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A Walk in the Park - On the trail of Pymmes Brook
Posted in London on Saturday 6th August 2016 at 11:08pm
It's a long time since I visited Cockfosters...
My solitary previous excursion even predates the records I've kept on this venerable website. Back then I have a hazy memory of emerging from Charles Holden's low-slung, futurist station building to find a solitary row of tall redbrick shopfronts across a busy road. In my recollection, there were newsagents, laundrettes, a Chinese takeaway - the familiar constituents of countless similar ranges of small, local stores across the suburbs of London. I'm not sure if that was the exact mix of premises or whether I've projected the many hundreds of similar ranges of district shops I've seen since onto unlucky Cockfosters? I recall on that visit sensing something I'd later learn to call 'range anxiety' - the sense of being at the end of London was new and strange. There was too much to left to discover in the centre of the city back then, and with the line inked carefully into my Baker Rail Atlas I was soon off again, plunging back under the earth and into the city I was slowly growing to understand. I already had my secret haunts, my customs, my comfortable corners, and the chilly heights of the ridge shared by Middlesex and Hertfordshire could wait. In the event they waited about twenty years and a lot had changed at Cockfosters in the interim. The station was still the sleek, concrete-ribbed structure I remembered, nestling in a hollow beside the road like the skeleton of a prehistoric beast. It echoed the similar construction seen in the line's western terminus at Uxbridge - but it was grounded, purposeful - somehow less lofty and less deliberately architectural. Cockfosters station nestled neatly into its site, leaving a clear view across the heights. Following the rather charming 1950s vintage signage, I took the subway under the road and emerged in the pleasingly curved shelter which echoes the profile of the main station building . The red brick wall of shops loomed above me as expected - but oddly it had changed! The metal shutters of off-duty off licenses had been replaced by a capacious double-fronted café where people enjoyed equally impressive breakfast platters. A greek restaurant owner started his day by hosing down the footpath and watering hanging baskets dividing his inviting looking premises from a local whole-food market. The summery weather had brought people onto the pavement tables - expensive sportswear and jewellery hung from their tanned frames while their Porsches ticked in the heat. Cockfosters was looking east - aspiring to be the Essex suburbs over the ridge, rather than the more serious and genteel hamlets of North London. I felt out-of-place, but entirely unseen - because I didn't fit, they couldn't detect me. I ambled towards the Co-op and purchased plenty of water. It was already well over 25 degrees and getting warmer. My walk felt suddenly ambitious and the charms of this curious knot of civilisation seemed more attractive. The spattering skillets of sausage and vine-ripened tomatoes thudded satisfyingly on the table, the jug of inky black coffee was whisked away for replenishment. Summoning resolve I turned west - again, against every instinct - and approached the attractive honey coloured parish church. Chalk Lane wound around a knot of impressively large homes, and I realised I'd not understood just how suburban this area was before. I'd always written it off as some sort of aborted Metroland outpost, empty fields and aborted ambitions beyond the fringes of polite society. The provinces, perhaps. In fact it owed more to the Essex suburbs with their conspicuous evidence of wealth and consumption - the gated drives and electric doors were identical, the 'protected by...' security signs read the same way. But things were more restrained and sober here. The houses gave nothing away. They looked inwards, protecting rather than advertising their inhabitants' affluence. Soon the lane became decidedly rural as it passed the conjoined bowling, football and cricket clubs, and I turned west again onto the appropriately named Games Lane. This led me onto the fringe of Monkton Hadley Common - a swathe of impressively dense and ancient woodland which soon enveloped me in its cool, green canopy. I never felt totally isolated of course - the gables of nearby villas often intruded on my vision - but it was pleasant to walk under the trees. Lost in the woods, it was a surprise to spot a small brick bridge at the top of a rise ahead - there was Pymmes Brook, trickling earnestly south. I'd encountered my target early - and I first had to follow the rise of the land beside it to the sluice at Jack's Lake where it unceremoniously dribbled over a concrete beam into the channel below. Here was the source of that sluggish, reeking ditch I'd come upon in the Lea Valley many times. Clear and cool, energetically determined to reach its destination, mercifully unaware of the fate that awaited it.
Pymmes Brook, near its source at Jack's Lake
I recorded the source in a picture for posterity, and set off south alongside the brook. The smooth, root-bound woodland floor sloped down into the water, making it possible to walk close beside the merry flow - a rare pleasure for a London waterway. Soon though I was directed down a suburban footpath and the woods gave way to housing: two long streets of decent sized homes marching down the valley with Pymmes Brook dribbling between them in the middle of a green central reservation. The brook's course was unmistakably marked by trees and tall grasses. At the mid-point of the avenue a small concrete bridge crossed the brook. I continued south, taking the western side as it offered a route closest to the brook once I got to the foot of the hill. Here the brook disappeared under a solid brick bridge, and I was forced to detour even further to the west, climbing a hill and turning south again knowing the brook was behind a line of semi-detached houses which arced across the hilltop. As I walked the curve of the aptly named Crescent Road and dodged the rubbish truck which was lazily but aromatically plying the street, I caught occasional glimpses into back gardens framed by tall trees and deep reed beds - tell-tale signs of the waterway. At the crossing of Margaret Road I saw a woman in a livid pink dress sorting through a bag of books left out on a low wall by the householder. As I approached she tapped me on the shoulder and said "let's find you something blokey - what about this?" as she thrust a novel at me. The cover was all rusted ironwork with the text securely riveted onto the front and the authors' name dwarfing the title. It didn't appeal and I guess my face gave away my lack of interest as she began to vigorously sort through the pile again. By now the householder was out with handy carrier bags if we wanted to take the books off her hands. "James Bond!" - a slim volume was jabbed at me and I instinctively accepted it. Satisfied that she'd found me something, she returned to combing through the books for more nuggets of interest. Unsure how to end this transaction I commented on the weather and what a good idea the passing on of unwanted books was, before uncomfortably shuffling on my way. I paused at the next junction to look over the parapet of a bridge discreetly nestled between garden sheds and garages. The brook lay deep beneath, wider and swifter now it had been joined by the Shirebourne whilst it wound behind the houses.
Turning east onto the appropriately named Brookhill Road, I noted the ground rising again to the ridge on which Cockfosters sits - and if I continued this way, I'd find my way back to my starting point. I crossed the brook again here at an acute angle where it passed behind a small range of shuttered local shops. Beyond an untidy triangle of fly-tipped builder's rubble it disappeared once again under East Barnet - a settlement I confess to having never considered before. I turned onto the curiously named Cat Hill and noted the steady downhill progress - I was heading into the valley which the brook had carved over the millennia, still on the trail. From what I could see on reaching the bottom of the valley, East Barnet was a busy urban centre: a war memorial, a branch of Costa, a range of takeaways, and an automatic public convenience which was frustratingly out of service. I felt a little guilty for my initial impression based on a stretch of tired, closed computer repair shops. My route turned south here shortly before I reached the well-tended rose garden which fronted the stubby Celtic memorial cross, taking me onto Brookside. The waters of the brook reappeared, meandering along the bottom of a broad valley with green slopes rising on both sides. I walked on the grass, grateful for softer going underfoot, and tried to discern the curve of the brook at the foot of the valley in its green tangle. On the adjacent slope where the official path ran, a busy road rumbled along the ridge and the sun glinted from passing car windows. I was content with my off-road progress along this fine green swathe which finally opened out into Oak Hill Park - a broad and open plain in the midst of the suburban sprawl which had attracted the locals on this sunny morning. I found a vacant bench and sat beside the still clear and lively brook while I refreshed my water-bottle and rested my feet. I'd worried this walk might be just too suburban and uneventful, but the mix of geographical detective work and pleasant surroundings was just the tonic I needed today. Before leaving the park I detoured onto the west bank of the brook and walked along the rear veranda of a sizeable and dilapidated block of changing rooms in an attempt to use another of the London Borough of Barnet's public conveniences - but again, it was closed. Austerity bites in the oddest ways, I suppose. I trudged on, out of the park and into another well-tended grassy division between avenues of houses. East and West Walk flanked the brook as it made a slow southerly turn towards Brunswick Park - the next in a chain of green spaces which shadow the route of Pymmes Brook through Barnet. Here the trail is additionally dubbed Waterfall Walk, reflecting the regular man-made concrete dams which cross the brook, slowing its progress and restraining it from overwhelming its banks in times of flood - something the brook has regularly attempted over the centuries. The barriers made for a pleasant plashing sound as the water trickled lazily over each one. I clocked the temperature at 27 degrees, and despite my public convenience predicament, the sound of running water was a welcome psychosomatic coolant. A long stretch of old woodland soon enveloped the path again, the tree line to the west discreetly masking the transition from Brunswick Park into the austere circles of New Southgate Cemetery. Embedded deep in this woodland channel it was easy to imagine the trees forming an ancient forest - but they in fact run tightly along the path, with the back gardens of Barnet never more than a few feet away. The only tell-tale sign of humanity on this apparently lightly-used stretch was the reek of a sewer which is laid under the path and which seemed on the strength of it's detectable protests, to be tested to its limits just now. Strangely, the brook and its shadow path remained quietly and entirely disconnected from the suburbs which surround them. I savoured the cool after the strong sun in the open park.
Piccadilly Line Viaduct, Arnos Park
Rather unexpectedly at a sharp turn in the path a steel bridge deck appeared between the trees, with solid brick abutments swinging across the brook. Crossing a busy road under the bridge I found myself deposited at the foot of the great arches of Arnos Park Viaduct - one of the highlights of this walked I'd looked forward to, but hadn't expected to come across so suddenly. The northern extension of the Piccadilly Line in the 1930s posed challenges here - the Pymmes Brook carves a deep valley between the high ground of Finchley to the west and Southgate to the east - meaning that trains head north from the city in a deep tunnel before bursting into the open almost directly onto the ridge over the valley. The result are the elegant thirty-four arches of the viaduct which swings over the edge of the park. Underneath all this engineering effort, the still tiny brook which has miraculously worn this deep valley is canalised to dog-leg under the arches and continue its course to the south-east. It was a rare pleasure to get this close to such a magnificent structure and to be able to wander alone under the arches with the trains rattling overhead. Between trains, the silence along with the coruscating brindle pattern of red and blue brick made for a strange ambience beneath the arches. In the middle of each span, a central channel of tall and narrow arches runs the length of the viaduct giving a truly dizzying receding perspective. It was tempting to stride ahead, passing all the way along this secret inner path, until I realised that the deep concrete culvert abruptly divides the way, turning Pymmes Brook through two right-angles to continue a path through Arnos Park. I noticed that people didn't linger in the shadow of the viaduct and I had this stretch of path largely to myself. It was a shock then to move into the brighter part of the park and to find it teeming with families enjoying the sunshine and older folk contentedly occupying benches. I found my own bench and rested again, thinking about my lack of planning, and wondering quite how I could finish this walk?
Reluctantly leaving the park I was aware I was closing in on an old foe - the North Circular. This road has haunted my recent walks: blocking my way across otherwise open land and twisting into complex geometries which make pedestrian navigation impossible. Today though I was encountering the A406 in a formative state. Despite being improved to a grade-separated motorway from Finchley to Palmers Green, as it turns an abrupt right-angle here it degrades into a classic 1930s arterial with side streets and traffic lights. Semi-detached houses line the route on both sides, as traffic howls along avoiding the very suburbs they carve through. As is often the case, the road didn't travel alone, its course following the shallow valley of the Bounds Green Brook which joined Pymmes Brook near the park exit, masked by trees. Delaying my time on the road for as long as I could, I slipped across Wilmer Way to inspect the low concrete parapet of the bridge taking the Brook under the road, emblazoned with a proud but long obsolete Southgate District Council monogram. By following the quiet suburbia of Ashridge Gardens I could echo the course of the waterway until the road turned sharply north along Broomfield Avenue. In the tight elbow of this junction, a gap in the fence let me see the brook trickling along. I slipped my camera between the palings of the fence before realising that nearby a family were playing in their back garden and were regarding my presence with some horror. I quickly slipped my camera away and smiled - in the hope that this would belie the idea that the wild-haired, red faced man at the fence was some sort of prowler. Not daring to look back just yet, I scurried off up the hill and over the railway bridge. Pausing to look along the tracks to the south the sky-scraping antenna of Alexandra Palace recalled an earlier walk and suddenly things slipped into context - this walk was the missing link between the Northern Heights, the regeneration zone of Woodberry Down and my obsession with the Lea Valley. North London, turning on a hinge in the A406 felt connected and legible. At last that vast sweep of suburbs - each with its village centre and run of local shops, each with a hinterland of semis and hidden waterways - was locked into place. Maybe it was the sun, or the heat playing with perception - but I realised that the web of streams which had oddly attracted me to these environs linked into a wider system which described the topography of the north and east, drawing me into further explorations. I'd often stumbled over an answer to the question "why walk those areas?" because I really didn't know. It was an exhilarating discovery that there really was a pattern - and that this walk did, after all, fit into it. I celebrated my moment of discovery in the only fitting way - by detouring into a nearby Morrisons to finally use the conveniences and to grab refreshments. It was an odd place for an epiphany - but a supermarket in Palmers Green is as good as anywhere.
The New River at Palmers Green
Once refreshed and underway again, I realised that I might have to adjust the scope of this walk - it was well over thirty degrees now and the sun showed no sign of moving from directly overhead. The next part of the trip would be challenging - but the walk was to yield a further special moment here, just beyond the impressive modernist hulk of Palmers Green Library. As I briefly turned into Green Lanes, the long stretch of road which runs deep into London's heart, I crossed the New River. Having stumbled on this quiet, stately presence in Barnet many years ago, found it circling the reservoirs at Woodberry Down and getting to explore its outfall in Islington it was rather special to look along the greenish, silent way and to imagine the long course to its source in Hertfordshire. Never meant to be navigable, the surface of the water shimmered tantalisingly close - just inches from the deck of the bridge. Resisting a strong temptation to turn aside and walk the river back to London, I returned to the crossroads, crossing the New River again as it continued north and east fringed by an inviting green towpath. Instead, I finally had to succumb to the North Circular, meeting it at a confusing confluence of suburban side-road and filling station, with traffic crazily queuing in zig-zags to leave and rejoin the carriageway. The heat radiated from the road and the metallic skins of passing cars rhythmically flashed the sun directly at me. I ducked my head and pressed on along the shared use path, the only pedestrian in sight. I wasn't sorry to reach a subway which permitted me to duck under the shuddering, overheated road to reach Chequers Way home to the vast Arla Foods dairy production site. The brook fringed the edge of the factory, and I was once again able to walk close beside it on Tile Kiln Lane. Considering the proximity of the orbital road and the factory, the walk here felt like a silent stroll along a narrow country lane. Beyond the low rise new-build flats at the end of the road I could head into a football field or pass the faded interpretation panels into the Tile Kiln Lane Open Space. I took the latter route - disappearing deep between high grasses and elderly trees, skirting the sports field and leading back to the main road at Great Cambridge Junction. The footpath was littered and cracked by roots - evidence of a slow return to nature. Bursting out of the greenery into a complex network of subways slung under the roundabout but above the road, I left the brook as it disappeared into a broad, concrete culvert to take a turn around the southern quadrants of the roundabout as I surfaced at the north eastern extremity on Kendal Parade. A fairly down-at-heel run of shops edged around the corner block. This was once an important stop on the highway, but was now passed at speed by all but a few - and they seemed to be lingering outside without purpose, soaking up heat and radiating boredom. North and south, the arrow-straight A10 headed from Cambridge into the city, a road usurped by new Motorways and better retail opportunities, while these local denizens watched and waited. The circus felt strangely trapped in time - a ringway-era relic which even the North Circular now bypassed by diving underneath. It wasn't a pleasant spot and I soon shuffled on swiftly in search of the course of the Pymmes Brook once again. It was here that I made my only real misjudgement in terms of today's route. Confused by what appeared to be access through the Millfield Arts Centre, I struck off along Silver Street at some pace. Soon after passing the gates of the sizeable property operated by Enfield Council I realised I was on the wrong track - and a desperate diversion into a small close of flats and houses gained nothing but curious and suspicious looks from the locals. As luck would have it, an elegantly dressed woman clip-clopped out of a nearby house in a businesslike fashion towards a very expensive car which diverted their attention briefly. They mentally checked her - plain clothes police? Insurance? Doctor? Meanwhile, the brook sat behind a locked gate opened only by a residents key. I had to retrace my steps to the North Circular.
Into culvert, near Silver Street
Almost as soon as I started walking the treacherously cracked path at the edge of the road the warning that no pedestrians could proceed beyond the next quarter-mile was signalled by a huge green sign. I approached a lay-by where a Polish registered truck was parked, its owner sitting out on the grass in the sunshine. Suddenly a grinding and gasping sound announced the passing of a Jaguar saloon with smoke gushing from under the bonnet. He scuttered to a halt in the lay-by just a little shy of the truck and immediately began punching buttons on his 'phone. The trucker dashed around waving his arms and warning him not to open the bonnet. I passed by watching the strange scene and wondering just how I was going to escape from the road myself? Across the six lanes of traffic, the North Middlesex Hospital glowered over Edmonton - a grim and formless building. Unexpectedly, I found Tanners End Lane - a stopped up road severed from the A406 by solid bollards, and which would take me back to the Brook. In the event, I found myself almost where I'd have been had I pursued my original course on Silver Street, finding a paved slope leading down to a walkway deep between jagged, modern brick housing blocks. It was cool and shaded down here, the brook in its wide concrete channel. Up ahead, the channel divided into two, separated by a central beam which I recalled seeing at the outflow into the River Lea - though I've never established why this was done? There was some way to go for Pymmes Brook but much of it would be underground from here. The culvert loomed, broken tree-limbs trapped across the entrance. I climbed the ramp to Silver Street and into Pymmes Park - named from the brook which barely skirted its edge. I rested a while here, the sun still bearing down on the parched park. I could press on into Tottenham and try to delve for the brook under industrial sites and Ikea carparks, or I could call it quits at Fore Street - knowing the brook was bubbling under the junction on route to the Lea. Eventually I opted for the latter. It left a section of the route unwalked - but it was a troublesome and contested section which needed my wits and enough energy to manage the frustration of blocked routes and wasted turns. I had neither about me. The closest I could get to the route without walking was a bus along Fore Street and into the city, so I passed by Silver Street station and emerged at the crossroads where the North Circular emerged from the brief tunnel to make its arc over the Lea Valley. Edmonton was clinging to life via pound shops and small branches of national multiples. But it was alive still, and pushing my way to the bus stop wasn't easy in the Saturday afternoon crowds.
In some ways, Pymmes Brook defeated me today - I almost made the full length of the surprisingly resilient little stream, only to be thwarted by the heat on what I almost considered home turf. As the 149 bus trundled slowly towards Liverpool Street, I thought of the confluence with the Lea spied on other walks, a reeking culvert swinging alongside the river and finally joining it at Tottenham Hale. I thought of the tributaries I'd happened on - the Salmon and the Bounds Green Brook - and how they too deserved the honour of a walk. What had seemed to be somewhat inert amble across North London had ended up being the key that unlocked the territory I'd been unwittingly marking out for almost a year. Pymmes Brook itself is an unsettled stream - variously known throughout the last millennium as Medeseye, Millicents Brook and Bell Brook, its changing name and sometimes shifting path to the Lea appear to have confounded plenty before I arrived. London still has so many secrets to give up.
You can find a gallery of images from the walk here.
In an odd coincidence, John Rogers walked the brook in the reverse direction for his series of excellent Youtube videos. You can see his progress at The River of No Return.


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Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt split in September 2016 and after almost 18 months, the Hollywood actress appears to have moved on with a real estate agent, according to new reports.
Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt back in their happier years.
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text:
Freedom Gear
Michigan Freedom Network Endorses Mike Harris and Steven Gilbert in Special Elections
LANSING, MI – Today, the Michigan Freedom Network announced its endorsement of Mike Harris for State Representative in Michigan's 43rd District and Steven Gilbert for State Representative in Michigan's 74th District in the March 1st Special Election Primary.
"At a time when leadership in Michigan is sorely needed, both Mike Harris and Steven Gilbert have demonstrated a strong commitment to fighting for policies that advance the cause of Freedom for the people of our state," said Tori Sachs, spokesperson for the Michigan Freedom Network.
"As a retired Waterford Police Officer, Mike Harris understands the importance of first responders in our communities – we are confident that Mike will stand strong against radical attacks on law enforcement, defending our police, not defunding them.
"Steven Gilbert is part of a new generation of leaders who know the importance of personal liberties. Steven will always defend the people of Michigan against radical-left policies like endless government lockdowns and vaccine mandates that infringe on the rights of everyday Michiganders."
Mike Harris is a retired police officer from Waterford and owns a small business in the community. Steven Gilbert is currently a member of the Walker City Council and previously worked for Senator Roger Victory.
Michigan Freedom Network is an independent political action committee. The Michigan Freedom Network supports candidates who advocate for fiscal responsibility, economic freedom and the elimination of coercive and compulsory policies.
Michigan Freedom Network Makes General Election Endorsements for State House and Senate
Tidal Wave: Michigan Freedom Network Congratulates Conservative Champions for Primary Election Victories
After Whitmer "Roads" Lie on Mackinac Island, Gloves Come Off in New Ad: Fire the Damn Governor
Michigan Freedom Network Endorses 53 Candidates for State House, 22 for State Senate
Paid for by the Michigan Freedom Network with regulated funds.
Not authorized by any candidate committee.
PO Box 14162, Lansing, MI 48901

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


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Python for Everybody is designed to introduce students to programming and software development through the lens of exploring data. You can think of the Python programming language as your tool to solve data problems that are beyond the capability of a spreadsheet.
This book uses the Python 3 language. The earlier Python 2 version of this book is titled "Python for Informatics: Exploring Information". There are free downloadable electronic copies of this book in various formats and supporting materials for the book at www.pythonlearn.com. The course materials are available to you under a Creative Commons License so you can adapt them to teach your own Python course.
Sue Blumenberg is a Technical writer/editor at NASA Ames Research Center.
Elliott Hauser is a PhD Student in information science at UNC Chapel Hill. He's hacking education as one of the cofounders of Trinket.io.


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December 2, 2022 December 1, 2022 Bill Wolfe
Toni Ann Johnson: Growing Up Black in a Small White Town
On a summer evening, in the late 1980s, I had drinks in Hell's Kitchen with Nelson George, then a journalist and author, now a successful screenwriter-director-producer. My stage plays were receiving attention and he encouraged me to write about my experience growing up in the predominantly White town of Monroe, New York. We were seated at Jezebel, a Black-owned restaurant in the theater district. My mom, Vera Johnson, a veteran antique dealer, was an admirer and colleague of the owner, Alberta Wright, who'd been a dealer herself. Jezebel's was peppered with antiques, vintage shawls, paintings, and plants, which was reminiscent of my mother's decorative style.
At the time, Vera was one of the only Black business owners in the Monroe area, as was Ms. Wright on Ninth Avenue. And yet, I didn't recognize what was significant about my mother's experience, or my father's as a Black psychologist in the town, or mine as the perpetual "only Black girl." I didn't begin writing about any of this for decades.
In the mid-seventies, in a seventh grade English class, I mentioned wanting to write about the summer my family spent traveling in Japan. "You didn't go to Japan," Mr. Taravella sneered as if the idea was preposterous. My upper middle-class family didn't fit the prevailing paradigm of Blackness most White people understood in those days. He was mistaken, but I was twelve, and sat silently. Erased.
In 1978, two years after my teacher informed me I hadn't been to Japan when I had, Bill and Vera Johnson bought the Federbush Estate in Monroe. Max Federbush invented loose-leaf paper. The property included a pool and a tennis court. It was less than a mile from the neighborhood where, back in 1962, my parents rented a small house when they first moved to the area and racists hurled slurs at them and egged their car. Their water was cut off until a court injunction had it restored. Undaunted, Bill and Vera chose to stay. By 1963, they bought their first home in another part of town, despite a real estate agent's effort to thwart the sale. "This house is already in escrow," the agent lied. At the time, my father was chief psychologist at Orange County Mental Health Clinic. The Jewish family that owned the house was willing to sell it to them.
My linked collection Light Skin Gone to Waste is a fictionalized version of our experience. Despite the back story, the book is not an elegy on how mistreated my Black family was. My parents loved their lives in Monroe. My father befriended other professionals. He joined the tennis club. My mother started her business, hired White employees, and had a White housekeeper. She still runs her antique shop in the area. My father's private practice thrived in Monroe until he fell ill in 2013. He enjoyed numerous affairs with local women. White women. My mother knew. I knew. Everyone knew. When you're Black in a small White town your business spreads fast as fire.
I didn't have the good life my parents had. I couldn't avoid bigots in public school. When my novella Homegoing, also about our family, launched in 2021, hometown friends attended the online event. Beverly, one of the few Black girls from Monroe, was astonished to learn that I, too, was frequently called the N-word.
"I didn't think it was happening to you," she exclaimed. She didn't think so because I was light-skinned. I was so light, in fact, there were kids who didn't know my race until we were adults.
But in in mid-century America, in a small White town, the amount of melanin or lack thereof was of no consequence to racists. Beverly told a story of a kid who called her mother the N-word to her face. It was my turn to be shocked. No one, to my knowledge, attempted that with my mother. Harlem-raised and loath to back down from a fight, I suspect people sensed that if pushed, Vera would push back. And they'd be right. She grew up with a college educated father on Sugar Hill, a middle-class enclave, and she carried herself in a genteel manner that suggested a class above many of the residents of Monroe.
I, on the other hand, was socially second-class. Kids didn't care or even realize that I was upper middle class. Being Black was undesirable, no matter how light I was. A kid who believed White boys could not kiss me banned me from Spin-the-Bottle during recess at North Main Street Elementary. "Toni can't play!" he shouted, as if we were consigned to Jim Crow laws. As everyone stared at me, the girl who would never fit in, never be worthy of being kissed, never be considered equal to everyone else, I was ashamed, and again, silent.
While many of our neighbors were kind, others were hostile. My first memory of being called the N-word happened when I was five. Bullies threw rocks at me. A boy who'd been my buddy since babyhood discovered I wasn't White that day. He joined the others in hurling slurs. That left a wound. It's a scar I still live with. The incident is the basis for the first piece I wrote about life in Monroe.
Before that, I wrote the screenplay for Ruby Bridges, a true story and a Disney movie that teaches children about the civil rights struggle. On set, Chaz Monet, the six-year-old actress who played Ruby, and Jeffrey Spotto, the six-year-old boy who played Jimmy, were to shoot a scene that Ms. Bridges had described when I interviewed her. Jimmy was supposed to say, "My mother said I can't play with you, because you're a nigger." The child actor refused. "I can't say that," he exclaimed. "That's mean!"
The director, Euzhan Palcy (recently awarded an honorary Oscar), assured Jeffrey it was okay, and that it was his job to say it. His mother confirmed this. When they shot the scene again, the young actor complied.
The moment Euzhan yelled, "Cut," little Jeffrey threw himself into Chaz's lap, hugged her, and cried, "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it!"
And Chaz comforted him. "It's okay," she said, "because it's just pretend."
But it wasn't pretend. They were reenacting Ms. Bridges' real experience.
The overwhelming sweetness of that little boy who let Chaz Monet know her feelings mattered moved me. It was a kindness I'd wished for. My childhood friend never apologized.
My feelings didn't matter to others I encountered in Monroe. When I complained that a fourth grade classmate called me a nigger every day, my teacher groused through gritted teeth, "Can't you just ignore it?" Her refusal to address the situation left me to tolerate it and taught me that I was expected to remain quiet while he could say whatever he pleased.
My parents didn't want to hear that the life they created in Monroe was anything but better than theirs had been. I was gaslighted and silenced by them as well. That's why, when Nelson suggested that I share my experience, it didn't seem worthy. It had never mattered.
But now it does. The shame that kept me silent as a little girl is gone and my stories reveal the many things she couldn't say.
Toni Ann Johnson won the Flannery O'Connor Award with her linked story collection Light Skin Gone to Waste, selected for the prize and edited by Roxane Gay and published by UGA Press in October of 2022. A novella, Homegoing, won Accents Publishing's inaugural novella contest and was published in May of 2021. A novel, Remedy For a Broken Angel, was released in 2014 and nominated for a 2015 NAACP Image Award for Outstanding Literary Work by a Debut Author.
Accents Publishing
Chaz Monet
Euzhan Palcy
Flannery O'Connor Award
Jeffrey Spotto
Light Skin Gone to Waste
Remedy for a Broken Angel
Ruby Bridges
Toni Ann Johnson
UGA Press
University of Georgia Press
Published by Bill Wolfe
Editor, book blogger, and photographer. High school English teacher and ex-lawyer. Interests include music, literature, and football; travel; portrait and landscape photography; politics; Dodgers baseball; social justice; and learning Spanish. View all posts by Bill Wolfe
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Sometimes, the best way to nail down what you should get dad for Father's Day is to first figure out what you shouldn't get him.
Ahead of June 19, we rounded up five things to avoid buying for this year's Father's Day gift, either because dad probably wouldn't like them or they're not cost effective. And just in case your intended gift idea somehow landed on this list, we're giving you some reasonable alternatives, too.
The thing dad absolutely doesn't want is a pass to the gym. An overwhelming 92% of dads would rather be gifted anything other than a gym membership, according to a 2016 Father's Day survey conducted by cash-back website Ebates.
So whatever you do, don't give dad a message that he needs to get in better shape. If your father is athletically inclined, consider giving sports equipment like a basketball or golf clubs or tickets to a sporting event, such as a baseball game.
Sure, dad would love a shiny new grill, but your wallet probably wouldn't be quite as fond of this purchase. We're listing a barbecue under our "don't buy" category because it'll cost you a hefty chunk of change this time of year.
Father's Day falls in the same month as the start of summer, and that's when grills historically reach their peak in price. If you can, purchase a gift that's on sale instead, like tools or apparel. And save the grill for a Christmas gift.
Next up on our skip list is the all-too-common cologne. Just like mom is likely growing weary of flowers and perfume for Mother's Day, dad will appreciate it if you think outside the box this Father's Day.
If you want to stick to the grooming category, consider something a little less conventional. We'd recommend useful gifts like a razor and shaving cream.
We'll file this one under "the gift that may never get used" category. Unless your dad is passionate about his cup of joe, that quirky coffee mug with the "#1 Dad" logo on the side of it may end up collecting dust in the kitchen cabinet.
Instead, go for something more sophisticated, like a single-serve coffee maker and travel mug. Or opt for a gift card to Starbucks or your neighborhood coffee joint so dad can get his caffeine fix while he's on the go.
Nonspecific gift cards seem like the perfect present, right? But be careful — many gift cards come with hefty activation fees (all Visa gift cards carry a $3.95 fee, for instance). And that money would be better spent on a product or service for dad.
If you have your heart set on a gift card, NerdWallet recommends opting for a store-specific gift card instead. So pick a hardware store, department store or something similar. In general, these types of gift cards won't require an activation fee, so you and dad can get your full money's worth.
No matter what type of gift you select, always keep dad in mind before you buy. Sure, that shirt and tie look dapper, but are they his style? And yes, that high-tech tool is the newest drill on the market, but does dad have enough lingering home improvement projects to put it to good use? Utility trumps uniqueness.
And if you're totally stuck, try asking mom for a little inspiration. More likely than not, she knows exactly what dad needs and what he has way too much of.
The article What Not to Buy for Father's Day 2016 originally appeared on NerdWallet .