A Feminist's Father's Day Tribute
On the Friday before Father’s Day, I have decided to write about a topic not related to politics. Ok, I am lying, it’s sort of a combination of things, mostly about my father and feminism. Whether he’d admit it or not, it is because of him that I am who I am. This is about my father raising me (and my sisters, but I am not speaking about their experiences, as they have their own voices) to be a strong independent woman, in a surprising and unexpected way. He raised a feminist.
I cannot tell you the story from the beginning, but I can tell you from about the age of 9 when this “formation” began. We were at the babysitter’s house in the summer in the small town of Francesville, Indiana. The babysitter’s daughter was my age and other same-aged girls were there. Some of us “lucky” girls would be invited to her room to play. Unless, the girl got mad at you, then you got kicked out, and then banished to the living room where the other 100 kids were playing. And the daughter sucked at sharing her toys. Ok, I am getting off subject. The point is that we all used to play “house” with invisible husbands, usually celebrities that were popular then. I can’t remember who my “husband” was but the other girls insisted that my new name was: “Jamie __”, whatever the man’s name was that I chose as my husband, maybe it was Andy Gibb. Sometimes you were assigned a husband by the babysitter’s daughter, again she was very bossy and usually got her way, less you kicked out of her room. But I insisted that my name was to remain the same. All the girls in the room said, “You can’t do that!” Being my father’s daughter, “I said, yes, I can.” But I ended up caving in, so I would not have to join the general population.
When my father came to pick my siblings and me up, I asked on the way home, “Do I have to change my name when I get married?” He looked at me, because what father wants to think about his nerdy little girl getting married, and he answered, “No, not really.” And at age 9, I was happy to learn that I could keep the name that I was given. (Of course, this belief might have been slightly altered at age 12, where I was hoping to change my name to “Springfield”, those who know me get the reference.) But at 16, I solidified that belief that I could stay, well, in a word, me. At 28, I married and kept my last name. So far, I accomplished two degrees with that name, though my father wishes one was a Law degree. Though it is common for married women to keep the name they were given, it surprises me the opposition that I still get for not changing my last name. Hurtfully, the largest opposition to this has been my siblings. After 20 years, I do mean I will send invites and cards back with the wrong name, you would think that they would love and respect me enough to get my name correct. The maddening part is the next generation messing up my name. How do they even really know my spouse's last name anyway? I digress. The point is I kept the promise to myself from the age of 9, only because my father said I could. This is just one of the many 'bricks" laid for the foundation of my feminism, no matter how small you all think this was about my name, for a man to tell a little girl that she didn't have to comply with traditional, sexist beliefs, was all it took.
It was also my father that convinced me that my life, my intelligence, and my opinions were just as good as any man’s. I grew up believing that whatever a boy could do, I could do just as well. Camping, hiking, fishing, and knowing the difference between a Phillips screwdriver and a flat-head, were all the things I was versed in as a young girl. It was my father that shaped my love of politics and history. It was my father that would give me his National Guard sleeping bag to use for Girl Scout camping trips. The first time I used it, I complained that the other girls are going to have Barbie and Strawberry Shortcake sleeping bags while I had this ugly green one. His only reply, “But you will be warmer in this than those girls.” He was right, and the other girls were jealous and would ask to lay in it for a minute. Because of him, I learned not to be afraid to be different. I learned to be myself. And I tell you that I can be no one else but me. Though he was not happy with my "punk" look phase in High School, he, like my mother, dealt with it. I still wear black a lot, that hasn't changed. Again, another small "brick" in a foundation that is me.
My feminism is rooted with my father’s upbringing, there is no doubt. I know many of you wouldn’t guess by the stuff I hear that he posts on Facebook, but my political courage and willingness to fight for others is from my father. Attending protests and speaking up for those without a voice, all characteristics from my Vietnam War Vet father. As a working-class white man in small town Indiana (some were racist assholes) raising the only “brown” children in a 100-mile radius, he had to fight a lot. (YES, yes I know, I am technically not “brown” like my siblings, I ended up “white” like my Dad even though I came out of the same brown-skinned Central American woman. Dear god, you all need to have a geneticist explain to you how the hell that happened.) Being who I am, I’ve had to fight all my life for things that I believed in, and I wouldn’t have survived those fights and challenges, some I lost, without him. I am proud that I am his daughter just as I am proud of my feminism. So, if you are angry about my unapologetic "leftist" political views, please blame him.
Now if only I could get him to stop posting right-wing stupid shit on Facebook...
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