Memoir
Date Published: 10-11-2022
Publisher: She Writes Press
In 1972 rural Pennsylvania, the author, a white college student, fell head
over heels in love with an African-American friend of a friend. With their
schools hours apart, they forged an intimate connection such as neither had
ever had through letters. But racist parents, a jealous friend, and their
own mistakes caused them to lose each other. Forty years later, they might
have another chance.
EXCERPT
On a cold January morning, I woke in his bed and knew that I could, I would, I had to make him love me.
My high school friend Hannah had introduced us the previous September. She’d invited me to a dance at their small private school, Moravian College, in our hometown of Bethlehem, PA. I had noticed that more than one friend wanted to introduce me to a “cool” black guy they knew. Probably because I was involved with Will, a black guy from Philly who was spending the year studying abroad. I wondered if Hannah was attracted to JT herself but was afraid to date someone black; most of the boys in our local pool were descended from white immigrants, especially German, “Pennsylvania Dutch.” Along with my friend Sharon, I was the one in our group who had started clubbing outside Philly, where we met guys from different backgrounds.
Yet I was curious about this Johnny Thomas, the Big Man on Campus. Outside the local area, few had heard of Moravian, but his skills on the basketball court were putting the school on a wider map. It wasn’t so much JT’s modest fame that intrigued me. It was the way Hannah spoke about him, like he was a religion that you’d want to convert to. Smart, funny, charming, handsome, and oh yeah, genuinely nice. He was the whole package, and maybe one that none of us, no matter whom we had dated, had yet to open.
My state college, Slippery Rock in western PA, was hours away, but I was home for the weekend. That Saturday night I got myself together to go to the Moravian dance. I washed and brushed my long dark hair, pulled on my one pair of bell-bottoms that weren’t patched and faded, and slipped into some faux Frye boots (I couldn’t afford the real ones). I was ready, but for what exactly? At the dance Hannah produced him rather ceremoniously: “Lynda, this is JT.” As if I had been waiting for him all my life. She was grinning and dimpling, clearly pleased, like she could take a giant bite out of him herself. She was right about him. Tall and rangy, big Afro, high cheekbones, expressive eyes. Dressed like a jock in a windbreaker, shirt, and pants. We made small talk, and he leaned over so I wouldn’t have to strain my neck looking up. I asked him if he wanted to dance, but he ruefully shook his head, “I might be the only black guy who doesn’t dance.”
Even if JT didn’t dance, his eyes did. They twinkled in a way that told me he knew exactly what was going on. I wasn’t sure what Hannah had told him about me. I wanted to be up front, so I managed to slip my upcoming holiday visit to my boyfriend in England into the conversation. We chatted a bit more, the dance ended, and we all said goodnight. The next day, on the bus back to my school, I wondered how Will, my boyfriend across the sea, was spending his Sunday at Durham University. Studying, probably, since he didn’t have the money to do much else. The realities of his life seemed very far away, so my thoughts soon turned back to JT. For some reason, a song from one of my roommate’s albums was stuck in my mind. Blood, Sweat & Tears, a song called “40,000 Headmen.” The song’s words didn’t speak to me, but the instrumental bridge was both haunting and hopeful. It stirred me, and without words I began to lay down my own story, like wondering whether I would ever see JT again. I found myself picturing JT’s dancing eyes, hearing that refrain repeat in my mind as the highway blew by.
I got busy with classes. Partied as usual, celebrated my twentieth birthday. Made plans to visit Will in England at Christmas. A big deal because I’d never traveled farther than family car trips to visit relatives or drives with friends to the Jersey shore. I worked in the cafeteria to save money and borrowed the rest from Colleen, my best friend from high school. Then came the holiday break, and it was time to travel across the ocean to be with Will. The size and bustle of the Philly airport was overwhelming. The speed and noise of the flight’s takeoff was terrifying to me. Every time there was turbulence, my heart leapt and my palms started to sweat, as I knew there was nothing but the deep black sea beneath. After six hours of that, I was able to catch my breath once the plane landed. Then there was a new challenge, would Will be at the airport waiting for me? His university was a five-hour train trip away, and mail was sometimes slow. I wasn’t even sure whether he had received my travel plans. But there he was, sporting a happy grin.
We spent two weeks together that included my first exposure to a whole new world, the culture of Great Britain. To me, it seemed like I’d stepped into the Shakespeare I’d read in school. In local pubs, the young Brits were drawn to Will’s ’fro and army jacket. They were curious about America and liked to brag that their society didn’t have the racial prejudice problems we had. But when we hitch-hiked to visit Will’s friends in Birmingham 150 miles away, we spent much of the next eight hours standing in the rain with our thumbs out. Hitching was common to our youth culture, even worldwide, but it was still rare to see a black man and a white woman hitching a ride together. When it was time for Will and me to say good-bye, he looked devastated. I stood there feeling only slightly melancholy even though it would be another six months before we’d see each other again. My lack of sadness confused me, and during the flight back, I wondered for the first time whether I really loved Will. When I arrived home, my parents asked no questions about my trip. They didn’t approve of my black boyfriend.
I finished the semester and then went home again for winter break. During the day I hung out with my little sister Barbie, now seven and always ecstatic to have me there. I liked to buy things for her that matched the way I dressed, like a big, floppy suede hat—“hippie chick” clothes she called them. At night I got together with my local hometown girlfriends, usually Sharon or Hannah. Then on the weekend, my best friend, Colleen, was home from the University of Pittsburgh. On our last Saturday night before Colleen and I would head back to school, she and Hannah and I were going to hang out.
Hannah called and told me that she’d heard JT was arriving back at Moravian that day. The winter athletes came back early to start practice for the upcoming games, so she’d hatched a plan: “How about if we three girls go visit his dorm with some wine and a trivia game?” I’d met Hannah through Colleen during our senior year of high school. Both Colleen and I had left town to go to school, but Hannah had stayed in the area. She and I started hanging out more when I came home for holidays and summers. Still, Colleen was the one I considered my best friend. Back when I’d started tenth grade, lonely because my junior high best friend had moved away, Colleen had reached out to me. From that point on we talked on the phone every day and did everything together.
Hannah’s plan sounded fun, but I did wonder about the dynamics. Hannah was pushing me toward JT, but her crush seemed obvious. Did he feel that way about her? Why wouldn’t he—Hannah was petite with an hourglass figure, thick black hair, and an impish grin. And Colleen was cute with her red-gold hair, big blue eyes, and flirty demeanor. Why wasn’t Hannah pushing JT toward her? Maybe because, although U Pitt had plenty of men (that’s where I’d met Will), I’d never heard that any of Colleen’s dates was black.
And what about me? Was I just curious about JT, or would I actually cheat on Will? And because of something so shallow as JT’s minor stardom or extraordinary good looks? Or was there a deeper magnet pulling me to him? I found myself humming the melody of that BS&T instrumental, imagining those dancing eyes. Lastly, what did Johnny Thomas want? Hannah said that he wasn’t known to be dating anyone, but I was sure he had plenty of opportunities. I wondered what he’d thought of me at our first meeting. And was this just a cheerful last hurrah of a group of college kids before having to get serious about our studies again? Or was something more about to happen?
At around seven o’clock we knocked, and JT’s eyes widened when he opened the door. I realized that if athletics were his priority, he might actually send us away. But no, he invited us in. Was he flattered that three young women had so obviously schemed to waylay him for the night? Or was he just used to this kind of attention? If he was, he didn’t show it. He seemed humble, a happy smile playing about his mouth.
He put on a Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young album, Hannah and I poured the wine into plastic cups, and Colleen pulled out a joint. Amidst the talking, laughing, and self-conscious jockeying for our social positions, I saw JT’s eyes keep dancing back to me. Soon it became clear: JT was mine, at least as far as that night was concerned. Nervous, I used my fallback strategy: project an air of quiet mystery, a good hiding place for my shyness. I could still flirt with my eyes and smile.
We played the trivia game. Whereas I was drawing questions with answers like “Mesopotamia” (answers I didn’t usually know), JT kept getting the vocabulary questions that I would have done well on. But JT was also good with language. “What’s a four-syllable word beginning with T?” “Tantalizing,” said JT, smiling at me. I leaned forward just enough to tantalize with a bit of cleavage. A little while later he drew the card again: “What’s a four-syllable word beginning with T?” It seemed even funnier stoned, and we girls all just fell out laughing. JT didn’t miss a beat. “Titillating,” he said, his eyes locked on mine. I titillated back with my mysterious smile.
Hannah sent me an approving look and private wink. Colleen watched him, her eyes bright with admiration. But seeing his attention like a beacon on me, she stood back.
I’d just about given up any hope of shining in this game, when suddenly a gift appeared in the form of sexual perversion. “Name a famous doctor starting with K.” Confident because I’d learned it in a psych class, I gave my answer, “Krafft-Ebing.” The others just stared. I explained that he was a psychiatrist who’d written the first reference book about sexual psychopaths, but they had never heard of him. “You made that up,” said Colleen, poking my shoulder. Hannah and JT agreed, and they all denied me the points. I grumbled but conceded, hoping that JT might at least suspect I had a vast array of intriguing sexual knowledge, which I most certainly did not.
At one point when we sat quietly after the game, JT put on a Blood, Sweat & Tears album. I was taken aback when “40,000 Headmen” began to play. As the instrumental bridge swelled to a beautiful crescendo, JT’s eyes again met mine. I knew he couldn’t know that the song had previously made me think of him, but I saw that he was just as moved as I was by the ways that music could touch us.
It was getting late. As we girls were leaving, JT gently pulled me back inside. “You don’t go back to school till Monday, right?” he asked. “Yeah, right.” He casually took my hand and looked down at his fingers playing with mine. “I have practice during the day tomorrow. Do you wanna come up later and hang out?” My heart clashed like the school marching band, but outwardly I played it cool. “Yeah, sure, why not? I’ll see you then.”
I caught up with the girls, who managed to hold it in until we were out of earshot. “What did he say?” “What does he want?” They both spoke at once, and I laughed. “Oh, just to see me tomorrow,” I said innocently, pretending it wasn’t the most important event of the night, the most thrilling thing that had happened to me in ages. But I couldn’t pretend for long; he probably heard our screams echoing down the hall.
About the Author
Lynda Smith Hoggan is Professor Emeritus of health and human sexuality at
Mt. San Antonio College in Southern California. Her work has appeared in the
New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Westwind UCLA Journal of the Arts,
Cultural Daily, and more. This is her first book.
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