Category Archives: World

(Personal Essay) The Muse and the Mirror: Performance, Acceptance, and Reclaiming the Creative Voice

Grandma knew I was an artist. I was four when she observed my building worlds out of paper stacks on her kitchen table, crafting kingdoms from the stories we told at lunchtime. I drew myself over and over, one day supplemented by fantastical prostheses and the other stretched or warped by whatever wizardly powers I decided I possessed in that hour. My sense of self existed solely in my head and in my hands. I wrote story after play after poem, and she told my mother and father, “Camille’s an artist” before the serving of soup at suppertime. I was raised as an only child playing in a magical forest with borders as boundless as those of my head, isolated from extensive social interaction, in the solace of imagination, and desperate for performance.

I do not know my body. I have never known my body. In my early years, it was nil but a vessel transporting my innermost whims to the physical world. At thirteen, it became a medium. At fifteen, I let the medium take me over and I bought my discount paints at Shoppers Drug Mart. I merged from writer to player to Greek sculptor, etching my physique to perfection, chipping away at my unique physical deformations as if they were scum on the edge of a Donatello. I have never known my body. I have never been comfortable in my body — not only in its appearance and sexualization, but in my physical sense of self in the social world and how vulnerable it is to critique. I spent my adolescence herding my selves into normalcy, striving to ignore my bodily confusion, my conscience sifted through the influence of popular media and gender-biased sexual education. I grew in a world where my body became the most important canvas to explore and decorate, the most important craft to perfect, always living in need of constant improvement and decoration. I found my self-expression dwindled, and so I began to craft narratives under which to frame my desired state of living, hell-bent on pleasing the social masses, attempting to reprogram isolated parts of my psyche and throwing others into stark neglect. I inhaled desirous need, exhaling falsehood.

But I was an artist. My body, my face, and my social media profiles all supplied an outlet to perform, and perform I did. I cut my hair when I was eighteen in an emotionally deviant frenzy of expression, in a cry for freedom from myself and from these bounds. I told myself, more so than ever, that I was comfortable with the affections of young men; I wasn’t. I’m still not. I directed my personal expressions outward, desperate to write and perform for an audience that would take my creations to heart or to mind. I wanted praise, not for myself, but for what I was able to create. I performed all the time. I performed online, I performed in casual conversation, and I lost my audience. I began performing for crowds of social pseudo-cynics. I still perform for them.

And I fear womanhood. I speak to and work with and know so many young women, and I worry for them. I fear for the future of the online social market and further communication of unconscious lies. I fear for the omnipresent influence of biased education, and false dichotomies between science and the arts confining self-expression and limiting artistic pursuit. I fear for the future of expression itself, in my case chained by stigmatic conceptions of womanhood and sociocultural norms into which I do not fit. In those harder years, the more I dabbled in creation, the more I yearned to abandon it for fear of social mockery or unjust critical reception. I felt jeered at and mocked by the woman in the mirror. And yet I still created. I created my own limits. I let my artistic impulses reign over me, not by choice but because they boiled in my blood, thirsted (and continue to thirst) for the bile beneath my skin. At eighteen, my entire life revolved around the element of performance, and whether or not I could maximize it to its full potential; at eighteen, I moved away in search of an escape either from the toxicity of my surroundings or from myself. Or both. All my life, the voices and lessons of my peers and attackers echoed like sermons. The women in my life and I, we were taught to neglect the hungers of womankind, and submit with naive compliance to the dominant gender; either consciously or subconsciously, we did.

And so my days rained puzzle pieces for awhile, whopping down to my window in torrents, and I frenzied around, desperate to pick up the pieces — force them together in a muddled yet quasi-complete cohesion. I surveyed the pieces: my romantic interests. My wants. Expectations of me. My anxieties. My sexuality. What I say versus what I feel. My socio-critical reception. The edges do not fit. The puzzle is incomplete. Even when I moved away from home, settling down in a city still struggling to find a voice — fitting, isn’t it? — I became happier. I found people who lived me. I tried to insert myself into communities I thought would best suit my involvement. I thought about the people I had hurt back home — those I deceived, knowingly or unknowingly, and those I longed to forget. I think of them constantly, even now. The pieces still did not fit, even in that new and magical place. As much as I feared living under false premises, expectations, and allusions, I still perpetuated them in my mind and appearance. In the midst of so much change and triumph still lurked bold and unwavering happiness.

So I stopped performing. I pursued a liberal arts degree. I started writing again. I started reclaiming the body, which at that point felt more of a stranger than a compatriot. I picked my own mind. I thought of things I wanted to think of. I began reclaiming every inch of myself I’d lost to the world, and the world responded in buckets of gratitude.

I reclaimed my mouth with words that better reflected my opinions, and not with the words of others carefully rearranged to fit the carefully constructed self I wanted to become.

I reclaimed my mind, on my nineteenth birthday, with some mental health diagnoses and one hell of a good smoothie…. and some books that my professors recommended I read. I am reclaiming it constantly.

I reclaimed my scars, not just emotionally — but the physical ones that have manifested all over my face and body — the remains of a turbulent adolescence. I call them my Battle Wounds. I love them now, even if they’re finally fading.

I reclaimed my anxieties, my sadness, and my sporadic feelings of isolation and self abuse with names, and with proper understandings. I still work on this one every day.

I reclaimed my aesthetic appeal with turtlenecks and flouncy pants, grown out curly hair and vintage glasses frames. Still in progress, but I feel great.

I reclaimed my words, channeling every inch of self I abused, lied to, hated, and perpetuated into my first play, Anonymous. I watched in horribly anxious fury when the script made its way back to my old high school and was sent around, selected portions tying inspired-by-semi-true-events to the story completely omitted from thematic/contextual ties and snarked at. I was reminded of the toxicity in my life before this fall, both in people and environment. I stand behind my accomplishments with unwavering pride. I’ve learned my lessons.

I reclaimed my body, which I viewed for so long as a good to parade, a valuable commodity on the hot market available on display for rental and/or taking. I now see it as its own trophy, one that celebrates its hardships and rewards its physical and emotional strength.

And, for the first time, I feel absolved from the limits I tortured myself with. I now spend my time learning, rebuilding the mediums I lost in vain, and creating and performing now not for public acknowledgement or acceptance, but for the sake of contributing a brushstroke to the world’s artistic masterpiece.

I’ve always found extreme comfort in attempting to navigate the chasms of my mind, this summer more than any other. My diagnoses and I are good friends now; we help each-other daily, and recognize each other’s weaknesses. I spent the month of May darting through European cities of my dreams, finding myself in every corner of every museum, gallery, and historic landmark, every colossal church which affirmed my beliefs not in the presence of a higher power, but in the ultimately delicate nature of people. We hurt one-another and we love one-another. We exploit for personal gain, we make mistakes, and we destroy — but we’re all we have. Sufficient to stand, yet free to fall. I learned to learn for myself. I learned to enjoy without documentation, and live without the world tracking my every movement. I love my family, my friends, and my beautiful puppies. My life is art in itself, and I love to be holding the brush.

There has been no greater personal quest than the reclaiming of my own body and mind.

I am tired of performance. Not the kind I have reclaimed in artistic expression, but performance in the social world. The more I come to despise specific chambers of the internet, the more I scorn its diluting of our already fragile understanding and perceptions of communication. I am trying to reconstruct my online presence in a healthier way, and document the highlights of my life via scrapbook or collage or notebook. Most of the greatest adventures of my life remain offline now and forever. I can continue my life as an emotional vagabond in the depths of the world without a like button. I look forward to improving on my self (and worldly) awareness… I of course use the term “self-awareness” loosely, for so much of my understanding wallows in the subconscious, lurking like a trout in the shadows until a cold hook thrust from the depths of collective reality brings something else to light.

My Grandma was right. I may not be an artist in the professional sense, and am unsure what path I will take, but I have always been an artist beneath the skin. So long as there is creation, I will fear its absence.

But my voice is not yet clear, both artistic and personal. My body knows itself no less than it knows the streets of London, and my mind will never be superlatively familiar to me, or to anyone else for that matter. I am still performing every day. I force myself into a clown suit in acts of anxious self-concealment and protection. I am not free from my anxious or depressive bonds but, again, we coexist. As women, artists, and inhabitants of this miraculous world, perhaps we are forever bound to exist in fragments, or worry of a future with no synthesis, no ultimate reassurance in fate. But we have our minds, our hearts, and each-other. There’s a lot of merit in that.

I hope you’ve enjoyed me tossing another scrap to the hungry muse in my heart’s crevice. Thank you to everyone who’s put me here. Never stop looking.


Transhistorical Artistic Fusion, Europe/Travel, Revolution, and the Power of “Hamilton.”

I was first acquainted with Hamilton: An American Musical sometime in the past year and, as I am stubborn and often quite reluctant to indulge in popular fads, I ignored the hype and refused to listen to the soundtrack. This attitude lasted until the end of May. As the effervescently brilliant Lin-Manuel Miranda wrote, “There’s nothing like summer in the city” and, in this respect, he is right — there is nothing more tedious and painful than staying home for the summer in my hometown, filling my nights with Jeopardy! and awful dermatologist appointments. I decided to give Hamilton a try when I’d finished my tenth book of the summer (and it wasn’t even June — always the charming socialite, I am), in part to combat my anxious and, at times, depressive episodes of boredom and impatiently waiting for the new school year to begin. Truthfully, I am more than a little antsy to jump start a new artistic project that is going to take over my life next year — that I am currently unable to talk about in any way but relates immensely to what I am about to tell you: I needed something to occupy my mind — Hamilton, it seemed, was it. Hamilton, and the absolute genius that is Lin-Manuel Miranda, changed the course of my summer. This summer, that of 2016, has been officially dubbed my “HamiltEnlightenment,” my “Lin-Manuel MiRenaissance,” if you will. Here’s why.

*Note to reader: this is going to be a bit of a longer post because it chronicles my arts-based adventures through Europe — if you’re looking for more Hamilton, you might want to skip to the end. Apologies in advance. I have a lot to say this week.

It begins at the start of May with an extensive summer reading list. I poured through the Complete Plays of Sarah Kane in the first week of the month, while getting ready to embark on my two-week European extravaganza (which, don’t worry, I’ll get to later on in this post). Each of Kane’s plays entrapped me in their web of provocative absurdity, touching on raw and emotive themes such as torture in life and death, redemptive love and raw human connection — riddled with Shakespearean tropes and completely up to interpretation with regards to staging. I had spent the later parts of April attending local Shakespearean lectures and sneaking into alumni association events where I had the privilege of hearing local professors speaking about the dangers of misinterpreting “realism” in the theatre. And so I began my independent studying this summer learning about challenges to the form (in theatre and literature), revisiting A Clockwork Orange, the Iliad, Oedipus the King, and many other favourites along the way. To understand challenges to the form, I thought, I had to understand the form itself and perhaps the earliest examples of it — that’s where my classical Greece craze came from. Let’s move on.

My studies continued overseas in Berlin, where I spent a handful of days dipping in and out of the most renowned museums with some of the (for lack of a more compelling adjective) coolest exhibits I have ever attended. Those of you that know me well know that museum-hopping is a favourite pastime of mine, and to say that the Deutsche Histories Museum (and the others in Berlin) outweighs those in London is a huge deal (as we all know, the English are notorious for stealing some of the greatest artifacts from historical excavations) but it’s true — I loved seeing all of Kathe Kollwitz’s art in the flesh, fawning over Napoleon’s hat and sword from the Battle of Waterloo, seeing French Revolution and World War One/Two propaganda and, most incredibly, all of the mind blowing reconstructions at the Pergamon Museum. The Market Gate of Miletus and Ishtar Gate took my breath away — the exhibitions on Islamic and Babylonian Art were equally fascinating. Another special shout-out goes to the Alte’s German realism and French impressionist collections, and the Neues Egyptian/Ancient Civilizations collection. I took a great picture with the bust of Homer. I have too many photos to recount, but they will be up on my 500pix in time. I was also lucky enough to catch an original production of Tosca at the Deutsche Oper Berlin, which really doesn’t relate to the synthesis of my points at all but is worth mentioning. (*Note to reader 2.0: “Vissi d’arte” changed my life and I feel like Tosca is a breeding ground for sociopolitical allegories).

What I loved about Berlin, and what will end up relating back to Hamilton, is this: Berlin, this city of movement and cultural innovation, once crippled by war — once bullet wounded and sick in hope for restoration — now blooms and triumphs in a bold kind of rebirth, now leaks with remembrance and respect for yesterday but thrives on tomorrow’s energy. On the art and voice of a new generation of skeptics and creationists, of people that dare — of artists, of connoisseurs of the impossible. Berlin is this cool harmonic enmeshment of the past and the present, of the historical and the contemporary, and of progress and tradition. I thought about this a lot during my time in Europe, upon visiting the John Lennon wall in Prague and watching beautiful musicians busking, upon sitting in a church and listening to classical organists while Amy Winehouse blared from a speaker just next door. It was an honour to be there.

As I said, we were off to Prague next, which had an intense amount of personal significance for me as the city itself was a metaphor implemented in my first play, Anonymous — my heroine, Imogen, was (essentially) seeking self-knowledge and fulfillment in the unknown. “Prague” was supposed to represent “the unknown”, because blah blah blah, that’s all you need to know for this post to make sense. I could go on forever, Anonymous is bloody metaphor city. I’m a crazy person. The Franz Kafka museum, and specifically the installation based on The Castle, left me speechless. I visited an old bookstore and sat for hours watching the city after my daily touring, surfing between Voltaire and Sophocles (note to reader: I read Candide in a church. Irony?) But here’s what kept popping up: the art in the galleries of the old buildings and churches — they were all painted in a kind of postmodernist, contemporary style, catering to the form and not idealizations of realism. I saw Macbeth at the Prague State Opera which, by the way, is the most beautiful building I have ever seen in my entire life, which differed entirely from Tosca in Berlin because it was in a sense experimental. All of the costumes were very transhistorical, often a sort of business-casual, sometimes minimal depending on the character — and the set had a degree of abstractedness — but Macbeth and the Lady’s costumes were period, and so much else was contemporary! There we are again — this enmeshment! Here, in the 21st century, that seems to be where all the energy in Europe is concentrated: somewhere between the old and the new, the strict religious and the strict secular, the tradition and the experiment. It stinks of fragmentation! I love it!

I didn’t stay long enough in Budapest to see anything to add to these points, but what I did see was an incredible Picasso exhibition at the Hungarian National Gallery, right up in the Buda castle complex. And many other cool things. I wrote some music on a red bench by this field overlooking the city, and saw some beautiful churches and lookouts. It felt as the other two did, though — fragmented, scrapbooked if you will.

And now, back in Hamilton (ha-ha), my [Alexander] HamiltEnlightenment. Why the craze?

The first song I heard from Hamilton was its opening number, Alexander Hamilton, describing the protagonist’s early life in the Caribbean as a “bastard, orphan, son of a whore…” (ask me to rap anything in the show. I’ll do it). I was attracted to the show at first because — well, who couldn’t be?! The show thrives on incredible poetic lyricism. Just look at the intricacies of the rhyme schemes in Lafayette’s fast raps, each play on words a fireball. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard in a recent broadway show — just listen to Eliza’s haunting ballad, Burn, about “erasing [herself] from the narrative.” Every song is brilliant.

The songs themselves, however catchy, weren’t what really raked me in — it was Miranda’s sheer ingenuity behind the very idea that got to me. Alexander Hamilton, in his day, was known for his power of speech — his extraordinary voice that fuelled the American Revolution. What LMM does by taking this biographical tale (inspired by Ron Chernow’s book) and translating it to hip hop acts as a sort of retelling of history — juxtaposing the revolutionary “voices” of the past/of the forming of America with the revolutionary “voices” of the present — this of course being hip hop artists, many of which are of visible minorities in the States, who face as much discrimination as immigrants and anti-Brits did in the days of Alexander Hamilton. Despite these cultural and ethnic biases, however, Hamilton prevailed and reached success through the power of language and speech; hip hop, because of Hamilton, now does the same. According to the show’s creator in a 2009 performance at the White House (when the Hamilton Mixtape was still a barely-developed concept album), [Alexander Hamilton] “embodies hip hop” because of this. Hamilton asks us to consider again and again, “who lives? Who dies? Who tells [our] story?” It is a landmark cultural event not just in the development of musical theatre, but for visible minorities in North America — especially performers! We see non-Caucasian actors playing iconic “white” historical figures such as George Washington and Aaron Burr… imagine the impact this production is having on any previously held notion about “type-casting!” The perfect example of cultural and historical enmeshment! Oh, boy! It’s everywhere! Art!

Anyways, I could go on for hours, but the whole thing really is brilliant. Hamilton is telling a story in America’s history that looks and sounds like what America has become, what it is now. It deserves every Tony it is nominated for. It is REVOLUTIONARY in so many contexts.

Here’s the point I want to make moving forward — look how much Hamilton is in the public eye. Look at all the (much deserved) critical acclaim [Pulitzer Prize, Grammy, you name it] it has been receiving by (again) challenging the form, daring to be unconventional, daring to make a social and political statement — just by its own artistic genius. Hamilton is the landmark cultural event we need in society today, to bring people together and to urge them to create and dare. I have no doubt it will shed a lot of light on the theatre industry, and (I hope) bring audiences to respecting and loving these new changes to the stage. I talked a little in one of my last posts about being open to change and unique interpretation on classical/Shakespearean works, and how important it is to embrace your local to be universal. It all comes back to Hamilton. For a lot of the general public, it will start with Hamilton. And here I am, in my hometown (ALSO “Hamilton” — whoo! Look at how that worked!), back from travelling all around Europe just to rediscover the muse here, right in my bed in the city I’ve always known, my Hamilton: The Revolution book beside me and my hair in thick, curly, blonde knots.

I even started a scrapbook that toys around with this idea of personal, social, and artistic fragmentation, because it’s clearly taken over my life.

There’s a note I wish I could end this on. I wish I could talk about how I intend to move forward with this idea, how I want to use all that I’ve learned abroad with that I’ve learned at home to make something new of my own — something toying with fragmentation — something accepting of the past but thriving on today’s energy… but, like I said at the start of this post, there are some things (happening in the near to distant future) that currently lie outside the range of things-I’m-allowed-to-talk-about… however, when the time comes, I’m sure you’ll all be the first to know.

I don’t know how to end this — it’s been one hell of a post. It still feels unfinished, but I want to get back to my crazy reading schedule and I’ve got an orientation retreat and job training this weekend. I have to wake up early, wash my hair, and cover my acne scars. Hey, I’m not perfect! Scars are pretty, too.

Oh! And, by the way, everyone should read Hamilton: The Revolution. It’s worth the money.

I’m sorry I don’t post much but, when I do, it’s always a doozy.

Camille over and out.

The 58th GRAMMY Awards - "Hamilton" GRAMMY Performance
NEW YORK, NY – FEBRUARY 15: Music director Alex Lacamoire and actor, composer Lin-Manuel Miranda and cast of “Hamilton” celebrate on stage the receiving of GRAMMY award after “Hamilton” GRAMMY performance for The 58th GRAMMY Awards at Richard Rodgers Theater on February 15, 2016 in New York City. (Photo by Theo Wargo/Getty Images)

Community Arts, Education, and the “Legitimacy” of Creation

“The unfed mind devours itself.” – Gore Vidal

My inspiration starts here: I spent my first St. Patrick’s Day as a 19-year-old University student at the local museum, sitting in on a lecture by award-winning Newfoundland director Jillian Keiley entitled How to Make the Performing Arts Thrive Locally, Regionally, and Nationally as a part of the “Public Matters” series (Museum London). Keiley has reached national audiences for years by bringing pieces of Newfoundland into every show she directs; right now, she is in the midst of producing a piece (reworked to be set in her homeland) for the Stratford festival. She spoke of LePage and Tremblay, and the importance of setting in art — to be universal, in the words of Tremblay, we must be local.

This hit home for me — enough, it seems, to take time out of my hectic finals schedule to write an extended blog post about it. First of all, I’d been interested in Tremblay ever since appearing in a production of Albertine in Five Times as a part of the Sears Ontario Drama Festival (we went to Provincials!) in 2014. I began thinking of all the renowned Canadian works that were set or inspired by a specific town or landscape… Stephen Leacock’s Sunshine Sketches…, Ann-Marie MacDonald’s Fall On Your Knees… Tremblay’s La Maison Suspendue… the list is infinite. Even the most celebrated of plays are set in a very specific atmosphere and location — think A Streetcar Named Desire. This got me thinking about my local environment, and the artistic communities thriving around it…

Keiley spoke a lot about popular arts, and how difficult it is to promote Canadian theatre to the masses in the shadow of “Ed-Mirvish-Toronto/New-York-City-Broadway-Musical” culture. This reminds me of a discussion I had back in February with Top Girls director Vikki Anderson after attending a lecture on campus about the play’s adaptation for the Shaw Festival. People go to the theatre to feel cultured — more or less promoting an illusion of being cultured — not necessarily to contribute to the ever-growing theatre scene in Canada. We come to the theatre for the experience — for the grand period costumes and intricate period sets, more like it — but we leave dispirited, with ignorant criticism and expressive distaste for the modernizing of Shakespeare and Wilde. As Canadian (and/or global) theatre-goers, we are constantly exposed to modernized adaptations of Shakespearean classics — just look at elements of the Benedict Cumberbatch Hamlet. The Stratford Festival takes especially creative liberties with its productions — I have heard many things about its past production of Midsummer Night’s Dream. I remember hearing about these modernizations — liberties with costumes, time periods, and gender-bending — and questioning the authority of the directors and producers to make such bold changes. Why? Easy — I wanted to think myself cultured and feel it in my blood and guts. It’s all part of the (I hate this word, but I’m going to use it) pretentious “know-it-all-because-I’ve-read-A-Doll’s-House” attitude surrounding popular theatre culture. I myself was included in this for a long while. Shame on me.

I also remember being in tenth grade and hating Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet (1996) which, despite its mixed reviews, is quite obviously a “fan favourite.” I looked down on all of these adaptations, as did most of the people I surrounded myself with at the time, and now here I am at University, writing and directing my own material for the first time, expecting artistic perfection and fearing anything but.

We so often think that “modern” adaptations of classics (or just modern works in general!) are not intellectual, or that they are not legitimate; we so often undermine the work in our community for New York City and travelling-musical-theatre-companies-coming-to-Toronto. But how can we ever expect the arts to thrive in our communities if we are not in constant support of them? I have come to realize, from all my years dabbing in arts communities, that creative competition is one of the largest threats to the ingenuity of local artists. If we do not dare to create in our home cities or use our immediate environments as inspiration, then how are we ever to achieve this universality in our art? Community support is something I strongly admire about the new and developing Theatre Studies program at my University (in which I will major along with an Honours Specialization in English Language and Literature). I look forward to learning more with each passing year, and sharing it here with an anonymous sea of internet-stalkers and blog surfers.

As artistic entrepreneurs in our schools, cities, and communities, it can become habitual to succumb to jealousy (or, in some cases, crazy Darwinian “survival-of-the-fittest” attitudes when it comes to competing for roles — I’ve seen it all, trust me) when there is so much competition in the field. I feel that I was lucky to mature in a school environment rich in arts education and promotion, however I also feel that it fostered a sense of entitlement in me, and perhaps in others in my program. I was guilty of over-competitiveness at times and, in some ways, still am. Auditions were always about who was the best, who was the worst, who knew the most, and who was the most “educated” in theatre. Ridiculous, I know, for a band of high school students, but hey — I’m not exerting myself from this! It’s not until you come to University that you realize how little you know, and how little you’ll probably always know.

At the end of my twelfth grade year, as I’ve stated before, I made the decision to abandon a possible career in the arts to pursue political science; this, as we know from my Love Letter to the Muse, lasted about three months. Whereas many people that I know have gone on to study the dramatic arts at nationally renowned institutions, I have gone on to study English Literature and theatre in a city with a strong sense of community where so many new and exciting projects/endeavours are being cultivated. I am so fortunate to be where I am, and would not want it any other way. My now-local community has secured a real sense of home in me, something that I’ve never before experienced in an arts environment, where people are encouraged to grow — critiqued but not discouraged — and where there is a secure sense of belonging, of wanting to contribute to a bigger picture.

It is so easy to be ignorantly critical; this is something I am still working on in myself. Let’s be real — eighteen and nineteen-year-olds have limited experience to just about everything; at this stage, all we can do is put ourselves into our learning and hope for the best. This reminds me of 1960s pop art and just postmodernism in general, people going into art galleries and seeing modern paintings and saying, “I could do that!” Well… you didn’t. You didn’t do that. So why not reward those who did, abandon this sense of artistic entitlement, and reward yourself for learning something new about a work?

I look forward to devoting the next 3+ years of my life to learning, to expanding the environments that have given back to me so much over a period of just seven months, and to fuelling new projects and contributing to the arts on a wider scale. I only hope that others will continue to do the same because, together, our achievements can be limitless.