The N-word was not spoken on Thatford Avenue; not in anger nor in jest. I didn’t hear it at home or school, or in the dreary little shops we and the other poor frequented or on the gritty streets where we played hopscotch. I’m not saying Brooklyn was a citadel for forward thinkers, but rather a holding cell for those who might produce a future president or those who would end up homeless. The Euro-poor of my childhood knew how tenuousness their financial safety was in golden America. It made us overly polite and humble to the point of timidity.