Practicing Radical Empathy & Vulnerability

Baby Steps: Memories of Being a Teaching Artist
A play by Melissa Murray-Mutch

 

Setting: Some high school in the Bronx, New York. 

Characters:
Melissa (Teaching Artist)
Students
Teacher
Intercom Voice
Security Guard
Director of Education
Ahmed
Chanel
Vanilla Ice Jr.
Al Rodriguez

ACT 1

Scene 1. Week One: The Classroom.

At rise: Melissa Murray, an African-American Teaching Artist of about 40, enters a classroom somewhere in the South Bronx. There are about 30 ninth grade students. Mostly Black and Hispanic. The homeroom teacher, a young woman of 27, is of a non-specific identity. Melissa takes a deep breath and puts on a perkier-than-thou voice.

Melissa

Hi, my name is Melissa Murray. Uh you can call me– Miss…uh I mean Ms. Melissa? Or Melissa or uh…Anyway, I’m from a professional theatre organization in Manhattan. I’m your Teaching Artist today.

Student

Miss? Can I go to the bathroom? 

Melissa

Uh…yes, go ahead. Now in a few weeks we are going to see a performance of a professional play downtown and I’m here to prepare you for this. Has anyone seen a play before? 

(A student raises their hand.)

Oh, which one did you see?

Student

Miss, can I use the bathroom?

Melissa

Ugh…sure. Does anyone else need to use the bathroom? (Pause) Okay. Great…uh once again, has anyone ever seen a play before? Even a school play…Anyone? Hello?

(Students mumble and talk amongst themselves.)

Are you listening? Okay, I will just wait until you are quiet. Then I’ll start…okay good, good. (Pause) Why don’t we all stand and you can tell me your name and (to a student) what?

Student

Yo, I’m tired-

Melissa

Tired? Oh, you can’t be that tired! Come on, stand up!!

Another Student

Aww Miss, come on, nobody feels like standing up!

Teacher

Stand up, please? Please?

Melissa

Come on everybody, stand up…stand up… 

(Students all stand with persistent moaning.)

Can we all just introduce ourselves??? 

(Students are moaning, groaning, laughing, name calling. We hear gay, faggot, faggot-ass, etc.)

Okay, um…let’s do this…let’s just…Stand and…PLEASE BE QUIET. OKAY I’M NOT GOING TO START UNLESS YOU’RE QUIET…AND PLEASE STOP SAYING FAGGOT!!!

Students

(Mocking her) And please stop saying Faggot.

(Students erupt in incessant laughter.)

Students

(All speaking at once.) Why we gotta do this Miss? (More moaning) Ain’t nobody feel like doin’ this… for real…

Melissa

Okay, we can do this sitting down then. Umm excuse me…excuse me…no you…you! Yes,  You. Hi! Helloo! Can you lift your head up, I’m speaking… (sigh!)

(Teeth sucking around the room.)

Melissa

You know, that’s very rude.

Teacher 

DeAndre come with me!! Go to the office!!

Melissa

Okay whatever. We are going to see a professional theatre production and…can you please be quiet? Can you please be quiet? Oh my God. (Sigh.) Listen, the only way I can do this is, you need to be quiet or else…ok nevermind. Um….can I get a volunteer to read this excerpt of the play we’re going to see? Oh thank you so much, what’s your name?…Ray- what? Speak up, I can’t…what? Raynell? Oh, that’s a nice…name- 

Students

You mean Gaynell!! 

(Students devolve into even more laughter and Raynell gives everyone the finger while going back to his seat.)

Melissa

Excuse me! Can you please…uhm…Okay, Why don’t we… uh…Oh, um Raynell, come back. I just want you to read this section of the script here…You don’t want to do it now? Uh okay…

(A loud intercom beep interrupts Melissa.)

Intercom Voice

(Over the intercom.) Excuse the interruption, will Kevin Abreu, Ashley Wells, and Raniyah Hassan, please come to the office…Kevin Abreu, Ashley Wells, and Raniyah Hassan, please come to the office. Thank you!

Melissa

 Okay so-

(A loud intercom beep interrupts Melissa yet again.)

Intercom Voice

(Over the intercom.) Excuse the interruption, we’ll be conducting a series of tests to see if the intercom is working…BEEEEEEEP,  BOOOOOOP, BEEEEEP, BEEEEEP, BOOOP, BOOOP.

(SILENCE)

Melissa 

Okay then- 

Intercom Voice

(Over the intercom.) BEEEEP!

Melissa

 Oh my God…Uh anyway. You know what, I’ll read this. 

Melissa

(To the audience.) I read the excerpt in my best theatrical voice, thinking I will impress the hell out of them. When I look up, they’re looking at the ceiling, doodling, nodding off, etc. And so I say…

(To the class.) What did you hear in this? Um, so does anyone know what the common theme is– what’s your name again, Raynell?? Anyone? Anyone? (Beat)

(To myself.) Remember, Melissa. This is me branching out. A professional in my field working as a teacher. You knew this going in…you told yourself, remember? This new gig requires me to think on my feet, to be brilliant. 

(To the class and the audience and myself all at once.) Anyone? Does “Anyone” care about what I have to say? What the hell am I doing here?

(Lights go down and a spotlight appears on Melissa. All the other characters freeze. Radiohead’s “Creep” plays quietly underneath.)

(To the audience, rambling nervously.) I’m not qualified. I’m incompetent. I can’t teach. I don’t have a degree…These kids hate me. I can’t believe I was given the ninth grade. The worst grade. There needs to be a t-shirt that reads, “Straight outta Middle School.” I thought I was going to come in and save the world. But this school in the Bronx is eating me for lunch– a bagged lunch that will be thrown out because they’re serving pizza today. The teacher can’t control the class but I’m not going to let these kids talk to me this way. Hail No! F–k that. Actually I’m f–ked. How do I get out of this? I’ve got to teach them something but I don’t want to look like a complete incompetent asshole in front of this certified teacher who’s got that “help me” or “you suck” look on her face and I feel like I’m on “Scared Straight” for wannabe Teaching Artists. AGGGHHHHHH!

(The lights shift again. Melissa steps out of the classroom area.)

(To the audience.) This is one of my first gigs at the one school in the Bronx. In some ways, it’s a typical experience. Most of the times Teaching Artists are sent where they are needed the most. Describing the “Alternative High School” where I was assigned as “tough” is an 

understatement. You feel the dysfunction from the moment you walk into the building. 

(A security guard enters from the side.)

Security Guard

(To Melissa, loudly.) Miss? Miss! You need to open your bag and show me some ID. Take out your keys, etc…

(Melissa hands over a bag and the security guard rummages through it in the background.)

Melissa

(To the audience.) I am first confronted by the metal detectors, bag searches, multiple sign-ins, and other tools of surveillance that suddenly transform the environment from a space where children are supposedly learning into a prison. Oh, the implications of that! Even though I’ve come to make up for all the budget cuts to arts programs, I need to first convince this school and the NYPD school police guards that I’m not a criminal. 

(The security guard passes back the bag and waves Melissa forward.)

Once I pass the “no weapon in my bag”  test, I can proceed. It’s the journey to find the classroom. The hallway walls are painted in a color that I can’t decide is closer to Crest toothpaste green, a depressing shade of blue, or a lifeless, institutional grey. The kind of hue that drains the energy from anyone who dares to look at it for a minute too long. My terrible sense of direction kicks in. 

(Students enter, start pushing past Melissa.)

It’s always during the next class transition. The kids erupt, thrilled their class is over. Their voices surge like a tidal wave, crashing through hallways at the highest decibel imaginable. Ugh my ears!!  

Teacher

(To Melissa, loud and threatening.) Excuse me, why are you not in class? You are late!!!

Melissa

Hi, I’m just visiting…a teacher? Teaching from…uh… I’m lost and I’m trying to get to room 305?

Teacher

Hmph. Girl, you’re on the wrong side of the building. You need to go out this door, down the stairs, cross the street, blah, blah, blah…(Teacher walks off stage.)

Melissa

(To the audience.) When I finally make it to class, again I’m confronted with what am I teaching today? I only knew that I wanted them to write something. A monologue, something inspired by the play they were going to see. 

It’s not like I am unprepared. Before I arrived to class, there were “planning meetings.” I would sit in meetings with my fellow Teaching Artist colleagues and institutional affiliations. In these sorts of meetings, there’s always one who comes up with brilliant ideas or openers on the spot. I usually can’t think of one clever thing to say. After only a year and a half of college, it wasn’t in the cards for me–or my bank account–to finish my studies. It’s a weird lingering shame I carry around to this day like a shadow that clings quietly, never quite fading.

I found myself attending the “learn-as-you go” school of hard knocks. It’s the life lessons that come to you absolutely free but you pay for it in one way or the other. But I am grateful for the good lessons, the bad and the unexpected. I am thinking of a memory that cuts deeper than the rest. A class that I can honestly describe as less than ideal. Yet, it shifted the way I saw students who had almost no experience with creative writing. 

At this particular school, where this story begins, there was this unruly student who had made it their mission to relentlessly disrupt, ready to pull the whole thing off course. He was the class clown, bully, or whatever you would like to label him. Here’s the catch though: this was the Bronx and he was the only white kid in the room. Now you might think: if you’re the only white kid in THE BRONX, you would want to be straight-up low key. But this one was a star. His jokes, put downs, and punishments were widely lauded in this room. And I’m like, in my mafioso voice, “Huh? This friggiin’ guy? He’s Vanilla Ice Jr.!”

(“Ice Ice Baby” blasts briefly.)

As much as this kid was an attention suck, I have to say it was actually surprising to see him in class. A white boy acting up in a class of mostly Black and Hispanic kids. I say this because the US and Canadian Public School system stereotypes and demonizes Black boys as inherently violent and troublemakers in schools. And then there’s the issue of class. If you’re poor and white you’re demonized as well, maybe not in the same way as a visible minority but if you grow up in a world of massive inequality and historical inequities, your existence is not a priority. We never think about what’s behind all of this. Instead, we are quick to label kids as trouble makers. I, too, have been guilty of this. We never think about the whys and the pain of one’s situation of invisibility, the possibility of abuse at home, and compensating by creating superstardom at school.

Meanwhile, this kid was a force of nature I couldn’t contain. Not to mention this class forced me into a life-changing exercise, which really came from my boss at the other organization I worked for, who was a long time leader in theatre education in New York City. 

Scene 2. Week Two: The Exercise.

 (Melissa is standing in the hallway about to go into her class but has a mild panic attack.)

Melissa

(To myself.) What the hell am I teaching today? Those kids hate me! I’m unprepared! Ugh, think Melissa, think! What did we talk about at the planning meeting?? Oh theatre God, Dionysis, help! 

(To the audience) Just then I had a flashback. 

(The Director of Education appears, a celestial figure with bright light shining from behind so that you can’t really make out his or her face. Sounds of heavenly angels play in the background. The Director speaks in a heavenly echoey voice.)

Director of Education

Grasshopper! How do you get your kids to write, or anybody to write, really?? Get them to imagine what it’s like to be someone else. Even if it is someone they despise. Try that.

(The lights dim and the Director fades away.)

Melissa

(To myself.) Yeah, try that idea Melissa. 

(Melissa enters the class feeling confident, addresses the class.) Okay. Everyone please sit down! Actually, let’s sit on the floor! 

(Students slowly rise and trudge over to the floor, reluctantly dropping to sit in a circle.)

Melissa

Close your eyes. Now I want you to think of someone, anyone you see on your way to school, on the train, on the bus, on your way home or to work. Anyone you don’t know, but someone you just can’t stand by even the sight of them. When you have an idea, open your eyes.

(To the audience.) I go around the circle and I ask them who it was and what it was about this stranger that really bothered them. I am both surprised and happy when the students in the room actually begin to respond. There are two students, one I’ll call Ahmed and the other Chanel, as in No. 5., that are particularly vivid in their descriptions.

(Melissa turns back to the class.)

Ahmed

 This homeless guy…around the corner. He always be beggin’ and shit.

Chanel

This guy on the train keeps checking me out. 

 Vanilla Ice Jr. 

Yeah this faggot was staring at me on the train…

(The students start to crack up.)

Melissa

(To myself.) It’s okay, Melissa. Breathe. Don’t take the bait. You got this. Keep Going.

(To the class.) Now, after you’ve thought about this person you can’t stand, I want you to imagine being this person. YOU HAVE TO ACTUALLY BE THIS PERSON!

 (A collective gasp fills the room, which is probably heard around the world.)

 Melissa

I mean this, you really have to be in this person’s shoes. I want you to bring in a monologue- as this person. Have it ready for my next visit. Think about what this person is thinking about when they see you. Oh! One more thing, I’m bringing in a Guest Artist to read your work. A professional actor!!

(Another gasp fills the room.)

A Student

Yo, word?

Melissa

Word! Yes, I’m bringing a PROFESSIONAL ACTOR TO READ YOUR WORK!! 

(To the audience.) This is the moment that changes everything, when the class is told a professional actor will come in and read what they wrote. Some of them are not sure what this means. But they know this is someone better than me.

(Lights shift to normal lighting. Melissa steps forward to more fully address the audience.)

(To the audience.) This is actually how I started out in theatre education, as a “Guest Artist.” My teacher friends would invite me into their classes, where the air buzzed with anticipation. I was the professional, as seen on TV or a theatre actor, who would act out their scenes. The students’ eyes would light up and their voices cracked with excitement that a professional had taken the time to visit their classroom and read their words. Their joy was electric. A warm wave that washed over me and quietly stitched itself into my fragile confidence. Becoming a Teaching Artist certainly changed all that. Suddenly, I found myself navigating a delicate dance, balancing my own needs for validation and growth with the raw, vibrant, and ever-shifting energies of the students. This was an invitation to practice humility, vulnerability, and reciprocity in ways that I had never anticipated. 

When I returned, I brought in the magnificent actor, Al Rodriguez, to serve as my Guest Artist. Al agreed to read the students’ work, in case they were uncomfortable performing in front of others. He was larger than life, a quadruple threat who could do it all. The fourth thing was that he would suffer no fools. The killer stare he would inflict on those who spoke out of turn was enough to make one not “look upon the king.”

Scene 3. Week Three: The Guest Artist.

 (The group stands inside the same classroom, one week later. Lights come up on Al Rodriguez, looking like a cool superhero in the room of students.)

Al Rodriguez

(To the class.) My name is Al Rodriguez.^[1]This piece is dedicated to Al Rodriguez who passed away a few years after this class. RIP. I was made in Cuba and Puerto Rico and grew up in Harlem.

Melissa

(To the audience.) He was awesome, and the class was the most well-behaved I had ever seen them be. Everyone became wide-eyed, hearing him list all of his credits. You could hear an imaginary chorus of angels singing in the background. Unfortunately, as expected, most of the students did not do the assignment, but that’s okay. The task of drafting a monologue might have been too much for the “kids.” Some students wrote just a sentence, while a few actually wrote a paragraph or two.

(To the class.) That’s okay, we can work with an idea or a sentence. We can make it up as we go along. This is called improvisation. Let’s start with you Chanel.

Melissa

(To the audience.) Chanel, the one who spoke about “this guy checking me out on the train,” wrote a paragraph. When Al read it aloud, he brought the character to life so convincingly that the class was blown away. Not only by his acting, but her writing as well. The character she created was a “dude” who initially seemed like a total creep, but eventually revealed himself as a shy guy wondering how to approach her without making a fool out of himself. I could tell Chanel was glowing with pride. 

Vanilla Ice Jr.

Miss, can I do it??

Melissa

(Sigh.) Uh, sure…okay.

Melissa

(To the audience.) Oh lord, here goes Mister “I want all of the attention.” Vanilla Ice Jr., who as I expected, didn’t really write anything. So I asked him to think about the person he mentioned before and he complied. I was going to have Al be his character and do an improv, but he insisted that he could do the acting himself.

(To Vanilla Ice Jr.) I will ask you questions but you have to answer in the characters voice, OKAY???

(Other students start snickering.)

Vanilla Ice Jr.

Hee, hee, yeah okay.

Melissa

OKAY??

Vanilla Ice Jr.

Okay…damn. (Gives the other students a look, like, what’s her problem?)

Al Rodriguez

(To the class.) Yo, Listen up! We aren’t doing anything until everyone is quiet. I expect everyone in this room to be respectful of your fellow artist. 

(A student giggles and Al gives them a stare.) Yo, what’s up? You think this is funny? 

(Stunned silence ensues.)

(Al returns to address the entire class.) As I was saying, I expect all of you in the audience to be respectful of anyone in the room performing. You would want the same thing when it’s your turn. Got it? (Pause) I said, GOT IT?

Students

(In unison.) YES!

Al Rodriguez

Good. (To me.) As you were, milady.

Melissa

(To myself.) Go ‘head, Al, tell them!!!! Gracias, Mi Amor! Let’s get this started.

(To Vanilla Ice Jr.) What’s your name?

Vanilla Ice Jr.

Yo, my name?

Melissa

I’m sorry, what’s your character’s name? The person you’re portraying.

Vanilla Ice Jr.

Oh yeah, his name is (pauses to think)…oh my bad, I mean my name is… Justin.

Melissa

Hi Justin. Where are you right now?

Vanilla Ice Jr.

On the 6 train.

Melissa

Where are you going?

Vanilla Ice Jr.

 Home from work.

Melissa 

(To the audience) Vanilla Ice Jr. has a strange, zombie-like stare on his face as if he’s really focusing on something. This was really weird. I’ve never seen him this still and quiet before. 

(To the class.) Does anyone have any questions for Justin?

Student

Whatchoo lookin’ at?

Vanilla Ice Jr.

At this guy. Sitting directly across from me.

(Students chime in with “Mmm, ooooh. Uh-ohs!”) 

Student

Why are you staring at that guy? Are you gay?

(Snickering travels around the classroom.)

Al Rodriguez

Settle down ya’ll!

Vanilla Ice Jr.

I’m not sure.

Melissa 

(Her jaw drops.) What do you mean?

Vanilla Ice Jr. 

I don’t know. Sometimes I like girls and sometimes I like boys. I just don’t know. I think I like this guy sitting in front of me, but I’m not sure…I guess I’m confused.

Melissa

 Confused?

Vanilla Ice Jr.

Yeah. You know, like…I don’t know what I like right now…

Another Student

 Do you have any friends?

Vanilla Ice Jr. 

Not really…

(Everyone on stage freezes, and Melissa steps forward and out of the scene.)

Melissa

(To the audience.) There was complete silence and students continued to ask Vanilla Ice Jr. questions as “Justin.” The normal zoo-like atmosphere turned into a thoughtful Q&A session. I expected him to act like a clown looking for laughs. Instead, he showed up with intentionality, vulnerability, and precision. He was calm, quiet, and still, as was the entire classroom. Everyone in class was engaged and focused while questioning him. And there I was, so moved by his performance. He actually took the time to imagine the complexities around sexual identity. I was blown away by him and by all of the students. 

This was the moment that transformed my thinking about writing and about guiding students on their journeys to finding their own voices. It is the same method actors use to breathe life into characters. You’ve heard the cliche, the ditty actor asking, “What’s my motivation?” Well, what I came to realize is that it is not merely a catchphrase. Rather, it is the heart of storytelling. Characters aren’t just lines on a page. For me, as an actor, I need you to believe me as that character. To do that, I need to imagine their pains, their joys, and their dreams–all that makes them who they are. But even more than that, I have to have empathy. I can’t judge them, I have to hold space for their world, no matter how messy or complicated. I must accept them as they are, fully and unconditionally. 

This is true for me as a teacher, too. I had to face the hard truth. I was being an asshole Teaching Artist, moving under the assumption that I was there to put my students back together, to “save” them. I had to stop judging and start meeting them where they were. 

As Richa Nagar puts it, “No doubt, such a surrender of egos and sharing of authority and trust can be a very hopeful and playful practice that can birth co-dreamers, co-authors, co-artists, and co-agitators.”^[2]Richa Nagar. 2024. Radical Vulnerability: Development, Translation, Justice Those kids have more going on than I can ever fully understand. I show up one day out of the week for maybe a month or so. Meanwhile, they navigate teachers, family, and everything else in their complex worlds day in and day out. There’s a file somewhere in the drawer of old memories, my teenage-self, only seeing just my part of the universe. How soon we forget those times. As a visiting Teaching Artist, I need to remember what it’s like to hide or to feel a little afraid of being vulnerable, even though I am just a blip in their universe. If I can offer another way to tell a story or inspire them to just eke out a sentence, that is a win. But I can only achieve this by presenting more human rather than another authority figure. 

As Nagar narrates, “Radical vulnerability requires letting go of such investments in individual celebrity; it requires acknowledgement of one’s own mistakes, greed, and contradictory desires; it demands a willingness to embrace sorrowful and bitter truths alongside laughter and rapture; it implies an unshakeable belief in the creativity that emerges from a shared journey.”^[3]Nagar, R., Meier, I. & Spathopoulou, A. 2023. Refusals, radical vulnerability, and hungry translations – a conversation with Richa Nagar. Fennia 201(2) 266–272.

Years later and in a completely different country, my experience with the exercise remains the same. Dysfunctional classrooms, systemic barriers, behaviour challenges, and the odd moment of imposter syndrome suddenly popping in. It’s the same everywhere. As frustrating as it is, these are the moments where I find myself returning to this exercise.  

I’ve gone on to use this technique when I’m teaching any kind of scene or monologue work. I’ve seen amazing results. I have students use their imaginations or photographs to jump start stories. And what I witness time and time again is students moving through apathy to consideration then ultimately to empathy. Giving thought to what it must be like to be the person across from you.

More recently, I started working with an artist’s photography. 

(Vivian Maier’s photos are projected behind Melissa as she talks.)

When I first arrived in Canada, I caught the Vivian Maier exhibition at the Art Gallery of Hamilton in Ontario.^[4]Vivian Maier. https://www.vivianmaier.com/ Her photos feature snapshots of ordinary people living ordinary lives in a beautifully random way. I found her photos of young kids, daydreaming or just staring at the lens, especially fascinating. Their eyes tell unique stories. Her work offers great starting points for character development. Even the stock photos I found on the internet revealed stories waiting to be told.

(Examples of these stock images are projected behind Melissa as she continues.)

For example, I found an active stock image of a mother-daughter or a father-son locked in a fight. You have probably seen these on various online psychology or self help pages. But I had my students write monologues and scenes based on what they saw or the feelings those images evoked. We start with breaking down the body language and imagining what people are thinking, what was said or left unsaid in that frozen moment. It’s no surprise that these students usually pick the person closest to their age. They can’t help but project what’s going on currently in their lives. 

Once they’ve chosen the photo they can relate to or that appeals to them the most, I provide  a simple Q&A about the character’s likes, dislikes, and other details to ultimately bring their person or thing to life. 

At this point, drafting the monologue becomes almost second nature. They know the story they want to tell. The parent-child scenes are some of the most moving work I witness. I usually work with students who are in the throes of rebellion, hormones, identity crises, or just plain uncertainty. Some are grappling with real issues, especially with their parents. So many things are happening to them both emotionally and physically. I relate to this all too well, from the parents’ perspective. Communication is a struggle, much like a prizefight. Parent and child, in their respective ringside corners, waiting to land that first punch. 

Sometimes, it’s really hard to get this down on paper and I get that. But not to worry, if this is the case, there is the wonderful world of improvisation. Just a little set up is all that’s needed and then they are off. It’s usually me that gets things going at first but it’s way more magical when these kids forget that they are acting and take a crack at this. Once they know the circumstances of the scene they’re about to improvise, they are on fire!

Scene 4. Years Later: A middle school in Ontario.

(Melissa examines an image with a student.)

Melissa

(To the student.) This girl looks pretty mad. Just off the top of your head, what do you think this girl is saying to her Mom?

Student

(Taking the perspective of the child.) Mom, you never came to my dance recital! I never see you. You’re always working or got something better to do. You never have time for me!

Melissa

Okay, that’s great. Now you are the mother. Why do you think she’s never around?

Student

(Taking the perspective of the parent.) Honey, I’m sorry, I have so many bills…and ever since your Dad and I split up, I have to work harder. I promise, I’ll make your next recital. I’m so sorry I haven’t been there for you…please forgive me.

(The student freezes, still contemplating the image.)

Melissa

(To the audience.) And even if it’s only for a moment–again, just a blip in their vast universe–as these students move through this process, choosing both the protagonist and the antagonist, they allow themselves to feel what it’s like to be the person upset or elated. Even though in real life they might be angry at their parents, with this way of writing they get to imagine what it’s like to be their own parent. Witnessing kids exploring this in every class was very moving and radical, and at times magical. 

But the big question is how can we center empathy in and outside of our classrooms? As an adult, imagine this in a moment of conflict, not just with a loved one, but with your co-worker or as a visiting teacher in a troubled school. In life we have a tendency for chauvinism toward our home team or toward our place of origin, religion, race, etc. Do we really know what’s happening on the “other” side? Can we imagine what it’s like to be on the opposing side of things? Can we?