Rox­ane Gay

The no­to­ri­ous truth-teller and her new book, Hunger

ELLE (Malaysia) - - CONTENTS - By Marisa Meltzer

Rox­ane Gay is many things – critic, so­cial me­dia fire­brand, col­lege English pro­fes­sor, self-de­scribed “love child” of Bey­oncé and Ina Garten, bi­sex­ual Haitian Amer­i­can PhD, and ro­mance-novel fan. She is both ut­terly with­out shame when it comes to ex­pos­ing the most raw parts of her psy­che and, she says, painfully shy. But one thing she is not: coy. So in her new book, Hunger: A Mem­oir of

(My) Body (Harper), she strips away all niceties to re­veal her most painful truth: “This is the re­al­ity of liv­ing in my body: I am trapped in a cage. The frus­trat­ing thing about cages is that you’re trapped but you can see ex­actly what you want. You can reach out from the cage, but only so far.”

When we meet at her apart­ment in Lafayette, In­di­ana, where she has been a pro­fes­sor at Pur­due Univer­sity for three years, Gay looms large. At 6‘3“, the 42-year-old has a com­mand­ing pres­ence. I make sure to shake her hand – there’s a chap­ter in her book about how she’s not pro­mis­cu­ous with hugs, which she views as “an act of pro­found in­ti­macy” – and we set­tle into her dark, cosy liv­ing room, which is dom­i­nated by the largest TV I’ve ever seen play­ing a Grey’s Anatomy re­run on mute, leather fur­ni­ture and stacks of ad­vance copies of books sent by pub­lish­ers for her re­view. A Dip­tyque Baies can­dle fills the air with the smell of roses.

“When­ever I thought about women do­ing books about bod­ies and weight, it was al­ways women who had un­der­gone a fit­ness jour­ney or a weight-loss jour­ney,” Gay says, “and they’re at the end of it, stand­ing on the cover in their fat pants, ‘Look at me – I’m so thin, I’ve learned so much.’” Hunger, on the other hand, isn’t over­sim­pli­fied or pre­scrip­tive. It is vis­ceral and con­fronta­tion­ally hon­est, and pre­tends to re­solve noth­ing in the pur­suit of ei­ther outer beauty or “in­ner peace” – and is thus quintessen­tially Rox­ane Gay.

Gay is nei­ther an overnight sen­sa­tion nor a mil­len­nial, but if you know her only by her writ­ing, you might mis­take her for both. She’s been is­su­ing rants and opin­ion pieces on­line for al­most a decade, at­tract­ing an early In­ter­net fol­low­ing for, say, doc­u­ment­ing her un­re­quited love for her UPS man, or of­fer­ing in­struc­tions on “How to Be Friends with An­other Woman” (Rule No. 1: “Aban­don the cul­tural myth that all fe­male friend­ships must be toxic, bitchy, or com­pet­i­tive. This myth is like heels and purses – pretty but de­signed to SLOW women down”) on her own Tum­blr, as well as the fem­i­nist sites

Jezebel and The Hair­pin, and the pop cul­ture site The Rum­pus, where she was a found­ing ed­i­tor. But it was not un­til the pub­li­ca­tion of her best-selling 2014 es­say col­lec­tion, Bad Fem­i­nist – in which Gay ex­pounded upon ev­ery­thing from rape cul­ture to the wish ful­fill­ment of Sweet Val­ley High, build­ing a case that fem­i­nism was too ob­sessed with a cer­tain kind of in­tel­lec­tual per­fec­tion – that she be­came a go-to voice on the ever roil­ing front line of gen­der, race, and pol­i­tics, and, per­haps most of all, the em­bod­i­ment of in­ter­sec­tion­al­ity. In her smart, clipped, ex­ceed­ingly di­rect (and Twit­ter-friendly: Gay’s steady stream of com­men­tary has at­tracted 230,000-plus fol­low­ers) style, Gay ex­presses a mix of in­nate con­trar­i­an­ism and warts-and-all vul­ner­a­bil­ity that seems uniquely un­con­cerned about her own like­abil­ity or at­tain­ing any­one’s ap­proval. When The Birth of a Na­tion writer/di­rec­tor/star Nate Parker’s col­lege rape ac­cu­sa­tions came to light, her light­ning-rod New York Times edi­to­rial, ‘Nate Parker and the Lim­its of Em­pa­thy’ – in which she wrote, “I can­not sep­a­rate the art and the artist, just as I can­not sep­a­rate my black­ness and my con­tin­u­ing de­sire for more rep­re­sen­ta­tion of the black ex­pe­ri­ence in film from my wom­an­hood, my fem­i­nism, my own his­tory of sex­ual vi­o­lence, my hu­man­ity” – was among the most talked about in a mael­strom of think pieces.

The past few years have seen an out­pour­ing of words from Gay, in the form of a 2014 novel, An Un­tamed

State; a 2015 TED Talk; a 2016 graphic novel for Marvel, Black Pan­ther: World of Wakanda; a short-story col­lec­tion,

Dif­fi­cult Women, re­leased this past

Jan­uary; and a bar­rage of opin­ion pieces un­leashed in the New York Times, the

Na­tion, the Guardian and Sa­lon. If there’s a through line to her writ­ing, she says it’s ex­pos­ing the un­rea­son­able stan­dards to which women are held, both by so­ci­ety and by each other, a re­al­ity Gay finds ex­haust­ing. “I think that I write about women’s lives in ways that al­low peo­ple to be seen, and al­low peo­ple to think about the world they are liv­ing in and the pol­i­tics of this world with­out feel­ing like they are be­ing judged or shamed for be­ing im­per­fect,” she says.

Writer Sheila Heti, au­thor of the ex­per­i­men­tal novel How Should a Per­son

Be?, re­calls see­ing Gay at a chichi New York lit­er­ary party. “She just stood there with her back up against the wall, frown­ing slightly, look­ing around war­ily, as if she didn’t want to be tricked or se­duced,” Heti says. “One thing I truly ad­mire about Rox­ane is her in­de­pen­dence – she is be­holden to no one, and to no com­monly held line of think­ing. And I think she ac­tively cul­ti­vates and pro­tects this in­de­pen­dence – not only by where she chooses to live, but by feel­ing no obli­ga­tion to please.”

The night we met, Gay was about to start sign­ing 3,000 vol­umes of Hunger for a book tour kick­ing off in June. She was pre­par­ing emo­tion­ally for talk­ing about what she says is “by far the hard­est book I’ve ever had to write.”

Hunger is not a story of tri­umph. Rather, it tack­les the ques­tion of what it’s re­ally like to live in a fat body – “and not Lane Bryant fat,” Gay says. “What is it like to be fat-fat? We don’t see that nar­ra­tive. When we think 550 or 570 pounds, we think of My 600-lb Life, peo­ple who are bedrid­den, who don’t get to be in the world or have jobs. What is it like to be ac­tive in the world and obese?” She adds, “I hate that word. But let’s get real. Let’s talk about re­ally high num­bers.”

In short, non-lin­ear chap­ters, Gay traces her life from child­hood to the present, cov­er­ing fam­ily and trauma, but also her am­biva­lence about

The Big­gest Loser and her fail­ure rate with Blue Apron meal kits. In one pas­sage, at a speak­ing en­gage­ment at the beloved New York City used-book store Hous­ing Works, she strug­gles for five min­utes in front of a packed house to climb onto the el­e­vated stage (there are no stairs), un­til an­other writer helps pull her up. Once up there, she sits on a wooden chair and hears it crack. For the re­main­der of the evening, she hov­ers in a kind of squat, ter­ri­fied she’ll break the chair in front of an au­di­ence. Af­ter­ward, back at her ho­tel, “I sobbed be­cause the world can­not ac­com­mo­date a body like mine and be­cause I hate be­ing con­fronted by my lim­i­ta­tions and be­cause I felt so ut­terly alone.” She writes about hav­ing to bring her own seat-belt ex­ten­der on planes (she’s now suc­cess­ful enough to stip­u­late first-class flights to all speak­ing en­gage­ments); about peo­ple who’ve seen her on TV, email­ing or tweet­ing to in­form her “that I’m fat or ugly or fat and ugly. They make memes of me with cap­tions like ‘Typ­i­cal Fem­i­nist’ or ‘The Ugli­est Woman in the World’”; about go­ing to an emer­gency clinic and watch­ing the doc­tor write as her di­ag­no­sis “mor­bid obe­sity” be­fore not­ing the ail­ment she was ac­tu­ally there for, strep throat.

Gay’s par­ents met in the U.S. af­ter mov­ing from Haiti in their late teens; the fam­ily moved fre­quently for her fa­ther’s job as a civil en­gi­neer – Ne­braska, Illi­nois, New Jersey, Colorado. They are both thin: Her fa­ther is 6‘4“and weighs 145 pounds; her mother, who stayed home with Gay and her two younger broth­ers when they were grow­ing up, is 5‘2“– “and Lord knows what she weighs,” Gay says with a lit­tle laugh. In Hunger, her par­ents are a nearcon­stant pres­ence, sug­gest­ing new di­ets, hound­ing her about her health, a vig­i­lance that reads on the whole as the clas­sic well-mean­ing par­ent who doesn’t know when to quit. “They’re stub­born, and I ac­cept that,” Gay says.

She told them not to read the book. Not be­cause of how they’re por­trayed, but be­cause of the un­flinch­ing ac­count of the event that not only de­railed her child­hood but be­came a cat­a­lyst for her weight is­sues. When Gay was 12, she was bru­tally gang-raped by a male friend and sev­eral of his friends. She writes, “I re­mem­ber their smells, the square­ness of their faces, the weight of their bod­ies, the tangy smell of their sweat, the sur­pris­ing strength in their limbs.” Al­most im­me­di­ately af­ter­ward, she turned to food for numb­ness and pro­tec­tion. “I ate and ate and ate in the hopes that if I made my­self big, my body would be safe.” In less than three months of her fresh­man year in high school, she gained 30 pounds. Even­tu­ally, Gay told a high school coun­sel­lor and a few fel­low “drama geeks” what had hap­pened. But while her par­ents sensed that some­thing had gone hor­ri­bly wrong, they only learned the real source of her grief decades later, when she wrote about it in

Bad Fem­i­nist. Af­ter the book, her mother re­called the psy­chi­a­trist she’d vis­ited when Rox­ane was a teen, who ad­vised her to in­ves­ti­gate her daugh­ter’s re­la­tion­ships with friends and fam­ily, to no avail. “They just couldn’t fig­ure out what the prob­lem was,” Gay says. “I think that a lot of th­ese ques­tions have been an­swered – to at least know what hap­pened to change their child this much. Be­cause I did change, very dras­ti­cally.”

At elite New Hamp­shire board­ing school Phillips Ex­eter Acad­emy, Gay says fel­low stu­dents didn’t know what to make of her – a black stu­dent who was nei­ther from an im­pov­er­ished back­ground nor the in­ner city. It was there that Gay started to write ev­ery day. She got into Yale, changed her ma­jor three times in two years – from premed and bi­ol­ogy to ar­chi­tec­ture to English – and dropped out in 1994, the sum­mer af­ter her sopho­more year, to fly to San Fran­cisco to meet a forty-some­thing man she’d met in a chat room: “For the first time in my life, I felt wanted, and though I felt no real de­sire for this man, be­ing wanted was enough,” she writes in Hunger. She told no one where she was go­ing, break­ing off con­tact with her fam­ily com­pletely. Thus be­gan what Gay calls her “lost year.” Af­ter a few weeks in San Fran­cisco, the man in­vited her to Phoenix, where he lived. She spent nine months there work­ing the grave­yard shift as a phone

“I ate and ate and ate in the hopes that if I made my­self big, my body would be safe.”

sex op­er­a­tor – talk­ing to men with­out hav­ing to be touched by them. Her par­ents even­tu­ally tracked her down, Gay thinks via a pri­vate in­ves­ti­ga­tor, but Gay wasn’t ready to come home. Soon, though, things re­ally went south: She got evicted and took off for Min­neapo­lis to meet a woman she’d met on­line, who she thought was “the love of her life.” The re­la­tion­ship lasted all of two weeks. Gay pan­icked and called her dad, who sent her a plane ticket to come back to Omaha, where his com­pany was head­quar­tered. “He fa­thered me,” she writes, “de­spite ev­ery­thing I was do­ing to be un­par­ented.”

Even­tu­ally, Gay fin­ished her un­der­grad de­gree at Ver­mont Col­lege, then a mas­ter’s in cre­ative writ­ing at Univer­sity of Ne­braska–Lin­coln, fol­lowed by a PhD in rhetoric and tech­ni­cal com­mu­ni­ca­tion at Michi­gan Tech­no­log­i­cal Univer­sity, in the state’s ru­ral Up­per Penin­sula. There, a “ma­cho man” boyfriend she met play­ing poker at a casino be­came “the first man who touched me with any kind of gen­tle­ness, even when I asked him not to.”

At first, she says, she met most of her lovers on­line “be­cause it felt safer and I could be sex­ual with­out hav­ing to ac­tu­ally be sex­ual. Then, as I got fat­ter, it was a way to meet peo­ple and hope­fully charm them with per­son­al­ity be­fore hav­ing to show them the truth of my big body.” Her weight gain was grad­ual but also felt like it “just ap­peared on my body one day. I was a size 8 and then I was a size 16 and then I was a size 28 and then I was a size 42.”

When she fi­nally dis­cussed her rape with her par­ents af­ter Bad Fem­i­nist, Gay says, “My mum did ask, ‘Why did you put this out there?’ And I just said, ‘Why wouldn’t I? I’m not ashamed of it.’” Gay’s friend, nov­el­ist Jami At­ten­berg ( The Mid­dlesteins, All Grown

Up), notes that “brav­ery is a nec­es­sary qual­ity for be­ing a writer. We all have to be will­ing to take risks if we want to make great art.” The thing about Gay, though, is “not ev­ery­one does that thing – she’s ba­si­cally cut­ting open a vein and bleed­ing onto the page – so eas­ily. I think it just feels nat­u­ral and true to her. I can’t think of any other writer in our gen­er­a­tion who in­spires such pas­sion in her au­di­ence. I’ve stood with her at con­fer­ences and fes­ti­vals and watched peo­ple just lose their minds around her.”

Her fans, Gay will be the first to ad­mit, are an in­tense bunch – one that has grown ex­po­nen­tially. In 2013, she was play­ing small lit­er­ary fests and book­stores with 50 to 60 peo­ple. Now she sells out venues of 500-plus, and spon­sors tele­cast her lec­tures to over­flow rooms. In 2015, UCLA stu­dents lined up six hours in ad­vance to get a seat. The ma­jor­ity of the at­ten­dees, she says, are roughly 24 to 35, “but I have older fans, and a sur­pris­ingly ro­bust con­tin­gent in ju­nior high and high school,” she laughs. “There are a lot of re­ally woke par­ents who are ex­pos­ing their chil­dren to fem­i­nism and cul­tural crit­i­cism at younger and younger ages. Not a sign­ing goes by where I don’t look at a kid with braces and think, re­ally?” The per­sonal na­ture of her writ­ing – even her fic­tion, which feels only a stone’s throw from her own truth; the novel An Un­tamed State, for in­stance, is about the Amer­i­can-born daugh­ter of a Haitian con­struc­tion mag­nate who is kid­napped and raped while on va­ca­tion in Haiti – gives fans the im­pres­sion of an in­ti­mate con­nec­tion. “Some­times they want to talk to me about their work; some­times they want to un­bur­den them­selves with their own his­to­ries of trauma; some­times they just want to say, ‘We should be best friends.’” But Gay’s ver­bal ex­hi­bi­tion­ism has a clear cut­off point; her cur­rent per­sonal life, for starters, is off-lim­its. When as­tro­log­i­cal signs come up – she’s a Li­bra – I men­tion that I’m a Can­cer. “I know a Can­cer very well,” she says. “Let’s just leave it like that.” In Hunger, she makes sev­eral ref­er­ences to “my per­son.” Is that a friend? A life part­ner? She pauses. “I’ll just say it’s a best friend,” she says. “The bound­aries I have are about pri­vacy for other peo­ple in my life. The dream was al­ways to just write a good book, and ev­ery­thing else” – fame, in other words – “is weird and cool, but not part of the plan, and it wasn’t a plan for the peo­ple in my life.”

As it says in Gay’s Twit­ter bio, “If you clap, I clap back.” This is true: She doles out gen­er­ous praise for ac­tor/ writer/friend Am­ber Tam­blyn, in­die book­stores, baby ele­phants, Pa­tri­cia Lock­wood’s Pri­est­daddy. But what the bio doesn’t say is, if you bite, she will likely bite back, with not just fury but with a stroke of light­ning-fast, spot-on rhetor­i­cal ju­jitsu (much to her fans’ de­light). In 2015, Gay got into a heated, widely fol­lowed Twit­ter de­bate with The Wire cre­ator David Si­mon, about news cov­er­age of protests over cam­pus racism at the Univer­sity of Mis­souri. She reg­u­larly un­leashes her ire at what­ever ho­tel or air­line has failed to meet ex­pec­ta­tions. And the day we booked this meet­ing, she put prospec­tive in­ter­view­ers on no­tice, tweet­ing, “If you ask me ter­ri­ble ques­tions about Hunger, I am go­ing to give you a ter­ri­ble an­swer. So.”

This so­cial me­dia fear­less­ness feels an­ti­thet­i­cal to the woman who writes, in her new book, “I am hy­per­con­scious of how I take up space.” Gay ac­knowl­edges the con­trast. “Be­cause I’m shy, it was al­ways eas­ier for me to ex­press my­self on­line. I feel like a su­per­hero – I can do any­thing on­line,” she says. On­line, “I’m go­ing to stand up for my­self, and no, you aren’t go­ing to talk to me like that.” But with­out the cover of that dig­i­tal al­ter ego, she says, “I’m back to, Oh God, I don’t dare speak or have an opin­ion. Don’t make a mess, don’t make trou­ble!”

That said, Gay seems to be get­ting in­creas­ingly com­fort­able with be­ing a su­per­hero IRL, too. Ear­lier this year, she boldly can­celled an­other forth­com­ing book of es­says, How to Be Heard, af­ter her pub­lisher, Si­mon & Schus­ter, signed al­tright provo­ca­teur Milo Yiannopou­los.

“Be­cause I’m shy, it was al­ways eas­ier for me to ex­press my­self on­line. I feel like a su­per­hero – I can do any­thing on­line.”

“I’m not in­ter­ested in do­ing busi­ness with a pub­lisher will­ing to grant him that priv­i­lege,” she told Newsweek at the time. When the pub­lish­ing house later dropped Yiannopou­los af­ter the resur­fac­ing of a joke he made that seemed to con­done, in­cred­i­bly enough, priests mo­lest­ing young boys, Gay dou­bled down on Tum­blr: “In can­celling Milo’s book con­tract, Si­mon & Schus­ter made a busi­ness de­ci­sion the same way they made a busi­ness de­ci­sion when they de­cided to pub­lish that man in the first place.”

In Hunger, Gay sets her sights on the body-love move­ment. While she calls it “pro­foundly nec­es­sary,” she also main­tains that the push for self ac­cep­tance does not ex­tend to bod­ies like hers. “Many of the peo­ple who are talk­ing about body pos­i­tiv­ity are size 12, size 14, even size 16. I un­der­stand there is a lot of cul­tural pres­sure for women that size to be smaller, but I’m like – hon­estly, you have a prob­lem be­ing pos­i­tive about your body? Re­ally? For me, in this body, it’s hard to take that se­ri­ously,” Gay says. At her heav­i­est, in her late twen­ties, she weighed 577 pounds. She’s now about 150 pounds less. “If you’re a size 42, how do you feel body pos­i­tive? How on earth do you get there? Not be­cause you can’t be beau­ti­ful. But be­cause it’s so hard to go into the world in that size. And [the body-pos­i­tive peo­ple] just don’t know. They don’t even think about it. They think, This is it, this is as fat as it gets.”

Be­ing obese “in many ways, erases your gen­der iden­tity,” Gay says. “Peo­ple just treat you like noth­ing. You can hide lots of prob­lems, but you can’t hide fat­ness. And you can’t hide race.” The in­ter­sec­tion of the two is “in­ter­est­ing,” she says. “Cer­tainly there is less cul­tural stigma in black com­mu­ni­ties about fat than there is in white com­mu­ni­ties. But the kinds of fat that are ac­cept­able in black com­mu­ni­ties – there’s a limit.” Gay main­tains that most peo­ple are bet­ter equipped to dis­cuss race than they are weight. “Even though the con­ver­sa­tions, es­pe­cially since Novem­ber, have re­gressed, I still think we have bet­ter tools for th­ese con­ver­sa­tions,” she says. “There are things peo­ple won’t dare say [about race], at least in pub­lic. But when it comes to fat, we don’t have the tools, we don’t have the lan­guage, we don’t have the rules for how we talk about it. So we are not as evolved – which is say­ing some­thing.”

This, ac­cord­ing to Nige­rian Amer­i­can jour­nal­ist Ijeoma Oluo, who re­cently ap­peared along­side Gay at a lit­er­ary lecture se­ries in Seat­tle, is why Hunger could have real im­pact: It puts a black woman at the cen­tre of a con­ver­sa­tion about weight and body that they’re usu­ally cut out of, sim­ply by virtue of be­ing, Oluo says, “so far down the lad­der for what peo­ple find ac­cept­able in women.” Gay has be­come a spe­cial­ist in this kind of in­con­ve­nient truth. “Rox­ane is al­ways will­ing to take that hit – to be the per­son who’ll say the thing that’s hon­est, even if it’s seen as coun­ter­pro­duc­tive. She’s not just a young, chubby, bor­der­li­ne­size-14 white girl talk­ing about how hard it is to be fat. She’s in no way a mean per­son; she’s con­sid­er­ate and kind. [But] we want women to be like­able and bend­ing over back­ward to please time and time again. She doesn’t do that.”

To­ward the end of Hunger, Gay writes, in her breath­tak­ingly di­rect way, “I have no idea where the bot­tom of my shame re­sides.” In per­son, she ex­pands on this idea. “What is the rock-bot­tom mo­ment of be­ing fat, be­fore I re­ally get my shit to­gether? I don’t know. It’s hard to find that.” She writes about go­ing to a con­sul­ta­tion for weight loss surgery and de­cid­ing against it. Right now she is see­ing a nu­tri­tion­ist in In­di­ana who has a col­league in Los An­ge­les, where Gay re­cently rented an apart­ment. She’s try­ing to eat three meals a day rather than skip­ping meals and overeat­ing at din­ner. She’s even plan­ning to read a self-help book about mind­ful eat­ing, though she hates the genre. “I feel

like I have to be­lieve that I’m go­ing to over­come it one day, soon,” she says. “I know that I’ve over­come worse.”

But in Hunger she ad­mits that the weight con­tin­ues to serve its orig­i­nal pur­pose, but­tress­ing her body against the risk of invit­ing sex­ual at­ten­tion. “Trauma caused the weight gain – this fear of be­ing small that caused me to main­tain this weight for many years now,” she told me in In­di­ana. “I do think I’ve re­solved most of those is­sues, but in the process of gain­ing this much weight, I’ve de­vel­oped a whole new set of is­sues, es­pe­cially around food and eat­ing.” Now, she says, “I’m just try­ing to unf**k all the pro­cesses in my head that I’ve f**ked up in the past 20 or 30 years.”

The fe­male body, in all shapes, Gay says, is a “fi­nal fron­tier, along with dis­abil­ity, that peo­ple can openly mock and de­mean and get away with treat­ing with ut­ter dis­re­gard.” The only pos­si­ble so­lu­tion she sees is “a huge amount of em­pa­thy. Kind­ness,” she says. “And peo­ple mind­ing their own god­damn busi­ness.” Whether or not most read­ers re­late to the statis­tics of Gay’s body, few will be able to fin­ish her book with­out gain­ing a deeper un­der­stand­ing of her re­al­ity. “I don’t have a fan­tasy of a thin woman wait­ing to come out,” Gay says. “My fan­tasy would be to be able to walk down the street with­out be­ing yelled at by some­one. To walk through an air­port with­out hav­ing some­one point at me.”

This is the true shock of Gay’s book – it is not the rev­e­la­tion of her ac­tual weight, though how many of us, of any shape or size, would have the guts to put that on pa­per? It is the far deeper re­veal: that a woman so ac­com­plished, so seem­ingly fierce – in some cir­cles, so revered – has been forced to “fan­ta­sise” about some­thing so fun­da­men­tal. “I don’t de­lude my­self into think­ing that if and when I reach [a cer­tain] size, all my prob­lems will be gone. Many of them would be dif­fer­ent. At least I’d feel bet­ter in my body, bet­ter leav­ing my house,” she says. “My dreams have re­ally be­come sad at this point – hu­man dig­nity dreams.”

“My fan­tasy would be to be able to walk down the street with­out be­ing yelled at.”

Hunger: A Mem­oir of (My) Body (Harper Collins), RM114.90

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