Our story begins in New York City, 1948. The Empire State Building was the tallest skyscraper to ever touch the heavens, Broadway was located along one street and neon lights only came in primary colors
I was only 18 years old, attending Hunter College. At that time only girls were permitted to attend the school, and if you wanted to see anyone of the male sex you needed to venture elsewhere.
Thomas Hunter Hall On 68th and Lexington was our only building, and our lives revolves around it. It was where we laughed, cried, scandalized ourselves and began to question the world around us.
For a woman of that time, that was major. Most of all it was dangerous, and both men of high class and low class gawked and stared at us as if we were strange creatures. We had books, not ironing boards and learned about chemistry not how to use baking soda.
We were of age to be married but most of our ring fingers were bare, and some of us wore keds under our skirts rather than womanly heels.
I walked out of our home that sat within the neighborhood of Lenox Hill and made my way to Hell's Kitchen. Those days it was the only place nearby to have fun.
Although I was safely way above the Mason-Dixon Line, as a black woman it still was a danger traveling at night by myself.
I was the only of my kind at Hunter, and most all of my friends were Caucasian. I didn't mind it at all, my family was a part of the the wave of Jamaican and Caribbean family's bustling into the suburbs in the turn of the century. We made our enclave within the White Plains area, but there were still unwelcome by many.
But Manhattan was different, these girls themselves were different. Many of them grew up in the city, whether it be Upper East Side or Upper West Side, they were of high class. It's funny how people who come from a background of education were able to look past the prejudice that was so common of that time.
"These subways are really going downhill." Helen commented. She was very bubbly, her red lipstick matched her rosy cheeks. She truly was an honest girl who has an almost unnatural enthusiasm for life. The doors opened and we stepped out into the abandoned tunnel. It was clean and the tile sparkled.
"Okay, now we're at 50th street. What now?" Doris asked sarcastically. She was two years older than us, always was found in a pants suit and took shit from no one. Some people used to stay she was a lesbian, but half of the girls in our dormitory truly didn't even know what a lesbian is.
We found ourselves at a nightclub that was accepted by steep narrow steps carelessly placed in the sidewalk. Any passerby not paying attention could break their neck falling down in the obscure hole there.
We drank low quality alcohol and danced with men we didn't know. There was one man who caught my eye as Helen and Doris desperately tried to swing dance away with men their fathers would disapprove of.
Big band and jazz boomed around us as that stranger made his way toward me. He had dark brown eyes that were captivating in the low light and brown skin with the texture of butter. His eyebrows were polished as well as his short hair gelled back in a neat way.
It was like he was sent by Black Jesus himself, and he was the type of guy my parents would approve of. When he sat next to me I noticed he wore a uniform. He must've served in the war.
"Hey soldier." I boldly said. My cheeks were already hot from the alcohol I consumed, and suddenly I wasn't at as shy as I usually was.
"You're a fine girl tonight. What brings an educated girl like you down here?" He asked with a bright, white smile.
"A nice girl like me can't be in a place like this?" I asked with a risen brow. He gave me a smirk and sat down next to me.
"I didn't give you permission to sit next to me." I said to him and looked at him in the side of my eye.
"I couldn't help but get closer to a beautiful colored girl like you." He said.
"You point out the fact I'm negro as if you're not negro yourself." I mentioned back at him. He rolled his eyes.
"To me, color is beauty. A painting that's not colored in is be pretty boring, ain't it?" He asked. "I could go for one of those little pixies you walked in with—"
"They have names." I spat back.
"But you're the only girl I care about." He smoothly answered back. I silently sat there, annoyed that such a pretty face started talking absolute trash. He could see I was offended by his comment. "What's your name?"
"What's yours?" I asked rudely back.
"George." He rose a brow with a wide smile. He held out his hand for me to shake, and I stared at it like it was some foreign gesture I'd never heard of.
"Patricia." I answered back and shook his hand. "My friends call me Pat."
"Well I hope I'm a friend, Pat. Would you like to dance?" He asked with a smile, it was as if this man never stopped smiling. His teeth were beautiful though, it was evident why he smiled so much.
"Sure." I said reluctantly, and he stood up with his hand out. I took his hand and stood up also, and we went out on the floor.
A slower song came on, and the lady who sang had a voice as smooth as butter.
"Who is she?" I asked over the music.
"Ella Fitzgerald. She's popular in Harlem too, her voice can change someone's view on life." George said. "I love her voice."
"Sisters like this usually don't go far. It's a shame, she has way more talent that all the McGuire sisters put together!" I joked and George laughed.
"I guess so." He answered back as he looked down at me. We walked back and forth, and by the end of the night shared contact information.
Helen had her fill of men and Doris swore she met the love of her life in that nightclub, and we all laughed as we walked around the city afterwards.