Stigma: A mark burned into the skin of a criminal or slave.

I remember my mother crying  because she couldn’t afford shoes for us kids for the summer. Secretly, I rejoiced. I hated wearing shoes. I loved the feel of cool grass and hot pavement, the bare wooden steps that led upstairs, the sappy branches of trees as I climbed them, even the squishy barnyard mud that squeezed up between my toes after a rain. This taught me the lesson of the silver lining. I hurt for my mother, but revelled in my freedom.