He hides his politics on the inside of his jacket, wears two scarves and has a light British or Scandinavian accent. I mean- he says poo-berty, for god's sake, but the man is brilliant. I never knew a person who can take what an idiot exclaims in such fervor and falsity, and let it become something of knowledge. The concept of understanding sits in the back of my tongue, deep in my throat, and it rattles until he calls it out. He knows what I'm saying when I don't. And he knows I've got this solution but I can't put it to words that do it justice. So he and that Greg kid- the philosophy major, and the only other man I really know who speaks of feminism more accurately than any woman I've ever come to listen to, extrapolates my shaky speech into substance. And I've likened this learning into something like love -a Platonic but true love, of all those who know so much more than I, and are willing to still take me seriously. It's rare to see with these eyes, true teachers, true seekers truth-seekers truth teachers and they who learn infinitely, inspiring me to be poo-pil.