In 2012, while living in Miami, FL, my oldest daughter — 15 years old at the time (her last name is different than mine, which I will not share) — went to spend the night at a friend’s house. I did not know she had other plans. She was invited to a party, which she attended instead. At the party she was given alcohol spiked with drugs. Apparently it was a gang initiation, and her blonde hair and blue eyes had made her a target. She was gang-raped and tattooed. Those words haunt me. I choke on them. I’ve been a practicing pacifist for a long time, but this rage made me question my core.