I’m an anthropologist because of Connie Sutton. I loved her seminars. She gave everybody a chance to shine, and to put down the competitive claws. But it was her mothering that changed my life. I decided to leave the program after a powerful white-haired woman in a short skirt told me forcefully that my work was not anthropology. When I told Connie of my decision, she asked me to meet her at a café near the Natural History Museum. We sat outside, ordered. Connie took my hand across the table, giving me that loving look. “This is the place where Margaret Mead talked me into becoming an anthropologist,” she said. We cried, holding hands. Connie’s big heart saved me from giving up on myself.