On Bra Burning and Being Human

I still feel a little uncomfortable when I describe myself as a feminist. Growing up, “feminist” always had a negative connotation—feminists were those angry women who protested being left out of a men’s only golf club or the crazy women that asserted their liberation by burning their bras and sleeping around.

After my undergrad, I taught elementary school, and my friends all went to grad school. And one by one, they all became feminists. They saw things they’d never seen before and became upset about things that I had never thought of as issues. I didn't get it, and honestly I was a little worried that I'd become an angry feminist myself when I decided to get my master's degree.

During my first semester I took IPT 564 Instructional Design. My male partner and I created an instructional product for our "client," a professor from a different department. In the middle of the semester we went to present what we had so far to the professor. We got his feedback, answered his questions, and came back to the "grad lab" where all the IPT students hang out. I didn't even know anything out of the ordinary had happened until Eric asked me, "Did that bother you?" "What?" I asked. "That he only talked to me," he said. I thought back. The professor had only made eye contact with Eric and only asked him questions, even though I had done most of the designing to that point and was the one who could answer his questions. I realized then, that I could face discrimination in the work place and needed to be prepared. That was the beginning of my feminism.

I'm not about to burn my bras. I'm not angry. I'm not crazy. This is what my feminism looks like:

I ask for the wage I think I'm worth, even though I'd rather crawl out of my skin.

I am independent, but there is a place and a role for a man by my side.

I do not think that women and men are the same but I do think they are equally important. Both valued. Both needing a champion when trampled upon.

I reject the pedestal that sometimes women are placed on. I cringe when I hear a church leader say off-handedly, “we all know that one sister missionary is twice as effective as three elders,” because I believe that false generalization hurts both men and women.

I hurt for the boys who are told they need to stop crying, suck it up, and be a man, and thus learn shut off a part of themselves.

I constantly remind myself that I am working out because I love my body and I want to be healthy and strong—not to shame my body into submission so I can be sexy.

I declare that my value to society is created by what I contribute—not by how attractive I am to a man.

I revere fatherhood and motherhood. I assert the dignity of being a parent, aunt, advocate, or caregiver.

The term “feminist” seems inadequate--what I feel is more inclusive than that. I want to reclaim the term “humanist” so that rather than meaning someone who asserts human logic over God, it means someone who feels empathy and connection with all humans. I am pro-human—not just pro-woman. I identify with being a human first, and with being a woman second. Just like I identify with being a citizen of the world first, and a citizen of the United States second. We are all connected.

Thus I collect donations for Somali refugees being resettled into Salt Lake. I stay present as I watch a sobering documentary about child sex slavery. I keep up with what the "so-called Islamic State" (I love that BBC news called ISIS that) is doing, even though I can't do anything about it. I listen to my gay friend wrestle with God and church and feel his frustration and confusion as if it were my own. And I speak up when I see sexist memes on International Women's Day.