May 26, 1968
by Amy
A block away from the tea party pad, I met up with Bea and Lesley. They were huddled against a biting winter wind that otherwise screwed up a nice spring day. We walked up to the pad together, chatting about nothing significant. Lesley told us that she preferred eastern time to central time, since it seems like you're an hour behind everything important. Bea was far quieter, contemplative about what we were doing.
We climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. I didn't realize that we were meeting at Helen's place. I knew Helen several years ago, from that radical group gone awry. She was one of the leader's girlfriends. I didn't think much of Helen then. Maybe it was the way she leaned on the leader's shoulders as if she was clutching a life preserver. It was nice to see Helen, now that she was standing upright.
There were several other women there, 6 in all. One was from the Yips, dressed colorfully with a kerchief in her hair. She told us to call her Little Toe. Another was dressed all in black. We were all from different backgrounds and groups but we were all alike in many ways. We were all in our 20s, all radicals, and all pissed off.
With our arrival a woman named Abby started the meeting. She went to start the tea. After Abby left the room, Little Toe immediately called for a vote. All those in favor of getting our own tea and cleaning up after ourselves, raise your hand. It was unanimous. We all agreed that no woman would be play servant or hostess to the rest of us. We were all responsible for ourselves.
After all, how many times have we had to make nice to guests?
For the rest of the evening, we rapped about our situations. Little Toe said that she loved the boys, but she didn't think they understood what they were doing to us. They took their historical privileges for granted. Of course we would clean up after them. Of course we would grant them their sexual wishes. Of course we would indulge their bad ideas. She loves the men in her group, but she just thinks that they don't understand.
The black turtleneck woman spoke next. She's a Marxist who is tired of seeing women in dead-end jobs. She's tired of being bullyed by men in the movement, especially those who call her an Amazon. She's tired of getting nailed by expectations of how she should act and what she should wear. As soon as she said that, I made it a point to try and learn her name. Otherwise, she'll forever be the black turtleneck woman.
Lesley chimed in to say that she didn't feel oppressed necessarily. But while listening to everyone else talk, she could see that they were oppressed. She just had a hard time thinking of herself that way. We all agreed that even talking about this is hard, since we aren't as oppressed as other women.
Bea railed on the idea that we shouldn't try to compare oppressions. Maybe we don't see the situation as it really is. It's painful to admit all of this, and we shouldn't try to reach conclusions tonight.
When it came my time to speak, I wasn't sure what I'd say. I told them that my father was a famous columnist and I get all the perks that go along with it. But I hate it at the same time. I hate that there are expectations of me. I hate that people in the Movement use me to get to my Dad. I hate that my only strength is being my Father's daughter. And I feel ashamed for feeling this way because I'm priveledged. I know that.
I also hate that some guys in the office have been giving me the cold shoulder because I got my wrist broken and they didn't. I hate that they apologize for not protecting me.
They were silent for a while, until the black turtleneck woman said the word "Heavy." Little Toe said "Right on." I looked over at Bea, who smiled. Abby added that we were all someone's girlfriend, mother, daughter and God knows what else.
At the end of the evening, Little Toe rolled some Mary Jane and we all got ripped. Then we split. I collapsed into my bed and tried not to think about everything we all said. I guess like we evicted Pandora.
