Fact: Latino immigrants first started arriving in Michigan around the year 1915. On April 6th, 1917 the United States declared war on Germany and officially entered WW1.

Chapter 1: Nice to Make Your Acquaintance

Somewhere in 1917

You believe that if things in your life were ever meant to be easy and carefree, you would have been born to a different generation. One whose expectations were not dictated and influenced by such privileged laws of society. Though you do suspect that given any existence within any generation, there would always be some obstacle or class restraint that would thus hinder you and force you find your own way around each and every one of them.

Never would such a thing prevent you from maintaining endurance though it all and developing into someone greater and more illustrious than was ever expected or thought of for you. Not in any circumstances. You weren't about to let anyone, or anything, get in your way of such a desire. Sometimes, however, the way your life turns out is not always strictly up to you.

It so happens that the rules and expectations that exist in the generation that you were born into were initiated to relegate and shepherd those different than the masses of society, particularly American society. You had realized from a very young age that because of that, thing's would involve conscientious effort, take much longer and be much more difficult.

You are very aware of the fact that your life, that you have lived thus far, has been rather average, mediocre at best.

You know you were born during hurricane season in the summer of 1910 and that your last name is Lopez. Those were the first things your mama taught you when you were of age to comprehend. Facts that have been imparted to you in such a manner are always the simplest things in life to remember.

You had a decent childhood, you feel reasonable saying so, despite the notion that you still are technically an adolescent. You were provided with what you suppose was a normal up bringing, particularly in essence of someone who is constantly and immediately judged by the color of their skin. You aren't as dark as some of the other families you had seen living in your neighborhood, but it was enough so that you had to, and still must, follow the rules that had already been set in place. Particularly when the rest of your family appears darker than you at most times.

You're parents assured you that your Puerto Rican blood was distinct and something to be proud of. Your papa talked of strong wills and determination. Your mother spoke about an impassioned devotion and unhindered affection. They both preached a civilized decorum; you were always required to act better than was expected of you.

In truth, with the unvarying rules, insults and hate you were incessantly subjected to, you never really saw what your parents were assuring, but still you appreciated the effort. That still would not prevent you from achieving respect and a greatness reserved strictly for those of the white and aristocratic society. You always had the notion that you were meant for something greater, and it was going to come to you someday, you could feel it in your bones.

It was because of this that you always let the bad talk slip right off your back. That was all it was after all, prattle spoken by the ignorant and misdirected. Let them say what they wanted of you, as you always found it easier to disregard their words anyway. And if were stupid enough to keep talking, that was when you let your short fuse get the best of you and your opinion be known with vicious words and swift fists.

You found that your temper would get you in trouble a lot in your life.

Your parents, who worked in the sugar cane fields of your island hometown and were thus not often home, had always wanted the best for you and your three brothers. And they always tried their hardest to provide it. Stern as they were, you know you were raised in a good family. Your parents looked after those they loved.

That's why, shortly before you turned six years old, your mama and papa moved you, your ten year-old brother David, eight year-old brother Juan, and your two year-old brother Rudy, off of the island of Puerto Rico and set sail for the continent of America.

Your father, as well as many other laborers of your hometown, had caught wind of abundant job openings across the ever-expanding nation. It had been said that many of the American workers were signing up and going off to fight in a war and what not. And with the United States acquisition of Puerto Rico some eighteen years prior, the transition for your family was made easier.

So with hopes of grasping their own American dream, Oscar and Camilla Lopez set off with their family. Their expeditions found them in a small, ethnically established part of the neighborhood in lower eastside of Corktown, Michigan-which lay just on the outskirts of the mass-producing sugar beat, and auto-industry, city of Detroit.

It was new. It was exciting. It was America. You'd never seen anything like it.

Unfortunately, it was also poor, rundown, unsafe and disregarded. Particularly dangerous was the area of town in which you and your family relocated to.

It was a relegated, which was just another word for segregated, area of town. Or more accurately, it was a single street in town. One whole street full of little single-family homes, most of which spared two bedrooms and one bathroom maximum.

Irish Immigrants had originally established the neighborhood of Corktown back in the 1830's, but over time the area became more ethnically diverse, and much less spacious. The lack of space, and the general occupants of what little space was left, lead to heavy crime and the much more segregated area of town in which you and your family resided in.

Despite this, your parent's were very lucky in their acquisition of a home for you and your siblings. Unfortunately, the house you grew up in did only have three bedrooms and a bathroom. Not to be too ungrateful seeing as how that was more than most of the other families that lived on your street had. In the back of your mind though, you always wanted something more, and you knew someday you would have it.

Still, you were fortunate enough seeing as how you knew for a fact that some of the families that lived on your street had six or more individuals staying together in two bedroom, one-bath houses. You couldn't imagine trying to share with so many people in such little space.

You suppose it could also be called a fortunate occurrence that you lived with four boys who had an easier time going pee and getting ready for the day than you and your mother. And as the third youngest in your family, you shared a room with your littlest brother Rudy. It wasn't that bad because Rudy was small and quiet. At times he would wake you up in the middle of the night when he suffered night terrors but it sure beat bunking with your two older brothers. David and Juan never got along.

Juan was constantly trying to best David, and he was never successful. Juan was a bully, you all knew it, but David never had the heart to beat it out of him. You just hated that because you were a girl you were expected not to hit or fight or do anything that could get you dirty or present you in a manner less than ladylike.

That never stopped you though. In fact, you were more daring and triumphant than any of your brothers in every task you undertook. You rode your rusty old bicycle faster, hit a ball further, and you could punch harder (though you suspected David went easy sometimes, that or he just didn't enjoy hitting people).

You had to be better than your brothers-it was the only way to survive in your world. Since your life was nothing extravagant or special. You spent your free time imagining living a life of luxury-like the ones you periodically saw pictured in the posters posted around town, the ones you would catch a glimpse of on the rare occasion your mama would let you accompany her to market in town.

You knew that type of life wasn't the one you were cut out to live though. At least not according to anyone else. You see, your skin tone produced much more than constant ridicule. No one, sometimes not even your own family, ever thought you would go further than the town you lived in. It just wasn't something someone from your background ever did. You were bound and determined though, no way were you going to let the color of your skin slow you down.

You knew it would be harder to make something of yourself than your parent's had, seeing how they weren't doing much in the sense of moving up. You don't blame them though, they worked hard for their money, and they supported you and your brother's as best they could.

Your father was a sugar beat handler who worked for the local production plant. His previous experience, growing up and working on a sugar cane farm back in Puerto Rico, came in handy when acquiring his new job, but just like before it kept him away from home. He worked eleven-hour days five days a week and even though he only made about $1.75 a day, it was still far more sufficient as opposed to the wages he had made in his old country.

Your mother too worked in the fields and at the plant when possible. Though raising a family of four took up most of her time, especially with two growing older boys and a curious rabble-rouser such as yourself. You couldn't help that trouble always found you though-it just seemed to work out that way.

A neighbors broken window here. A dropped milk bottle there. Once you accidently set fire to the outdoor shed when Juan told you that you would never be able to start a fire as fast as him, you did, but it also spread faster than you thought it would. You got a lashing for that.

All in all, your life was average, and in truth your life was also often filled with disparity. It was hard not to be when you lived in a country where most of the other occupants loathed you. It was dark and dreary for the most part.

That is except for that one shining bright spot in it all. A light at the end of a tunnel where the sound found a way to shine through an illuminate you in a radiant, all encompassing light. Your life was mediocre and you didn't have much to look up to. But you did have something, and someone to look forward to seeing and being around. Someone who lit up your world like just that light at the end of the tunnel, a bright spot that found you when you least expected it.

This luminosity in your dark and dreary world that would save you over and over again from things you didn't even understand or realize about yourself came in the form of a blonde haired, blue-eyed girl named Brittany.

July 8th, 1917 lower eastside of Corktown, Michigan

You don't remember a lot of the little details of your childhood.

You remember when you moved to America, the excitement and the fear of coming to the Land of Promises and Opportunity. But the exact details of the move and events surrounding it, barring the obvious things, are foggy and clouded and seem so long ago.

You recall that your families move had something to do with a war, which would later be dubbed the 'Great War' that was raging on in Europe and how most of the able American's were going off and fighting in it. A lot of things were changing in America, a lot of things you didn't comprehend. You were young and you didn't really know what they all meant.

You hated remaining ignorant but what was an almost six-year old girl to do about such a thing? Well you had plans to do a lot, you just had to figure out how.

You know that at some point before your sixth birthday, you acquired the small scar that rests on the bottom right hand corner of your lip-where your tan skin connects with the deep almost purple of your lips-but you don't remember how you got the scar.

You know that one of your brother's, you don't remember who, threw a rock at old man Morris', the ancient and crotchety man who lived in the house at the end of the street, window and broke it. (You vaguely consider it quite possibly could have been you.)

You're fairly certain that you buried something of great importance, at least of great importance to child such as yourself, somewhere in the backyard but the what you buried and the precise where you buried it completely escapes you.

You are aware of the rules that exist in your neighborhood and within society in general. They control your life, and the lives of those around you. You know they are important, seeing as how your mama and papa had been sure to tell you about them from a very young age. But, for the life of you, you don't completely understand why the rules exist and why you are considered so much different than other people simply because the color of your skin is a bit tanner than others.

You don't remember a lot of details about your life, but you know one thing for sure.

You will never forget the when, how, what, where and why of the very first time you met Brittany Pierce.

You were outside; it was a hot July mid afternoon. You were trying to find any way to beat the heat and pass away the day until suppertime called you inside to the coolness of shade. You longed for the days of autumn when the leaves would flutter down from the trees and litter the earth in impressive hues of red, orange, and gold. You enjoyed the cool autumn breeze and the freshness that carried on the wind, especially when you caught the scent of fresh baked apple pie or a home cooked meal that was not your mama's.

You enjoyed your mama's meals very much, but it wasn't often you or your family were ever able to take pleasure in very much else outside of economical, easy to obtain food. Furthermore, it was a rarity to consume any kind of sweet food besides easily produced sugar cookies and other simple sugar treats. Like the those that cost less than a nickel for more than a pound. That kind of treat would last you and your brother's a good month if rationed correctly, and barring Juan's incessant greed.

You'd always wished to try a ritzy, grand, limited to the high-class dessert. Naturally, sugar was easy for your family to obtain, and steadily less expensive, but the apples and cinnamon required for such an American dessert like apple pie were habitually out of the picture for you.

Your thoughts had lingered on your longings far more extendedly than you had realized and when you gathered your wits about you and brought your mind back from it's daydreams you perceived the occurrences of that hot summer day.

You were standing outside the two story faded blue row house you called home. Your older brothers had retrieved the garden hose and were taking turns spraying each other with it in the front yard. It was something you often spent doing in the hot summer sun, and had been ever since your family settled in to the neighborhood almost a year ago to that day.

You were enjoying the cool spray of water that filtered through the hose. Lapping up its sparkling and refreshing properties. You leisurely watched as the occasion jalopy rambled on down the asphalt in front of you. Things were easy going and things were normal. But then Juan had to turn and start picking on little Rudy, just like he always does.

You and David stepped in to stop him before the youngest Lopez got seriously injured. Just like you always do.

That's when an automobile pulled up into the gravel drive of the house next to your parents. You were surprised and curious about that turn of events; the house next door had been vacant ever since you could remember. Sometimes you and your brother's joked and told ghost stories about the house to Rudy in an effort to scare the young boy. (You'd never admit it to David or Juan that at night you made sure to tell Rudy that the stories weren't true, you knew he got nightmares frequently and you didn't want to give him anything more to bring them on.)

The house next door to yours, which, built in the fashion of rowhouses that were so popular back then, was sectioned a mere four feet from yours so that it rested parallel to yours and perpendicular to the street. It was old and decrepit, abandoned and forgotten like the houses destroyed in the hurricanes you remember from back on the home island. You couldn't imagine why or how someone could live there. Or why they would want to. Not to say that your house or life had much in the way of anything better, but you had a loving family and in your consideration, a warm and welcoming home.

Nevertheless, you watched as an old backfiring Studebaker four-seater parked outside of the vacant chipped yellow house and a family of four exited the automobiles rather cramped confines.

Even though all three of your brother's released simultaneous gasps of surprise, you don't think anyone could have been as surprised looking as you.

Because the family that exited the automobile, with intent to live in the old vacant house, well they weren't just any family.

They were a white family. Their fair skin shone cleaner and brighter than any you had ever laid witness to before. It was unprecedented for such a family to live on that street. You didn't know of any such family within a mile radius, and you very rarely had set your eyes upon more than two white individuals at a time. But there standing in the gravel drive across the way stood four fair-skinned individuals.

Furthermore, they weren't just any white family, but a family of three blondes and one oddly misplaced looking light brown haired individual, all dressed in their Sunday best family. You don't think you'd ever seen such golden blonde locks in all your life. The color was a vibrant yellow that reminded you of the perfect literary descriptions of princesses from fairy tales and make believe that your mother used to tell you of when you were only a baby.

The family consisted of two males and two females. Mother and father, brother and sister. (You assumed.)

You are fairly certain you recall your jaw falling down to the ground. (If of course that were a possibility).

What was even more shocking, you vividly remember, was the way the smallest blonde girl had turned and gazed in the direction of you and your undoubtedly gapping brothers.

Her skin, though still shining clean and bright, looked as though it had been lightly kissed by the sun making it slightly more of a peach complexion than the rest of her family. From your position, you could even make out a section of skin darkened just slightly more than that rest in a patch that stretched over her nose. Spattered in constellations that could rival the very stars.

Her locks of golden blonde hair fell in ringlets past her shoulders, and framed her oval face.

Even from the distance, you could tell that her eyes were the bluest you'd ever seen. More so than the water in summertime at the beach your parents used to take you to back in Puerto Rico when you were younger.

Pure, bright, beautiful.

The girl seemed to study your brother's for a few seconds before she turned her attention on you. A small smile formed on her face.

In the amount of time it took for your heart to miss a beat, the girl had skipped over and was tilted over slightly at the waist her head cocked up and her eyes peering up at you. You should have felt embarrassed that you were shorter, but you always had been small for your age.

The look of curiosity from the blonde did not deter you from studying her, you were used to new people staring at you. Sometimes the looks were inquisitive, displaying a depth of interest. Often times, they were wholly incredulous and critically condemning as if the very sight of you was repulsive.

You guessed that the blonde's intense, and resolute, curiosity in you stemed from her very initial suspicions of you. That is to say, you believed said suspicions were most undoubtedly concerning whether or not you were, in fact, a boy. You were after all dressed as such, but in a family of boys your mother never had the opportunity to put you in anything else less boyish.

Mostly because you wouldn't let her. Dresses were nice and all, but your preferred the less constricting feel and freedom of a pair of trousers and a button down shirt. Something that wouldn't change much through the years.

"Hello." A voice suddenly startled you out of your inner thoughts. Your eyes snapped up and met blue, again. You got a little lost in them. You remembered you had been previously addressed and where found in want of a reply.

The girl was not only talking to you, but she was still smiling, and once more, she was smiling at you. The way her voice flowed from her lips reminded you of the Sunday hymns you'd heard as they carried down the line from the gospel church just down the street. Except this girl's voice was more resplendent than any you had ever heard before.

Sweet, smooth, angelic.

You quickly glanced to your left where you knew your oldest brother David was standing. You were shocked to find he had his head formally bowed and his linen cream-colored flat cap grasped firmly and respectfully in his hands which he held immobile in front of him.

The fact that David was presenting himself so formally was not what shocked you; instead it was the concept that he had removed his cap at all. It was a very rare occurrence for him to do so, as he positively revered that hat. You all had flat caps, but David's was the only one whose wasn't patch worked. He was the oldest after all. Like everything else he owned, he got it new while his old stuff was passed down to Juan, then you and finally Rudy if there was anything left. That was just how things worked in your modest family.

As you swiftly recognized the fact that your brother's were not responding or even glancing up at the girl, you realized how serious the situation you had found yourself in actually was. Your brothers never, especially not the socialite David, ever backed down from meeting a new person, though now that you recall, his interaction with those of a fairer skin tone was rare and underprivileged-like much else in your world.

Upon that realization, your eyes went even wider. You were positive they looked like the saucers you saw those proper white folk in the city place their teacups on when they were not sipping from them.

The matter you were involved in was clearly one that necessitated the widening of your eyes. After all, no white individual had ever addressed you so formally and as such; you did not know what to do about it nor did you know how to respond.

Before you could even construct a reply for the blonde haired girl, you heard Juan whisper tense and low next to you.

"It's against the rules Santana. You talk to her and we'll all get whipped, and then I'll whip you myself."

You remember how your jaw clenched at his threat. Juan never stopped being a bully, it didn't matter that you were related-that never seemed to bother him. He felt better about himself when he pushed smaller people around, particularly Rudy, and one ill-fated attempt with you, as if it was an easier and mores pleasurable task to do so. Juan was an imbecile though; he should have known that such a threat would immediately cause you to defy his wishes.

You didn't let anyone else push you around, and you always took any lashes that were accorded to you without a single tear-you sure as hell weren't going to let your bully older brother intimidate you. Standing tall you turned enough to fully face the blonde girl and show your back to Juan.

"Hello." You found yourself croaking back. You were only six, now almost seven years old, you knew there were rules and all but hadn't the blonde girl already been the one to break them?

"What's your name?" The girl then chirped, the smile not leaving her face. You swallowed hard at that, you never got asked those kinds of questions. No one ever bothered to hear your opinion, in fact it was not often you were even noticed with the exception of the fleeting glance that made you feel uncomfortable on more than one occasion.

Even more so, you rarely ever have the opportunity to speak your name aloud, outside of your family and close friends mind you.

"Santana." You mumbled. It wasn't intentional that you had said it so quiet and mouse like; you were just still so shocked. At that point you probably would have told the blonde girl anything she wanted to know. If you indeed knew the answer, but you hoped she wouldn't trifle you with anything too difficult.

Your head was tilted down, but you saw movement out of the corner of your right eye.

Curiously you glanced up.

The blonde girl with the shining blue eyes had her hand extended in front of her. She was looking at you expectantly and you realized she wanted you to shake her hand.

You'd never touched a white girls hand before. That was most certainly against the rules.

You were feeling confident, however, and at the very best; at least you would have a tale to tell in conversations once lessons started up again. Not that anyone would have had a mind to believe such accounts.

It had hit you right then like a brick wall, this blonde girl, this white blonde haired proper folk girl, that appeared as though she belonged somewhere far more extravagant than the gravel patch she had been occupying, she was giving you a choice. You wouldn't find out until later in life that when given a choice-between Brittany and anything else-you would always pick Brittany. You think that you will always choose her, there's just something about her that draws you in and keeps you grounded like nothing has ever come close to doing your entire life.

After staring at her outstretched hand for no more than a few seconds, you made your choice and stretched out your mud stained and dirty hand out. Though you felt slightly ashamed you were far too nervous to let it bother you.

Your fingers grasped the girls and she gave a firm squeeze back, shaking your joined hands up and down a couple times.

All you could do was marvel at the contrast in skin tone between your tanned and dirty hand and her pale, pure and clean one.

Was this truth? You couldn't help but wonder-it was all so surreal.

You glanced up into the blue eyes again. You enjoyed the color because it was very calming, it captivated you and you found that you would very much enjoy considering the underlining beauty of the blue for the foreseeable future. Somehow, the color reminded you of the tranquility that surrounded you the same way the sound of your abuela's voice had when she used to sing you, Juan and Rudy to sleep when you were younger. Even though now Rudy, at three years old, was the only one who got that treatment anymore.

Not that you minded much in the way of it, you weren't a little child anymore after all. Especially so considering out of the three older Lopez siblings, you seemed to be the one with the most fortitude, valor and determination.

You were gazing into the depth of her eyes, lost again like a ship at sea without a compass, you liked how she had gazed right back into yours, it made you feel as if you were remarkably bold. You decided to speak aloud and inquire her name. It was only right, after all.

Before you had the chance a voice was calling from the porch of the once vacant house.

"Brittany Pierce! Get in this house without delay! It is supper time and you know your father is not keen on being kept waiting!" The older of the blonde girls you saw climb out of the still parked Studebaker called to the younger blonde who still stood motionless a foot or two across from you.

You watched the younger blonde girl turn to face the voice. You noticed in that moment that she had not yet let go of your hand.

You often recall the memory of finding that you very much enjoyed the feeling of her hand in yours. It was soft and warm; Brittany's hands were always so gentle and caring, much like the girl herself.

It did and always has, completely contrasted everything about you and your own hands, but Brittany didn't seem to mind then and she hasn't complained about them since.

You looked back up again from starring at your joined hands and found that the blonde was back to staring at you. She had an even brighter smile on her face.

"It was very nice to met you Santana. I am fond of your name. I hope we may play together soon." The girl you knew to now refer to, expectantly in your mind only, as Brittany said to you with a genuine up turn at the corner of her mouth and a cute crinkle of her brow.

Slowly she released your hand. You felt a loss that you couldn't describe.

You nodded your head back to her even though you were still breaking so many rules. You weren't quite sure what she meant by 'playing together soon' but you were much too surprised by everything that had just transpired, you wouldn't even know where to begin to ask Brittany about it.

So you flashed her a small, albeit non-teeth showing, smile. You wanted to offer her more but that was all you could give her for the time being.

Brittany didn't seem to mind as she returned a smile to you, her own teeth sparkling and white, before turning a one eighty and skipping back to the porch her, you later found out, mother had called for her from. When the jovial blonde reached the chipped and ragged looking makeshift section of wood, she turned back to give you one last glance and a small wave before she skipped the rest of the way into the house.

You wanted to wave back. What was breaking one more rule at that point going to do anyway?

You remember seeing Juan fidgeting off to your right and it wasn't a cause of the hot summer sun that had been shrouding you with its unforgiving bright rays and smoldering heat. You knew he was dying to run to your papa and tell him what he just witnessed. (You also remember that he did do such a thing.) Next to bullying, informing your parents on the things that you and your brothers did wrong was Juan's favorite pastime.

You were positive you were going to get talking to that night. For the mere interaction you participated in with Brittany alone. Not even to mention the monumentous amount of rules you broke that you know your papa was not going to be happy about.

Oscar Lopez has always valued his pride, and the last thing he needed back then was some white man accusing him of having disrespectful and misbehaved children. Or worse, a child that had brought harm or was discourteous in such a way it brought shame to a member of the more privileged class.

You also suspected that the lashings were going to come that night. (And they did in the form of your papa's favorite leather work belt; three swift across the backside to instill in you the things you were already quite aware of but had once again disregarded.) You remember you didn't cry, your mind was too focused on the day's previous events that had transpired between you and Brittany.

Somehow, you know you could, and you would, take a thousand lashes to have the chance to talk to and see Brittany again, sooner rather than later.

To this day, you will never forget the first time you met Brittany Pierce.

She changed your life that day, and the very next day you saved hers.

A/N: So I have this extreme fascination with the 1920's right now and I was itching to write a Prohibition type story, so I thought why not put my two favorite ladies in it? Plus, I just finished reading pleasant-hells "How High the Moon" (which like all of her work, is AMAZING...check it out if you haven't already!) and it was so fun to read that it made my desire to write a period story that much greater. So I did.

Thanks for reading!

-A