I grew up walking in the road instead of on the sidewalk. We lived in a trailer park inconveniently situated over the highway that divided our conservative Ohio town, and the sidewalk was raised much higher than the road, by a good three feet. The added elevation made you easily visible to the passing cars below, and I didn’t want them to see me in my thrift store jeans and hand-me-down sweaters, which were usually about two sizes too big. But more than that, I feared the thought of being associated with my own neighborhood, a place where the local government came to drop off welfare lunches to us every day, white bread bologna sandwiches with a side of fruit cocktail.