Years ago, when I was a teenager, I lived in Laramie, Wyoming.

I've always remembered it as a mean town, uncommonly mean, a place of jagged edges and

cold people.

Where the wind blew so hard, it actually whipped pebbles at you, actually pushed trucks

off the highway.

I used to study in an elevation of more than 7,000 feet and got so sucked in by winter

storms, it felt like we were trapped.

Like there was no way out.

My family moved away before my senior year in high school.

I never wanted to go back.

The town's only high school, Laramie High, was grim even by normal high school standards.

One of my classmates killed someone, other students killed themselves.

Some boys were held down and branded with letters, like they were livestock.

Coaches of cut guys fighting in the hallways made them fight for real, and it makes shift

ring.

Laramie wanted to raise its men as much of cowboys.

Weakness wasn't tolerated.

And the girls had to look a certain way, act a certain way, where a certain kind of

eyeliner have a certain kind of by-level haircut.

I was bullied for the way I spoke, the way I dressed.

I can still hear some boys mock barking my name, Kim Barker, down the hallway.

Whenever I'd talk about the roughest place I'd ever lived, I'd always say Laramie.

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