Nana was My Guardian Angel.

I was sixteen years old and I was basically kidnapped.  My mother thought I was still seven like when she kidnapped me the first time.  I didn't care what I had to do.  I didn't care if I had to walk from D.C. all the way back to New York.  My ass was going back.

No matter how old you are, how many destinations you've travelled, how many people you meet, home is always home.  The safe place.  The place you can knock on the door at three o'clock in the morning and you will be let in.  They may talk shit later but they'll always let you in.

Nana's house was home for me.  No matter what I did, or what time of night it was, Nana always opened the door.

When Nana died I had "no home", that place that I could go back to.

Do you still have that safe place you call "home"?

Read more: Ghetto Bastard: A Memoir (Volume 1) and Ghetto Bastard 2 (Volume 2)

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