I'm fine." She responded with brutal honesty when needed: "I know, baby. Me too."

With Ellen Matsuda, she communicated with the shorthand of mothers who understood each other's fights. When she discovered Andy and Cody's twelve-hour phone call, she called Ellen, giggling like a teenager sharing exciting news. With Marcus, she advocated fiercely for believing Andy's feelings and understanding, pushing back when necessary: "Marcus, Andy's sixteen. Not six. He understands the difference."

In her writing, her voice was clear and unflinching. She spoke truth about racism and ableism, called out systems that failed disabled kids, shared her experiences so other families knew they were not alone.

Health and Disabilities

The canonical record did not document any disabilities or chronic health conditions affecting Sarah. Her experience with disability was primarily as a caregiver and advocate for her son Andy, a role that had shaped her entire adult life and professional identity.

Personal Style and Presentation

Sarah presented as a Black woman in her late thirties to early forties with professional but warm demeanor. The canonical record did not provide detailed physical description of her appearance, style, or specific features beyond this general presentation.

What was conveyed was her presence—she carried herself with quiet strength, often looked tired from the demands of constant advocacy and caregiving, but maintained professional composure. When advocating for Andy, her body language became intensely protective. The overall impression she gave was warm and approachable—until you threatened her son. Then you met ice-cold fury that didn't need volume to be devastating.

Tastes and Preferences

Sarah Davis's personal tastes were largely undocumented outside the professional and caregiving contexts that had defined her adult life. Her nursing career and advocacy for Andy consumed the energy and time that might otherwise have gone toward personal pleasures, and her willingness to go per diem—sacrificing income and career trajectory to homeschool her son—spoke to a woman whose deepest satisfactions were rooted in doing what was necessary rather than what was enjoyable. Her co-teaching years with Ellen and Greg, when she watched Andy perform college-level literary analysis and witnessed proof that Room 118 had been wrong, suggested that intellectual engagement and the vindication of fierce belief in her child were among the closest things to pleasure Sarah's life permitted. Her specific preferences in food, entertainment, clothing, and personal comfort remained to be established.

Habits, Routines, and Daily Life

Sarah lived with Marcus and Andy in California, likely in the Los Angeles area. Before Andy's birth, she worked full-time as an RN in hospital or clinic settings. After Andy's birth in 1978, she continued working while navigating the challenges of being a working mother to a disabled child, coordinating endless therapy appointments, IEP meetings, and medical care.

In fall 1995, Sarah made a significant career sacrifice, reducing her hours and going per diem (working only as needed with flexible scheduling). It was a financial sacrifice made necessary by pulling Andy from school to homeschool him. She never regretted the choice.

During the homeschool years from 1995 to 1997, Sarah co-taught with Ellen and Greg Matsuda. She taught English and Literature, using Andy's audiobook skills as foundation, reading aloud to help with his hearing loss, facilitating rich discussions between Andy and Cody. She watched Andy perform college-level literary analysis, witnessing proof that Room 118 had been wrong.

Her daily routines during these years balanced nursing work (part-time/per diem), teaching, coordinating Andy's medical care and therapy, and managing household needs. She documented everything meticulously—symptoms, appointments, educational progress, evidence for advocacy battles. Her nursing skills and medical knowledge shaped how she managed crises, provided care, and monitored Andy's health.

Friday night during Cody's crisis, Sarah checked on Andy multiple times, her nurse's instincts on high alert at the sound of his loud snoring (classic sleep apnea symptoms she'd been tracking for years). Saturday morning, she managed his physical needs after 19-hour sleep—stiff muscles, back spasms, low blood sugar, pain management—with expertise born from sixteen years of mothering this particular child.

Her organizational habits centered on documentation and preparation. She kept detailed records, spoke systems' language, knew which regulations to cite. Her advocacy work included writing articles that helped other families, supporting Black disabled families navigating similar systems, and speaking at conferences about intersectionality.

Personal Philosophy or Beliefs

Sarah's foundational belief was that Andy was brilliant, capable, and deserving of everything this world had to offer. His disabilities required accommodation, not pity or lowered expectations. Support needs didn't negate capability. Schools and systems disabled people far more than bodies did.

She believed racism was pervasive in medical systems, education, and everywhere her family went. It intersected with ableism to doubly marginalize Andy, creating unique barriers that Black disabled kids faced. Fighting racism wasn't separate from fighting for Andy—it was an inseparable part of advocating for her son.

Her philosophy of education centered on the belief that every child deserved education that worked for them. Traditional school failed many students. Homeschooling wasn't giving up—it was choosing a child's wellbeing over ideology. Rest and accommodation enabled learning rather than preventing it. Intelligence came in many forms, and schools needed to recognize that.

Her approach to advocacy was fierce and unapologetic. You didn't ask permission to protect your child. Systems wouldn't change voluntarily—you had to force them. Medical credentials helped but didn't erase racism, so you fought anyway. Document everything, speak their language, don't back down. Other families needed to hear these stories so they knew they were not alone.

She believed disabled people deserved love, education, independence, and joy. Being disabled didn't mean not having romantic feelings. Andy deserved relationships, happiness, the normal experiences teenagers had. Infantilizing disabled people didn't protect them—believing them about their own feelings did.

Her understanding of motherhood was shaped by experience raising Andy. It was the fiercest love you'd ever know. You'd sacrifice anything for your child. Watching your brilliant child be dismissed was agony. Watching them thrive was everything. She had no regrets about choices made for Andy—not one.

Family and Core Relationships

Sarah was married to Marcus Davis, a paramedic. They built a strong partnership founded on mutual respect, both of them Black professionals navigating predominantly white medical systems. Their relationship was characterized by a united front, especially when it came to Andy. They supported each other through the exhaustion of constant advocacy, with Marcus handling things when Sarah couldn't and Sarah taking over when Marcus needed rest. No major conflicts had emerged between them—they functioned as a team, both willing to sacrifice career advancement and personal comfort for Andy's wellbeing.

In their division of advocacy labor, Sarah handled primary education advocacy and medical coordination while Marcus provided emotional support for Andy and maintained financial stability. Marcus had learned to restrain himself when Sarah went cold and precise with administrators, recognizing that her controlled fury was often more effective than anger. Sarah appreciated Marcus's steady presence, knowing she could rely on him to back her up when she needed reinforcement.

During Cody's crisis when Andy revealed romantic feelings, Sarah had to defend Andy's understanding to Marcus. When Marcus questioned whether Andy really understood what he meant, whether he might be confusing gratitude with love, Sarah pushed back firmly: "Marcus, Andy's sixteen. Not six. He understands the difference." She reminded Marcus that they had been seventeen when they fell in love, that Andy wasn't intellectually disabled, that his cerebral palsy affected his body, not his emotional intelligence. "He knows what he's feeling. And I believe him."

Sarah's relationship with Andy was the defining bond of her life. He was her son, her heart—brilliant and capable and deserving of everything this world had to offer. She would fight any system that said otherwise. From his birth in 1978, her immediate response was pragmatic and loving: "Okay. What does he need? How do we help him?" She never saw him as a tragedy or as broken.

She navigated exhausting schedules of therapy and doctor appointments during Andy's early years, fighting for services and accommodations while working full-time. She battled school systems through kindergarten and elementary, then watched in agony during the Room 118 years when Andy was ages 11 to 16, her brilliant son warehoused with picture books. She carried guilt for not pulling him sooner, balanced by determination to fix it.

Pulling Andy from school in fall 1995 was the hardest decision she ever made, requiring her to go part-time at work to homeschool him. But watching him thrive—teaching him English and Literature, witnessing his college-level analysis, seeing evidence of his brilliance—was vindication. When he passed the CHSPE with high scores, she felt both pride and rage that he had to prove himself when white kids would have been celebrated without question.

When Andy fell in love with Cody, Sarah's response was immediate support. She felt no homophobia, no concern about two disabled boys in a relationship—just happiness that Andy had someone who understood him. She called Ellen giggling over their twelve-hour phone call, welcomed Cody completely into their family. Andy's happiness was all that mattered.

Sarah's relationship with Ellen Matsuda was built on mutual understanding as mothers of disabled sons fighting systems that failed their kids. Ellen provided crucial practical help over years—using her professional knowledge of disability services to help Sarah navigate IEPs, coaching her on specific language for administrators, connecting her with resources, validating her instincts when schools tried to gaslight her. Sarah brought lived experience of fighting racism and ableism simultaneously—something Ellen, as a white woman, didn't face in the same way. They learned from each other and supported each other through crises. The homeschool partnership from 1995 to 1997 deepened their connection, both women watching their sons thrive and prove that disabled kids could excel with proper support. When their sons started dating, it bound them together as family in yet another way.

Sarah respected Greg Matsuda's expertise in educational psychology and appreciated his teaching in the homeschool cooperative. She saw how his precision and structured approach helped both autistic boys learn effectively. They shared common ground as educators, both believing in Andy and Cody's capabilities without reservation.

Romantic / Significant Relationships

Related Entry: Marcus Davis – Biography

Sarah married Marcus Davis in the mid-to-late 1970s after meeting him through the medical field where both worked in helping professions. Their partnership was characterized by mutual respect, shared values, and a united front in advocating for Andy.

Their parenting philosophy centered on a fundamental belief: Andy was brilliant, capable, and deserving of everything. They accommodated his needs without treating him as lesser, paired high expectations with full support, protected him without infantilizing him. Both had proven willing to sacrifice career advancement for Andy's wellbeing.

They supported each other through the exhaustion of constant advocacy. Marcus provided backup when Sarah needed reinforcement, offered emotional support, and maintained financial stability. Sarah handled primary medical and education advocacy, coordinated care, taught and advocated daily. Their relationship had weathered years of medical crises, school battles, financial stress, and the ongoing work of parenting a disabled Black son in systems designed to fail him.

Legacy and Memory

Sarah was living, and her legacy continued to be written through Andy's success and her advocacy work. But she was already aware of what she hoped to create.

She wanted to be remembered as the mother who never gave up fighting for Andy, who saw his brilliance when Room 118 said he was intellectually disabled, who sacrificed career advancement to homeschool him when the system refused to serve him properly. She wanted her persistence and refusal to accept barriers to stand as proof that maternal love fueled by rage at injustice could force systems to change or could at least protect one child from their failures.

She wanted her writing to help other Black disabled families navigate systems that weren't built for them. She wanted "When My Black Disabled Son 'Surprised' Everyone" and "Teaching My Son Taught Me He Was Never Broken" to continue being shared, recognized, used in training about intersectionality. She wanted other families to know they were not alone, that their instincts were valid when systems tried to gaslight them.

She wanted to be remembered for co-teaching the homeschool cooperative that allowed both boys to thrive, for expecting Andy to pass the CHSPE when everyone else was surprised, for her ice-cold response when the testing center flagged his scores. She wanted to model what it looked like to center disabled children's capabilities while refusing to accept systemic barriers.

She wanted to be remembered for believing Andy about his own feelings, for immediately supporting his relationship with Cody without homophobia or concern, for celebrating his happiness above all else. She wanted to demonstrate that disabled people deserved love and romance and all the normal experiences of growing up.

Most of all, she wanted to be remembered for having no regrets—not about pulling Andy from school, not about sacrificing career advancement, not about any choice made to protect and enable her son. She wanted watching Andy thrive to stand as vindication that she had been right all along, that he had always been brilliant and capable, that the system had always been the problem, not her son.

Memorable Quotes

"Process his registration." — Context: To CHSPE registrar who questioned whether Andy should take the test and suggested "alternative programs," voice ice cold, refusing to accept ableist assumptions.

"You meant you didn't think a disabled Black kid could score in the 85th percentile." — Context: To testing center representative who flagged Andy's scores for review, cutting through bureaucratic euphemism to name the racism and ableism explicitly.

"Andy and Cody discuss To Kill a Mockingbird at a level that would impress college professors. They debate 1984. They write essays about The Crucible and disability rights. The school was wrong. Room 118 was WRONG. Andy wasn't the problem. The system was." — Context: From her article "Teaching My Son Taught Me He Was Never Broken," articulating the vindication of watching Andy thrive in homeschool.

"How are you really doing, baby?" — Context: To Andy during Cody's crisis, not accepting reflexive "I'm fine," creating space for him to admit fear and be honest.

"You are not responsible for keeping Cody alive. That's not your job." — Context: To Andy during Cody's crisis, setting crucial boundary to prevent him from carrying burden that would destroy him.

"I hope he loves you back too, baby. I really, really do." — Context: Whispered to sleeping Andy after realizing his romantic feelings for Cody, expressing pure maternal hope for his happiness.

"Marcus, Andy's sixteen. Not six. He understands the difference." — Context: Defending Andy's understanding of his own romantic feelings, refusing to infantilize him despite Marcus's protective instincts.

"You're going to pass. You know the material." — Context: Before CHSPE test, holding high expectations because she knew Andy was brilliant, refusing to lower the bar.

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