Candice Iloh - Break This House

Aye, Pop. you stink.

Hello to you, too, Minah, Pop says, cutting me off with an eye roll right before mushing a kiss into my forehead. I catch a whiff of stale cow blood before he continues past me into the kitchen. RelaxIm on my way to the shower already. Aint gotta say that shit to me every day. Cant expect your pop to quit his job just cause you protesting dead animals now.

Everything about me that Pop and I disagree on he calls a protest. Us new-grade young peopleas he labels usalways gotta be hollerin about something that worked just fine back when he was a teenager, and the problem with us is that we got too many feelings about things that are simple, like food and the moon. According to Pop, we spend too much time fussing over everybody needing to be vegetarians when what we need to be doing is training our ears to be able to hear real music again.

First of all, the showers that way. Thats the fridge, just in case you got a little confused. Second, aint nobody protesting. Just think they prolly should have showers in that death chamber you workin at, bro. I dont understand how a person can live with themselves after spending they whole day slaughtering everything that bleeds and then selling it to somebody on a foam plate and wrapped in plastic to take home to they families. I mean, it used to be nearly impossible for me to walk past Shake Shack without gettin got just last summer, but still. Ive been delivered from my ignorance.

All right, tell me something, bro, he says, pulling off his pit-stained white tee, now turned a dingy yellow. How could a place that pays for all of this, he says, pausing to look around the house like its the second coming of the Trump Towers, be a death chamber? He waits for the gulp of beer to slosh down his throat before flashing his gotcha smile. He wouldnt be himself if he didnt pause for dramatic effect when hes tryna prove that hes right.

Now, you know all of this dont mean nothin in Crown Heights. We live in a box, Pop. And Im pretty sure killing all gods animal children every day and calling yourself a butcher classifies it as peak chamber of deaths. Like, by definition. A vision of the Trump Towers flashes before my eyes in my imaginary Google search for American Chamber of Deaths before I shake it away to finish closing the deal. But Ill say a special prayer for your soul if I can get ten bucks.

You aint no real vegan, he says, tossing me a sweaty, crumpled twenty from his jeans pocket. Ill believe that holistic mess you into now when you stop taking all my damn money. Shouldnt your no-waste lifestyle be costing me less... or something like that? Get me two gallons of water and a bag of them plantain chips. The garlic kind. Pop always gives me more than I ask for with a side of fake complaints. He puts on this act every time I ask for a little change to go to the store, but hes always telling me that this is what hes here for. And hes always been here.

Damn, Pop. Wasnt tryna do all that. I was just tryna get something to drink.

Damn, Pop! His over-the-top impressions of me be having me weak. It doesnt matter that my voice is almost as deep as his or that raising me aint like raising those other girls I go to school with. I always sound like a spoiled, whiny-ass chick who hangs out at the mall all day with Daddys credit card when Pop spits back the things I say at me. Full-on squeak mode.

Firstly, watch your mouth. Nothings free, Minah. Plus, what you need a whole ten dollars for when you know all you bout to get is some orange juice and coconut water? Fancy-ass bodega-snacks tax? he says, scrunching up his face in disgust at the latter. Youre welcome. He finally turns his back down the hall toward the bathroom.