"We ain't afraid of Brooklyn."

What a lie. Was it really me who'd said that? That I wasn't the least bit frightened of the cruel streets of Brooklyn? Truth is, I was terrified. I hadn't had the best of times in Brooklyn, especially with Spot; that Irish bastard. When I first crossed that bridge, no one told me about how racist Irish kids could be. I can still remember how they sneered, how their lips curled in abhorrence to slur a thread of curses. I still shudder every time they look at me, because I know they're calling me a nigger in their heads.

Jack told me just to relax. He said that all people, black and white, are self conscious and assume that everyone is thinking negative thoughts about them. He said that people are so busy worrying about what society thinks that they don't even notice others; that they don't have time to judge the people around them. He's right, in a way, but wrong too. They don't need to spend any time at all judging me. They just see the shade my skin and automatically become my enemy. It doesn't make any sense to me. Shouldn't I be mad at their race for making mine slaves? But I'm not like them. I'd never sink that low. I'm not prejudice.

I'm still mad at Jack, however. He neglected to tell me about the Brookies being so brutal.

"I spent a month there one night."

I had. Actually, I lied, because it wasn't a month. It was a year, 50 years, a whole lifetime. Well, I guess it was only one night. But after all the beatings, it sure felt longer. When you're lying on the ground, staining the brick street with your blood, everything seems like an eternity. When your eyes are swollen and blacker than your skin and your bruises are throbbing, you have no idea how much time has passed. I didn't tell anyone, though. It's not like they wouldn't back me up, because they would. Jack would be at Spot's throat, Mush would threaten to stab him. And Shay; Shay would kill the Brookies. All of them, whether they were guilty of hurting me or not. He's not violent person, but he believes in justice. Besides, he's black too, and faced more discrimination then I have. He'd definitely get even.

Still, I didn't tell them. Manhattan and Brooklyn already had tension between them, and one complaint from my tattling mouth would start an all out war. We didn't need that during the strike. We were nothing without Brooklyn's fierce "Drunken Irish" power. I hate to admit it, but if Spot had never showed up on that day we were cornered, we'd all be mumbling about freedom while leaning against the walls of the refuge right now.

How can someone you hate be a hero? How can you thank someone for saving your life when they practically destroyed it?

"Oh hey Spot, thanks for saving us the other day, but I still hate you for almost killing me. Let's do that again sometime!"

He knew though. Spot knew, and every single Brookie knew that I wanted to tell my friends. When my boys were dancing and ripping up newspapers, he approached me, scowling.

"Ya tell anyone 'bout what we did to ya, we'll kill ya for real this time."

So I still keep it a secret. Whenever David asks me why I always look so afraid, I just tell him it's nothing. Pfft, nothing. I ought to give that word a new definition. Nothing; verb, to be horrified because you're sure a white kid will come out of no where and smash your head with a club.

No, I gotta lie. If I tell the truth, I'll be back where I was, battered and sore. With one exception: I won't be breathing.

No, I ain't scared of Brooklyn. Spot Conlon just makes me a little nervous.