Fortunate

Growing up, I always had a roof over my head and plenty to eat.  I even had my own room!

Neither of my parents were alcoholics and they never beat me, not even once. (Spankings don’t count.)

I had no serious childhood illnesses; the worst part of my healthcare experience was going to the dentist, but I always got a lollipop from him after my check-ups.

My grade school was fully-staffed and well-resourced.  We had gym class every few days; art at least once a week; French in seventh and eighth grade; algebra was painful for a 12 year-old, but better, I guess, than no algebra at all.  

There were bullies, sure, but no guns.

High school was hell, of course, but we read Marx and Mao in 11th grade Political Philosophy and The Great Gatsby and Great Expectations in English.

Rents were low enough and the job market plentiful enough that I was able to move to San Francisco as a 21 year-old and find work and an affordable apartment in less than a week.  There was an earthquake when I lived there, but it was very minor—just enough to spill cans from the shelves in the corner store and provide an excuse for getting drunk that evening.

I’ve never lived in a city that was being bombed.  Nor have I ever been homeless, neither for economic nor geopolitical reasons.

None of my family members have ever been murdered, tortured, or disappeared by the government or drug cartels.  I’ve never been shot, stabbed, tasered, or clobbered with a truncheon by the authorities.

There’s still money left in Social Security for me to start collecting benefits; it may not last through the rest of my life, but I’ve got a handful of years without worry.

I’ll die of something sooner or later, but at the moment, I’m still healthy and not in any significant pain.

It’s not all perfect, though: I am a Pittsburgh Pirates fan.