It is hard not to dislike children. I find this photograph of myself on my first day of school complicated, painful, nauseating. I try to trace the roots of this distress, and I realize I don't remember anything. Who took the photograph? It must have been my mother. Did I cry later that day? I must have cried. Did I want to go home? Of course I did. I was just a normal kid. But I don't remember any of this. I don't remember who I was, or what it felt like being me. All I have is this "evidence".

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