Mississippi Today
For this Delta State student with autism, ‘there’s always another wall to climb with no ladder’
For this Delta State student with autism, ‘there’s always another wall to climb with no ladder’
CLEVELAND — On a recent Thursday afternoon, Avery Williams hurried down an empty hallway in Kethley Hall with his mother, Deloris-Clay Williams. The 25-year-old was looking for a room he’d never been in before where, in less than five minutes, a meeting was scheduled to start that would determine the fate of his academic future at Delta State University.
His mother eventually found the sign, stamped on a window in sharp, black letters, that signaled they were in the right place: “College of Arts and Sciences — Office of the Dean.”
This was supposed to be Avery’s last semester. Avery has autism, a developmental disability that affects communication and learning, and he enrolled at Delta State two and a half years ago after getting his associate degree from the community college in his hometown of Moorhead.
By going away to college, Avery hoped to achieve two dreams: Become a cinematographer or video editor, and learn to live on his own. Deloris, who has lupus, was increasingly finding it harder to assist him.
But in the midst of the pandemic, Avery struggled to communicate with his professors via message board. His GPA steadily dropped. Over winter break, he was suspended. Nobody told him in person. All he got was an email.
Now he wouldn’t be able to graduate with the art degree he’d worked so hard for, and had taken out more than $30,000 in student loans to get.
Avery’s struggle to get through DSU is just one example of how universities in Mississippi are failing students with autism. While one state agency offers peer mentoring services, only one public university in Mississippi has an in-house program designed for students with autism. And there is no comprehensive data on the rate at which students with disabilities, including those with autism, enroll and graduate from college in Mississippi.
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What was happening to Avery didn’t seem fair to Deloris. She decided to intervene. A retired public school teacher trained at DSU, she was used to standing up for Avery’s right to an education. It’d just been awhile since she’d had to do so.
On Jan. 9, the first day of classes, Deloris sent the dean, Ellen Green, a fiery email requesting Avery be readmitted to the art program. She signed it, “desperate parent.”
It got Avery a meeting. In the waiting room outside the dean’s office, Deloris looked over questions she’d prepared in a comprehensive notebook. Avery stood silently in the middle of the room, his arms crossed, anxious to know if he would be able to re-enroll and take classes. He just wanted to get the meeting over with.
At 4 years old, Avery could read, write his first and last name, and count to 100. He’d also cry at the sight of hair on the floor. If Deloris gave him a pencil and paper, she said he would draw circles “over and over.” The only food he’d eat was chicken nuggets.
Then he got encephalitis. It led to memory loss and intensified his repetitive behaviors. By the time Avery started elementary school, Deloris was certain he had autism. He was quiet and avoided playing with other kids unless it was basketball with his younger brother, Alex Williams.
Though Deloris begged Avery’s teachers to test him for autism, they wouldn’t. He wasn’t tested for any learning disabilities until fifth grade and only after Deloris said she wrote a complaint to MDE’s Office of Special Education.
That experience taught Deloris how to advocate for Avery, but it also foreshadowed just how much time and effort it would take to bend Mississippi’s school system in his favor.
It also set up a pattern that Deloris learned to expect any time she spoke up for Avery: Besting one hurdle usually brought another. Despite Deloris’s certainty, the first doctor to test Avery diagnosed him with an unspecified learning disability, not autism. Avery wouldn’t be diagnosed with autism until he was 15.
This is a common experience for Black children with autism. A 2007 study showed that at their first visit, Black children were 2.6 times less likely to be diagnosed than white children. ADHD was instead the most common diagnosis. As a result, they tend to receive treatment later in childhood when it’s less likely to be effective.
“As a parent, I have felt like I have failed him so many times,” Deloris said. “No matter how hard I work, it’s like there’s always another wall to climb with no ladder, so you gotta find a way around it, through it, over it — without help.”
Avery’s elementary school was down the road from Deloris’ house, right next to the levy his granddad helped build. She could keep a close eye on him. But middle school was another matter.
Deloris didn’t want to send Avery to the public junior high — it had a reputation for fighting. Instead, she enrolled him in a nearby private religious academy.
“It was supposed to be like a Christian school,” she said.
Avery said he was ignored by the teacher unless he did something wrong, like peeking at the answer key for tests, even if other kids did the same thing. This, too, is a regular experience for Black students with disabilities. According to the U.S. Department of Education’s Office of Special Education Programs, they’re more likely to be disciplined than their peers.
Toward the end of the 2014 school year, Avery and his brother were waiting outside when another student said the teacher wanted to see him.
“When he said that, I felt like something wasn’t right about this,” Avery said. “But I would just respect my teachers anyway, so I just went, despite the feeling.”
A second teacher came into the room and used a paddle on Avery while his teacher watched.
“I had no idea what was going on,” Avery said. “There was no explanation.”
When Deloris picked the boys up from school, she said that Avery, who never cries, was so angry he had tears streaming down his face.
They never went back to that school. But to this day, the experience shaped how Avery communicates with his teachers.
In summer 2020, Avery sat at Deloris’ kitchen table. Together they wrote a list of six accommodations they hoped he’d get at DSU that fall, including “extended time on projects/tests” and “daily life assistance with rules/ activities.”
Accommodations like these helped Avery get his associate degree at Mississippi Delta Community College.
With extra time for assignments, Avery went to MDCC’s tutoring center every day, braving rain and a neighbor’s pack of loud dogs. Algebra was his toughest subject, but with a tutor’s help, Avery was showing his classmates how to solve problems.
But when he got to DSU, the only accommodation Avery received was extended time on tests, according to a fall 2020 letter from the university.
This is not unusual. The laws that govern disability services in college — the Americans with Disabilities Act and Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act of 1973 — are less extensive than those in K-12. Administrators have latitude to decline accommodations that would “fundamentally alter” a course or pose an undue financial burden to the university.
That fall, the university did not have a dedicated disability coordinator, according to budget documents. Kashanta Jackson, the director of the Office of Health and Counseling Services, filled the role until August last year when it became its own position.
In recent years, anywhere from just 14 students to 60 have requested accommodations each semester, according to a records request.
Jackson told Mississippi Today that since she started at DSU in early 2020, her office has never denied a student’s request for accommodation, though she signed the letter granting only one to Avery.
Deloris said, in retrospect, the partial denial was a sign that her alma mater might not be the place for Avery. It also bothered her that when she asked why Avery only received one accommodation, the university said his request was private under the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act.
If Deloris wanted to talk to the school on Avery’s behalf, he’d have to sign a waiver.
FERPA is intended to protect students’ privacy, but for parents of students with disabilities, it can be a barrier, said Jerry Alliston, the assistant director of the University of Southern Mississippi’s Institute for Disability Studies.
It made Deloris feel like she wasn’t supposed to step in for Avery. But she knew that no one else on campus was advocating for him.
One incident at the end of Avery’s first fall semester demonstrated Deloris’ worry. The day she picked Avery up from his dorm, she went to his bathroom when he exclaimed, “don’t turn the light on!”
There was water dripping from the ceiling — it had been almost the whole semester. Avery didn’t know how he was supposed to request a fix because no one had shown him where to go.
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DSU has been candid in the past about its shortcomings serving students with disabilities.
“I’m not saying students with disabilities shouldn’t come to DSU, but if accommodations are their priority, then they should look at universities that are able to be equipped to accommodate them,” Dr. Richard Houston, the former director of counseling, told the student newspaper in 2019.
Four years later, there’s still little programming and no clubs for students with disabilities. Disability Services mainly approves accommodations and relays students’ requests to their professors. But it doesn’t track the outcomes of the students it serves, according to a records request, such as if they graduated or not.
Jackson said she hopes to grow DSU’s services but that “it’s kind of hard to say what we’re gonna get more of without knowing specifically what students we’re going to have.” While funding is a limiting factor, she said her office is “doing pretty well with what we have.”
It’s not just DSU. The entire state of Mississippi is behind when it comes to serving students with disabilities. The state Department of Rehabilitation Services funds peer mentoring programs for students with disabilities in Mississippi, Alliston said, but just two universities – University of Southern Mississippi and Mississippi State University – have taken the offer. And MSU is the only university in the state with a case management program for students with autism.
Avery almost went to MSU, but it was too far away. A peer mentoring program would have benefited him, particularly with talking to professors. He’d email them a question about an assignment, only to be told to check the syllabus, which he had read and didn’t understand.
When Avery got to DSU, his GPA was a 2.88 GPA. That fall, he failed two classes and got a D in another. He did a little better in the spring.
One class in particular challenged him: 2-D design. He’d failed it repeatedly, but it kept getting put on his schedule. Deloris even tried to see if Avery could take a similar course at MDCC or Mississippi Valley State University.
By summer 2021, Avery’s GPA had dropped to 2.39. He received a warning from the financial aid office for not making satisfactory academic progress.In order to get more financial aid, Avery had to file an appeal form. He wrote that the reason he failed some classes was because online learning was “giving me trouble to figure out what the teacher is looking for in an assignment.”
“If things continue to look up in the future and we can get back to attending class in person, I believe I will do a lot better,” he wrote.
The meeting with the dean lasted 45 minutes.
There was a process for Avery to get re-admitted to the art program, Green had told them, and it was easy. If the adviser was available, he could help Avery make a plan that day and the suspension would be lifted.
Avery and Deloris walked out of Green’s office with palpable relief. Deloris had tears in her eyes, and Avery’s posture had relaxed.
But the more Deloris thought about the meeting, it started to bother her. If the process was as easy as Greensaid, why did it take Deloris and Avery so much effort to make it happen?
They’d soon see it wasn’t going to be easy.
The next day, Avery and Deloris drove back to DSU so he could sign up for classes. When they got to his adviser’s office, the re-admittance plan was written and printed out. His adviser had already signed it. All Avery had to do was sign it too.
Other elements of the plan spoke to the lack of input from Avery: His schedule once again included 2-D design.Nobody mentioned course substitutions, a common type of acommodation, as an option.
Deloris was confused. She thought they were going to create the plan together. It reminded Deloris of a dynamic she’d seen before between Avery and authority figures: “They lead the conversation,” she said, “and give you little to say.”
Still, at least Avery was no longer suspended.
Then on Jan. 19, Avery received a puzzling letter from financial aid after he’d emailed them with a question. It read: “Avery, We are showing that you are currently on suspension for the Spring 2023 semester.”
He’d have to go through another appeals process to get his federal financial aid, including the Pell Grant and student loans, reinstated. Otherwise, Deloris would be on the hook for tuition — all $9,000, a sum she can’t afford. Avery would have to drop out.
No one had mentioned there’d be a second process for financial aid, Deloris said. Just like every success, there was another yet another roadblock.
If Avery can stay in school, he’ll graduate next year. But he won’t know for another month if he’ll get financial aid this semester or not.
Deloris and Avery’s brother, Alex, said they think he is holding back from sharing how disappointed he is with his experience at DSU because he doesn’t want to get anyone in trouble.
She thinks about just how much noise it took her and Avery to get help from the dean, and how quickly and easily the university fixed the issues in comparison.
“If I didn’t say anything, then what would happen? He would’ve just been left out,” Deloris said. “What if I was in one of those stages where I’m really sick and I’m in the bed and I can’t go nowhere. Then what? I want to trust that if I can’t come with him, he’s still going to be treated fairly. And given time. And effort.”
This article first appeared on Mississippi Today and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.
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https://www.biloxinewsevents.com/?p=205853
Mississippi Today
On this day in 1898
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Feb. 22, 1898
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Frazier Baker, the first Black postmaster of the small town of Lake City, South Carolina, and his baby daughter, Julia, were killed, and his wife and three other daughters were injured when a lynch mob attacked.
When President William McKinley appointed Baker the previous year, local whites began to attack Baker’s abilities. Postal inspectors determined the accusations were unfounded, but that didn’t halt those determined to destroy him.
Hundreds of whites set fire to the post office, where the Bakers lived, and reportedly fired up to 100 bullets into their home. Outraged citizens in town wrote a resolution describing the attack and 25 years of “lawlessness” and “bloody butchery” in the area.
Crusading journalist Ida B. Wells wrote the White House about the attack, noting that the family was now in the Black hospital in Charleston “and when they recover sufficiently to be discharged, they) have no dollar with which to buy food, shelter or raiment.
McKinley ordered an investigation that led to charges against 13 men, but no one was ever convicted. The family left South Carolina for Boston, and later that year, the first nationwide civil rights organization in the U.S., the National Afro-American Council, was formed.
In 2019, the Lake City post office was renamed to honor Frazier Baker.
“We, as a family, are glad that the recognition of this painful event finally happened,” his great-niece, Dr. Fostenia Baker said. “It’s long overdue.”
This article first appeared on Mississippi Today and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.
Mississippi Today
Memorial Health System takes over Biloxi hospital, what will change?
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by Justin Glowacki with contributions from Rasheed Ambrose, Javion Henry, McKenna Klamm, Matt Martin and Aidan Tarrant
BILOXI – On Feb. 1, Memorial Health System officially took over Merit Health Biloxi, solidifying its position as the dominant healthcare provider in the region. According to Fitch Ratings, Memorial now controls more than 85% of the local health care market.
This isn’t Memorial’s first hospital acquisition. In 2019, it took over Stone County Hospital and expanded services. Memorial considers that transition a success and expects similar results in Biloxi.
However, health care experts caution that when one provider dominates a market, it can lead to higher prices and fewer options for patients.
Expanding specialty care and services
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One of the biggest benefits of the acquisition, according to Kristian Spear, the new administrator of Memorial Hospital Biloxi, will be access to Memorial’s referral network.
By joining Memorial’s network, Biloxi patients will have access to more services, over 40 specialties and over 100 clinics.
“Everything that you can get at Gulfport, you will have access to here through the referral system,” Spear said.
One of the first improvements will be the reopening of the Radiation Oncology Clinic at Cedar Lake, which previously shut down due to “availability shortages,” though hospital administration did not expand on what that entailed.
“In the next few months, the community will see a difference,” Spear said. “We’re going to bring resources here that they haven’t had.”
Beyond specialty care, Memorial is also expanding hospital services and increasing capacity. Angela Benda, director of quality and performance improvement at Memorial Hospital Biloxi, said the hospital is focused on growth.
“We’re a 153-bed hospital, and we average a census of right now about 30 to 40 a day. It’s not that much, and so, the plan is just to grow and give more services,” Benda said. “So, we’re going to expand on the fifth floor, open up more beds, more admissions, more surgeries, more provider presence, especially around the specialties like cardiology and OB-GYN and just a few others like that.”
For patient Kenneth Pritchett, a Biloxi resident for over 30 years, those changes couldn’t come soon enough.
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Pritchett, who was diagnosed with congestive heart failure, received treatment at Merit Health Biloxi. He currently sees a cardiologist in Cedar Lake, a 15-minute drive on the interstate. He says having a cardiologist in Biloxi would make a difference.
“Yes, it’d be very helpful if it was closer,” Pritchett said. “That’d be right across the track instead of going on the interstate.”
Beyond specialty services and expanded capacity, Memorial is upgrading medical equipment and renovating the hospital to improve both function and appearance. As far as a timeline for these changes, Memorial said, “We are taking time to assess the needs and will make adjustments that make sense for patient care and employee workflow as time and budget allow.”
Unanswered questions: insurance and staffing
As Memorial Health System takes over Merit Health Biloxi, two major questions remain:
- Will patients still be covered under the same insurance plans?
- Will current hospital staff keep their jobs?
Insurance Concerns
Memorial has not finalized agreements with all insurance providers and has not provided a timeline for when those agreements will be in place.
In a statement, the hospital said:
“Memorial recommends that patients contact their insurance provider to get their specific coverage questions answered. However, patients should always seek to get the care they need, and Memorial will work through the financial process with the payers and the patients afterward.”
We asked Memorial Health System how the insurance agreements were handled after it acquired Stone County Hospital. They said they had “no additional input.”
What about hospital staff?
According to Spear, Merit Health Biloxi had around 500 employees.
“A lot of the employees here have worked here for many, many years. They’re very loyal. I want to continue that, and I want them to come to me when they have any concerns, questions, and I want to work with this team together,” Spear said.
She explained that there will be a 90-day transitional period where all employees are integrated into Memorial Health System’s software.
“Employees are not going to notice much of a difference. They’re still going to come to work. They’re going to do their day-to-day job. Over the next few months, we will probably do some transitioning of their computer system. But that’s not going to be right away.”
The transition to new ownership also means Memorial will evaluate how the hospital is operated and determine if changes need to be made.
“As we get it and assess the different workflows and the different policies, there will be some changes to that over time. Just it’s going to take time to get in here and figure that out.”
During this 90-day period, Erin Rosetti, Communications Manager at Memorial Health System said, “Biloxi employees in good standing will transition to Memorial at the same pay rate and equivalent job title.”
Kent Nicaud, President and CEO of Memorial Health System, said in a statement that the hospital is committed to “supporting our staff and ensuring they are aligned with the long-term vision of our health system.”
What research says about hospital consolidations
While Memorial is promising improvements, larger trends in hospital mergers raise important questions.
Research published by the Rand Corporation, a nonprofit, nonpartisan research organization, found that research into hospital consolidations reported increased prices anywhere from 3.9% to 65%, even among nonprofit hospitals.
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The impact on patient care is mixed. Some studies suggest merging hospitals can streamline services and improve efficiency. Others indicate mergers reduce competition, which can drive up costs without necessarily improving care.
When asked about potential changes to the cost of care, hospital leaders declined to comment until after negations with insurance companies are finalized, but did clarify Memorial’s “prices are set.”
“We have a proven record of being able to go into institutions and transform them,” said Angie Juzang, Vice President of Marketing and Community Relations at Memorial Health System.
When Memorial acquired Stone County Hospital, it expanded the emergency room to provide 24/7 emergency room coverage and renovated the interior.
When asked whether prices increased after the Stone County acquisition, Memorial responded:
“Our presence has expanded access to health care for everyone in Stone County and the surrounding communities. We are providing quality healthcare, regardless of a patient’s ability to pay.”
The response did not directly address whether prices went up — leaving the question unanswered.
The bigger picture: Hospital consolidations on the rise
According to health care consulting firm Kaufman Hall, hospital mergers and acquisitions are returning to pre-pandemic levels and are expected to increase through 2025.
Hospitals are seeking stronger financial partnerships to help expand services and remain stable in an uncertain health care market.
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Source: Kaufman Hall M&A Review
Proponents of hospital consolidations argue mergers help hospitals operate more efficiently by:
- Sharing resources.
- Reducing overhead costs.
- Negotiating better supply pricing.
However, opponents warn few competitors in a market can:
- Reduce incentives to lower prices.
- Slow wage increases for hospital staff.
- Lessen the pressure to improve services.
Leemore Dafny, PhD, a professor at Harvard and former deputy director for health care and antitrust at the Federal Trade Commission’s Bureau of Economics, has studied hospital consolidations extensively.
In testimony before Congress, she warned: “When rivals merge, prices increase, and there’s scant evidence of improvements in the quality of care that patients receive. There is also a fair amount of evidence that quality of care decreases.”
Meanwhile, an American Hospital Association analysis found consolidations lead to a 3.3% reduction in annual operating expenses and a 3.7% reduction in revenue per patient.
This article first appeared on Mississippi Today and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.
Mississippi Today
Adopted people face barriers obtaining birth certificates. Some lawmakers point to murky opposition from judges
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When Judi Cox was 18, she began searching for her biological mother. Two weeks later she discovered her mother had already died.
Cox, 41, was born in Gulfport. Her mother was 15 and her father didn’t know he had a child. He would discover his daughter’s existence only when, as an adult, she took an ancestry test and matched with his niece.
It was this opaque family history, its details coming to light through a convergence of tragedy and happenstance, that led Cox to seek stronger legal protections for adopted people in Mississippi. Ensuring adopted people have access to their birth certificates has been a central pillar of her advocacy on behalf of adoptees. But legislative proposals to advance such protections have died for years, including this year.
Cox said the failure is an example of discrimination against adopted people in Mississippi — where adoption has been championed as a reprieve for mothers forced into giving birth as a result of the state’s abortion ban.
“A lot of people think it’s about search and reunion, and it’s not. It’s about having equal rights. I mean, everybody else has their birth certificate,” Cox said. “Why should we be denied ours?”
Mississippi lawmakers who have pushed unsuccessfully for legislation to guarantee adoptees access to their birth certificate have said, in private emails to Cox and interviews with Mississippi Today, that opposition comes from judges.
“There are a few judges that oppose the bill from what I’ve heard,” wrote Republican Sen. Angela Hill in a 2023 email.
Hill was recounting opposition to a bill that died during the 2023 legislative session, but a similar measure in 2025 met the same fate. In an interview this month, Hill said she believed the political opposition to the legislation could be bound up with personal interest.
“Somebody in a high place doesn’t want an adoption unsealed,” Hill said. “I don’t know who we’re protecting from somebody finding their birth parents,” Hill said. “But it leads you to believe some people have a very strong interest in keeping adoption records sealed. Unless it’s personal, I don’t understand it.”
In another 2023 email to Cox reviewed by Mississippi Today, Republican Rep. Lee Yancey wrote that some were concerned the bill “might be a deterrent to adoption if their identities were disclosed.”
The 2023 legislative session was the first time a proposal to guarantee adoptees access to their birth certificates was introduced under the state’s new legal landscape surrounding abortion.
In 2018, Mississippi enacted a law that banned most abortions after 15 weeks. The state’s only abortion clinic challenged the law, and that became the case that the U.S. Supreme Court used in 2022 to overturn Roe v. Wade, its landmark 1973 ruling that established a nationwide right to abortion.
Roe v. Wade had rested in part on a woman’s right to privacy, a legal framework Mississippi’s Solicitor General successfully undermined in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization. Before that ruling, anti-abortion advocates had feared allowing adoptees to obtain their birth certificates could push women toward abortion rather than adoption.
Abortion would look like a better option for parents who feared future contact or disclosure of their identities, the argument went. With legal access to abortion a thing of the past in Mississippi, Cox said she sees a contradiction.
“Mississippi does not recognize privacy in that matter, as far as abortions and all that. So if you don’t acknowledge it in an abortion setting, how can you do it in an adoption setting?” Cox said. “You can’t pick and choose whether you’re going to protect my privacy.”
Opponents to legislation easing access to birth certificates for adoptees have also argued that such proposals would unfairly override previous affidavits filed by birth parents requesting privacy.
The 2025 bill, proposed by Republican Rep. Billy Calvert, would direct the state Bureau of Vital Records to issue adoptees aged 21 and older a copy of their original birth certificate.
The bill would also have required the Bureau to prepare a form parents could use to indicate their preferences regarding contact from an adoptee. That provision, along with existing laws that guard against stalking, would give adoptees access to their birth certificate while protecting parents who don’t wish to be contacted, Cox said.
In 2021, Cox tried to get a copy of her birth certificate. She asked Lauderdale County Chancery Judge Charlie Smith, who is now retired, to unseal her adoption records. The Judge refused because Cox had already learned the identity of her biological parents, emails show.
“With the information that you already have, Judge Smith sees no reason to grant the request to open the sealed adoption records at this time,” wrote Tawanna Wright, administrator for the 12th District Chancery Court in Meridian. “If you would like to formally file a motion and request a hearing, you are certainly welcome to do so.”
In her case and others, judges often rely on a subjective definition of what constitutes a “good cause” for unsealing records, Cox said. Going through the current legal process for unsealing records can be costly, and adoptees can’t always control when and how they learn the identity of their biological parents, Cox added.
After Cox’s biological mother died, her biological uncle was going through her things and came across the phone number for Cox’s adoptive parents. He called them.
“My adoptive mom then called to tell me the news — just hours after learning I was expecting my first child,” Cox said.
This article first appeared on Mississippi Today and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.
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