July 20, Afternoon Part 2. Dar Es Salaam (Haven of Peace)

(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)

We drive to the National Museum of Tanzania, through a mini traffic jam, and I see the first women wearing pants, as well as tourists dressed even more inappropriately than me. Along the water we see one naked man, shaking out his clothes to get dressed, and I presume they are the only set he owns. There are endless people waiting by the road. For what? Buses? I've read that when Americans see this, they usually interpret idleness, laziness, boredom, unemployment. But I don't think that. I think, how frustrating to have to wait on an uncertain timetable, maybe for your whole life. How annoying to not be at work when you want to - or to not be doing what needs doing. To not be caring for yourself, for your family, but to be waiting. Again and again.

The grounds of the museum are well kept, and beautiful even in the heat.

We don't stand out in Dar as we thought we would. There are some catcalls, some glances, but no open staring. There are tourists (you can tell by their clothes, not always by their race) from Asia, Europe, America. We ask our driver if there are a lot of tourists and he says, "Oh yes. Too many."

The museum begins with a bit of African bureaucracy, as Paul Theroux warned of. And while we're warning of things, let me warn you: Paul's Dark Star Safari has been my preparation, guide and still-current companion. Poor Meggie must already be sick of sentences that begin, "Paul says..." or "As Theroux tells me..."

So.

Paul says the bureaucracy in African can be Rube Goldbergian. And here, we sign the foreign visitor registry, outside the gates, separate from the Tanzanian visitor book. It is manned by a serious government employee, and there a handful of his friends hanging around his glassed-and-barred-in kiosk. Then we go inside where it takes two more government employees to charge admission and fill out a lengthy handwritten carbon copy receipt, have us sign, and only then can we enter. No one else is in line, and we see no more than ten other (foreign) visitors in the museum. It's a nice winter Saturday, so this should be our first clue about the desirability of the destination.

It's heartbreaking. It appears that the printouts on old blue paper in Swahili and English are attempting explain everything under the sun that has touched Tanzania... but briefly, badly, and without real examples nearby. The history of the geology, geography, hunting, animals, artwork, human evolution, and AIDS are illustrated with pictures but few real items. Where an American museum would have prehistoric art, this museum has a bad reproduction of prehistoric art, or even worse, a picture of artwork that is surely housed in Paris or New York. The hunting display notes the use slavery in the ivory trade, and I tell Meggie to pose - she says she'll stand there but, "I'm not smiling in front of this!"

Our driver is very happy we're taking time to look thoroughly but he corrects us when we forget to take photos of things he believes we should be capturing. He is also very interested in our cameras, and puts me in front of the animal display and tells me to smile. I give a big, broad smile and he says, "Great picture!" while reluctantly handing the camera back. We're getting better at hearing through the Tanzanian accents, and as Paul would write it, he says, "Grate piktchuh." 

I was not especially interested in posing in front of the saddest and most deflated examples of taxidermy I've ever seen (plus an elephant skull), but my low interest was not as powerful as my desire to respect and please him. So, as a result, you get this:

Through the museum, I continue thinking of the slightly adventurous breakfast and feel waves of nausea. Warmth. Worry. When we leave, he asks do we want to go one more place? No, I say, I better get back. Turns out, to spoil the next 36 hours' surprise for you: I do not end up getting sick. And Meggie reminds me later that jet lag is a full-body experience, and can include nausea, dizziness and that strange disembodied feeling.

Photos below:

• The display of human evolution; 
• The bush artifacts display (and we'd go on to buy a basket exactly like the one on the right edge, making "artifact" a pitiful and angry joke to me, as these are still items in use everyday);
• An ancient bike, possibly with mud wheels;
• Plastic snakes in the biology "hall" (a small room). If you're going to have plastic snakes on display, why choose to keep the case so empty? Why not cram it full of things to label, write about, and look at?

The dioramas of rural life puzzle me. Like the sandals made of car tires that are described as something "someone might wear out of economic necessity". Like, you mean, someone I'll probably meet out in the street in a few minutes!?

In the first photo, those ropes - I didn't even notice until now. They increase my sorrow. Protecting a dusty display of manufactured plaster skulls and a peeling poster of the globe? I'll come to realize this is a pattern in Tanzania where I see an intense focus on the wrong things, in the wrong order. Not cell phones first but roofs. Not ropes to protect the gallery but a real historic display. Not matching school uniforms and a long school day but teachers trained properly and lessons that build on each other to achieve true learning. 

Tanzania was German East Africa until the end of WWI, when it became a British protectorate until independence in 1961 (followed by eventual union with Zanzibar, creating Tangyanika + Zanzibar = Tanzania in 1964).

I'm fascinated by the German automobiles displayed outside under an awning, the photo of a German Bwana being carried on what is called a "hammock" in the English description, and the metal Imperial coat of arms:

But the most amazing display to me is the one on HIV and AIDS. There is a photo of the current president of Tanzania, President Kikwete, getting an AIDS test. He's the first president to do so (!!!) and was setting an example for the country to follow. Most of the display makes little sense - including a few cartoons, showing (I think?) the increasing attention paid by the media and donor groups to AIDS. Can you explain either of these to me?

And then the AIDS chair, with the classic red ribbon...

 ... interesting for the description...

It reads at the end, "Red colour was chosen to symbolize blood and danger. The tails of the ribbon pointing down was chosen to symbolize life flowing away."

That is the Tanzanian National Museum in a nutshell.

Quit slouching! Part Two.

A few days after the eye-opening video experience (below), I attended two work events, in rooms full of tall men.

That is to say... I read once there is a high correlation between very financially successful men and height. At both these events, filled to the brim with lawyers, bankers, financial planners, CEOs turned consultants, some who's who of Portland (including those that actually live in Vancouver because it is cheaper), there were A Lot of Tall Men.

And the truth is, no one like to schmooze. No likes small talk. No likes, as we say back in politics, to work the room. (If you really do love it, well, ok: I believe you; you're just not of the race that knows Joseph, and alas, I am).

But there can be a little thrill, a little fun, in playing the game of Schmooze. It's like acting in a play, and there's a little fun (and a little terror) in that!

So in this room of Very Tall Men, and then again a couple nights later in another room of Very Tall Men, I chuckled to myself quite a bit. Playing the part, working the room, pretending not to be shy - it is so much easier when A, you stand up straight, and B, you have tall people to look in the eye and project confidence to. Score a second lesson for the week - it is time to quit the slouching.

And will lesson three be about The Chop? (As in - the hair. Chop. Is it? Isn't it? Being cut off to a tiny, tiny, boy-like length? I'm undecided. Still.)

Too perfect.

Paid my bullshit arts head tax today. The one that is going to get found illegal, overturned, and I'll see my money back someday soon. The captcha to process my online payment?

MUST PHOULYA

You ain't just whistling Dixie!

Stay Open

Look, I hate Rick Santorum as much as you do. I hate that he doesn't believe in global warming. I hate when he said there are no Palestinians, and only Israelis live in the West Bank. I hate how he said he wants to go to war with China, and how he sounds pretty racist, sexist and mean most of the time.

I hate that he is against pre-marital sex, and against allowing women to use contraception. I hate how much he hates homosexuals, and I hate that such narrow beliefs are reported with a straight face.

But.

Whether it was planted by conservative media pundits, or whether it was just a truly human interest story, I can't hate Rick Santorum for loving his daughter who has a terrible illness (Trisomy 18), which I read about yesterday here.

And I can hate him for using his own family's situation, experience and choices to dictate an anti-choice message to everyone else on the planet, and I can hate him for using that experience to get votes while campaigning in a church, but I can't hate him for this description of life with his daughter, and I can choose to use it as a way to keep my heart open. No. Matter. What.

On the campaign trail, the Santorums share the lessons they have drawn from Bella. Mr. Santorum told a church gathering in Charleston, S.C., that Bella can never “do” anything in her life in the traditional sense, except love him.

“She is a font of love,” he said. “And she made me understand that that’s how the Father looks at me. I’m disabled and unable to ‘do’ anything for him — except love him. And he loves me unconditionally.”

Title?

At the New York Times' website and in articles, Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton, JD, and former presidential candidate is referred to as Mrs. Clinton. At the same site, citizen, former Governor and former vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin is referred to as Ms. Palin.

Why is Clinton a Mrs.? And Palin is a Ms.? Both took the name of their husband when they married, and both are still married to same husband. So, is Ms. now reserved for women who'd rather their marital status not be on display AND women who are more well-known than their husbands? If I were more creative I might have an answer. Instead, it's Sunday night, and I'm just pissed.

Maybe you can explain this to me?

Weinergate.

In a world filled with goldfish-length attention spans and 140 character tweets, I do get a kick out of our very, very first reactions to things - to news items, to gossip tidbits (and in this case, the latter pretending to be the former).

Gleefully full of schadenfreude and tuned into today's Anthony Weiner press conference, I was still shocked, however, when two people in the room, awaiting the good Congressman's turn at the podium, repeatedly said, "His wife is so beautiful, though," as if that had something to do with it!

As for my first reaction? A little shock, I admit, last week - he's Jon Stewart's friend after all! And then laughter today, and then a Wikipedia visit to find out he has been married for NEARLY ELEVEN MONTHS. Time for a vow renewal, I suppose?

A warning

John, the other night, to me, with a very grave face: "Baby, I have to warn you."

Me, thinking, oh shit. "What??"

"I think I may be developing into an Oxfordian."

Well, NOW WHAT?!

I kid, I kid. This is just a peek into the excitement of marriage. And heck, he would be in the company of such gentlemen and scholars as Keanu Reeves, John Paul Stevens, David McCullough, Jeremy Irons and good ol' Freud.

(Non) Judgmental (?)

Alright, stand-up comedy. I get you now, in a way I did not before.

On a base level, I see an outer shell made up of neurotic people-pleasing, masturbation jokes and a supposed-or-stated lack of self-confidence.

I see a next layer composed of searing human observations, confessing to one's own foibles and/or finding universality in a highly specific situation.

And then I see a next layer, only in the minority of comics, that draws in the audience, one at a time, into different jokes, to total immersion with the performer... whether it's in laughing at ourselves, illustrating an injustice/prejudice, or just feeling like s/he is your oldest, bestest friend up there on stage, telling a story you were there for, and how you absolutely love reliving it.

That likability is a double-edged sword - and I enjoyed walking the sharp edge. As an audience member, I want every comic to be great. I want to like them and walk into their world, whatever it might be. (It's of value to me to "like" someone... by which I do not mean I always must agree or be of a similar disposition as the other person. It is, rather, an appreciation that they are authentically themselves, and I like nearly everyone who can be authentic. It's the fronting I hate, and so perhaps I will find myself drawn to more stand-up; after all, it doesn't really work well to fake it all on stage. The performer has to be as fallible, funny, lazy, ambitious and complex as me and mine.)

So I don't aim to be judgmental; I aim to be open to whatever they've got. But, well, I AM me, I am human, and I am paying good money to be entertained or thought-provoked. So of course I'm judgmental in my seat, with a piercing gaze for great callbacks, new takes on the common themes, and that amorphous, floating, undefinable ability to meet the exact vibe of the room.

I went to shows last week with 500+ in the audience, and one as small as 25 in the audience. To subtly adjust to the time of night, the drunkenness of the crowd, the comic who went just before, even to the shape of the room and volume of the mic, was fantastic to observe. Scratch that; it wasn't wholly observing. I, too, was part of the balance. In one room, I was one of only two women in the audience; my tittering laughter in the third row, in a clearly female voice, was one small ingredient in the show.

It was a great experience. Will I do it again? Ask me when I'm not so tired! But it served as a reminder that I do best in immersion. To see over fifty sets in three days was the way to go for me; I often say I do things, I say yes to things, purely to add a notch to my Experience List. So I have a new line item on Things Experienced, and in case you have the chance to see the following folks, don't miss 'em!

• Ron Funches (he's a Portlander and killed both sets I saw).
  
• Moshe Kasher (I saw him thrice, and every time was grand).
  
• The brilliant Chicagoan (and Thunder Cat!) Cameron Esposito.
  
• Zach Sherwin/MC Mr. Napkins (the aggressive bee!!)
  
• My regret is only seeing him at 1:40 AM... but he still brought the house down at that hour, Mr. Kyle Kinane.
• And Andy Peters, who should not have been funny to me by all rights, but I was holding my face because it ached from laughter.
  

YouTube Thursday: 1 min, 33 sec.

Have you seen this? If you have not seen this clip of Bill O'Reilly misunderstanding the phrase "play us out" in the context of a television show wrapping up, and then TOTALLY losing it, you must.

Why?

Because the next time we hang out, I might shout "Do it live!" or "Fucking thing Sucks!" or "Fuck it, do it live!" in response to a totally unrelated question or comment, and you will want to know why.

(This is, clearly, NSFW and NSFChildren.)

Do you Twitter?

I do not. However, it is worth your time to read the "feed" of "Rahm Emanuel". Those are not misplaced quotes a la this hilarious grammar-nerd blog, but properly placed, since the Twitter account is not, of course, that of Chicago mayor contender Rahm Emanuel.

However, with tweets like this from the Bears-Packers championship game when the third string quarterback was sent in:

• Jesus fucking Christ. They're just pulling people out of the fucking stands to be quarterback at this point, aren't they?

And then tweets like this, from his TV viewing of half State of the Union, half "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" marathon:

• I thought the speech was pretty great. I mean, it's a tough situat... HOW THE FUCK DOES SHE NOT KNOW SHE'S FUCKING PREGANT?!

it is a gem. And not for those who don't like swearing, clearly. Enjoy it here: http://twitter.com/mayoremanuel/

What I won't say.

I won't say that it should have come to this. I won't say it's what I would do if I were the most powerful man in the world. I won't say it should pass the House or the Senate, or that a different version should pass than will, or does. I won't say that it isn't a depressing compromise, a non-compromise, a total defeat or a shameful loss of value, power, reputation, promises. I certainly won't say I like it. I won't say I agree with what's happening, and I won't say it's been a blunder from start to finish, with a lot of blame placed squarely on anyone who dares call himself a journalist.

But I will say that as adults, often our choices end up being between two things we dislike very, very much. Still, there is a choice, and it sometimes has to be made. And if you, alone, had to choose one of these options -- not a combination of the two, and not a different option altogether -- what option do you prefer?

You could end all the Bush-era tax cuts, and let most people in America pay a little more in taxes, what they paid under Clinton, say... and while you add that desperately needed revenue, you also have to let long-term unemployment end. You have to look that neighbor in the eye and let them lose their house, their car or their self-worth.

Or, you could extend all the Bush-era tax cuts, and add to the debt and likely extend the depression, but you would get in turn to continue long-term unemployment checks to the person who wants to turn on the heat but is cold, or who wants to buy a Christmas gift, but can't.

What if those end up being the only two options, both of which stink? What would you do?

Small Pieces.

I read a book once written by a father, about his daughter who died from cystic fibrosis at age 9. She was born a year after one in which the census was taken, and died before the next one was taken, ten years later. He noted the pain it caused him that she was never counted in our great once-a-decade accounting of everyone living in America - minor or adult, legal or undocumented.

Amidst all the election headaches in my life (and maybe - likely! - yours, too, right now), I like to think the following observations express the tiniest, smallest, absolute-most-miniscule possible pieces of heart the government has… and as small as they are, I like 'em.

First, when filing to go from being a greencard holder to becoming a citizen (aka, naturalizing), you must list your marriage history and your parental history. You may list a child as "missing" or "dead". And while I'd never wish a missing or dead child on anyone, there is something about such a full accounting of a life that I like.

(And yes… I AM choosing to ignore the possibility this exists for security purposes. The polling data and talking heads have got me down this week [month], and so I’m focusing on the positive today, no matter what!)

Second and third... on much lighter notes... the same naturalization form contains (and other forms, I presume) choices for hair and eye color. Hair color choices include "bald" and eye color choices include "pink".

It warms my heart that the United States Immigration policy writers have kept an eye out for all the albino emigres in the world, heading to American shores!

M v W

I write a lot about femininity, but trust me, I think about it even more. What is it, what does it look like, what does it feel like. Can it be also powerful and authoritative, or does that negate its very existence? (That's a real question, by the way, because we say, oh, of course it can be!, but society and blogs and magazines and coworkers and friends tossing off thoughtless comments lead me to genuinely ask it.)

But for all that, the silent, and very real, other side of this coin of conversation is masculinity. And how broad a spectrum men are given to be real men, to be considered and seen as manly. This lovely tribute to Patrick Swayze on Jezebel has comment calling his masculinity (partly born of a football playing father and ballet dancing mother, both activities he did very well) "unforced masculinity".

This is now a phrase I love.

Because it IS the "unforced" part that makes a man so delightfully masculine, whatever kind of man he may be. (And it's not about being sexually attractive, though he may be, because it's much more expansive than a dual hetero-homo view of the world.) It's a little bit of self confidence, it's a lot of devil-may-care, it's a dash of choices made well - and if not, of lessons learned with humor - and it's an effortless grace with and true interest in talking about, experiencing, viewing, reading, feeling and enjoying both ends of the gender spectrum in ways we see it - weeping and punching, nurturing and seizing, listening and talking, dancing and footballing.

Taking Calls.

As Jen says, when life gets full, the blog gets empty. I'm going to make it up to you as we close out summer - the unofficial end of summer, anyhow.

I don't write very often about work, but this week, there was a significant article written in The Gray Lady about my boss. It was a complex piece of op-ed journalism about the federal budget that dared to touch on the third rail: Social Security.

All seemed well in the office for the next 36 hours, until a progressive group that I've supported in the past jumped on it, sent out an email to a few million e-subscribers, and asked them to call in and tell us how they feel. Their email also contained a blatant lie, and I'm not sure yet how they get away with it; will they have to retract it? Anyhow... in the meantime...

Away we go with the phones! It was just like the days before the health reform bill passed. Call after call after call... and of course each and every constituent has a right to express their opinion... but it did mean I was unable to help an 18 year old who needs to prove his citizenship and is lost in a paperwork maze (he has to wait till Monday) and unable to help a constituent whose property outside the U.S. has been siezed by local authorities.

Instead, I spoke with 8 or 10 folks about their thoughts on the article. Except... not ONE had read it. They'd all read the incorrect, inflammatory and 100-word e-blast. But none had clicked on the link and read the source material. They vehemently asked for cuts in defense spending and ag subsidies instead... which I softly pointed out the source article showed the boss is in major favor of. "Oh. Really?" And then, "Yes," I'd say. "If you have the time and access to the internet, I recommend reading the article. There's a link at the bottom of your email, and it is quite an interesting article."

So, some days I'm impressed with the dedication of people around my community.

And some days I want to say, oh you impressive elecorate, picking up the phone with no knowledge but lots of feelings! Go, you! Asshats.

My favorite person said, "Well, yeah, I started to read it, but I just didn't have the time!" I know the feeling, dude. I was also hoping to get back to my actual work.

A good one.

Question from Bill Bennett, radio host
(and author of books "The Book of Virtues" and "The Children's Book of Virtues":
You've got the best health care in the country, now I think, don't you? Because of your tort law?

Answer from Texas Governor Rick Perry:
We do, yes.

BUT... the day before, the New York Times reported:
There are more uninsured residents of Texas -- 6.1 million and counting --
than there are people in 33 states. ...
[O]ne in four Texans is uninsured, the highest ratio in the country.

Thanks to Think Progress for catching this one... read the full quotes here, and ain't is grand that Texas has incredible medical centers... but 1 in 4 state residents can't afford to go to them?!

Game changer.

I was on the MAX train the other day, and three high school boys were near me, talking about who made the football team for next year, and some girl that one recently said, "yeah sure" to a girl who asked him to "get serious and be exclusive" ... while he really plans to only date her for the summer. Ah. 16 year old boys. How the same they ever are.

Then they started talking about some adult who came to the school, for some reason I missed due to the train announcement, and tried to make appointments with them. College counselors, I wondered? Two of them joked about how they just agreed, made the appointment, and then were called on their cell phones at the pre-determined time only to both respond, "Uhh, yeah, sorry, dude, can't make it." What a coincidence! They both bailed on these same adults!

Tsk tsk! I thought. Bad kids. No respect for elders, or others' precious time.

And then the third laughed at his pals. "Yeah, I'm not going to join no fucking Army."

Oops. Many apologies for judging you, young men. Keep on. Keepin' on.

Fuck.

Check it out in these terms: http://www.ifitwasmyhome.com/.

Hey! Sometimes I Get Sentimental!

So in church… or in Christian-influenced, Westernized church… we do only a handful of things. We pray or meditate silently together. We sing. We listen to a preacher. We stand, we sit, we might dance. We read things with dozens or hundreds of other people. We enjoy the choir and the instruments. And somewhere, one of those things, on some of the days that you attend church, is suddenly transcendent.

Something the preacher says might move you, shake you to your core. One of the melodies might suddenly prick the corners of your eyes with tears. One of the bells during meditation brings to mind someone you've not thought of in a long time. One of the moments, on the days you're lucky or maybe when you're just psychically ready for a little churchin', your heart will open to a flash of compassion, a surge of oneness, an experience of pure love.

Well, you certainly don't have to go to church to experience these moments… though I find such moments are guaranteed to occur only when there is some music, or deep silence, a resonant reading or powerful words spoken… when there is some dancing, some hand holding, some communion in any form.

So this past weekend, while I was at a Michelle Shocked concert with N, I giggled on the inside a couple times and my eyes got a little teary a couple times and I paid strong attention to the power of our group breathing, laughing, chanting, singing and swaying together. It was absolutely a night of going to church, and so to the church of Ms. Shocked and her messages of social justice, independence, feminism, individualism AND community, love and faith… I say amen. Thanks for the churchin'.

Where the rubber meets the road.

This is one of my favorite phrases lately. Working for the government, I have daily insight after daily insight into the places that policy comes crashing into peoples' real lives. Where a theoretical piece of legislation runs up against common... or not-so-common... sense. For example, you need to know your parents' names to get a reissued copy of your birth certificate. Makes sense. No problem. Unless you don't know your parents' names since you were adopted informally many, many, many decades ago. (Informally means there is no registered paperwork, as it was done during the Depression, possibly through a church group or anonymous agreement.) Think this can't happen? Spend a day at my new desk! And track down paperwork that requires "common sense" knowledge, like your parents' full names.

Anyhow, I am not inviting complaints about President Obama when I say that yes, I realize he has not done everything that progressives desire. I do know this. (Tho a side note... who on earth does NOT want to be progressive? Who wants to be regressive? How could this be a point of pride?!) Complaints about the Prez aside, he did just mandate visitation rights to gay and lesbian partners in all hospitals that receive Medicare/Medicaid funding across the country, and I gotta say... THIS is the joy of knowing where the rubber meets the road. This is where a real neighbor that you know and love has not been able to hold the hand of their lifetime soulmate because of discrimination. And now it's going to stop, and a sick person can get comfort and love.

How's that for a happy Friday? Yes, we can!

Touch.

So the movie lingers. It haunts. And it swells my heart... too far... as they preached in church a while back, "you have to break your heart to open it." And mine is broken by Mihai, by Ana, by Marian, the subjects of Children Underground.

And I must add that a film so raw, so voyeuristic, made me think, "Good lord. I know a number of folks who need to watch this. They need to let it break their heart right open!" And I also thought of Dreen, and how she needs to not watch it. Her heart is the epitome of "on her sleeve" and she knows the great pain of the world, she sees you and feels your sorrow, and she's better off without the underground children of 2001 in her life.

But whether you watch it or not, whether you really can stand to break your heart open right now or not (and I understand either way!), let me share with you something so poignant from the film it defies logic and defines spirit. While these children live in packs, scrounge for food, beg for money, huff drugs and sleep on sidewalks and cardboard boxes every day, there are some social services in the city. A few shelters (the only one in the capital city has ten beds, for about 20,000 children on the streets). A little food. There is a drop-in day school. There is a daytime clinic offering a warm bath, medicine, a haircut, a hot lunch, someone to listen to you for a bit.

The social worker shows up one day in the train station, for those whose turn it is to go visit the clinic. They cheer her arrival, but what do they do when she stands still? They kiss her. They hug her. They move to be in contact with her. They run dirty hands over her face, they lay lice-filled heads on her shoulder, and they move in a wolf pack just to be touched by someone who isn't there to hurt them. And she stays open to them, she holds their bruised and bloodied hands, she runs her fingers through their hair, and when they ask, "Will the lice be all gone?" she takes the razor and says, "They'll be less."

I have a very old-Yankee-type attitude toward touch, and come from a cultural and familial background that is rather sparing with physical affection. But since I can't? won't? shouldn't? go give a hug to the beggar sorting through recycling outside my door, or to the muttering homeless woman at the MAX stop, I must remember how much we all need touch. We all need a warm hand on our shoulder, a body to snuggle close to on the couch. We can do this for each other, non-sexually, and just out of simple caring. These children illustrated for me the human equivalent of Harry Harlow's heartbreaking food-or-love experiment. We must have food, of course... though some of the underground children choose drugs over food, as the high makes them fully forget their hunger... but we must, must, must have love.