An event has stayed with me ever since I started school. I grew up in a village. Everyone was part of the community—had more or less the same standard of living. Single-family home, car, etc. Everyone, except those who lived in the village's only apartment block. I used the commonly used term "Bullenkloster" (Bull's Monastery) quite naturally and without thinking—that was the name of the block! Those who were outside the community lived in this block. Those with the insanely large number of children, those you were allowed to tease. Of course, I did that too. My father had this artist friend—anti-nuclear stickers, a knitted hat, long hair. He taught art at our village school. I knew their conversations: always on the verge of argument: totally controversial about values and perspectives—they loved that. I always listened with great respect. I noticed: they turned everything inside out, and that impressed me. In the schoolyard, I suddenly sensed that my father's friend was watching me as I chased the poor Bullenkloster children around the building with the village mob. I realized all my concentrated, sacrilegious disrespect for them. I felt terribly caught out—I had caught myself. I stopped. And never chased them again. Later, I was invited to a children's birthday party at the Bullenkloster—it was actually pretty great there.
