She sat down on the bed. Kids could be mean, she thought, and it was no secret what Kat did for a living. “You mean ta tell me you came runnin’ through my house like a madman, trackin’ up my fuckin’ kitchen floor, cause some li’l no good, black bastard said somethin’ ’bout ya damn mother?” she asked. “I’ma whip ya motherfuckin’ ass! …”

“But Nana, he said my mother’s a stripper! And that’s how she can afford to buy me nice stuff—”

“So da fuck what!” she exploded. “I wouldn’t give a damn what that li’l son of a bitch said. I don’t care if he said ya mother was Santa Claus. You shoulda told the cocksucker to mind his own business. And worry ’bout how his momma get his shit. He don’t know what his momma gotta do to put food in his mouth and clothes on his back … That’s why black-on-black crime so high now, ’cause niggas don’t mind they business. I swear! …”

As his grandmother ranted and raved, he noticed that she never once denied that his mother was a stripper. His heart hurt with shame.

“Stay right here, boy! Don’t move. I’m callin’ ya mother over here right now, to talk to you.” The woman knew her daughter well and knew that Kat felt she didn’t owe anybody an explanation for her actions. But as far as Ms. Nicky was concerned, she had to answer to her son.

MS. NICKY CALLED KAT, telling her she needed to come now and deal with her child. Kat arrived an hour later. She turned over in her mind the entire drive over just what she would say to him. Where would she begin?

“Mom.” Eric smiled as his mother walked into his room. Just the sight of her lifted his spirits.

“Hey, li’l man,” she greeted him. “What’s dis I hear ’bout you fightin’ and carryin’ on ’round here? And what did I tell you ’bout dat cryin’ mess? Huh? …” His eyes were still red and the traces of tears were on his face.

“… Cryin’ fa girls!” he said, echoing his mother’s sentiments. If she wanted a weak son, she would have had a daughter, she always said. She knew growing up in Philly—the hood—where only the strong survived.

“That’s right!” she agreed. “Be strong. Don’t cry … You hear me? … Well, did you win da fight?”

“Yeah, Ma, I won! I hit ’im like dis,” he stated confidently, while showing off the boxing combinations his mother had taught him.

“Good, because if you didn’t, I’m takin’ you right back out there ta fight ’im again.”

She was trying to be tough on him yet at the same time gentle. She walked a fine line. Such was the life of a single mom in the hood trying to raise a strong black man.