Born in 1956

If you were born in 1956, Elvis Presley's hips were the most controversial thing in America. His first RCA single "Heartbreak Hotel" went to number one in January, and by the time Ed Sullivan put him on television in September—filmed above the waist to protect the nation's virtue—he had become the most electric presence in American popular culture. Rock and roll was the sound of young America, and it terrified exactly the people it was supposed to terrify.

Eisenhower cruised to re-election in a landslide that barely raised his blood pressure, and Congress passed the Interstate Highway Act—eighty-one billion dollars to pave the country into a unified nation of four-lane asphalt. *The Ten Commandments* and *Around the World in 80 Days* were the year's big pictures; Marilyn Monroe married Arthur Miller, which struck people as one of the stranger pairings in history. Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier of Monaco, which struck people as deeply satisfying.

The transistor radio was in every teenager's back pocket, and *American Bandstand* was heading to national television, Dick Clark's hair-sprayed calm presiding over a studio full of kids dancing the hand jive. A house in the suburbs was $11,700. The refrigerator was fully stocked.

The future felt like a brand-new Cadillac Eldorado idling in the driveway.