I was a sophomore in high school and a cheerleader in New Orleans. I had my license and had been driving for a year. It was 1980 and I was 16 years old.

At night, my friends and I met at a bar on St. Charles Avenue, where drinks were poured into to-go cups at the door. My father drove a red motorcycle and my mother listened to Donna Summer, Bad Girls and Hot Stuff.

Not only was the school I went to and the city I lived in progressive, so, seemingly, were my parents.