||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
[50 years ago last summer, your editor covered his first story in
Washington. Throughout the year, the Review will exhume some of his
writings]
PRACTICING ANTHROPOLOGY WITHOUT A LICENSE
Sam Smith
{From a speech delivered to the 100th anniversary conference of the
Berkeley School of Anthropology]
Ever since I got the invitation to speak to you all I have been bragging
because to an anthropology BA this is a bit like an ex-con being asked
to address a conference of the American Bar Association.
At a seminal moment in my career planning - which is to say around
sophomore year - the sainted Cora Dubois wrote of my analysis of the
Nagas, "This is pretty good journalism but it is bad anthropology,"
revealing a disorder which, as you may notice, plagues me yet.
Part of what had attracted me to anthropology in the first place was the
search for a society that would find my personal traits and rituals
acceptable enough for membership. Like, I suspect, many real
anthropologists, I was a subculture of one looking for my lost tribe.
I began this search for the lost tribe of Sams at an unusually early age
thanks to the fact that my school - Germantown Friends in Philadelphia -
was one of only two high schools in the country that offered a course in
anthropology at the time. And in ninth grade.
At this precise moment of teenage alienation and confusion, the school
offered the reverse of a Pandora's box, for when opened, anthropology
freed not evil but hope and possibility, leaving locked safely inside
the myth of the single, homogeneous cultural answer.
In the middle of the stolid, segregated, monolithic 1950s, Howard Platt
showed us a new way to look at the world. And what a wonderful world it
was. Not the stultifying world of our parents, not the monochromatic
world of our neighborhood, not the boring world of 9th grade, but a
world of fantastic options, a world in which people got to cook, eat,
shelter themselves, have sex, dance and pray in an extraordinary variety
of ways.
Mr. Platt did not exorcise racism, and he did not teach ethnic harmony,
cultural sensitivity, the regulation of diversity or the morality of
non-prejudiced behavior. He didn't need to. He taught something far more
important. Mr. Platt opened a world of variety, not for us to fear but
to learn about, appreciate and enjoy. It was not a problem, but a gift.
Of course, one of the difficulties with a school that teaches such
things is that you can come to think the rest of education is like that,
an assumption of which I was quickly disabused at Harvard U. Whatever
intelligence I possessed did not seem the sort required to excel at
Harvard. Long afterwards I would figure out that much of what Harvard
was about was a giant game of categories, in which real people, real
events and real phenomena were assigned to fictitious groupings such as
the Enlightenment, the Industrial Revolution, or the Freudian Tradition.
If you were brazen enough to examine evidence with as few paradigms and
as many questions as possible -- in short to use one's innate capacity
to imagine, to dream and to speculate -- you risked being regarded as
ignorant, or at least odd. In Harvard's cataloging system, the
accidental, the chaotic, the imagined, the malevolent, the culturally
unfamiliar, and the unique often got misplaced. I would later learn that
Washington wasn't much different: education was something one received,
rehearsed, and regurgitated. You didn't play with it, experiment with
it, and you certainly didn't make it your own.
If I had chosen one of the conventional majors, I might never have made
it through. Fortunately, or inevitably, I found my way -- academically
and geographically -- to a backwater of the university: the anthropology
department, which lived like an Amazonian tribe well off the main campus
in the dusty, dim recesses of the Peabody Museum. Out of some four
thousand undergraduates, only about 20 majored in anthropology, five of
them former students of Howard Platt. To be sure, there were plenty of
Principles, Theories, and Categories, but the greater time was spent on
observation and reporting, not so far removed from my journalistic
interests. Further, once among the artifacts stored with faded labels in
long, ancient, wood rimmed cases, or passing a canoe or totem pole en
route to class, you felt distinctly free of Harvard, fully liberated
from the Major Ideas of Western Civilization. In those dark corridors
was the path to a world of variety and exploration, a field trip into
all that lay beyond Harvard Square.
Now I had no intention of actually becoming an anthropologist. There
were practical problems such as a sybaritic streak that made unappealing
the thought of living months with strangers and without radio, bars or
jazz.
I admit to having thus taken up good space at the Peabody Museum and
wasting the time of some excellent teachers. I used anthropology much
the way a student headed towards law school sometimes uses the English
Department, as a last quick look around the world before entering the
endless dark tunnel of specialized proficiency.
Those who taught at the time included such figures as Clyde Kluckhohn
who would pace up and down the lecture hall stage in combat boots. Steve
Williams' classes were as well organized as Kluckhohn's were
anarchistic. Cora Dubois strode into class in a trench coat as if just
off a flying boat from the Pacific. I believe it was Dubois who told us
of a Pacific tribe that thought a woman could only conceive as a result
of multiple acts of intercourse, thus allowing the semen to accumulate
in sufficient quantity to produce a baby. I liked this idea given a
growing concern over the precipitous potential of personal relations and
I thought it a considerable improvement over those arrangements actually
in place.
On the first day of my freshman anthropology class, the professor -
William Howells - drew an invisible evolutionary time line on the wall
of the lecture hall. As we twisted in our seats the eras, periods, and
epochs of musical name and mystical significance boldly circumscribed
the room. Finally we came back to where the professor stood and when
there was nearly no place further to go, he announced that this was the
beginnings of us. We were only inches from the first fire maker.
My relationship with that fire maker, and with the creator of the stone
ax, the inventor of the spear thrower, and the first potter, would never
cease to be both humbling and glorious. Humbling because our true
evolutionary insignificance daily mocks our pretensions. Yet also
glorious because without the endless random reiteration of individual
creation, choice, and imagination, we might still be shivering in the
dark instead of reading a book with our feet up and wondering whether
there's another beer in the fridge. We are nothing and everything,
inexplicably and inseparably bundled together.
Thus armed, I went out into what we call the real world. I did not
understand the influence of anthropology on me and I make only a
marginal pretense of understanding it now. And I don't want to
over-credit it. After all, there were many other influences. For
example, I grew up in a large family, at times the ultimate
cross-cultural experience. Politics, with which I gained an early
fascination, also is far more culturally conscious than most trades. And
I am married to a social historian who has influenced me greatly -
although I suppose that social historians are really just covert
anthropologists - filling in the tiny gap between archeology and
ethnography.
I also suspect that I was drawn to anthropology in part out of an
instinctive preference for inductive thinking, reflected in my love of
reporting and detective stories. And my taste for irony is perhaps
related as well since irony is but another form of cultural
deconstruction.
Still anthropology has clearly stood me in good stead. For example,
writing as a young man on two critical issues of the time - Vietnam and
civil rights - I was, in the former instance, a cold war liberal and
recently discharged Coast Guard officer struggling to get it straight,
But in the latter case, I reflected confident if unpopular thought.
Vietnam I had to figure out; civil rights just came naturally.
In the winter of 1966 I took part in a bus boycott in Washington over a
fare increase and wrote a story about it afterwards. The leader of the
boycott - and the head of the local Student Nonviolent Coordinating
Committee - called me and said he'd like to meet. Which is how this
28-year-old white kid, who had only a handful of black friends, ended up
as Marion Barry's public relations advisor. . .
Unlike most white Washingtonians, I would remain involved in local
politics in a city that was two-thirds black. It could be tough - as it
was the day Stokley Carmichael walked into SNCC headquarters and said
that we whites were no longer welcomed in the civil rights movement.
Black power had raised its fist.
My solution was to think of myself as a minority, such as a Jew in New
York or a Pole in Chicago. I also drew from two wells - that of
anthropology and that of my Quaker education, the former to help me
understand what was happening, the latter to encourage continued witness
of my own values regardless of what was happening.
And so I relaxed and plunged ahead anyway. In fact, just a few years
later I was helping to start the biracial DC Statehood Party that
actually held an office or two for a quarter of century.
I continued to fall into an odd series of biracial activities, including
five years as the token white on a TV and then a radio show, otherwise
comprised of black journalists. On our last show a caller phoned and
said of my colleagues and myself, "I've finally got this show figured
out. Adrienne and Sam are married and Jerry is Adrienne's father and you
all need family counseling." I liked that because I shared the view of
intercultural relations of my friend Chuck Stone - former top aide of
Adam Clayton Powell Jr. He said treat everyone like they were a member
of your family. It doesn't mean false sensitivity or false harmony, but
it does mean a sense of reciprocal liberty, underlying solidarity, and a
willingness to share the window seat.
I sometimes think of good politics as the art of turning selfishness
into virtue and I think good multicultural relations often work the same
way - which is why ethnic restaurants are so popular. It's a good deal
for everyone.
Just like living in DC's ethnic minority has been a good deal for me.
Here are some reasons why:
- Black Washingtonians understood loss, pain, suffering and
disappointment. They helped me become better at handling these things.
- Teachers, artists, writers and poets are highly respected in the black
community. As a writer, I liked that.
- As a writer, the imagery, rhythm and style of black speech appealed to
me far more than the jargon-ridden circumlocution of the white city.
- Besides, white Washington always seemed to want me to conform to it;
black Washington always accepted me for who I was.
I had to discover such things by myself because no one - other than a
few anthropologists - had ever told me that diversity could be fun.
Anthropology also greatly affected my reportage. For example, most urban
plans are typically treated as phenomena with largely economic
consequences. Their cultural impact, however, is huge. With few
exceptions, every major urban plan I have examined has assumed that if
you create a better physical design, people will adapt to it for the
better. But these same plans also assumed that a major reason for the
improvement would be that the physical design would attract a better
class of people. And somebody had to get out of their way to let it
happen.
One of my other interests has been political corruption. To many this is
a simple matter, did the politician take the bribe or didn't he? But in
fact, there has repeatedly lurked a cultural story behind the headlines.
For example, one of the big changes in the immigrant experience has been
the weakening of institutions that acculturated the newcomer - and top
on the list of these institutions were the church and the political
machine. Richard Croker, a tough 19th century county boss of Tammany
Hall, grew almost lyrical when he spoke of his party's duty to
immigrants: "They do not speak our language, they do not know our laws,
they are the raw material with which we have to build up the state . .
.[Tammany] looks after them for the sake of their vote, grafts them upon
the Republic, makes citizens of them." Alexander B. Callow Jr. has
written that Boston politician Martin Lomansey met every new immigrant
ship and "helped the newcomers find lodging or guided them to
relatives." James Michael Curley set up nationalization classes to
prepare recent arrivals for the citizenship examination . . . But we
don't often hear things like that. Nor of the hidden agendas of those
who called themselves reformers, often as corrupt as that those of the
machines they were replacing but couched in nicer terms - such as
economic revitalization.
Corruption has changed like everything else and today our corrupt
politicians no longer even tithe to the people, they no longer carry out
feudal responsibilities for their payoffs. . .
There is also for all of us the problem that the nature of culture is
drastically changing from being something in which the individual is
indoctrinated and absorbed, towards something the individual must
preserve, restore or recreate in order to avoid the destruction of all
culture save that of the corporate market and the political systems that
support it. Whether we like it or not - as reporters or anthropologists
we are forced every day to join others in either strengthening or
destroying culture. We can write about it dispassionately later but this
afternoon we are all part of the problem. We must find ways to blend the
detachment of our trades with our existential responsibilities.
We live in what Marshall Blonsky has called a semiosphere which bombards
us with the UV rays of advertising, propaganda, and interminable sounds
and sights devoid of meaning - and which is controlled in large part by
multinational corporations whose intentions include the destruction of
both culture and individuality. Their goal, well described by the French
writer Jacques Attali, is an "ideologically homogenous market where life
will be organized around common consumer desires."
This new world is unlike any in human history - a world in which the
destruction of cultural and individual variety is high on the agenda of
the earth's political and business leaders; our human nature being to
them not a reason for existing but just another obstacle in their path
to power.
The strategies by which this onslaught can be countered depend on the
imagination, passion, obstinacy, and creativity of ordinary people who
refuse their consumptive assignments in the global marketplace, who
develop autonomous alternatives, and who laugh when they are supposed to
be saluting. The business of constructing culture is no longer an
inherited and precisely defined task but a radical act demonstrating to
others that they are not alone and to ourselves that we are still human.
We badly need you in this. Join the fray, remember that objectivity is
just another religion, celebrate what you have found, help us to
preserve all our various selves, help us to replace what has been lost,
and help us to avoid ending up with nothing but dead bones and still
shards - the archeology of human hope that no longer exists.
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
THE PROGRESSIVE REVIEW
Washington's Most Unofficial Source
1312 18th St NW (5th Floor)
Washington DC 20036 202-835-0770
Editor: Sam Smith
REVIEW E-MAIL: mailto:news@prorev.com
REVIEW INDEX: http://prorev.com/
LATEST HEADLINES: http://prorev.com
NEWS BY TOPIC: http://prorev.com/heads.htm
UNDERNEWS: http://prorev.com/indexa.htm
[50 years ago last summer, your editor covered his first story in
Washington. Throughout the year, the Review will exhume some of his
writings]
PRACTICING ANTHROPOLOGY WITHOUT A LICENSE
Sam Smith
{From a speech delivered to the 100th anniversary conference of the
Berkeley School of Anthropology]
Ever since I got the invitation to speak to you all I have been bragging
because to an anthropology BA this is a bit like an ex-con being asked
to address a conference of the American Bar Association.
At a seminal moment in my career planning - which is to say around
sophomore year - the sainted Cora Dubois wrote of my analysis of the
Nagas, "This is pretty good journalism but it is bad anthropology,"
revealing a disorder which, as you may notice, plagues me yet.
Part of what had attracted me to anthropology in the first place was the
search for a society that would find my personal traits and rituals
acceptable enough for membership. Like, I suspect, many real
anthropologists, I was a subculture of one looking for my lost tribe.
I began this search for the lost tribe of Sams at an unusually early age
thanks to the fact that my school - Germantown Friends in Philadelphia -
was one of only two high schools in the country that offered a course in
anthropology at the time. And in ninth grade.
At this precise moment of teenage alienation and confusion, the school
offered the reverse of a Pandora's box, for when opened, anthropology
freed not evil but hope and possibility, leaving locked safely inside
the myth of the single, homogeneous cultural answer.
In the middle of the stolid, segregated, monolithic 1950s, Howard Platt
showed us a new way to look at the world. And what a wonderful world it
was. Not the stultifying world of our parents, not the monochromatic
world of our neighborhood, not the boring world of 9th grade, but a
world of fantastic options, a world in which people got to cook, eat,
shelter themselves, have sex, dance and pray in an extraordinary variety
of ways.
Mr. Platt did not exorcise racism, and he did not teach ethnic harmony,
cultural sensitivity, the regulation of diversity or the morality of
non-prejudiced behavior. He didn't need to. He taught something far more
important. Mr. Platt opened a world of variety, not for us to fear but
to learn about, appreciate and enjoy. It was not a problem, but a gift.
Of course, one of the difficulties with a school that teaches such
things is that you can come to think the rest of education is like that,
an assumption of which I was quickly disabused at Harvard U. Whatever
intelligence I possessed did not seem the sort required to excel at
Harvard. Long afterwards I would figure out that much of what Harvard
was about was a giant game of categories, in which real people, real
events and real phenomena were assigned to fictitious groupings such as
the Enlightenment, the Industrial Revolution, or the Freudian Tradition.
If you were brazen enough to examine evidence with as few paradigms and
as many questions as possible -- in short to use one's innate capacity
to imagine, to dream and to speculate -- you risked being regarded as
ignorant, or at least odd. In Harvard's cataloging system, the
accidental, the chaotic, the imagined, the malevolent, the culturally
unfamiliar, and the unique often got misplaced. I would later learn that
Washington wasn't much different: education was something one received,
rehearsed, and regurgitated. You didn't play with it, experiment with
it, and you certainly didn't make it your own.
If I had chosen one of the conventional majors, I might never have made
it through. Fortunately, or inevitably, I found my way -- academically
and geographically -- to a backwater of the university: the anthropology
department, which lived like an Amazonian tribe well off the main campus
in the dusty, dim recesses of the Peabody Museum. Out of some four
thousand undergraduates, only about 20 majored in anthropology, five of
them former students of Howard Platt. To be sure, there were plenty of
Principles, Theories, and Categories, but the greater time was spent on
observation and reporting, not so far removed from my journalistic
interests. Further, once among the artifacts stored with faded labels in
long, ancient, wood rimmed cases, or passing a canoe or totem pole en
route to class, you felt distinctly free of Harvard, fully liberated
from the Major Ideas of Western Civilization. In those dark corridors
was the path to a world of variety and exploration, a field trip into
all that lay beyond Harvard Square.
Now I had no intention of actually becoming an anthropologist. There
were practical problems such as a sybaritic streak that made unappealing
the thought of living months with strangers and without radio, bars or
jazz.
I admit to having thus taken up good space at the Peabody Museum and
wasting the time of some excellent teachers. I used anthropology much
the way a student headed towards law school sometimes uses the English
Department, as a last quick look around the world before entering the
endless dark tunnel of specialized proficiency.
Those who taught at the time included such figures as Clyde Kluckhohn
who would pace up and down the lecture hall stage in combat boots. Steve
Williams' classes were as well organized as Kluckhohn's were
anarchistic. Cora Dubois strode into class in a trench coat as if just
off a flying boat from the Pacific. I believe it was Dubois who told us
of a Pacific tribe that thought a woman could only conceive as a result
of multiple acts of intercourse, thus allowing the semen to accumulate
in sufficient quantity to produce a baby. I liked this idea given a
growing concern over the precipitous potential of personal relations and
I thought it a considerable improvement over those arrangements actually
in place.
On the first day of my freshman anthropology class, the professor -
William Howells - drew an invisible evolutionary time line on the wall
of the lecture hall. As we twisted in our seats the eras, periods, and
epochs of musical name and mystical significance boldly circumscribed
the room. Finally we came back to where the professor stood and when
there was nearly no place further to go, he announced that this was the
beginnings of us. We were only inches from the first fire maker.
My relationship with that fire maker, and with the creator of the stone
ax, the inventor of the spear thrower, and the first potter, would never
cease to be both humbling and glorious. Humbling because our true
evolutionary insignificance daily mocks our pretensions. Yet also
glorious because without the endless random reiteration of individual
creation, choice, and imagination, we might still be shivering in the
dark instead of reading a book with our feet up and wondering whether
there's another beer in the fridge. We are nothing and everything,
inexplicably and inseparably bundled together.
Thus armed, I went out into what we call the real world. I did not
understand the influence of anthropology on me and I make only a
marginal pretense of understanding it now. And I don't want to
over-credit it. After all, there were many other influences. For
example, I grew up in a large family, at times the ultimate
cross-cultural experience. Politics, with which I gained an early
fascination, also is far more culturally conscious than most trades. And
I am married to a social historian who has influenced me greatly -
although I suppose that social historians are really just covert
anthropologists - filling in the tiny gap between archeology and
ethnography.
I also suspect that I was drawn to anthropology in part out of an
instinctive preference for inductive thinking, reflected in my love of
reporting and detective stories. And my taste for irony is perhaps
related as well since irony is but another form of cultural
deconstruction.
Still anthropology has clearly stood me in good stead. For example,
writing as a young man on two critical issues of the time - Vietnam and
civil rights - I was, in the former instance, a cold war liberal and
recently discharged Coast Guard officer struggling to get it straight,
But in the latter case, I reflected confident if unpopular thought.
Vietnam I had to figure out; civil rights just came naturally.
In the winter of 1966 I took part in a bus boycott in Washington over a
fare increase and wrote a story about it afterwards. The leader of the
boycott - and the head of the local Student Nonviolent Coordinating
Committee - called me and said he'd like to meet. Which is how this
28-year-old white kid, who had only a handful of black friends, ended up
as Marion Barry's public relations advisor. . .
Unlike most white Washingtonians, I would remain involved in local
politics in a city that was two-thirds black. It could be tough - as it
was the day Stokley Carmichael walked into SNCC headquarters and said
that we whites were no longer welcomed in the civil rights movement.
Black power had raised its fist.
My solution was to think of myself as a minority, such as a Jew in New
York or a Pole in Chicago. I also drew from two wells - that of
anthropology and that of my Quaker education, the former to help me
understand what was happening, the latter to encourage continued witness
of my own values regardless of what was happening.
And so I relaxed and plunged ahead anyway. In fact, just a few years
later I was helping to start the biracial DC Statehood Party that
actually held an office or two for a quarter of century.
I continued to fall into an odd series of biracial activities, including
five years as the token white on a TV and then a radio show, otherwise
comprised of black journalists. On our last show a caller phoned and
said of my colleagues and myself, "I've finally got this show figured
out. Adrienne and Sam are married and Jerry is Adrienne's father and you
all need family counseling." I liked that because I shared the view of
intercultural relations of my friend Chuck Stone - former top aide of
Adam Clayton Powell Jr. He said treat everyone like they were a member
of your family. It doesn't mean false sensitivity or false harmony, but
it does mean a sense of reciprocal liberty, underlying solidarity, and a
willingness to share the window seat.
I sometimes think of good politics as the art of turning selfishness
into virtue and I think good multicultural relations often work the same
way - which is why ethnic restaurants are so popular. It's a good deal
for everyone.
Just like living in DC's ethnic minority has been a good deal for me.
Here are some reasons why:
- Black Washingtonians understood loss, pain, suffering and
disappointment. They helped me become better at handling these things.
- Teachers, artists, writers and poets are highly respected in the black
community. As a writer, I liked that.
- As a writer, the imagery, rhythm and style of black speech appealed to
me far more than the jargon-ridden circumlocution of the white city.
- Besides, white Washington always seemed to want me to conform to it;
black Washington always accepted me for who I was.
I had to discover such things by myself because no one - other than a
few anthropologists - had ever told me that diversity could be fun.
Anthropology also greatly affected my reportage. For example, most urban
plans are typically treated as phenomena with largely economic
consequences. Their cultural impact, however, is huge. With few
exceptions, every major urban plan I have examined has assumed that if
you create a better physical design, people will adapt to it for the
better. But these same plans also assumed that a major reason for the
improvement would be that the physical design would attract a better
class of people. And somebody had to get out of their way to let it
happen.
One of my other interests has been political corruption. To many this is
a simple matter, did the politician take the bribe or didn't he? But in
fact, there has repeatedly lurked a cultural story behind the headlines.
For example, one of the big changes in the immigrant experience has been
the weakening of institutions that acculturated the newcomer - and top
on the list of these institutions were the church and the political
machine. Richard Croker, a tough 19th century county boss of Tammany
Hall, grew almost lyrical when he spoke of his party's duty to
immigrants: "They do not speak our language, they do not know our laws,
they are the raw material with which we have to build up the state . .
.[Tammany] looks after them for the sake of their vote, grafts them upon
the Republic, makes citizens of them." Alexander B. Callow Jr. has
written that Boston politician Martin Lomansey met every new immigrant
ship and "helped the newcomers find lodging or guided them to
relatives." James Michael Curley set up nationalization classes to
prepare recent arrivals for the citizenship examination . . . But we
don't often hear things like that. Nor of the hidden agendas of those
who called themselves reformers, often as corrupt as that those of the
machines they were replacing but couched in nicer terms - such as
economic revitalization.
Corruption has changed like everything else and today our corrupt
politicians no longer even tithe to the people, they no longer carry out
feudal responsibilities for their payoffs. . .
There is also for all of us the problem that the nature of culture is
drastically changing from being something in which the individual is
indoctrinated and absorbed, towards something the individual must
preserve, restore or recreate in order to avoid the destruction of all
culture save that of the corporate market and the political systems that
support it. Whether we like it or not - as reporters or anthropologists
we are forced every day to join others in either strengthening or
destroying culture. We can write about it dispassionately later but this
afternoon we are all part of the problem. We must find ways to blend the
detachment of our trades with our existential responsibilities.
We live in what Marshall Blonsky has called a semiosphere which bombards
us with the UV rays of advertising, propaganda, and interminable sounds
and sights devoid of meaning - and which is controlled in large part by
multinational corporations whose intentions include the destruction of
both culture and individuality. Their goal, well described by the French
writer Jacques Attali, is an "ideologically homogenous market where life
will be organized around common consumer desires."
This new world is unlike any in human history - a world in which the
destruction of cultural and individual variety is high on the agenda of
the earth's political and business leaders; our human nature being to
them not a reason for existing but just another obstacle in their path
to power.
The strategies by which this onslaught can be countered depend on the
imagination, passion, obstinacy, and creativity of ordinary people who
refuse their consumptive assignments in the global marketplace, who
develop autonomous alternatives, and who laugh when they are supposed to
be saluting. The business of constructing culture is no longer an
inherited and precisely defined task but a radical act demonstrating to
others that they are not alone and to ourselves that we are still human.
We badly need you in this. Join the fray, remember that objectivity is
just another religion, celebrate what you have found, help us to
preserve all our various selves, help us to replace what has been lost,
and help us to avoid ending up with nothing but dead bones and still
shards - the archeology of human hope that no longer exists.
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
THE PROGRESSIVE REVIEW
Washington's Most Unofficial Source
1312 18th St NW (5th Floor)
Washington DC 20036 202-835-0770
Editor: Sam Smith
REVIEW E-MAIL: mailto:news@prorev.com
REVIEW INDEX: http://prorev.com/
LATEST HEADLINES: http://prorev.com
NEWS BY TOPIC: http://prorev.com/heads.htm
UNDERNEWS: http://prorev.com/indexa.htm
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