I turn onto my block and hear music coming from the house. There’s always music. My mom keeps soul singers like Nina Simone, Billie Holiday, and Aretha Franklin on heavy rotation. But she loves contemporary singers, too. She plays SZA, Solange, or Jazmine Sullivan a lot. The music coming from our house today is Erykah Badu.

While we play a lot of soul songs, on the weekends, we go deep with hip-hop, new and old. My mom plays Tupac like he just came out. Her hip-hop game is the truth. She’s the one who got me listening to Kendrick Lamar, Childish Gambino, and J. Cole. We’ve seen all three of them in concert. They made donations to See Us and sent the staff concert tickets. My mom and I got all dressed up and acted like fools when we were there.

Okay, Ayo. This is it.

I put my key in the door and hope for the best. There’s just no turning back now. I ignore the tightness in my chest and enter.

My house is filled with pieces from up-and-coming Harlem artists. In addition to music, when I enter my house, I can count on two things: the scent of sandalwood and jasmine, and Harriet Tubman’s determined gaze.

The painting of Harriet Tubman is done in blues and grays, with a vivid splash of red. She hangs opposite the doorway with her pistol at the ready. The hard stare on her face says, “Try me.”

My mom and I spent days looking for an inspirational piece of art to put in the entryway to greet us when we come home; nothing’s more inspirational than our very own Moses.

Although I love the song that’s playing, I could use some quiet for what I’m about to do. I use the app on my cell that syncs to the stereo and lower the volume of the music.

“Mom, I’m home.”

“Be right down,” she shouts from upstairs.

I take a series of deep breaths and tell myself that it will be fine. I hear the door to my mom’s bedroom close. She descends the stairs.

My mother is a Maya Angelou poem. She’s all pride and all grace; sometimes, I swear she doesn’t actually walk, she glides. And God help you if you come into the room after her. No one remembers you were ever there.

She’s almost six feet tall, and has perfect posture. Her skin tone has more in common with Naija’s than with mine. But where Naija was created by midnight, my mother was created by dawn. And like dawn, her complexion is a rich hue of bronze and copper.