As a child five years of age, I remember sitting on the small cement porch of our home with tennis shoes on, and my best friend by my side. Morning dew permeated the air as the rays of sun streamed through the trees. My Dad stepped out the door, then swiftly back in and grabbed a flyswatter. As he stepped back onto the porch, he mumbled about my shoes not being tied, and began repeatedly smacking me with the flyswatter. My hands were red and stinging as I fumbled to tie my shoes as fast as I could. My eyes filled with tears.