Hell yes, I’m a “feminist.”

Feminism. I don’t think women who mock feminism and claim proudly that they aren’t one, seem to understand exactly what that word means.



And honestly, they do a good job of displaying their intellect, as well as their inadequate knowledge on the subject when they say that. The suggestion by some women that to be a feminist, or that to stand up for the rights of other women, that you have to be this big butch lesbian –and so what if you were — the suggestion that you can’t like empowerment and pink at the same time, is exactly why we need ‘feminist’ and why they exist. And they, those female feminism haters, are simply repeating some ideology that’s passed on to them by a father or husband, who hates a Hillary Clinton and her like-minded compadres, because they realize that they don’t have the intelligence, the presence, or the power to keep up. Therefore, they make “women like her” a bad thing.

I liken that to the ridiculous Rush Limbaugh misconceptions of the first boyfriend I ever had when he asked me if I was “one of those Fem-Nazis”. It was…around 1998. I believe I was a grand total 18, maybe 19. And, of course, being me, my response was, “Why do you ask? Because my belief that anything boys can do, girls can do and better, is the equivalent of killing six million Jews. How the f%ck is that the same thing!”

And then we dated for three and half years.

I always use this example to combat that feminist = butch theory. The first person I ever remember wanting to be was Judy Blume. The next was Reba McEntire. And then around age thirteen, when I gained a more ‘realistic’ idea of career approach, lol, and of who and what I wanted to be, I remember the following conversation clearly. Talking to my Uncle Chunky during a football game, in which he expressed a sentiment later echoed by my favorite teacher on earth, Mr Richard Jones, in that it’s a rare quality that some one can actually have the book smarts and the common sense to truly be one of those people that can be good at anything they chose and accomplish anything they put their mind to, but that I was one of them. What I remember, so fondly, is this: telling him, wholeheartedly, that I wouldn’t mind seeing what it was like to be the first female president of the United States, or possibly, the first GIRL head coach for the football team of University of Tennessee Volunteers. Till the day I die, I will remember the way his blue eyes twinkled and how he chuckled at that. I loved him more in that moment than I ever had. And I knew it was mutual. And if you would have looked at the room that I went home to sleep in at night, the walls were painted pink and it had teddy bears in toe shoes dancing ballet all the way around wall border. How a feminist sleeps — draped in Teddy Bears in pointe.

See, nobody in my life told me that I had to pick. I can desire dolls and empowerment. I can stand up for a woman’s right to make her own choices — as the sticker on my car in high school read ‘a woman’s place is in the House and the Senate’ — and still like sparkly things.

That’s feminism. And if you look at the three highest women in the land, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Elena Kagan, Sonia Sotomayor, to say that they are “feminist” would be (and this is my new favorite thing I’ve made up, BTW) to understatement what “Don’t run the football, Marshawn Lynch!” is to bad play calling. The three most powerful women in the United States are {crazy Fox News watcher voice} “liberal feminist!” and you suggest that feminism is a bad thing? Their place on the Supreme Court of the United States seem to suggest otherwise.

Hell yes, I’m a FEMINIST! I’m a female. It would be absolutely idiotic to express otherwise. So the whole knocking of feminism by women too naive to know any damn better, and then exploited on channels like Fox News, where some good looking, pretty girl with cleveage exposed tells you that it’s a bad thing…. silly, it’s simply to cater to men! And to cover up for the fact that women of that mindset, the ones that mock “feminism” for real and not for a TV contract, feel inferior when they set in a room of men, alongside other women who hold their own in male dominated conversations. You know, the crazy ones like me, who do things like talk about football. With superiority. And gusto. The type of women who intimidate other women, even if she stands 4 foot and 10 inches tall. Because she knows who she is. And she doesn’t apologize for it.

Those women, confident women — are everywhere. [Usually raised by single mothers, who never received a penny of assistance from the goverment, a man’s pocket, or his social security check, and/ or their “feminist” Barack Obama fathers and grandfathers, and/or their Uncle Chunkys.]

And the female feminism bashers, the fact that your husband or father gets irate over little girls who may know a little bit more about something masculine, like football, than they do, so their fragile male ego hates women like Ruth Bader Ginsburg — who are backboned right up until the grave — or women like Hillary Clinton — who don’t, won’t take a backseat to you, and lets you know it — tell you that feminism makes you “manly”…well, it’s just a demonstration of why it [feminism] exist.


And simply because I would rather pay some struggling person’s light bills than have a Coach handbag, doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy a good ballet. Or that I never dreamed of dancing in it. Or that I don’t appreciate sequins, because I soooo love anything that shines. Especially people. That’s why I’m a FEMINIST.

(Written sometime in 2014.)


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