A few weeks ago, I walked into my local AT&T store to see about getting a new phone—only to be told that, since my husband is the main account holder, I can’t. Unless, of course, I bring him in with me, or unless he calls customer service first. Sitting across from the AT&T guy, I actually laughed out loud. “Wow,” I said. “It feels like the 1970s all over again.” The AT&T guy looked up from his computer screen and stared at me blankly. “What do you mean?” he asked. With his dark hair and beard, he appeared to be in his thirties.

The 1970s reference was completely lost on him.

(Funnily enough, when my husband did call later that day, they told him that actually, I’M the main account holder, and that he can’t authorize any changes on the account without me or my pin, which neither of us remembers.)

~

Last summer, I had the privilege of meeting the owner of Jabberwocky Books, an independent bookstore in the historic coastal town of Newburyport, Massachusetts. I was camping with my family at Salisbury Beach, and on a rainy day, my twelve-year-old son and I drove into town to check it out. When we walked into the store, located in a refurbished tannery mill building, my son and I stopped in our tracks, then looked at each other with eyes sparkling, mouths hanging wide open. And then we dove right in.

How lucky were we that the owner happened to be at the cash register. That the woman checking out in front of us asked her if she was, in fact, the owner. How lucky that we got to join the conversation as Susan Little talked about the store’s beginnings over 50 years ago.

In 1972, Susan had been in her early twenties when she opened the bookstore with $2000 she’d saved from bartending in addition to a bank loan. Some of the men in the town, she told us, suggested that the store was a front for something else. That she was selling her body there because of course, what else could a woman be good for. And after a couple of years, when she applied for another bank loan to move the store to a bigger location, the loan officer told her she would soon be “busy doing other things.” For this reason, he denied her the loan.

Can you imagine?

Standing there across from Susan at the cash register, listening to her tell this story, I felt chills down my back. More so than that, I felt a sense of humility like never before. How have I walked around for so much of my life not realizing that I am sharing this world with women like Susan? Women who weren’t taken seriously, who had to overcome the kind of obstacles that we today take completely for granted. In an article on Literary Hub, Susan’s son, neuroscientist and author Erik Hoel, writes, “It was utter nonsense for a 23-year-old woman in 1972 to open her own store, so she called it ‘The Nonsense’—The Jabberwocky was born.”

~

I’ve noticed that sometimes, when I talk about feminism, I am met with resistance. As in, “What’s your problem, what do you have to complain about?” Indeed, I am so grateful to have been born when I was, to be able to enjoy the kind of autonomy and financial freedom and choices that women of previous generations couldn’t.

But being a passionate feminist has nothing to do with complaining, and everything to do with raising awareness. It’s about challenging you to look through a different lens. Being aware that there are women alive TODAY who were not able to get their own credit card or bank account without a male co-signer. Adult women who couldn’t walk into a car dealership without a husband or father or older brother and buy their own damn car.

Can you imagine?

Women who were denied education, and dignity, and were treated as second-class citizens; our sisters of color even more so. In the grand scheme of the world, this was not that long ago. And in the same vein, there are still men around today who believe that we are inferior and deserve to be treated as such. To be objectified. Degraded.

This terrifies me. Especially since men like that continue to hold positions of power.

I think the word feminist makes some people, both men and women alike, bristle, because over the years, it’s been reduced to being synonymous with a man-hating, humorless bitch—which is just another way to silence those of us who dare to speak up and question the status quo. It’s another way to pathologize our anger. I have three sons and a husband I love, I have a father I love, I have male friends I love, and many other men I like and admire. I do not wish to see a world without them.

My kind of feminism is all-encompassing, because I understand that living in a patriarchal society hurts men, too. If you are a father, and were present at the birth of your child, consider this: not so long ago, you would have been denied the chance to witness that miracle. You would have been denied the right to your full humanity. And you are still being denied your full humanity, because you grew up in a world that taught you to hold back your tears and clench your fists instead. But denying emotion and sensitivity isn’t strength; it’s merely self-delusion. It’s a sexist mechanism, “founded on the false binary between the emotional (female) and the intellectual (male), and intended to subordinate the former.” (Melissa Febos, Body Work)

My kind of feminism is all-encompassing because I believe there isn’t just one way to be in the world. No one holds any sort of ultimate truth, and to claim so is simply another assertion of power. In her book Bad Feminist, Roxane Gay says she is failing as a woman and a feminist because she is a mess of contradictions. She wants to be independent, but she wants someone to come home to and take care of her. She listens to thuggish rap even though the lyrics are degrading to women and offend her to her very core. She knows nothing about cars. “Good feminists, I assume, are independent enough to address vehicular crises on their own; they are independent enough to care.”

But we don’t all have to believe in the same kind of feminism, Gay assures us. “Feminism can be pluralistic so long as we respect the different feminisms we carry with us, so long as we give enough of a damn to try to minimize the fractures among us.” (Thank goodness. I am perfectly happy to let my husband deal with all things car-related.)

So women: if you bristle at the word feminism, or say things like, “I’m not a feminist, but…”—I’m not asking you to get a buzz cut, stop shaving your legs, and start hating and denouncing all men. I’m not asking you to throw out your high heels and make-up. You can still be whatever kind of woman you want: conservative, church-going, devout; eyebrow-plucking, Botox-injecting, fashionista—all this, too, is reductive, I know, but you get the point.

All I’m asking you to do on the eve of International Women’s Day is this: consider, next time you take out your credit or debit card, that not so long ago, you would not have been able to procure these things on your own. Think about that for a moment.

Can you imagine?

Consider that feminism has allowed you these freedoms. You don’t have to embrace it with open arms if you’re not ready to do so, and you certainly don’t have to agree with the opinions and positions of every single feminist who has ever lived. We’re all different.

But consider. Before you scoff at feminism or completely disavow it, watch the movie Suffragette. Or read about how Ruth Bader Ginsburg fought to pave the way for the Equal Credit Opportunity Act of 1974, which allowed women to have access to bank accounts, credit cards, and mortgages without a male co-signer. Maybe send up a little prayer of gratitude for all RBG did so you could have the financial independence you enjoy today.

Maybe even light a candle for all the women who spoke up and fought so that you can move through the world with more agency and freedom.

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