Born a Crime by Trevor Noah

on. I’m never ever going to do a bad thing in my life ever ever ever ever ever—and to remember not to do anything bad, let me write something on the wall to remind myself…
and then I would pick up a crayon and get straight back into it, and I never understood why.
    —
    My relationship with my mom was like the relationship between a cop and a criminal in the movies—the relentless detective and the devious mastermind she’s determined to catch. They’re bitter rivals, but, damn, they respect the hell out of each other, and somehow they even grow to like each other. Sometimes my mom would catch me, but she was usually one step behind, and she was always giving me the eye.
Someday, kid. Someday I’m going to catch you and put you away for the rest of your life
. Then I would give her a nod in return.
Have a good evening, Officer
. That was my whole childhood.
    My mom was forever trying to rein me in. Over the years, her tactics grew more and more sophisticated. Where I had youth and energy on my side, she had cunning, and she figured out different ways to keep me in line. One Sunday we were at the shops and there was a big display of toffee apples. I loved toffee apples, and I kept nagging her the whole way through the shop. “
Please
can I have a toffee apple?
Please
can I have a toffee apple?
Please
can I have a toffee apple?
Please
can I have a toffee apple?”
    Finally, once we had our groceries and my mom was heading to the front to pay, I succeeded in wearing her down. “Fine,” she said. “Go and get a toffee apple.” I ran, got a toffee apple, came back, and put it on the counter at the checkout.
    “Add this toffee apple, please,” I said.
    The cashier looked at me skeptically. “Wait your turn, boy. I’m still helping this lady.”
    “No,” I said. “She’s buying it for me.”
    My mother turned to me. “Who’s buying it for you?”
    “You’re buying it for me.”
    “No, no. Why doesn’t your mother buy it for you?”
    “What? My mother? You are my mother.”
    “I’m your mother? No, I’m not your mother. Where’s your mother?”
    I was so confused. “
You’re
my mother.”
    The cashier looked at her, looked back at me, looked at her again. She shrugged, like,
I have no idea what that kid’s talking about
. Then she looked at me like she’d never seen me before in her life.
    “Are you lost, little boy? Where’s your mother?”
    “Yeah,” the cashier said. “Where’s your mother?”
    I pointed at my mother. “She’s my mother.”
    “What? She can’t be your mother, boy. She’s black. Can’t you see?”
    My mom shook her head. “Poor little colored boy lost his mother. What a shame.”
    I panicked. Was I crazy? Is she not my mother? I started bawling. “
You’re
my mother.
You’re
my mother.
She’s
my mother.
She’s
my mother.”
    She shrugged again. “So sad. I hope he finds his mother.”
    The cashier nodded. She paid him, took our groceries, and walked out of the shop. I dropped the toffee apple, ran out behind her in tears, and caught up to her at the car. She turned around, laughing hysterically, like she’d really got me good.
    “Why are you crying?” she asked.
    “Because you said you weren’t my mother. Why did you say you weren’t my mother?”
    “Because you wouldn’t shut up about the toffee apple. Now get in the car. Let’s go.”
    By the time I was seven or eight, I was too smart to be tricked, so she changed tactics. Our life turned into a courtroom drama with two lawyers constantly debating over loopholes and technicalities. My mom was smart and had a sharp tongue, but I was quicker in an argument. She’d get flustered because she couldn’t keep up. So she started writing me letters. That way she could make her points and there could be no verbal sparring back and forth. If I had chores to do, I’d come home to find an envelope slipped under the door, like from the landlord.
Dear Trevor,
    “Children, obey your parents in everything, for