I sat there and stared at the overhead projector screen, a presentation device somewhere between cave paintings and the internet, listening to Mrs. Williams (I think that was her name) drone on about a bunch of white guys in powdered wigs. At that time, I was focused on boys with dark hair and Guess jeans, usually not at the same time, but not really the history of the USA. Eleventh-grade Advanced American History class right after lunch was just in the way of a good post-McDonald’s nap. (Young people, we got to leave campus for lunch back then. It was a magical time.) I totally did not care.