A few weeks ago, on a first date, a guy told me about how watching his mother — a strong, intelligent woman who held the family together — made him into a feminist. Then he asked me what it was that made me start caring about women’s equality. I’m sure he expected that I was going to tell him a traditional “how I became a feminist” story: Dad hauled me to my first pro-choice march kicking and screaming, or my parents were radical separatist lesbians, or Mom was a famous liberal journalist and progressive ideals were in their blood.
Not. At. All.
My blood is the thick, viscous fluid of dirty martinis. My parents contributed to me becoming a feminist, sure. But it was only because as I was a young sprout blossoming into a beautiful flower, they were … kind of sexist. Keep reading »








