Small Strokes Big Oaks

Amanda ReCupido

Today’s post comes from Amanda ReCupido, and is part of a Salon of blog posts asking feminists to define what feminism means to them. You can follow Amanda on Twitter, read her blog, and check out her answers to the Literacy in the Feminist Blogging Community interview.

It Takes a Village…To Raise a Feminist
or, What Feminism Means to Me

It’s that loaded question, “What does feminism mean to you?” that sparks thousands of thoughts, every which one of them equally important. I certainly have had no problem asking it, but the best way I can make sense of my own feminism is to revisit the experiences that have shaped it. There wasn’t one moment I remember where the feminist light bulb went off in my head – somehow I just always knew. But that doesn’t mean I was any less changed by the people who contributed to my feminist journey – for better or for worse. Here’s a look at the people who have made up my “feminist village” so far…

My parents, who told me I could be anything, who simultaneously signed me up for karate lessons and ballet, who suggested I work at Hooters and write an expose ala Gloria Steinem (spoiler alert: I didn’t), and who, in their own humanness, weren’t always perfect.

My Girl Scout leader, who handed me a journal and encouraged my story, who let me be a little rambunctious, who later would tell me, after her own divorce, to not live life dependent on a man.

My (female) elementary school teachers, who gave me a foundation of confidence, and my (male) high school teachers, who continued to push me to excellence.

The girls in high school who took one look at the first lunch I bought in the cafeteria with a sneer – it was the first time I questioned how much I ate.

My first boyfriend, who told me, after I had starved myself for over 36 hours, how skinny and great I looked.

My studio dance classes, which, for better or worse, forced me to accept the image staring back at me in the mirror and figure out how to move it in step. Contrasted with…

My high school dance group, who yearned for the whistles from boys in the audience.

My guy friend in high school, who called me a prude to my face and a slut in my yearbook.

The boys who, thankfully, took no for an answer.

The boy who finally deserved a “yes.”

The professor in college who handed me Carol Gilligan and Mary Pipher, and the other professors who didn’t mind that I analyzed nearly all assigned literature in terms of feminism.

My first experience seeing The Vagina Monolgues on V-Day my sophomore year of college. Meeting Eve Ensler at the Feminist Press Anniversary Gala a mere two years later.

The guy in college who told me I was “too independent and too much of a feminist to have a relationship with.”

The fact that the magazine I worked at right out of college had a woman publisher.

The cat-calls that I get on the street nearly every day.

The roommates who ate up every reality show stereotype Bravo was willing to throw at them.

The several, potentially dangerous nights that I came home safe.

The walk that I just participated in against human trafficking.

The smart, progressive (and feminist!) women and men who don’t see themselves as such and think feminism is “over.”

The wildly talented and driven feminist bloggers and activists who inspire me every day.

These are the reasons why I’m a feminist. In spite of, and because of it all. Why are you?

To read all of the What Feminism Means To Me Salon posts, click here.