March 29, 2024

F is for Father. No, Feminist! Wait, what?

It’s because of my father that I am feminist. There are so many ways he, a male, accomplished this feat.

First and foremost, he invested in me. Every single time I had a “great idea,” a grand scheme, or to seek education, my father invested in me. In my careers, I sometimes made less than my male colleagues, but his money showed that I am not worth less, nor worthless. Like a wise investor, I like to think, Dad took a gamble in me time and time again.

Dad also taught me that I was more than the sexualized image that the media was trying so very hard to convince me I was (I see you Barbie). I remember fashion moments that probably made him internally cringe: the time I bought a skimpy string bikini for my eigth grade field trip to La Jolla Shores, the uber short skirt I wore to prom, the shirts that bared my midriff, or when I brazenly breastfed my child while he made breakfast. He never made me feel like my body was something to be objectified or to be ashamed of, nor did he ever tell me to cover up. My dad taught me it is not my responsibility to protect myself from the eyes and hands of men who “just can’t help it.” He respected me, my mother, and taught my brothers to do the same.

My father is a man who breaks gender roles. Every Valentine’s Day, he showers me with the most thoughtful notes and small tokens of love. He is a man who loves without restraint. He cries, and is the one who writes cards telling me how proud of me he is. His speeches at celebrations, or in front of his congregation, are inspirational, spiritual and deeply personal. He showed me that men can have emotions. That men can be married to strong, successful women and not feel less important – that men can cook AND clean. Dad also taught me that women belong any place in the world that they want to be.

When I started a sport or hobby, but later decided that I no longer wanted to do it, he never came back at me with a “but you just started,” or “maybe you should stick it out a little longer.” (Unless it was a job, only to make sure I had a second lined up.) In doing this, he taught me that my “No” should be respected.

My dad taught me that I can make my own decisions. He helped me map out all the possibilities and pending consequences, and that my life choices were ultimately my own; in education, in religion, in everything. When I chose to move to Iowa, there was no resentment or making me feel guilty for doing so. It’s that kind of letting go that shows he trusts me, and that his job was a job well done.

He taught me that my judgment, consent and feelings should be respected and valued. He taught me how to love myself and demand respect. Which, I think is the most difficult lesson of all.

So, how, you may ask, did this make me a feminist? Well, the definition of feminism, according to a quick Google search, is “the belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities.” If you look back over the lines I have written about my dad, you can see that he provided me with the same sort of upbringing as many young men have, the same sort of opportunities to be invested in, to have my choice respected, for my body to not be seen as an object.

Happy Father’s Day to my favorite feminist – my dad.