Four years old.

Every day, during the summer of 1997, I would go to the beach, wearing pink and white. The violent winds tugged at my short cocoa curls. I carried a seaweed-colored bucket and a plastic shovel, the color of the sun overpowering the clouds.

Sitting by the water, I built sandcastles. Tall and strong; I believed that they could never, ever be conquered.

As the summer wore on, older boys, who openly feared communism, would run through my castle--my world--conquering it; conquering me.

That summer was how I learned that men will always, always conquer me.