Bullets whizzing by, horses neighing, men shouting, muskets firing. As a child I was never normal. While other kids read Percy Jackson, I read about George Washington. When others groaned about history, I squealed. When I was young I considered myself to be the biggest fan of the American Revolution. Though not for the reasons you might think. I did not care for the action, or drama, but rather, the moral dilemmas. It fascinated me that the creator of the phrase “All men are created equal” owned slaves, that Benjamin Franklin had several mistresses, that Alexander Hamilton cheated on his wife. These were my bedtime stories, my comfort, the one thing that remained constant in my life. Alas, I had no one to share my passions with. That is, until
