sometimes in these years writing and then-- why was it that weekends at nana jackson's felt like a world apart? maybe because dressed in old ball gowns, i traveled with the sun patch across the floor of the suburban new jersey neo colonial and soaked in more light and lux than my parents west philadelphia apartment could ever offer. delight and time, the wide-armed fragrant mimosa to climb in summer, the fireplace to stoke in winter and choices all the day long, whatever your little heart desires. yes, yes, yes, i knew i was being spoiled, that word that obsessed black grown-ups and even kids, what could be world to be spoiled, ruled by indulgence, incapable of withstanding hardships in the future. we were brought up by hand as pip in great expectations and much prouder. you're spoiled could get you a corrective beatdown, besides everybody needed to respect authority, limits and older people loved your black behind enough to bring you from wrong to right. and i knew myself to be a failure in toughness category and i was in terror with the sound of my mother coming for me and my father wi