My job for the past seven weeks has been to index a 6-volume set on feminism in literature from antiquity through the 20th century. Indexing is the kind of work which, once you stop for the day, your brain keeps categorizing and developing term hierarchies. So as someone is talking to me, in my mind, I’m indexing the terms and concepts that come out of his mouth. It’s exhausting.
These days my head is full of feminist theory and criticism. Having read so much about it, I can’t help but think about how the concept relates to me, and more importantly, to my children.
Time was, feminism was the dirty F-word. Media painted all feminists as militant, man-hating lesbians, hell-bent on destroying family values and undermining the infrastructure of society. Many of the freedoms and choices we women (and our daughters) enjoy today came at great cost to our foremothers. But what about the boys?
Feminism isn’t just a female thang. I was fortunate to be attending a women’s college when Max was born. And though I took one semester off after having him, it was back to school the following term, baby in stroller and books in backpack. I never considered not taking Max to school with me; it just never entered my mind. And so he attended classes with me beginning at four months. With books on my back and baby in my sling, I was weighed down in the literal sense. But oh, in the figurative sense, I was flying. How blessed I was to be able to maintain my passion for my son and my studies without compromising the enjoyment of either. My classmates thought nothing of having him in class; it wasn’t startling when I’d silence his hunger cries by breastfeeding. Having Max at school with me was exactly as it should have been.
As I progressed in my studies and Max became mobile, keeping him by my side wasn’t an option. So I entrusted his care to a wonderful woman and fellow student while I was in class. It gave me great satisfaction to know that when he wasn’t with me, Max was spending time on campus with scores of intelligent, articulate women from all walks of life. What more could a mother ask for her son? He spent his most formative years among this population, and their influence molded much of his perspective on life.
When Max was about 3, we were on our way to school when he began a discussion with “When I grow up and I’m a woman…” I stifled a chuckle because I could tell he really believed he’d morph into the opposite sex. “Honey,” I gently explained, “you’re never going to be a woman. You’ll grow up to be a man.” I held my breath as I waited for his reaction. The poor kid burst into tears and wailed, “But I want to be a woman!” After a few minutes of this, he pulled himself together and I offered a suggestion. “Why don’t you grow up to be a man who truly loves and respects women for who they are?” I said. Max gave this serious consideration and said, “All right. That’s what I’ll do.” Second best option, to be sure, but he’d work with it.
Today, Max is a kid who truly does enjoy the company of women. I don’t know about how he relates to girls his own age, but he’s very comfortable — and I dare say he prefers — the company of women. When I share with him some of what I’ve read recently, the struggles women endured in terms of winning suffrage, lobbying for the Equal Rights Amendment, the constant battle against the “glass ceiling,” he’s genuinely baffled as to why women were (and still are) ever considered the second sex.
What I’ve shared here is a glorious example of feminism as it relates to the everyday. Raising sons who value women and recognize their worth is no easy task in a patriarchal society (and yeah, we still live in one of those). By spending those crucial first years surrounded by strong women, Max doesn’t have to “learn” about feminism; he lives it. Not once has it occurred to him that women are inferior to men in any way. Even Tucker, at 8, is open-minded enough to make the comment that “it seems like girls are better than boys at almost everything.”
Raising feminists takes more than letting boys play with dolls and girls play with trucks; it requires parents who refuse to buy into the idea that gender determines a person’s worth. It demands a sense of equality not in terms of everything being split 50/50, but in ways that truly matter, like the chance for self-fulfillment.
Of course, burning bras is always good, too.