"Wha-a-a-at?"

9 am on a Saturday morning. Hugh is at the computer, music blaring. He likes to listen to whatever is his current favorite song over and over and over. This morning it's THUMP--THA--THA--THA--THUMP. . . with a constant refrain of "goddamn bitch."

Can't take it anymore. Demand that he change the song.

Sullen muttering. A moment of silence. Then THA-THA-THA-THUMP-dum-dum-THA-THA-THUMP-dum-dum. . . "Fuckin' nigga!" FUCKIN' NIGGA!"

I totally lose it. "HUGH!! That's it!" I shriek. "You are going to lose computer access for the entire weekend!"

He's dumbfounded. Complete innocence. Utter confusion. "Wha-a-at? I changed the song, just like you said."

I glare at my beautiful black son. "Oh right. As if Id find 'fuckin' nigga' more acceptable than 'goddamn bitch.'"

"Well, I didn't know THAT was your problem. Besides, if you'd just listen, it's a great song-- really socially responsible."

Damn, he's good.

I actually hesitate, doubting myself, for a moment. Then I regain my footing. "Not in THIS house. I will not have that word in this house."

He sighs, deeply, heavily, burdened by the weight of this crazed old lady, this lunatic white woman who dares to be his mother.