Growing Up Poor Around White People

You know, when I was growing up, I was probably about eight years old, and at the time, we were living in Silver Spring. Yeah. Yes. Common misconception about me and DC, a lot of people think I’m from the ‘hood’. That’s not true. But I never bothered to correct anybody…

because I wanted the streets to embrace me. As a matter of fact, I kept it up as a ruse. Like sometimes I’ll hang out with rappers like Nas and them, and these motherfuckers start talking about the projects. “Yo, it was wild in the PJs, yo.” And I’ll be like, “Word, nigga, word.” But I don’t know.

I have no idea. My parents did just well enough so that I could grow up poor around white people. To be honest, when Nas and them talk about the projects, nigga, I used to get jealous. Because it sounded fun. Everybody in the projects was poor, and that’s fair. But if you were poor in Silver Spring, nigga, it felt like it was only happening to you.

Nas does not know the pain… of that first sleepover at a white friend’s house. When you come back home on Sunday and just look at your parents like… “Y’all need to step your game up. Everything at Timmy’s house works.” Remember the first time you saw that? The cold winter and to be at a white friend’s house and see them motherfuckers in their living room without their coats on?

Timmy was one of my first white friends, like, in my life, man. Good dude, too. He moved to Silver Spring from Utah of all places. I guess his family was affiliated with that Mormon church they got down there. Me and him used to hang out. One day, I was at his house, just hanging out, and Timmy says, “Dave, why don’t you stay for dinner tonight?” I said, “Oh, man, I’d love to, but I can’t.” If I’m not home before dark, my mother will kill me.” That was a lie. My mother had several jobs. I hadn’t seen her in three or four days. And the only reason I lied to Timmy was because at that point in my life, it was my experience that white dinner wasn’t delicious. I’d rather go home and fry some bologna or some shit like that. But then old Timmy threw me a curveball I wasn’t expecting.

He said, “Oh, it’s too bad you can’t stay, Dave, ’cause… Mama made Stove Top stuffing.” I said, “What the fuck? Stove Top? Hold on, nigga. Let me make some phone calls real quick.” I had seen that commercial so many times, I had dreamt of getting my hands on some of that Stove Top stuffing. Finally I met a motherfucker that actually had a box of Stove Top in the house. I couldn’t miss this opportunity, so I pretended to call my mother. Then I came back and I said, “Timmy. Timmy, you’re not gonna believe this. Great news. Mom said I can stay.” He said, “Fantastic.” He said, “Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll help set the table, and then we can say the blessing?” I had no interest in setting this motherfucker’s table or saying these crazy-ass Mormon prayers. I just wanted the goddamn stuffing.

I told Timmy, “You know what? I’d love to help, but let me go wash my hands first.” My plan was simple. Wash my hands slowly, and by the time I’m done, the table will be set, the blessing will be said, and all that there will be left to do is eat. Went to the bathroom. I wash my hands very slowly. I must have been in there for about ten minutes. And suddenly… one of his mothers came to the door. She was like, “Hi. David, right?” I said, “Yes, ma’am.” She said, “Timmy tells me that you’re planning on staying for dinner.” I said, “I hope that’s not a problem, ma’am.” She says, “No, it’s no problem. We’d love to have you. It’s just that we weren’t expecting company. And I’m afraid… there’s not enough Stove Top stuffing… for everybody.”

So I kicked her in the pussy.