April 20: La Caridad, Pilgrimage, Natasha Trethewey, Verdict

 Merton on a pilgrimage . . .

In Camagüey I found a Church to La Soledad, Our Lady of Solitude, a little dressed-up image up in a shadowy niche: you could hardly see her. La Soledad! One of my big devotions, and you never find her, never hear anything about her in this country, except that one of the old California missions was dedicated to her. 

Finally my bus went roaring across the dry plain towards the blue wall of mountains: Oriente, the end of my pilgrimage. 

When we had crossed over the divide and were going down through the green valleys towards the Caribbean Sea, I saw the yellow Basilica of Our Lady of Cobre, standing on a rising above the tin roofs of the mining village in the depths of a deep bowl of green, backed by cliffs and sheer slopes robed in jungle. 

“There you are, Caridad del Cobre! It is you that I have come to see; you will ask Christ to make me His priest, and I will give you my heart, Lady: and if you will obtain for me this priesthood, I will remember you at my first Mass in such a way that the Mass will be for you and offered through your hands in gratitude to the Holy Trinity, Who has used your love to win me this great grace.”

The bus tore down the mountainside to Santiago. The mining engineer who had got on at the top of the divide was talking all the way down in English he had learned in New York, telling me of the graft that had enriched the politicians of Cuba and of Oriente. 

In Santiago I ate dinner on the terrace of a big hotel in front of the cathedral. Across the square was the shell of a five-storey building that looked as if it had been gutted by a bomb: but the ruin had happened in an earthquake not so very long before. It was long enough ago so that the posters on the fence that had been put up in front of it had time to get tattered, and I was thinking: perhaps it is now getting to be time for another earthquake. And I looked up at the two towers of the cathedral, ready to sway and come booming down on my head. 

The bus that took me to Cobre the next morning was the most dangerous of all the furious busses that are the terror of Cuba. I think it made most of the journey at eighty miles an hour on two wheels, and several times I thought it was going to explode. I said rosaries all the way up to the shrine, while the trees went by in a big greenish-yellow blur. If Our Lady had tried to appear to me, I probably would never even have gotten a glimpse of her. 

I walked up the path that wound around the mound on which the Basilica stands. Entering the door, I was surprised that the floor was so shiny and the place was so clean. I was in the back of the church, up in the apse, in a kind of oratory behind the high altar, and there, facing me, in a little shrine, was La Caridad, the little, cheerful, black Virgin, crowned with a crown and dressed in royal robes, who is the Queen of Cuba. 

There was nobody else in the place but a pious middle-aged lady attendant in a black dress who was eager to sell me a lot of medals and so I knelt before La Caridad and made my prayer and made my promise. I sneaked down into the Basilica after that, and knelt where I could see La Caridad and where I could really be alone and pray, but the pious lady, impatient to make her deal, or perhaps afraid that I might get up to some mischief in the Basilica, came down and peeked through the door. 

So, disappointed and resigned, I got up and came out and bought a medal and got some change for the beggars and went away, without having a chance to say all that I wanted to say to La Caridad or to hear much from her.

As with any pilgrimage--whether to a cathedral or Walt Disney World--the build-up is generally better than the actual experience.  The mind has a way of gilding everything with gold.  Merton has waited several days to make it to the the shrine of the Queen of Cuba.  Has thought about what he was going to say and do.  Instead, he finds himself hounded out of the church by a poor woman trying to make a few cents. 

I have not been on a pilgrimage these last seven days.  Several times, I have sat down with my laptop to tap out a blog post, and instead I found myself waking up at one o'clock in the morning with a blank computer screen glowing in my face.  Best laid plans.  However, I have not simply been napping on my couch.

For the last several months, I have been preparing for an appearance by two-time U. S. Poet Laureate Natasha Trethewey at the library where I work.  Trethewey has been one of my favorite poets for a very long time.  Ever since I read her first book--Domestic Work.  One of the first things I did when I was hired at the library was draw up a dream list of authors.  Authors I respected and loved and obsessed over.  Trethewey was at the top of that list.

Then I sent an e-mail to Trethewey.  A polite, gushing, fanboy e-mail.  That was last October.  After a couple months, I received a response from Trethewey's agent, saying that Natasha (yes, I can call her Natasha now) had gotten my message and was interested in doing a reading.  I nearly fainted.  

After negotiating terms, doing some fundraising, and about 500 more e-mails, I found myself this past Saturday in a Zoom meeting with Natasha, talking about teaching and weather and politicians and poetry.  If Merton, on his pilgrimage to the shrine of the Queen of Cuba, was tragically disappointed by his experience, I was transported by my encounter with Trethewey.  It was almost religious for me.  I'm not kidding.

Even now, four days past the event, I still feel like I've just returned from Lourdes or something.  Just basking in the memory of Trethewey's words and spirit.  She said profound things about race and gender and memory and language.  And today, on the eve of Derek Chauvin's conviction for the murder of George Floyd, I am experiencing the power of Trethewey's message even more strongly.

Traveling through a country stitched together with racial violence and injustice.  Trethewey gives me hope tonight.  So does the Chauvin verdict.  And isn't that what pilgrimages are all about--hope?

Maybe Saint Marty is a pilgrim.

February 4: A Life of Perfection, White Male Privilege, Penance

 Merton explains the two-column approach to sin . . .

In such an event, you get, not contemplation, but a kind of intellectual and esthetic gluttony—a high and refined and even virtuous form of selfishness. And when it leads to no movement of the will towards God, no efficacious love of Him, it is sterile and dead, this meditation, and could even accidentally become, under certain circumstances, a kind of a sin—at least an imperfection. 

Experience has taught me one big moral principle, which is this: it is totally impractical to plan your actions on the basis of a vast two-columned list of possibilities, with mortal sins on one side and things that are “not a mortal sin” on the other—the one to be avoided, the other to be accepted without discussion. 

Yet this hopelessly misleading division of possibilities is what serves large numbers of Catholics as a whole moral theology. It is not so bad when they are so busy working for a living that the range of possibilities is more or less cut down and determined: but Heaven help them when they go on their vacation, or when Saturday night comes around. It is one reason for the number of drunken Irishmen in the world on Saturday nights for, as we know—and it is quite true—incomplete drunkenness is per se a venial sin. Therefore apply the two-column principle. You run your finger down the column of mortal sins per se. Going to a movie in which a man and woman maul each other at close range for hundreds of feet of film is not a mortal sin per se. Neither is incomplete drunkenness, nor gambling and so on. Therefore all these belong to the order of pursuits which are not illicit. Therefore they are licit. Therefore if anyone says, no matter with what qualifications, that you ought not to do these things—he is a heretic. If people are not careful, they get themselves into the position of arguing that it is virtuous to go to the movies, to gamble, to get half-drunk ... 

I know what I am talking about, because that was the way I was still trying to live in those days. Do you want to see the two-column principle in operation? Here is an example of a lot of things which were not mortal sins in themselves. What they were per accidens I am afraid to say: I leave them up to the mercy of God; but they were done by one whom He was calling to a life of perfection, a life dedicated to the joy of serving and loving Him alone . . . 

Of course, Merton is going to go on to list and explain sins that he's committed.  Not necessarily mortal sins.  More like, sins that won't get you kicked out of the heavenly clubhouse.  Only mildly chastised.  For those of my disciples who aren't Catholic, let me give you a quick lesson in this two-columned approach to sin.  First, there are venial sins.  These are sins that are less serious and won't put your mortal soul in danger of eternal damnation.  In this category would be things like gossiping or gluttony or lustful thoughts or reading Nicholas Sparks books.  All bad, but easily and quickly forgivable.  Then there are mortal sins, which buy you a one-way ticket to the hot place.  Included in this column are things like adultery or murder or voting for Donald Trump.  Mortal sins are not unforgivable.  No sin is unforgivable.  It's just that, if a person knowingly commits a mortal sin, that person needs to repent (in the case of Catholics, go to Confession) in order to save him/herself from sharing a dorm room with Satan.

So, people can pick sins from the venial garden, but should stick away from the poison ivy of the mortal garden.  And that's what Merton does.  He won't stray so far from God that he'll put himself in the queue for hellfire, but he's not about to give up drinking or telling dirty jokes or having indiscriminate sex.  Basically, he's cherry picking how he's going to break the rules.

We've all done this as teenagers.  Seen how far we can push out parents before they take away the keys to the car, lock the front door, or kick us out into the cold.  That's part of growing up, and, I suppose, it's a part of growing up as a follower of God.  How much can we get away with before God won't let us borrow the car anymore?

Tonight, I led my monthly poetry workshop.  It was for Black History Month, and I chose prompts based on poems by some of the best African American poets of the 20th and 21st centuries.  Langston Hughes.  Rita Dove.  Gwendolyn Brooks.  Claudia Rankine.  Robert Hayden.  Yusef Komunyakaa.  Natasha Trethewey.  And it was sort of a revelation.  

As a white male, I am privileged.  I am fully aware of that.  I don't have to worry about getting pulled over by the police because I'm driving through the wrong neighborhood with the wrong skin pigment.  Or my kids being seen as intellectually inferior in school or "dangerous" as they walk down the street.  I will never be discriminated against in the workplace because of my race, and nobody will ever think that I should have natural rhythm because I'm descended from slaves.  

I've taken my privileged status for granted most of my life.  Accepted it without thought.  Benefitted from it in ways that I'm probably not even aware of.  I like to think that I'm an enlightened person now, but it's easy for a white male to say that he's racially enlightened.  It doesn't cost me anything.  I don't have to give up my job or accept a salary reduction.  It doesn't affect my kids.  I can use my enlightenment to look down on people--label them as racist and dismiss them.  Go to bed at night and sleep with a clear conscience because I celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. Day instead of Presidents' Day.  And I think that Presidents' Day should be replaced by Indigenous Peoples' Day.  

See?  I'm a good person.  I'm on the right side.  I'm moved when I hear the song "We Shall Overcome."  Get outraged when another African American becomes the victim of police violence.  Try to include diverse points of view in the classes I teach at the university.  Lead poetry workshops for Black History Month in which I read aloud these words from Claudia Rankine:  

When you arrive in your driveway and turn off the car, you remain behind the wheel another ten minutes. You fear the night is being locked in and coded on a cellular level and want time to function as a power wash. Sitting there staring at the closed garage door you are reminded that a friend once told you there exists the medical term—John Henryism—for people exposed to stresses stemming from racism. They achieve themselves to death trying to dodge the buildup of erasure. Sherman James, the researcher who came up with the term, claimed the physiological costs were high. You hope by sitting in silence you are bucking the trend.

My whole life is the product of a society that was created on the backs of slaves.  If that isn't a mortal sin, I don't know what is.  The question then is this:  what should my penance be?

I don't know the answer to that question.  Certainly, this blog post is a step in the right direction.  The workshop I led tonight was, too.  It's about speaking truth, even when it is uncomfortable.  Because I have been comfortable all my life.  

This isn't a sin that can be forgiven by saying three Our Fathers.  It's not that simple.  The last four years in the United States have proven that.  Penance is work.  Hard work.  Requiring a change of mind and heart and deed.  Until everyone starts doing this penance, there are going to be a lot more George Floyds and Trayvon Martins.

So, Bless Saint Marty, Father, for he has sinned.  It has been an entire lifetime since his last confession . . . 

July 19: "I Have a Dream," Some Dark and Some Light, "He Matters"

I led a virtual poetry workshop this evening with three amazing writers.  The theme of the workshop was "I Have a Dream," to commemorate the 57th anniversary of Martin Luther King's speech in Washington, D. C., this August 28.

It was all about hopes and dreams, some dark and some light. 

Here is something Saint Marty wrote, a little rough . . .

He Matters

by:  Martin Achatz

I haven't been able to watch.
That video.
That knee on that neck.
Can't listen to those words.
I can't breathe.
Later, one word.
A prayer.
Momma.
I can't do any of those things.
Don't want to be a part of it.
I want to stand up.
Walk away.
Erase it.
But
it's my knee
on that neck.
My ears filled
with those words.
I can't breathe.
And, later,
Momma.
I have been kneeling
like that my whole life.
It's time to rise,
lift that body
in my arms, hand him
to his mother,
not look down
or away
when she spits
in my face.
Not wipe that spit away.
Accept it
as penance,
punishment,
communion.
Because she matters.
He matters.
Because he deserves
to open his mouth,
fill his lungs,
say,
My name 
is 
George.

June 12-13: Pressure Cooker, Putting Out Fires, Poem from "Kyrie"

Sometimes people are determined to do things that will harm them, and nothing will change the course of their actions or lives.  Mental illness does this.  So does addiction.  I can attest to that fact.

It seems as though this pandemic has become a pressure cooker for a lot of the things that are wrong in the world.  Everything seems to be boiling over.  Racism.  Xenophobia.  Homophobia.  On home fronts, unstable families become more unstable.  There's the impulse to look away until all the fires go out.  That doesn't really solve anything.  It's simply an act of willful ignorance, ignoring a problem until it goes back into hiding or is a pile of ashes.

But problems don't disappear.  (Warning:  I'm about to mix metaphors here.)  Problems fester, and every once in a while they break open and all the sickness pours out.  That's what's happened with George Floyd and all the unrest that has followed his murder.  On a personal level, I've been dealing with some difficulties this past year or so that seem unending.  Just when I think the fire is under control, it flares up again.  (Sort of like the pandemic.  Everyone seems to be acting like it's disappeared.  It hasn't.  Second wave, on it's way.  Keep your masks handy, folks.)

I've had two people this evening who've been helping me stamp out a particular conflagration.  One of these people is a devout Christian.  The other is an atheist.  The atheist said this to me:  "As an atheist, I gotta say that deeply knowing how alone one is in the universe is a strong motivation for change."  The Christian told me this:  " . . . you believe in a Creator that is bigger than anxiety and depression and addiction.  He is bigger than all of us.  He is merciful and mighty and loves you . . . I pray that you think on those words as you lay trying to quiet your mind.  And know that your God loves you."

I find both of those statements strangely comforting, coming at the universe from two completely opposite points of view.  I am alone.  God is with me.  I am in charge of my own destiny.  God has a plan for me.  Don't be afraid of change.  God has your back.  In the end, both of these people were telling me the same thing:  fear not.

I went for a long walk this evening.  It was typical mid-June weather for the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Warm.  Sunny.  Bugs eating me alive.  Yet, I still was able to appreciate the blue heavens.  Blue forget-me-nots growing along the path.  And blue-tailed damselflies buzzing in the lilac bushes. 

For those blue miracles, Saint Marty gives thanks tonight.

. . . and a poem about second waves:

poem from Kyrie

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

Home a week, he woke thinking
he was back in France, under fire;
then thought the house on fire, the noise and light,
but that was from the fireworks and the torches
and on the square, a bonfire--everyone,
in nightclothes, emptied from their houses,
drawn toward a false dawn as from a cave--

oh there was dancing in the streets all right,
and singing--"Over There," "Yankee Doodle,"
"Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory," I recall,
and "Camptown Races," who knows why--he plunged
into the crowd, tossed his crutch to the flames,
kissed delirious strangers on each side.

Say he lived through one war but not the other.

June 2: Delicacy and Precision, the Met, Lilacs

Merton on his godfather . . .

Then I would go back to my godfather's place, and we would have lunch in the dining room, sitting at the little table that always seemed to me so small and delicate that I was afraid to move for fear the whole thing would collapse and the pretty French dishes would smash on the floor and scatter the French food on the waxed floorboards.  Everything in that flat was small and delicate.  It harmonized with my godfather and his wife.  Not that he was delicate, but he was a little man who walked quietly and quickly on small feet, or stood at the fireplace with a cigarette between his fingers, neat and precise as a decent doctor ought to be.  And he had something of the pursed lips of medical men--the contraction of the lips that they somehow acquire leaning over wide-open bodies.  

Tom's wife was delicate.  In fact, she looked almost brittle.  She was French, and the daughter of a great Protestant patriarch with a long white beard who dominated French Calvinism from the Rue des Saints-Peres.

Everything in their flat was in proportion to their own stature and delicacy and precision and neatness and wit.  Yet I do not say it looked like a doctor's place--still less like an English doctor's place.  English doctors always seem to go in for very heavy and depressing kinds of furniture.  But Tom was not the kind of specialist that always wears a frock coat and wing collar.  His flat was bright and full of objects I was afraid to break and, on the whole, I was scared to walk too heavily for fear I might suddenly go through the floor.

I know how Merton feels.  My friends would never describe me as "delicate" or "neat."  I tend to be loud and a little irreverent most of the time.  A bull in a china shop, as my mother would say.  But it's not that I can't recognize and appreciate beautiful things.  One of the most memorable days of my life was when I wandered through the Met in New York, running into unexpected Rembrandts and Picassos and a room full of van Goghs.  It was as if I was breathing beauty. 

I've been thinking about that day a lot recently.  In the past week, we've seen humankind at its very worst (that knee on George Floyd's neck, Donald Trump's Bible photo op) and very best (African Americans marching for justice, real police officers joining that march).  It's so easy to give into despair at times like this.  Yet, so much of that day at the Met for me was about encountering the very best of what human beings have brought into the world.  Creations that made me cry because I was in their presence.

Creatures that birthed "Starry Night" and "Bridge Over a Pond of Water Lilies" can do better.  We don't have to accept institutional racism or a President of the United States who mobilizes the armed forces against American citizens.  We can stand up or kneel down or link arms and say "no" to all that is ugly and wrong in the universe.  In fact, we HAVE to do this, or else we forfeit the one thing that binds us all together:  our humanity.

Let me end by sharing a moment I had today.  When I got home from work, I noticed that the lilacs in my backyard were flowering.  It was a sultry afternoon, and I walked around my house to smell the purple blossoms.  As I neared the bushes, I could hear loud buzzing.  The lilacs were teeming with fat bumblebees who were obviously getting drunk on violet nectar.  I stood there for over 15 minutes, getting drunk with them.

It was better than the Met.  It was a reminder that beauty that still exists in the world, despite pandemics and racism and riots.  It was a van Gogh moment.  Monet moment.  Pollack and O'Keeffe moment.  I shared it with those bees, and it was a miracle.

For that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

A picture I took this afternoon

May 30: All the Slums, Thomas Merton and Martin Luther King, George Floyd

Merton testing the waters of freedom . . . 

I was a bit dazed by the momentousness of it, and by Pop's own great generosity.  Because, after all, he really meant it that way.  What he was trying to do was to arrange everything so that even if he were ruined, we would be able to take care of ourselves.  Fortunately, he was never ruined.

That day at Oakham, Pop crowned his generosity and his recognition of my maturity by an altogether astounding concession.  He not only told me he was in favor of my smoking, but even bought me a pipe.  I was fifteen, mind you, and Pop had always hated smoking anyway.  Besides, it was forbidden by the rules of the school--rules which I had been systematically breaking all that year, more for the sake of asserting my independence than for the pleasure of lighting and relighting those cold, biting pipefuls of Rhodesian cut-plug.

When the holidays came there was another big change.  It was decided that I would no longer spend my holidays with Aunt Maud or other relatives in the suburbs outside of London.  My godfather, an old friend of Father's from New Zealand, who was by now a Harley Street specialist, offered to let me stay at his place in town when I was in London, and that meant that most of the day and night I was more or less free to do what I liked.

Tom--my godfather--was to be the person I most respected and admired and consequently the one who had the greatest influence on me at this time in my life.  He too gave me credit for being more intelligent and mature than I was, and this of course pleased me very much.  He was later to find out that his trust in me was misplaced.

Life in the flat where Tom and his wife lived as very well-ordered and amusing.  You got breakfast in bed, served by a French maid, on a small tray:  coffee or chocolate in a tiny pot, toast or rolls, and, for me, fried eggs.  After breakfast, which came in at about nine, I knew I would have to wait a little to get a bath, so I would stay in bed for an hour or so more reading a novel by Evelyn Waugh or somebody like that.  Then I would get up and take my bath and get dressed and go out and look for some amusement--walk in the park, or go to a museum, or go to some gramophone shop and listen to a lot of hot records--and then buy one, to pay for the privilege of listening to all the rest.  I used to go to Levy's, on the top floor of one of those big buildings in the crescent of Regent Street, because they imported all the latest Victors and Brunswicks and Okehs from America, and I would lock myself up in one of those little glass-doored booths, and play all the Duke Ellingtons and Louis Armstrongs and the old King Olivers and all the other things I have forgotten.  Basin Street Blues, Beale Street Blues, Saint James Infirmary, and all the other places that had blues written about them:  all these I suddenly began to know much of by indirection and woeful hearsay, and I guess I lived vicariously in all the slums in all the cities of the South:  Memphis and New Orleans and Birmingham, places which I have never yet seen.  I don't know where those streets were, but I certainly knew something true about them, which I found out on that top floor in Regent Street and in my study at Oakham.

Merton, in his adult life, was very aware of the struggle of the Civil Rights Movement.  Perhaps the little passage above hints at his coming awareness of the plight of African Americans in the United States, with his reference to the "slums in all the cities of the South."  When Merton became a public figure, he wrote poems about the children of Harlem and the bombing of a Birmingham church.  And, in 1968, he was planning a religious retreat with a man he greatly admired--Martin Luther King, Jr.  Merton envisioned this event happening in April of that year.  On April 4, 1968, King was assassinated in Memphis.  Two days later, Merton wrote in his journal:  "The murder of M. L. King . . . lay on the top of the traveling car like an animal, a beast of the apocalypse."  For the Trappist monk, King's death "finally confirmed all apprehensions--the feelings that 1968 is a beast of a year . . . Is the Christian message of love a pitiful delusion?"  Thomas Merton would die eight months later.  December 10, 1968.  Electrocuted by a faulty fan in his room while attending a conference in Bangkok.

Minneapolis right now is burning because of the death of George Floyd, an African American man, at the hands of a Minneapolis police officer with, by all accounts, an established history of violent behavior.  On social media, the pandemic has been pushed aside by this story, another in a long, sad line of stories about people of color murdered by members of law enforcement.  And riots have broken out in other parts of the United States, as well.

I didn't post last night because I didn't know who to respond to these events.  As a privileged, white male, I think my words in support for Black Lives Matter ring a little hollow.  I have no idea what it is like to live as a person of color in my country.  I will never experience the fear that a young, African American man experiences being pulled over by the police.  It is simply not in my cultural vocabulary.

That doesn't stop me from being sickened and outraged by the video of George Floyd's murder.  (Confession:  I couldn't bring myself to watch the entire thing.)  And it doesn't stop me from wanting justice for the crime.  In a class I taught this past semester, I had some of my students talk about being racially profiled, stopped by law enforcement, not because they were breaking the law, but because their skin colors clashed with the neighborhood they were in.  Institutional racism is alive and well and deadly in the United States of America.  We all know that.

Now, I don't think violence is the answer to anything.  George Floyd's killing was horrific.  The looting and burning on the streets of Minneapolis and across the nation is disturbing.  However, these riots are the direct result of a country that is built upon a class system that exploits people of color.  An economy that is designed to keep poor people poor and rich people rich.  A President of the United States who praises white supremacists and call protesters in Minneapolis "thugs."  And a criminal justice system that, consciously or unconsciously, targets people of color.

No, I am not saying all members of law enforcement are racist.  And no, I am not condoning in any way the burning of buildings or the looting of stores.  Fighting violence with more violence doesn't work.  That's not coming from my white privileged mouth.  That comes from Martin Luther King, Jr.:  "Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars . . . Hate cannot drive out hate:  only love can do that."  

My country is a long ways away from everyone joining hands and singing "Kumbaya."  And I say "my country" because I know that I am wrapped up in all of it.  I'm white.  I've never been racially profiled.  Police officers don't follow me down the street because of the color of my skin.  If the tables were turned, and I was given the opportunity to live as an African American male in the United States, I wouldn't take it.  Because I know what kind of struggles black people face in this society.  Yet, I have complacently gone through my life, giving lip service to racial justice and equality, without really doing anything about it.  That makes me part of the problem.

I am not trying to change anyone's mind about anything with this blog post.  I am simply taking ownership of my role in a racist system.  Until everyone does that, people of color will continue to die, and cities will continue to burn.  Plain truth.  Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter."  Thomas Merton probably would have raised his hand to that and said "Amen."

This blog post is my attempt to not stay silent.  To talk about something that matters.  Black lives DO matter.  George Floyd's life mattered.  I say that with love in my heart, not hate.  Because, as Martin and Thomas knew, love is the greatest miracle and can move mountains.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

Work Reference:  Lefevere, Patricia.  "Merton and King:  spiritual brothers who never had a chance to meet."  National Catholic Reporter.  4 April, 2018.  accessed:  31 May, 2020.