My Dad Made Me a Feminist

This is either a bold statement, or one that would seem cliche. Perhaps you're thinking I'm about to spin a tale about how my Dad was a proud feminist who I had long talks with about equality and the treatment of women in third world countries. However, this is not the case. I just had a thought recently that the way my Dad treated me and my sister led me to believe women and men are equal.

My Dad was 45 when I was born. He lived in Kentucky his whole life, and settled down in a small town called LaGrange. In this town he and my Mom go to Church every Sunday at Immaculate Conception, it's where they raised their seven children, and at the community center of election day they vote Republican. He is a traditional fella. It's not a bad thing, and we don't fight about it (mostly because we don't talk about politics), it's just the way he is. He's a hardworking man, spent thirty years at G.E. going in early and staying late for the sake of his family; and he enjoys the peace and quiet, especially with a nice glass of bourbon.

My Dad set a good example of how I should be as a person. And in some ways I am like him, and in other's I'm not, but that's because he made me this way. This thought, that my Dad made me a feminist, came when I was sitting in the backyard drinking wine with my boyfriend's mom.

At the time I was actually somewhat salty and fidgety. I was feeling weak and useless, and I wanted to be involved. You see, at the time my boyfriend's parents had decided to take down their back porch so they could rebuild. So far the rail had come down and they were gradually working through the floor boards to get them off. This process involved whacking the boards from underneath with a sledgehammer until it popped up, and then using a crowbar to ease the board up. I had offered my assistance, in part because I was used to using sledgehammers as they were incorporated in my workouts at the gym, and because I am very used to being asked to help with this kind of thing. Since I was a guest my offer was declined, and I was left to sit. It felt awkward, because I wanted to help, and also because it made me feel weak and incapable.

I'm not sure if it's because of his age or because he was used to always having help with seven kids around, but my Dad asked for mine and my sister's help often. We helped him move furniture up and down stairs, he taught me to keep up with my aging car engine, Anne and I frequently did lawn work-- it was natural that I'd offer my help and be handed a tool. But in this case, I was told not to help. I was given wine and a chair, and told I could pick up any missed rusty nails when they were done. It wasn't mean, it was considerate and polite, but it still felt weird. It made me reflect on my Dad, and how he never thought my sister and I as less useful than our older brothers. He just needed a helping hand, and when he hollered, we did what he asked.

My Dad made me a feminist because he never belittled me. I never felt weak or uncapable. I felt strong and knowledgable, and now that I'm older I value what he taught me even more. Every kid should be asked to mow the lawn or rake the leaves. Not just the boys. Every kid should be asked to carry heavy things, even if they don't like it, because it will make them stronger.