The Dirty F-Word
An exploration of the word ‘feminist’ and what that should mean to you.
When I was in college, I randomly took a course in Women’s Studies. On day one, before the phrase objectification in advertising was even a glimmer in my professor’s eye, she asked us to raise our hands if we identified ourselves as feminists.
Now, at this time, ‘feminist’ was a bit of a dirty word — a label often associated with man-hating, razor-deprived, fetus-slaughtering, hardcore liberals…or those hermit women you read about in The Enquirer who live with 27 cats. Taking the safe route, I held my hand up at half-mast, not ready to be condemned as a flaming political activist, but also not content to be labeled an aspiring baby portal. I ended up learning many things in that class, but the most important takeaway was that I, despite my preconceived notions, had been a feminist all along.
As far back as I can remember, we always received mail for a Michele Spring, even though we lived in a Pelcher household. My mom and dad shared many things, but never a bank account. My mother would tell me horror stories from her first marriage about how she tried to get her own credit card but was denied until her then-husband, who had a significantly worse credit score, signed off on it. Oh, and that this was a recurring conversation that happened in her…
