Southern legitimacy statement: My parents dragged me away from the home I loved in Louisville, to put down roots in the frigid Midwest. My time residing in Louisville, the home of my earliest memories, was well spent though. When I wasn’t watching workers pick grapes from the field across the street from our home, I was learning to speak. Clearly the brightest and most impressionable of my folks’ 5 children, I was the only one of the lot to pick up on friendly southern lingo. I often greeted our new Iowa friends and neighbors with a distinctive: “Hey, ya’ll!” and bid them farewell with a memorable: “Ya’ll come back now, ya hear!”
When a Tea Party Is Not a Tea Party: An Unwanted Invite
When third grade ended in 1980, I frolicked in the sun at Timber Trails, our local pool. One day Mom spun around on her lounge chair when I scurried over to grab a towel. A short, tan woman leaned on one elbow in the chair on the other side of Mom’s.
“Erin, this is Mrs. Walsh. Her daughter, Julie, is in your grade.” Mom beamed as if she were introducing me to a celebrity.
“Oh. Hi.” I smiled as I wrapped up in my towel.
I admired Julie, not because she was kind or smart or friendly. She possessed none of those qualities. She was everything I wasn’t. She was cute.
From my sky-scraper viewpoint, anyone with Julie’s short, petite stature classified as pretty. Even if unfortunate facial features, unattractive wardrobe choices, or hideous hair disasters landed in her lap, Julie’s tiny size would still translate to adorable. Of course, none of those horrendous hiccups threatened Julie. Her tiny, turned-up nose, splattered with just the right amount of freckles, combined with her dark, wavy hair drew attention. Julie’s followers, made up of the other beautiful children whom she counted as friends, flocked to her. The youngest of a large Irish family, she benefited from hip, much-older siblings. Never nerdy or wall-flowerish, Julie was mature beyond her years. She knew things. If her spunk and confidence failed her, she could fall back on her gorgeous appearance. I suspected she knew that.
At school, some kids had begun to create exclusive groups. A casual pecking order emerged. Clicks formed. I gravitated towards my few quiet friends, never questioning my social status. Several ‘cool’ classmates held Timber Trail memberships. They managed to avoid greeting me at the pool. I sensed a line had been drawn. I dared not cross it.
With no friends belonging to our off-the-beaten-path pool, my siblings often served as my playmates. Pinching our noses closed, my sisters and I attempted to sit on the bottom of the pool to conduct a makeshift, underwater tea party. If we each managed to pull off our specific task before running out of breath, we celebrated. Our distorted faces and goofy maneuvers while submerged made us giddy. Without fail, one sister would blow bubbles out her nose in a fit of underwater laughter, sending us to the surface.
The day Mom met Mrs. Walsh; she shared what she considered exciting news as we walked across the gravel parking lot to the car.
“So, Julie is having a birthday party, and Mrs. Walsh invited you.” Mom’s face appeared shiny. Was this a result of the out-of-the-blue invite? Maybe she’d spent too much time in the sun. Had she rubbed Hawaiian Tropic into her face?
“Oh,” I considered the news. “I don’t think I want to go. Julie didn’t invite me. We aren’t really friends.”
“Nonsense. I talked to her mom all afternoon. She’s very nice. She said Julie would be happy to have you at her party.” I listened to Mom’s interpretation of the situation as I spread my damp towel across the hot, red vinyl seats of our 1976 Chevy Impala station wagon.
“If she wanted me to come to her party, she would’ve mailed me an invite. Mom, I really don’t wanna go. We aren’t friends with the same people. I won’t know anyone there.”
“Don’t be silly. You’ll know the other kids. They’re your classmates. I told her you’d come. It sounds fun.”
Mom could be very convincing. I waffled. One minute I was annoyed with her enthusiasm and the next I was caving to it. Maybe she understood things better than I did. She started the car. Those of us sitting by a door, gripped the window crank, and pumped our fist in a circular motion to lower the windows. The air in the station wagon was stifling.
I would know people at the party. If Julie’s mom accepted me as a nice girl, then maybe she’d encourage Julie to be friendly towards me.
***
Staring at the wrapped gift on the dining room table later that week, I reminded myself that I enjoyed birthday parties. Feeling like her social demeanor at the pool built a new connection for me, Mom oozed excitement. I shrugged off my initial hesitation.
On Saturday, I was playing with dolls in my room when I heard Mom return from the grocery store. She called up the stairs, “Erin, I’m driving you to Julie’s party in 20 minutes. Put on your blue and white gingham sundress.”
I loved my gingham dress. The snug elasticized bodice felt like a hug. The skirt, bordered by a wide ruffle, hung just below my knee. I tied the thin strips over my shoulders, cinched the dress into place, combed my hair, and dug my white sandals out of the closet.
We pulled into the driveway of Julie’s house, and I hopped out holding the gift. After waving good-bye to Mom, I slowly approached the front door. Pesky butterflies leapt in my gut. With each step I took, I felt the distance growing between Mom and me. Feeling less enveloped by her belief in this new-friendship-building invite, I wondered why in the world I’d agreed to this.
I rang the doorbell. Julie’s dad barked directions in lieu of a greeting. “Everyone’s out back.” Following music and voices to the backyard, I stepped shyly onto the patio. Mrs. Walsh spotted me first, “Oh, hi Erin! You look nice. Welcome! Glad you could make it.” Spinning around, she called across the lawn, “Julie, Erin’s here.”
I felt Julie’s eyes bore into me. I wondered if she might burn little holes into my gingham dress with a special hidden power. “Oh, hi,” Julie managed. Everyone’s jumping on the trampoline.”
That’s when I noticed it. All the girls at the party wore shorts and tee shirts. I realized with a panicky feeling that Mom dressed me for an actual tea party, ten times more formal than the underwater version my sisters and I imitated at the pool.
Mrs. Walsh glanced down at my dress. “Julie, run inside and grab a pair of shorts for Erin to wear under her dress.” The birthday girl gave her a look. I translated it to mean: My tiny shorts would never fit this Jolly Green Giant.
Mrs. Walsh proved her worth as a mind reader. “Sarah’s shorts should work for her.” Recognizing that Julie’s drama was intended to make me feel worse, Mom’s new buddy forced a smile. I longed to assure Julie that making me feel worse wasn’t possible.
I waited awkwardly for Julie to produce a garment to cover my underwear so I could leap freely on the trampoline. She dropped her sister’s running shorts in my hands and raced off to hang out with her real friends. Mrs. Walsh pointed me to a bathroom. I slid the shorts on while biting my lower lip, willing myself not to cry.
When the other girls cleared off of the trampoline to eat, I climbed up and gingerly bounced. Hurriedly inhaling my hot dog alone at a table a moment later, I listened as Mrs. Walsh divided us into groups for the scavenger hunt. From my position at the perimeter of my assigned group, I giggled as the other girls requested strange objects on our list at each door.
Having recovered from the dress embarrassment, I made the best of my unwelcome attendance. I decided that being ignored wasn’t so bad. No one was sneering at me or uttering hurtful things. I didn’t mind feeling invisible. Trampolines and scavenger hunts, after all, counted as new experiences for me.
When the party ended, it was dark. Most of the girls walked home. For some reason, Julie’s dad drove me home. My peppy, cute host climbed into the front passenger seat. I sat in the back of her father’s Cadillac sedan. Julie remarked to her uninterested dad that she thought the party went well.
“The only phone calls we had were from people wondering what to wear.” Her dad grunted. Score one for Julie. Her wardrobe slam slapped me in the face loud and clear. I wilted in the backseat wishing I could melt into the leather and disappear.
While Mom struggled to grasp social limitations, I struggled with a few basic skills most nine-year-old kids possessed, like telling time. Unable to tell my right from my left proved more embarrassing, not to mention downright inexcusable considering my status as an Irish dancer. That night, this lack of fundamental knowledge almost undid me. In a world void of yet-to-be-invented GPS devices, Mr. Walsh relied on my directions to guide him to my home out in the boonies. Ordering him to ‘turn that way,’ followed by pointing gestures from my spot in the dark backseat wouldn’t suffice.
I knew we needed to pass Timber Trails. As the intersection approached, I chewed the inside of my cheek. I took a stab, knowing I had a 50% chance of guessing correctly. “Turn left here,” I whispered, happy no one could see me wince. Holding my breath, I hoped that I’d guessed correctly. The car turned the wrong way. My heart sank.
“Oh, sorry. I meant to say right, not left.”
“Huh? Ya sure you know your way?” he growled.
In order to make a u-turn, his dinosaur arms flung into action, rotating the wheel that butt up against his sizeable belly. A moment later, I caught a glimpse of the Timber Trails pool as we sped past.
“Yep, sorry. I just got confused. My house is this way.”
Unwilling to make another mistake, I glued myself to the window keeping my eyes peeled for my neighborhood. A car could only turn right onto my street. I relaxed knowing Mr. Walsh would never attempt to drive into the cornfield on the left, even if I misguided him. Angry that Julie had witnessed my dumb mistake, I stuck my tongue out at the back of her seat. Her head didn’t even reach the headrest.
Anxious to be home, I practically jumped out of the car before Mr. Walsh could stop. “I had fun. Thanks for the ride,” I gushed as I jogged in my overdressed outfit to my front door.
To this day, I have no idea why my parents didn’t collect me at the end of the party. Leaving me to be driven by a dad who barely knew me and with Julie, who wished I hadn’t shown up, made for an uncomfortable ending to a long afternoon.
Finally able to let the tears flow, I stood in my family room unloading my pent up emotions. “Only little girls wear dresses to birthday parties. Julie Walsh isn’t a little girl. She thinks she’s a grown up. I’m not a little girl anymore either. Don’t get me invited to parties I don’t want to go to ever again!” I hollered at Mom while dramatically swishing the skirt of my ridiculous blue and white gingham dress with one fist, and wiping at my tears with the other.
Mom, alarmed by my outburst, sat up to perfect posture from her slouched position on the couch. Her concerned face tugged at my heart. I found myself feeling sorry for her. She really believed that I belonged at that party, and assumed that I’d enjoy myself.
As I got ready for bed, I attempted to pinpoint my disappointment. Was I upset that I wasn’t measuring up to Mom’s hope for me to be a cool kid? Or was I upset with myself for agreeing to attend? I hoped Mom had learned her lesson. Only time would tell.
