Born on first base, maybe even second
Let’s talk about privilege. As a kid, I never thought of myself as privileged. Growing up as a member of the sixth generation on our family’s cattle farm, I was busy with school, helping my parents on the farm or in the garden, playing a little soccer and spending time with my menagerie of pets. My biggest beef was arguing with my parents to drive me the 20 minutes into town so I could spend time with my “city” friends. Other kids had bigger houses. Wore clothes from the mall (not Walmart nor sewn by their mom) and shoes with labels like Reebok and Nike. The occasional kid had a swimming pool. Many had basement family rooms with cable television and HBO, and their parents drove newer cars. All in all, their lives seemed a little more gilded than mine, a little more charmed. And I would have sold my soul for a Swatch Watch. Then I went off to college and was assigned to write an essay about my childhood. When everything was laid out on the page in glaring black and white - juxtaposed
