My thirteen-year-old nephew, Drew, flopped into an overstuffed armchair next to me. “Putting the moves on Ms. Barlow, huh? Respect. She’s smokin’.” He held out a fist for me to bump. I simply stared at him. “Drew…” Lawson warned. “That’s not how we talk about women.” “Come on, Dad, no disrespect. I’m just spittin’ the truth, bruh.” “Well, let’s tone down that truth-spittin’, bruh.”
