My street name is “Sly,” not by gang or negative slang, but because I was caught, at the age of four, trying to scoop out peach cobbler from under the crust, like I saw my uncle do, and got busted by Grandma.
My street name is “Sly,” not by gang or negative slang, but because I was caught, at the age of four, trying to scoop out peach cobbler from under the crust, like I saw my uncle do, and got busted by Grandma. She called me a “sly devil” and the name stuck. Now, I want to share my own grandfather moment: One day, I was sitting in my living room watching TV with three of my four grandchildren. I had made them a snack of graham crackers with peanut butter, an already peeled tangerine and a Gogurt tube. They were running in and out of the house, letting out the cool air from my air conditioner. I screamed, “Hey! Quit running in and out of the house! Stay outside!” In return, I received a high chorus from all three, “Okay, PaPa!” But then, the door opened up again and my five year old grandson jumped in my lap, and whispered, “Papa, this is my last time, okay?” and kissed me on my jaw. I can still smell the mix of tangerine and graham crackers. It was a pure smell of a loving trusting child who saw me as the alpha protector and he loved me.
