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I worked. Scrubbed floors, washed dishes, did laundry. I liked being Pop’s little helper. Liked being Mama’s right arm. Liked when Mama told her friends how much energy I had. She was proud of me and I was proud to be called her daughter.

At the same time, you could say I was the daughter of the streets. That was the Snoop Mama and Pop didn’t really know. Maybe if they had looked, they would have seen that side of me. But they didn’t wanna look. They didn’t wanna know. And that was cool with me.

Pops had his cronies who dropped by on some Saturday nights to drink their beers or sip their whiskey. When I ran through the room where they’d be sitting, Pop would stop me and say, “This here’s a fine young girl who’s growing up to be a fine young woman.”

“Sure-enough,” the cronies would say. “You doing a fine job with that child.”

All this praise was falling on my head. All this praise was feeling good, except I knew that Mama and Pop had their heads in the clouds.

They missed what was really happening.

For instance . . .

One day Mama says we’re low on some grocery items. Would I pick them up for her?

“No problem, Mama. I’m on it.”

I skip down to the corner store. I got a list and it’s taking me a minute or two to tell the man what I need.

Nigga waiting on line behind me says. “Move your li’l ass out the way.”

I ignore him, but he leans on me harder.

“Yo bitch, or butch, or boy, or whoever the fuck you are, get moving,” he says.

I say, “I’m almost through.”

He says, “Butch, you through now.”

Then out of nowhere this grown man comes up to the nigga. The man is dark-skinned and tall. He’s got on a green leather suit and alligator shoes.

“You best apologize to the young lady,” he tells the nigga.

“I ain’t apologizing to no fuckin’ butch kid,” says the nigga.

“I do believe you are,” says the man, who pulls out a gun and sticks it in the nigga’s ear.

Nigga says, “I do believe I am. I’m apologizing.”

“You better show her some respect,” says the man. “She my daughter.”

That’s how I met the man I wound up referring to as Father. He wasn’t my real father—I hadn’t seen that man since I was three or four—but this nigga was better than my real father. My real father was small-time. My new father was big-time.

Like Uncle, Father was a dealer, but not your average dealer. Father controlled all of East Baltimore. Uncle was in the game. Father was the game. Father was King.

Father took a liking to me. I can’t tell you why.

Once he gave me fifteen hundred dollars for school supplies.

Another time he took me out to see his mansion that sat way beyond the county line. Looked like something out of MTV Cribs. Marble and gold and red silk curtains. Pool tables and Jacuzzis and stained-glass windows.

Father was fast-talking and super-smart. He was nice as he could be to me, and didn’t want nothing back. But I heard some niggas say that if you got on the wrong side of Father he’d kill you and your whole family.

Father liked having me around ’cause I stayed quiet and just observed. He knew I was thinking.

“I can hear you thinking,” he’d say. “You’re thinking one day you’d like having all this shit up in here.” He pointed to the circular staircase in the entryway to his house.

I didn’t say nothing, but Father was right.

GODMOTHER

You don’t need no gangster godfather,” she said. “You need a good godmother. I’m your godmother.”

The woman talking was Denise Robbins. She lived right down the street. I was coming out of the sub shop when she was going in. She stopped me to say we needed to talk. I’d known Denise most of my life.

“You know I love my godmother,” I told Denise with a smile on my face.

“But you love running these streets more,” she snapped back. “Look here, baby, I understand what’s happening with you. I see it.”

“What do you see?”

“These fools out here, these drug dealers and drug lords, these gangsta godfathers look at you like a mascot. They see you like a pet. To them you’re a puppy or a kitten. You think they’re protecting you. Ain’t that right?”

I just shrug.

“Well, I got news for you, babygirl.