Nobody knows where they’re at when they’re born.
It’s a realization that creeps on you slowly until it eventually becomes a defining part of who you are.
I was born in a small town—a town so small that it used to be the smallest state capital in America—in a state that is barely distinguishable from its neighbors, at least among most people I’ve met from outside the area, and only because it has Mount Rushmore in it.
I was also born in a decade marked by recessions, inflation and a pair of oil embargos.
But, again, I knew none of this at the time.