It’s 1976. I am 15 and have been “asked to leave” the progressive private school in Brooklyn Heights I’ve attended since age 4. This is not a surprise. I have been playing hooky all year, hanging out with boys from other neighborhoods, smoking pot every day. My parents wheedle me into another private school. Walking to this new school on the third morning, I stop in a pocket park off Court Street, knowing that if I miss the mandatory morning meeting, I’ll be kicked out. I miss it.
The city is a fantastic playground in 1976, ’77. My best friend and I crash gay discos. We wear our
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