It was 1966 and I was seven years old. We lived in Berkeley, California. I was dressed up for a birthday party. I had on a white dress with frills around the sleeves and the hem. My white socks were ringed at the top with a thin strip of lace. I had folded them down so that the lace neatly encircled my ankle, right above my black patent-leather mary janes. I even had on my best underwear that had fringes of lace all across the bottom.
My parents were driving me to the party. They said that we would leave the house a little bit early because they had to stop somewhere on the way. They were not dressed up like I was. They both wore jeans and sandals. It didn\u27t matter to me, I was the only one going to the party.
~ article excerpt 

Van der Ryn, Julia

English

Dominican Scholar

Dominican ScholarThe Tuxedo Archives School of Liberal Arts and Education2017Tea PartyJulia Van der RynDominican University of CaliforniaSurvey: Let us know how this paper benefits you.This Prose is brought to you for free and open access by the School of Liberal Arts and Education at Dominican Scholar. It hasbeen accepted for inclusion in The Tuxedo Archives by an authorized editor of Dominican Scholar. For more information,please contact michael.pujals@dominican.edu.Recommended CitationVan der Ryn, Julia (2016) "Tea Party," The Tuxedo Archives: Vol. 2009 , Article 7.Available at: https://scholar.dominican.edu/tuxedolit/vol2009/iss2/7Tea	Party		by	Julia	van	der	Ryn			It	was	1966	and	I	was	seven	years	old.	We	lived	in	Berkeley,	California.	I	was	dressed	up	for	a	birthday	party.	I	had	on	a	white	dress	with	frills	around	the	sleeves	and	the	hem.	My	white	socks	were	ringed	at	the	top	with	a	thin	strip	of	lace.	I	had	folded	them	down	so	that	the	lace	neatly	encircled	my	ankle,	right	above	my	black	patent-leather	mary	janes.	I	even	had	on	my	best	underwear	that	had	fringes	of	lace	all	across	the	bottom.	My	parents	were	driving	me	to	the	party.	They	said	that	we	would	leave	the	house	a	little	bit	early	because	they	had	to	stop	somewhere	on	the	way.	They	were	not	dressed	up	like	I	was.	They	both	wore	jeans	and	sandals.	It	didn't	matter	to	me,	I	was	the	only	one	going	to	the	party.	I	was	nervous	about	getting	there	on	time.	I	hated	to	be	late,	to	draw	attention	to	myself	by	walking	into	a	room	already	full	of	people.	In	the	car	I	held	the	present	on	my	lap.	My	mother	had	helped	me	wrap	it	in	bright	sheets	of	tissue	paper.	She	had	showed	me	how	to	make	the	bow	by	wrapping	figure-eight's	of	ribbon	around	her	thumb	and	forefinger,	then	securing	them	in	the	middle	with	another	wrap	of	ribbon.	She	took	it	off	her	fingers	and	pulled	out	the	layers	of	ribbons	until	they	plumped	up	nicely	around	the	center.	We	taped	this	to	the	package	with	a	hidden	circle	of	tape.	Then	she	made	curly-cues	by	dragging	the	tails	of	the	bow	swiftly	across	the	inside	sharp	edge	of	the	scissors.	If	it	didn't	work	the	first	time	she	did	it	again	until	it	made	a	perfect	spiral.	I	loved	these	tricks,	they	seemed	like	magic.	We	drove	to	the	other	side	of	Berkeley	where	the	neighborhoods	thinned	out	and	the	atmosphere	became	more	industrial.	We	went	under	the	freeway	overpass,	towards	the	San	Francisco	Bay.	Finally	we	came	to	our	destination,	the	railroad	tracks.	My	father	parked	our	black	convertible	V.W.	bug.	I	loved	this	car	and	would	gladly	have	just	stayed	sitting	in	it.	I	saw	a	large	group	of	people	gathered	around	the	train	tracks.	They	were	all	sloppily	dressed	like	my	parents.	My	mother	explained	to	me,	"This	is	a	protest	against	the	war.	The	government	is	making	men	go	to	war	who	don't	want	to	fight."	The	men	who	were	now	soldiers	would	be	coming	through	on	a	train	on	their	way	to	an	army	camp.	These	people	were	gathered	with	signs	and	bullhorns	to	show	that	they	thought	that	fighting	was	not	the	way	to	solve	problems.	No	one	should	be	forced	into	1Van der Ryn: Tea PartyPublished by Dominican Scholar, 2016fighting.	I	didn't	understand	who	it	was	that	could	make	grown-ups	do	things	that	they	didn't	want	to	do.	But	I	did	understand	these	men	not	wanting	to	be	soldiers,	having	to	cut	their	hair	short,	wear	uniforms,	and	maybe	die.	From	the	freeway,	I	had	seen	the	gigantic	graveyard	on	the	outskirts	of	San	Francisco.	There	were	thousands	of	rows	of	white	tombstones.	I	couldn't	even	see	where	they	ended	as	they	went	up	over	the	grassy	hills.	Passing	by	quickly	in	the	car,	my	eyes	would	make	designs	as	the	acres	of	evenly	spaced	markers	blurred	in	a	geometric	display.	I	couldn't	believe	that	underneath	the	grass	the	ground	was	filled	with	dead	bodies,	one	for	each	white	rectangle.	It	was	impossible	to	comprehend	that	so	many	people	could	die	in	a	war.	Every	night	on	the	news,	Water	Chronkite	(my	dad	called	him	"Uncle	Walt"	and	I	thought	he	and	Walt	Disney	were	the	same	man)	would	recite	how	many	casualties	there	had	been	in	the	Vietnam	War	that	day.	When	I	found	out	that	casualties	meant	people	who	had	been	killed,	nobody	could	convince	me	that	Uncle	Walt's	huge	numbers	could	be	correct.	It	just	didn't	make	any	sense.	Did	one	country	win	a	war	when	everyone	else	on	the	other	side	was	dead?	I	couldn't	picture	it.	I	couldn't	imagine	the	once	alive	people	that	these	numbers	represented.	At	the	railroad	tracks	the	demonstration	against	the	war	was	loud	and	disorganized.	The	train	didn't	seem	to	be	on	schedule.	I	knew	I	would	be	late	for	my	party.	While	they	waited	for	the	train	full	of	soldiers,	some	people	gave	speeches	through	bullhorns,	played	guitars,	or	drummed	on	whatever	was	handy,	and	sang.	Maybe	this	was	the	first	time	I	heard	the	song,	"Where	Have	All	the	Flowers	Gone?".	This	song	taught	me	about	the	cycles	of	life	and	death,	about	how	something	beautiful	can	come	from	something	sad.	The	last	lines	say,	"Where	have	all	the	soldiers	gone?	Gone	to	flowers,	every	one."	I	took	this	concept	very	literally.	I	thought	of	fields	of	yellow	flowers	sprouting	up	over	the	graves	of	soldiers.	Beautiful	meadows	of	flowers	fertilized	by	the	decomposing	bodies.	I	wondered	why	people	always	bring	flowers	to	cemeteries.	I	figured	there	should	be	flowers	growing	wild	everywhere	there	were	dead	people.	Still	waiting	for	the	train	and	thinking	my	own	thoughts,	I	began	to	feel	very	conspicuous	in	my	frilly	cute	dress.	I	had	worn	the	same	dress	as	a	flower	girl	in	my	aunt's	wedding	and	had	thought	I	looked	fantastic.	But	here	nobody	was	dressed	nicely	at	all.	No	one	looked	like	they	cared	at	all	about	how	they	dressed	or	whether	or	not	their	hair	was	parted,	or	even	brushed.	I	was	afraid	that	everyone	was	looking	at	me	and	wondering	if	I	was	silly	enough	to	have	gotten	all	dressed	up	for	this	dusty	and	serious	event.	Men	were	on	their	way	to	war	and	it	looked	like	all	I	cared	about	was	wearing	pretty	clothes.	2The Tuxedo Archives, Vol. 2009 [2016], Art. 7https://scholar.dominican.edu/tuxedolit/vol2009/iss2/7I	was	upset	about	my	parents	making	me	late	for	the	party	but	I	felt	worse	for	looking	so	out	of	place	in	this	crowd.	I	longed	for	my	own	jeans	and	sandals,	but	I	was	stuck.				When	the	train	finally	came	it	just	passed	by.	The	police	made	everyone	who	was	trying	to	stop	it	get	off	the	tracks.	I	thought	that	they	would	be	able	to	stop	the	train	and	set	all	the	soldiers	free	but	it	didn't	work	that	way.	I	saw	some	soldiers	with	crew	cuts	in	the	train	windows.	I	didn't	want	to	have	to	connect	them	with	the	numbers	that	Uncle	Walt	quoted	on	the	nightly	news;	or	with	the	infinity	of	white	markers.	In	my	mind	I	saw	them	all	planted	like	seeds.	In	fast	motion	they	sprouted	and	bloomed	into	fields	of	yellow	flowers	waving	in	the	wind.	I	could	almost	smell	their	fresh	sweetness	and	feel	the	velvet-smooth	petals,	soft	and	delicate	as	a	new	baby's	head.	I	was	worried	they	might	look	out	into	the	crowd	and	see	me	in	my	party	dress	and	think	I	was	there	to	celebrate.	I	didn't	want	them	to	think	I	was	from	the	other	side,	the	wrong	side	that	was	sending	them	off	to	such	a	frightening	place.	Eventually	my	parents	were	ready	to	leave.	I	had	lost	all	desire	to	go	to	the	party.	My	mother	told	me	that	no	one	would	care	that	I	was	a	little	late.	She	would	walk	me	to	the	door	and	explain	for	me,	ease	over	my	awkwardness.	So	I	wiped	off	my	shoes	and	tried	to	make	them	shiny	again.	My	anklets	were	brown	with	dust	and	beyond	help.	At	the	party	all	the	girls	were	dressed	up	also.	I	was	glad	to	fit	in	on	the	outside,	even	if	on	the	inside	I	felt	strange.	I	gave	the	birthday	girl	her	present	and	she	tore	off	the	wrapping	without	even	noticing	how	beautiful	it	was.	With	the	cake,	the	mother	served	us	tea.	This	seemed	very	pleasingly	grown-up.	I	made	the	mistake	of	putting	both	lemon	and	milk	in	mine.	The	lemon	curdled	the	milk,	it	looked	like	cottage	cheese.	I	tried	to	drink	the	tea	anyway	but	the	lumps	made	me	feel	sick.	I	was	given	a	fresh	cup.	This	time	I	just	added	sugar,	teaspoon	after	teaspoon	of	sugar.	I	watched	it	melt	off	the	spoon	like	magic.	My	tea	was	sweet	and	soothing.	I	pretended	it	was	a	special	syrupy	medicine.	As	I	swallowed,	it	seemed	to	coat	my	insides,	even	my	brain.		For	a	moment	it	helped	me	forget	the	way	some	things	that	should	go	together	don't,	like	lemon	and	milk.	And	the	way	that	other	things	that	should	never	belong	together	do.	I	kept	drinking	my	tea	hoping	to	stop	all	the	lovely	flowers	from	blooming	behind	my	eyes	every	time	I	thought	of	the	soldiers	on	the	train.		3Van der Ryn: Tea PartyPublished by Dominican Scholar, 2016

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