“I am a feminist,” I announced to an entire church congregation one Sunday. I had felt the Spirit nudge me to share a few words from the pulpit. Looking out over the sizable crowd, I gave a nervous smile, oblivious of the shiver that rippled through them. 

I was new to the area and didn’t know that being a feminist is just about the worst thing a woman can be. Some of you may wonder whether I’m new to Christianity, because the negative feelings towards feminists, I’ve learned, is fairly standard regardless of the congregation. 

Afterall, feminists are angry, power-hungry women who think all men are dumb. Granted, some men are dumb but to say ALL men are dumb goes a bit too far. Feminists are disrespectful to the ecclesiastical patriarchy, demanding the right to hold godly priesthood power and take up masculine leadership roles. They dress the part by wearing pants to church, not because they’re allowed, but as a deliberate protest against the oppression of skirts and pantyhose.

Feminists cast off aprons, leaving dopey husbands still wondering what’s for dinner. They link arms with other women who have finally opened their eyes to the inequality and unfairness their sex has endured. They march in growing numbers, undeterred by the debris of crumpled homes and crushed faith they leave behind.

A bit dramatic, maybe, but an accurate description of how a lot of people feel. And it’s not just Christianity or conservative America which feel this way. It’s found all over the world. I once mentioned to my friends here in Africa my inner feminism and there was a visible recoil. 

Urgh! How could I possibly want to be a feminist?

And yet, I am. I don’t care what the stereotype would infer about me. I claim feminism because I feel passionate about how the world values women and, more importantly, how they value themselves. 

Now, an outside observer would describe my childhood as fitting the traditional model. My mom stayed home raising seven children while my dad went to work, earning money to “support us”. By all accounts, I should have been raised by a dutiful wife who understood her place, thus teaching me to be a dutiful wife who stays in her place. Well, my mother might not have brought home a paycheck, but it was she who wielded power and great influence over everything we did. 

My father didn’t quite know how to handle his feminist wife, not because it took years for her to claim the title, but because she regularly challenged him and asserted her own authority. In his bewilderment of such a creature, they both made occasional attempts to settle differences with the help of family counselors. One such session stands out as an example of the power my mother held at home. 

My parents were having their regular session, discussing whatever it is parents do as they talk for hours about boring stuff. I was probably 11 or 12 and was sitting with the rest of my siblings (only six of us at the time) in the foyer. To our surprise, the counselor came out early and asked us to join the session. 

Finally! Something to break up the monotony of moving colored blocks across a twisted wire track.  

After we had filed in, the counselor asked us to organize the family in order of authority, from the person with the most authority to the least. Come on. Give me something hard. Mom first, Dad second, then oldest child to youngest child. It was too easy. One by one, each child took turns organizing the family in the same order. Mom, Dad, oldest to youngest. 

Except my older brother, child number two in the line-up. 

He went rogue and put Dad first. 

Weird.

After the exercise was done, the counselor informed us that we had all gotten it wrong except for my rogue brother. My dad was supposed to be the one to come first, not my mother. 

I suppressed a giggle. 

Clearly this counselor was an idiot. 

Never once did I consider that my mother had to be second to my father. Why would she need to be? Her opinion had equal, if not more weight on the big and small decisions of our family. A family counselor couldn’t change that. He didn’t live where I lived, he didn’t see what I saw. 

I walked out of that counseling session convinced that the world can sometimes get it wrong. 

Looking back I was surrounded by feminists who knew their worth and wouldn’t sit down when told. They weren’t mean or power hungry. They were strong and assertive. They would notice the imbalance of power and would find another way around. 

My mother’s cousin, for example, is an accountant who has managed several successful businesses. I once asked her about her experiences getting qualified. She admitted to experiencing discrimination and having to wade through tough situations, but it never pushed her off track. 

She wouldn’t let it.

My father’s sisters are strong-willed and powerful, both commanding respect. Their mother appeared more timid until the moment her husband died. That fact made an impression on me. 

Why live your life waiting for someone to die so you can finally be assertive? 

My mother’s sister is a bit of a puzzle for me. She is a nurse who worked outside of the home and brought in a paycheck of her own. She is well-educated and strong, yet her husband doesn’t seem to know where the broom is. 

My older sister started out as a tomboy, hacking at weeds without her shirt and demonstrating she was as strong as any male counterpart. I would get teased as “Miss Priss” who couldn’t endure enough pain and who was too scared to jump. Luckily my younger sister allowed me the freedom to be more feminine and would join me for trampoline ballets and hours of dress-up. My two sisters taught me that women have a right to be different, even from each other.

I mean seriously. Why reduce the fair sex to a restrictive box, limiting what they can do or undervaluing what they choose to do? 

Therefore, I claim feminism because feminism asserts that women have always been equal to men. That equality has not always been reflected in laws and social norms. And so feminism is a rebalancing of those social constructs, giving room for women to realize and determine their full potential.

Granted, sometimes that rebalancing of society is a wide-swinging pendulum, bumping into the edges of reason and order. Sometimes rebalancing starts out as a freefall of emotions before the opening of a parachute and a soft landing. 

But the work of feminists past, present, and future is to allow women the opportunities to determine where it is they fit and what contributions they can uniquely make to society. What are women built to do? 

As a feminist, I feel it is equally important to notice where we tread and to open our eyes to the chaos in our wake. What does happen when we cast off our aprons? What is happening to young men and boys as we turn our attention to the awakening of young women and girls? 

Are we balancing or simply re-tipping the scales?