I resisted calling myself a feminist for a brief period of my life. I had some pretty valid reasons, I thought: I didn’t fully understand the fight for reproductive rights, and I wasn’t sure which stance to take for personal and religious reasons; I didn’t read feminist blogs or magazines, I didn’t attend marches or rallies — and that’s what feminism entailed, I assumed; but mostly, my hesitation stemmed from the strange looks I got when I used the F word.
I didn’t, and still don’t, associate myself with any political party (I like to think my seven years of journalistic experience are at fault for my pretty consistant objectivity). Social activism, gender issues in particular, is really the only political realm in which I take a particularly vehement position, and even there, I tend to read news articles and blogs with a discerning eye.
So I was bewildered at…
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