I used to be angry. I had all the potential of becoming one of those women you read about in the newspaper or see on TV...you know...the ones that fly into rants and are so upset that their eyes bug out...the ones that are so desperate to be heard that they don't listen at all! You know, a Feminist.
I didn't arrive there. Instead, I'm here. I'm married to a man. I'm a happy member of a conservative Presbyterian church in a conservative Presbyterian denomination. Best of all, I don't have this huge, heavy chip on my shoulder that fills me up with anger and bitterness. I'm happy and (usually) at peace.
However. Last night I almost launched into a rant with some of my church friends. Both men, both leaders of our congregation. They made me mad, and as I stood at a figurative fork in the road with the choice to launch into a rant or let the moment pass in favor of peace, I let the moment pass.
I'm happy with my choice. If I had the moment to re-live, I'd make the same choice that I did. But let me just say that I'm so tired of being labeled a feminist because I pay attention to the way issues, policies, patterns, and sins affect women differently than they affect men. I'm not a feminist.
And, for your reading pleasure, I present a well-written essay that puts my thoughts into so much clarity. Intellectuelle, thank you for doing a better job than I can at putting these thoughts into words. I am in your debt.