I’ve been called a feminist, as a derogatory term, since early childhood. I didn’t know what it meant, then. I’m still struggling to define it, decades later.
I grew up in a Christian cult, you see. An environment where women were forbidden to wear trousers or work outside the home. Where men were the heads of household, and little girls had to prepare and serve dinner to the men, in order to learn their place in the world. Where there was some slight disagreement about whether or not it was appropriate to spank your wife for the purpose of punishment, but it was fully agreed upon that it was necessary to whip your children with belts or dowel rods for any perceived disrespect or disobedience.
What’s a little child abuse in the face of an eternity of hell?
Little souls are on the line, after all. Just try to avoid leaving visible marks while you beat the devil out of them. Glue sticks are good for that, they said.
As an active child who lost a long skirt to a bike chain nearly every summer, I vocally hated the uniform of female submission. So, of course, I was laughed at and tauntingly called a feminist.
I vehemently denied it. Fully immersed in puritanical ideology, from birth, I wasn’t, and was sure I would never be, one of those “wicked”, “worldly” women.
Today, I’m still not comfortable with the term.
How could I be? I’ve never been good enough for any label I’ve been given.
