I GREW up literally on the wrong side of the tracks in Paoli, Pa. My father was a printer — he fed paper into big presses; my mother sold Avon products and held various secretarial jobs. Because Paoli is adjacent to the more affluent Main Line of Philadelphia, I became sensitive at an early age to class differences and racial dissonance.

My parents were in a mixed marriage: Dad was Irish Catholic; Mom was Irish Protestant. My mother was a voracious and indiscriminate reader and loved the tiny library in Paoli. My dad washed the dishes, ran the vacuum, played baseball and taught Sunday school; my mother earned more money than he did and balanced the checkbook. So rigid gender roles have always seemed a mere convention to me.

I graduated third in my high school class, yet the guidance counselors, who knew my family background, told us that we could only afford community college. I got into Duke on scholarships and loans. Both my parents’ places of work provided added funding.

When I decided to major in religious studies, my mother worried that I was trying to make her happy. I told her that I wasn’t sure I believed in religion but that I wanted to understand why others did. While envious of the certainty that some of my more religious friends experienced, I’ve been drawn to the greater challenge that uncertainty presents.