Surrogate
Too good to be true, but true,
Stretched way too far, but true,
Unfit for a careful book in the
Field of popular science, but
True, anyhow, despite everything,
And it must be preserved somehow.
Kathy, all agree her name was that,
Worked for the minimum wage or less,
For this was fifty years ago when
Laws on wages did not cover student jobs,
Worked as a night attendant in the lab
Where rhesus macaques, baby monkeys,
Were isolated in cages on purpose testing
The need for play and soft affection
That accepted theory in those days
Said did not exist, but everyone knew,
Even Kathy, especially Kathy, did exist,
And she acted humanely, unlocked the locks,
Allowed the babies to play together and
Even picked them up and cuddled them,
Spoiling some expensive, cruel experiments
That nevertheless got made anyhow,
Proving theory wrong and common sense right.
Harlow, the experiments’ designer, and great
By any reckoning, loved to tell of Kathy,
Especially when he had had a few,
Which was often, and the story stretched
Too far for science, but that careful sort
Of truth is not all truth, and those barred
From the ideal republic because of their
Lovely and incurable true lies repeat
The story of Kathy in their own way,
But within rules, always within rules,
For poems, parenting, love, and memory
Have rules, often broken but still there.
My wife and I heard the story about Kathy
In the spring of 1958, dining lavishly,
The taste of lobster thermidor returns
As I write. We had just discovered that
She was pregnant, an unplanned happening,
Not really unwelcome but inconvenient,
For she would not be allowed to teach
The next year by the rules of that time,
And I would have to abandon an academic
Quest and find real common work.
The irrational and necessary thing to do
Was to celebrate with dishes we had
Heard of but never eaten in the finest
Restaurant in Madison, Wisconsin, and
We did, joyously, and when we saw
A young woman whom we knew and
Her companion, a sculptor whom
We had met once before, we invited
Them to join us for coffee and dessert.
The sculptor had great talents, also
A famous father similarly gifted,
Which is never easy, and I cannot
Locate him today, cannot access him
On the web. He may be dead, but
I like to think he flourishes
Under another name, free from
His father’s shade. The last anyone
Saw of him he was heading west
On a loaded motorbike seeking
A fresh beginning like a true American.
He had helped build Harlow’s surrogates:
The cold wire ones with the ready
Bottles that the monkeys used
But did not care for and the soft
Cushiony ones sometimes warmed
By a light bulb within that babies
Loved and ran to in their need.
This proved something that all of us
Always knew, that Kathy knew, too,
And we laughed and nodded as we
Were told about her, everyone did,
Even the learned scientists did as
Harlow the showman showed off.
But by the rules of their game
Proof was needed, experimental proof,
Properly monitored and chronicled,
Something beyond a string of
Anecdotes distorted because
Everyone already knew they were true.
Truth spreads slowly. Our daughter
Came expeditiously exactly when due,
As has been typical of her for nearly
Forty-five years. I dropped out of
Grad school to find I belonged
Teaching the common and needy, but
Ran into trouble for speaking truth
To those who profited from lies and
Had no new job lined up after
We conceived another child. For
Unknown reasons he came early,
Seven weeks premature, weighing
Only four and a half pounds, with
A weak cry nevertheless heard
With joy. It was touch and go.
We could not take him home until
He weighed five pounds and that
Took many weeks. He was kept sterile
In an incubator way at the back
Of the viewing room. Once we asked
To see him and were royally
Chewed out by a starched nurse
Who would not endanger fragile
Babies for the bonding needs of
Sentimental parents. Abashed,
We left. However, he bulked up,
Came home, was cuddled, loved,
And generally treated as an infant
Getting away with being an infant
Because most of us must love them
If we have been loved ourselves.
Harlow’s breakthroughs had been
Massively pictured in mass media
And accepted by that time by peers,
But the word had not gotten through
To nurses in burgs like Waukegan, so
We were late bonding with our boy, but
He was not irreparably damaged, loves
A loving touch more than most,
Has weak but correctable vision,
Possibly from too much oxygen
In that incubator, early on made
Huge piles of pillows that he called
“Hunkabunks” that resemble a bit
His preference in loving women,
But is huge, hairy, competent,
And an ornament to the planet.
Learning is always slow to spread,
And pioneering is dangerous work,
For we cling to our soft illusions.
I recalled the story about Kathy
When I read a new book about Harlow,
Although it did not contain that
Too often stretched and unreliable tale.
I learned much, however, for instance
That Harlow was not his original
Name; that was Israel, changed on
Suggestion from a mentor, not because
The man was Jewish but because
The name sounded Jewish and such
Names were unwelcome in academia
In 1930. The mentor was Terman,
Whose reduction of the human mind
To a single number is pernicious
And supportive of a rotten class system,
But nevertheless a useful tool.
In this new millennium we are
Rightly embarrassed by our forbears
And, one hopes, meticulously looking
For beams in our own eyes.
Harlow lived long enough to catch flak
From feminists rightfully afraid that
Emphasizing the need to mother could
Be a tool of oppression in the hands
Of arrogant males who had for so long
Ignored common sense about affection.
It did not bother him, for pioneers
Need tough hides, and after his death
He felt nothing at all when attacked
By those who accused him of torturing
Creatures whose cousinhood to us
He had done much to establish
In experiments that we are too feeling
To repeat, and do not need to, thanks,
At least in some small part, to Harlow.
Thus, the story about loving Kathy
Is, if not exactly true, truth’s
Surrogate, comforting in this time
When we work to stop our ruin
With the warm mother wit we have.
--J. Quinn Brisben
6 MAR 2003
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