During my time in law school, granny used to meet me at the train station when I came home at night because she thought it was too dangerous for me to walk alone (late or not so late) at night. Whenever she was unable to meet me, she’d “walk me home” by talking to me on the telephone as I walked from the train station. Although her actions seemed a little extreme in my twenties, I was used to her overprotective ways. In junior high school, she’d wait with me at the bus stop every morning. “Granny, the bus stop is right across from the police station,” I often pled. “So? You can still get kidnapped from in front of the precinct,” she’d answer. When is the last time you heard of someone getting abducted right across the street from a police station? In high school, she spared me the embarrassment of her presence at the train station, but gave me a very early curfew. “School lets out at 3 o’clock, so you ought to be home by 3:30!” she’d tell me. By the time I reached law school, both she and I reverted back to junior high. She’d be standing by the stairs behind the token booth, wearing a tough look on her face – no smile and her lips poking out like a pouting child. She looked rather intimidating – or as intimidating as an elderly woman wearing a wig that’s seen better days and a long black oversized down feather-stuffed coat with her legs stretched apart and leaning on a cane can look. “Granny, you’re not afraid someone’s gonna try to rob you,” I once asked her, thinking that her cane might make her a target to neighborhood thugs. “No,” she answered. “I’ll just start swinging my cane and speaking in tongues or talking to myself. They won’t mess with me cus they’ll think I’m crazy.” That made plenty of sense to me. No one ever messed with gangsta granny.