For years, I visited two neighbouring houses whose messy yards appeared to generate children in the way rags and wheat were once thought to generate mice. Every time the kids spotted me, someone would yell out, “The picture guy is here!” There was always half a dozen or more of them playing in the yard or the street, or being teased by the young, single men who also lived there. The kids’ parents, somewhat to my distress, seemed not to know “parent” as a verb, and never questioned my presence. This young man was showing off his little friend to me and, inexplicably, lifted up his shirt. Another young man who was watching us saw my confusion. “You know why he do that?” he asked, lifting the hem of his own shirt. I admitted that I didn’t. “Why, he a man!” the friend said. I still don’t know if it was the well-muscled torso or the “Pooh and Friends” stitched into the broad waistband of his underwear that proclaimed his masculinity.