When I was in first grade, a boy in my class punched me in the face one day, his fist coming like a comet, full force and out of nowhere. We'd been lining up to go to lunch, all of us discussing whatever felt urgent just then to six- and seven-year-olds -- who was the fastest runner or why crayon colors had such weird names -- when blam, I got whacked. I don't know why. I've forgotten the boy's name, but I remember staring at him dumbfounded and in pain, my lower lip already swelling, my eyes hot with tears. Too shocked to be angry, I ran home to my mom.

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