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.
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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