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on the door, and we just jimmied them till he gave up—me and my friend Morris Fraser. Big Nigger, we called him. He was on his way to six-four and 275 pounds, with not an ounce of fat on him. He and Almon Vanado and Billy Staples and Morris Allen were my best friends growin’ up. Billy didn’t make it—that’s a whole ’nother story—but Big Nigger and A.V. are my best friends to this day. Two of a kind. Lions with hearts of gold. Self-made men.
    We dragged a couple of couches into that there basement. Old, broken-down chairs. One time, we found a TV that still got a couple of channels. Used to bring girls down, too. We played spin the bottle, truth or dare—stuff like that. But we kept it clean. No drugs, neither. I only tried drugs once in my life. I ain’t lyin’. Somebody gave me a hit of marijuana that must’ve been laced with angel dust. I thought my heart was going to pop the fuck out of my chest. Never touched that shit again.
    Plus I’d seen what wrong living could do to people. Crack-addled losers nodding off in alleyways. Dead junkies gettingwheeled into waiting ambulances. Brothers knifing each other over nothing.
    Man, all those wasted lives! Was a winehead on our street, Zachary. Couple of drinks, he’d get up and sing—voice so sweet it’d bring tears to your eyes. Couple more drinks, he couldn’t even stand. He’d be sitting there, mumbling, drooling, talkin’ to the ghost beside him: “Give it back, nigger! Let’s see that bottle! Don’t drink all of it, got-damn you!”
    My mother would see things like that, she’d always find the lesson in it. “What a shame,” she would say. “We know where that man’s going to end up, don’t we, Beanie?”
    Spitting venom , I called it. These stories she told. It was her way of educating me. Any little thing, she’d run with it. The couple across the street, fightin’: “That’s no way to treat someone you love.” The girl down the block, dressed like a whore: “We know she gonna make a big success of her life for sure!” Men going at each other with broken beer bottles: “Let your emotions get the best of you, Bean, and you might find yourself doing something you’ll regret for the rest of your days.”
    Everything was fodder. She was going to educate me if it killed her.
    â€œDon’t want you going to the park after dark no more,” she’d say. “Bad element takin’ over the park.”
    â€œEverybody else goin’,” I’d say.
    POP! She’d whack me up the side of the head. There were no excuses in that house. No blame, neither. You took responsibility. Three people livin’ there, busy shapin’ me: Mary McCullough, Lorraine McCullough, Thurman McCullough.
    â€œYou think that makes it right? That everybody else goin’?”
    â€œNo, ma’am.”
    â€œIt don’t make it right. And if you took a moment to think about it, you’d see how it don’t.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I mumbled.
    â€œThink before you speak, son. Don’t just say every little thing that pops into your head. You got to learn to go down in the dark and be alone with your thoughts.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œWhat? You feeling sorry for yourself now?”
    â€œNo,” I’d say, but I was.
    â€œWell, stop it. Self-pity is self–brought on.”
    I didn’t always like this shapin’ Beanie business. I’d pout and look away and smack my lips like there was something sour in my mouth.
    â€œDon’t you smack at me, boy!” she’d say, and I’d hang my head. “And you look at me when I talk to you.” I’d look up, takin’ my sweet-ass time. And even when I was angry, I’d think, My mother is a beautiful woman.
    â€œAre you listenin’, son?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œWhat you been