When I was about 12, some kids in my neighborhood beat me up a little.  I’d been taking the same route to and from school for three years–subway, bus, walking.  I’d gotten used to seeing the same faces every day, a comforting routine.  These kids were new faces.  And they beat me up a little. I remember seeing them on the other side of the street as we waited for the light to turn.  There were six of them, pushing each other, horsing around. I saw them see me. Their heads moved closer together, they pointed at me.  My heart started beating a little faster.  Despite the fact that my neighborhood wasn’t the greatest, I’d never had trouble before.  This looked like trouble.  I could have turned around or crossed the other way.  But then the kids would know I was scared and would either pursue or, maybe worse, make fun of me.  Besides, this was my neighborhood and I had just as much right to cross the street as they did. So when the light changed, I crossed, moving towards them with as elaborately casual a gait as I could muster. When we got within hailing distance of each other, I made eye contact with one of the kids and gave a little head nod.  “What’s u–” A fist slammed into my stomach and I lost my air.  Someone pushed me back.  An open palm smacked the side of my head.  A flurry of punches hit my back and chest.  The kids laughed, called me a little girl, jostled me back towards the sidewalk. Then, just as quickly, it was over.  A trickle of blood ran from my nose.  I had the urge to run after the guys and unload a six pack...