In 1961, I was sixteen and in the first semester of my senior year of high school. It was around Thanksgiving.
My boyfriend met all the characteristics on my teen-aged girl’s checklist. He was handsome, he was a gentleman, he had a good job, he had a 1957 two-toned Chevy, and he took me downtown to see West Side Story.
I was in tears at the end of the movie.
On the drive home, I wanted to talk about all the things that made the movie so great. My perfect boyfriend was quiet. I pressured him to tell me what he thought about the movie. Reluctantly, he said he didn’t see what the fuss was all about, and he thought some parts of it were silly. Silly!
I was devastated by his response. At that point, I told him that I couldn’t continue seeing him if our views were that different about West Side Story.