Some might say my knowledge of the trial was limited. What I knew, I’d overhead: walking past my parents’ room when they listened to the news, photographs in Time magazine at my pediatrician’s office, soccer moms’ conversations while I ate orange slices on the sidelines.
This was a misjudgment. Not growing up — that is, the refusal to put away childish things and indeed to maintain and affirm one’s inner child, even to the extent that it may blossom into an outer child, though with the wrinkled face of a seeming adult—this is in no sense a problem. Childhood is the only source of authenticity in America.