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listenin’ to?”
    â€œYou.”
    â€œWell, that’s good,” she said. “For now. But pretty soon I’m gonna want you to start listenin’, to you.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œYou’ll figure it out.”
    I did figure it out. But it was a long time comin’.
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    When I think back on it, I think about all the good things I had, not the hardships. I had the luxury of being a little boy, and that’s really something. Lots of kids today don’t have that luxury. Grow up too fast. Don’t have time to have their kid thoughts and dream their kid dreams and use their imagination. Everything is hurry hurry hurry.
    But in our house they knew what they was doing. There was rules and regulations, and you best followed them if you didn’t want your ass whupped. You in charge of the garbage, well, youbetter damn sure be in charge of it. You had homework to finish, get it finished, child.
    At our house, dinners was important, too. We had dinner as a family whenever possible. Everyone together, heads bowed, saying grace. Adults served first.
    After, maybe you could do a little visitin’ nearby, but you had to be back by eight o’clock, when the streetlights came on, and in the bath by nine. And don’t use up all the hot water, either!
    Ten o’clock, lights out. With maybe an extra hour on weekends.
    Sundays there was church, and no ball playing or music afterward. Sundays was a day of giving, a day to think of others. Sundays you went out and was a good Christian neighbor, whether you felt like it or not. You delivered food to those that needed it. Ran errands when errands needed running. Checked to see how the old lady down the street was getting along.
    There was order in our house. Direction. Discipline. But a kid was still a kid, and they respected that. When a kid was around, you didn’t discuss no adult business. A kid didn’t have to know that the bills weren’t getting paid, or that someone was having trouble at work. Life was going to creep up on that kid soon enough, with all its hardships, and there was no need to hurry it along.
    That’s what I remember when I think about my childhood. That I grew up at the right pace. That my family allowed me to be a little boy and then a teenager, and made sure I became a proper man.
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    In 1973, when I was fifteen years old, my mama said we were going visiting. It was a Saturday. I didn’t feel like going. “Who we visitin’?” I asked.
    â€œNever you mind,” she said. “Just hurry up and get dressed.”
    We left the house, and she was breathing hard by the time we got to the corner. She was real sickly by then, and thin as a rake.
    â€œYou all right?” I asked. She was leaning against me for support.
    â€œNever better,” she said.
    She took me to 105th and Eberhardt, still not telling me what she was up to. When we got there, she walked me down the block, slowly, and stopped in front of a real nice house. “Now ain’t that a lovely house?” she said.
    It sure was. It had two stories, a front yard, a backyard, and a wooden fence, fresh-painted. It looked like something from Leave It to Beaver.
    â€œReal nice,” I said.
    â€œWell,” she said. “It’s ours.” She said it matter-of-fact, no emotion, nothing.
    â€œSay what?”
    â€œThis is our new home, Bean. We move in next week.”
    I couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t said a word about this to any of us. It had been Mama’s little secret. Even as she was fading away, Mama had been working overtime to take care of her family. And even now she didn’t want to make a fuss.
    We moved in a week later. We felt rich. We felt like landed gentry.
    We got a real house here, motherfucker. We like regular people. We somebody.
    â€™Course, it took a while to get used to the quiet. I missed the ruckus on the street, the loud voices and the fighting and the