ABSTRACT
When I was in high school, before Donna Summer even had a record deal, my friends and I wandered through our lives reading, writing, and painting to the sounds of Donovan and Leonard Cohen. We were longhaired intellectuals. Fearless and buoyed by our own self-righteousness, we fought to maneuver funds from new gymnasium equipment to improve our pathetic library collection. We were loathed by our peers and befriended by our teachers.
