1953

Trish was an.. interesting lady. She rejected the regular clothes she was supposed to wear, rejected housework and having children, and rejected long hair. Hell, she was a pianist and singer at a local jazz club. A black one. Which at this time, was not normal.

After losing all the weight she lost, she had less assets now. So it was more common for someone to mistake her as a man. She always got red in the face, told them otherwise, and they usually judged her after. She wasn't a strange person, she just preferred masculine styles, and didn't judge people. That was all.

The judging got worse after the war. People didn't really mind before then, because usually only women were around and although they distanced themselves they weren't harsh. But once it all ended and the boys came back traumatized and hurt already, they really really weren't nice to Patricia.

Lately she'd been getting more off comments, more slurs, being called a race traitor, and more problems for just looking and acting like she did. Today, as she stood outside the jazz club, smoking a cigarette, she contemplated starting to go out in one of her few skirts and cardigans. And maybe styling her hair like a pixie cut, which weren't that in anyways, instead. It was wearing her down.