I had to run for what seemed like a long time, headed for home, confused and hurt and crying.

I bet everyone knows what the road home looks like through tears; mine looked like patches of dry grass, bumpy hard dirt, a tiny basketball court near a cow field, and ditches along dirt roads. I was about seven, and as I rode dirtbikes and climbed around in treehouses with the neighbors' kids that day, someone called me a hippie, in such a way that I knew I'd been insulted. I think there was some sort of horrifying children's ritual like "everyone stood in a circle around me and pointed and laughed." So I ran.