Pamela Wilsey

The Beatles arrived in the U.S. when I was thirteen.  The perfect age to become a “Beatlemaniac.”  There were Beatle fans and there were girls like me: fanatics.  I was there for their first concert at Carnegie Hall.  I attended concerts at Forest Hills and Shea Stadium, and even snagged a ticket to see them on Ed Sullivan. 

My room was plastered with Beatle posters, my sweaters covered with Beatle pins.  I dressed like I thought a British girl would and wore my hair long and straight with long bangs.  I spoke with a British accent.  I even wore an I.D. bracelet that said “George Harrison,” indicating that we were going steady.  Seriously!  I wore that for a year, maybe longer, if I‘m honest.

When the Beatles were in New York, I stood outside their hotel and screamed.  When a rumor surfaced that the Fab Four were ensconced in a mansion in a nearby suburb, two friends and I left home at 5AM, walked miles to the gated house and hid in the bushes, shouting, “George!  Paul!  Come out!  It’s just us!” 

My biggest thrill, though, was actually meeting my idols.  Having heard they were filming a movie in the Bahamas, I suggested to my mother that we go to Nassau for my February school break, coincidentally the same week they’d be there.  By some magnificent stroke of luck, we were at the very hotel where the Beatles were shooting “Help!”  I was paralyzed, completely awed.  I found my tongue long enough to talk to Ringo and to hand George a birthday card.  George was turning 22 that day.  At the end of the afternoon the Beatles were leaving, flanked by dozens of fans, and I thought “now or never.”  I popped out of the crowd and threw my arms around John, who was closest, and kissed him smack on the lips. 

I went home a celebrity, forever known at school as the girl who kissed a Beatle.