One of the many gratitudes I owe my mom is that she told me I could do anything and be anything. I was never told I was “just a girl.”

It may seem small, but overwhelmingly, I’m likely in the minority. 

There were no limitations to my dreams under her roof. Yet, I’d soon learn in a million different ways that equality was not a reality. My bloodline, however, was distinctly filled with feminists, even if they never called themselves that. I don’t think my mom used that term, nor my granny. Their actions told a story of independence. My granny graduated from college at 19 and earned a graduate degree. She was outspoken and an equal in her marriage to my pop. 

My mom never depended on a man to support her or tell her what she believed. She also informed my world of much more than living in a very white Bible Belt small town. 

Her perceptions certainly shaped mine. I could have easily fallen in line with many of those in this community, always walking behind men, whether their partners or some grotesque empty vessel, desiring to keep women as second-class citizens. 

My intelligence and curiosity were applauded, not ridiculed. How grateful I am that I had this experience. It’s obvious so many others did not. What’s perplexing is that many who denounce feminism claim to be strong, independent women. How is this? They actively diminish their own rights and fall behind a dictator. It must be exhausting to jump through all these hoops every day. 

I had my mom’s love and her respect. These are different things. There’s no guarantee you’ll get either from your parents. Her confidence made me confident. Her courage made me brave. She didn’t need a label to be the mother a daughter actually needs. 

As I said, life reminded me quickly and regularly that bigotry and male chauvinism were alive and well. Many men tried to break my spirit. I didn’t always push back, scarred by trauma and loss. I encountered it more frequently, but I no longer had her to share these barriers with. Her voice was still there. Sometimes louder and clearer than others. 

In reflecting on the 28th anniversary of her death, I’m listening for it more than ever. She would say persist and fight. She would urge me to resist and to hope. She is the heart of my hopeful resistance.