It’s amazing what a two-hour conversation with my mother has recently unearthed.

Let’s get the big news out of the way: my father has prostate cancer. Yep, the big C. I guess I should feel some kind of way about it. Bad, maybe? But no…there’s nothing. No good feelings, but no bad ones either. I guess it’s just indifference, but I kinda just shrugged off the news when my mother told me in our monthly conversation today.

“Ooh, and Karsh, he done got so fat now. He’s gotta be about 400 pounds and he’s milking the system for all it’s worth. You know he callin’ himself Mormon now. First he was Catholic. Then he was Christian. Then Muslim. And now Mormon. You can keep searching all the religions in the world but your soul still ain’t gon’ be shit.”

And then we started talking about Scandal. My mother, ladies and gentlemen.

Speaking of which, here are some other bon mots from tonight’s phone chat:

How my mother shows her siblings love during the holidays:

How my AP English teacher tried to fail me so I wouldn’t be valedictorian comes full circle and all makes sense now:

How my mother gives dating advice:

We also talked about why I don’t come home more often and we both pretty much came to the realization that I can’t go home again because it’s evil.

Like American Horror Story: Coven evil.

We have museums to White history that were former slave plantations. There’s at least two monuments to the first Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan. Hell, we had 40+ years of white supremacy in the Mayor’s office (which only ended when he died).

The only reason my mother’s still there is because her parents are there and they’re old and not moving and you know old Black folks are like Newton’s first law of motion — if they don’t have to move, they ain’t going anywhere. And they hate coming to visit Atlanta because they’re small town country people afraid of change.

And so this lovely struggle continues. Every year they want me to come home, and every year I don’t because I just can’t go back there. Call it trauma — I don’t know. But if I do go, I’ve gotta be out within 24 hours.

Preferably on the right side of the railroad tracks before dark because you know…the South.