It wasn’t children only—I wanted other things, too. Not a Bachelor’s degree—that thick piece of paper thrown away long ago with the poems I wrote in college, all the useless ceremony and words disintegrating in some land fill East of San Diego. I wanted a heavy trophy, a won award, a king-sized bed; I wanted song. I wanted my father to put down the bottle. I wanted the boy with the pink cheeks and brown hair. I wanted an album cover, a national tour. I wanted the children in baskets, cradles—to come back to my hotel room and hear their beautiful cries of hunger.