![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() We lived, and this is the truth, halfway down a leafy road called Middle Street. We were as statistically average as it was possible to be, a near-perfect example of the white American middle class then in the process of rocketing to a prosperity-a widespread, shared, suburban standard of living-that the world had never before seen. A single big maple spread its branches over the front lawn and the driveway, dropping leaves on the maroon Plymouth that carried my father on his daily commute. Our home, which cost $30,000, was like a child’s drawing of a suburban home: a square block with a door and a window on the ground floor and two windows on the story above, one looking out from my bedroom and the other from Tom’s. More precisely, we moved to the town of Lexington, Massachusetts, a community of thirty thousand people which sat a dozen miles outside Boston. In my tenth year, in 1970, my family-my mom, my dad, my seven-year-old brother, and I-moved into the American suburbs. ![]()
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