From the Bandstand Memories Collection — A True Letter from One of Our Viewers, Shared with Permission
Dear Bandstand Team,
I hope this letter finds its way into good hands. My name is Gerald M., I’m 84 years old, and I’ve watched American Bandstand since the very beginning. I don’t write letters often these days, but when I saw the recent photo you posted of Arlene Sullivan, I felt something stir that I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time.
You see, my wife danced like Arlene. Not professionally, not on television—but in our kitchen, in the den, on the sidewalk when she thought no one was watching. She passed away two years ago, and I suppose I’m writing this not just to thank you, but to remember her in the only way I know how: through music, through memory, and through Arlene.
A Friday Ritual
We met in 1957. I was working part-time at a local hardware store in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. She walked in with her father to buy a mop, and walked out with my heart. She was bright, sharp, and knew every Bandstand dancer by name. I didn’t know anything about the show then. That changed quickly.
Every Friday afternoon, we watched Bandstand together. She loved Justine and Bob, but Arlene was her favorite. “She’s not putting on a show,” my wife used to say. “She’s just dancing because it feels good.”
It was Arlene who made her tie her hair up high. It was Arlene who inspired her to wear cuffed sleeves and keep her laugh small but sincere. And when the music played, she moved the same way—not flashy, but full of feeling.
When the Music Played
We didn’t have much back then. A one-bedroom apartment above the deli in Norristown, Pennsylvania, a secondhand radio, and a hand-me-down television with a snowy picture. But when Bandstand came on, our world changed. We weren’t two broke kids. We were dancers.
She’d pull me up off the couch. “Come on, Gerald,” she’d laugh. “Don’t make me dance alone.” And so we did—her leading, me following, always a step behind.
There was one song in particular she loved: “Venus” by Frankie Avalon. The first time we danced to it, she looked up at me and said, “This is the song I’ll be thinking of when we’re old.”
We played it again on our wedding night. And again when our daughter was born. And again the night she passed.
A Smile Like Arlene’s
I don’t know if Arlene Sullivan will ever read this. Maybe it’s better if she doesn’t. Maybe some things are just meant to be shared with those who understand.
But when I saw her picture again on your page, I saw her. I saw my wife. That shy but strong expression, that poise, that grace that didn’t scream for attention but never went unnoticed.
People always asked why we never had big parties, big dances. Truth is, we didn’t need them. She had her own stage. It was our kitchen floor. And once a week, she shared it with Arlene.
After She Left
Losing her was quiet.
No big goodbye. No long hospital scene. Just a slow fading, like a song you love slipping into silence. But every time I hear a doo-wop harmony or see a rerun of Bandstand, it comes back.
I still catch myself turning toward the den when the music plays. Half expecting to see her there, brushing flour off her apron, stepping back and saying, “Alright, Mr. Rossi, shall we?”
I always say yes, in my mind.
Thank You, Arlene
Thank you for dancing like you did. Thank you for being a reflection of all the quiet, graceful women who never needed a spotlight to shine.
Thank you for showing my wife that being soft wasn’t being weak. And for helping me remember her as she was, every Friday afternoon, in a little apartment with a radio and a dream.
Tell Arlene she helped a love grow. One beat, one dance, one quiet smile at a time.
With all my heart,
Gerald M.
Norristown, Pennsylvania
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