'Mommy?'

'What up, yo?'

This is the basis for my vocabulary.

'You out of juice again? Shee-it. Food stamps don't grow on trees.'

Food stamps. We're on welfare.

When we pay for groceries with WIC, I want to pull my Wiggles T-shirt over my face and cry like…well, yes, like a baby.

We're on welfare because our mother thinks she's black.

'Dude, your mom's so ghetto.'

Forgive me. African-American.

'Shut the fuck up, man. She's still my mom.'

My older brother, Timmy, defends her. What else can he do? He's still loyal to her. He's at 'that age.' He'll rebel once he's a teenager. He'll rebel once she really embarrasses him in public. He'll rebel once he finds out his name is short for Tupac instead of Timothy.

I dread starting school.

Roll call.

'Biggie Wilson?'

Biggie.

I sound like an order of fries.

Who knows what nonsensical nickname I'll get. I'm hoping for Ben. B.G. Even B.S. would be better than being referred to by my first name forever.

She can do whatever she wants, I guess.

But why does she have to drag us into it?

Worst part?

Her hair.

Her strawberry blonde hair, dyed black, then dyed auburn and then permed. Roots growing out, styled in corn rows. Beads scattered liberally throughout.

I just want to shake her and say, 'Mom! How will I be able to show my face at the Goddamned park?'

But she wouldn't get it.

She'd just say, 'Damn, Biggie, thasalotta words for your age. You gonna be smart.'

We walk down the street…well, I toddle…and black people cringe. They hold their children close to them just in case whatever we have may be catching.

I wonder idly if Timmy and I disappoint our mother in our Anglicization.

'Mom,' I want to say, 'we can't help what we are.' Maybe throw in a 'We are what you made us' for good measure.