The first time I hugged my fifth-grade teacher at the end of the school day, I stretched out my arms and looked up at her with the wide-eyed expectancy of a little girl who hadn’t yet learned that adults aren’t always to be trusted. In turn, she gave me a perfunctory squeeze and a disapproving grunt. My dubious classmates joined in collective protest, asking her, “Why aren’t we allowed to hug you?” Our teacher responded simply: “Laura’s allowed to because she doesn’t know any better. She’s from the Midwest.”
