Talking to my dad about feminism

Fights about rights are hard, especially when they're with the person who taught you to be strong. Story by Ali Burns.

In my early teen years, I used to proudly confront any boy who belittled women. I was unwavering, my chest would swell; I would get sweaty and flustered and make bad arguments. It meant a lot to me to fight these assumptions of women being less than men. I was not less.

I wasn’t changing anyone’s mind, and it was tiring trying to convince people who didn’t want to be convinced. I got embarrassed and worn down. I started to shy away from calling myself a feminist, because every time a sexist comment was made, all eyes would turn to me to see how I reacted, and if I’m honest, sometimes I couldn’t be bothered challenging these opinions. It was hard and there was no tangible reward; another joke would be made the next day.

After high school, I moved to Wellington, I went to university and I learned a lot about feminism in a very small period of time. I realised that I'd been right to be so indignant. I felt sad and angry that I'd had been exhausted into giving up, and that I'd let my self down when I was younger by shying away from my ideals.  

This hostility affected my summer visits to my parents’ house. It especially affected my relationship with my dad. I had never had any major fights with my him about feminism before, he was always on my side when I talked about the comments made at school, and I think he felt proud to have such a strong-willed daughter.

We were watching Geordie Shore and he insinuated that girls shouldn’t sleep with as many people as boys.

But now, if Dad said something my ideals conflicted with I would not let it slide. It felt to me that if I brushed it off I would be doing a disservice to my younger self, who had been relentless. My dad and I are both very stubborn and unwilling to back down, so after frustrating and unrewarding discussions, these fights would get shepherded into a dark corner and never resolved.

I remember the first big fight we had about women’s rights. My impassioned argument came as a surprise to Dad and I’m not sure he knew how to react. We were watching Geordie Shore and he insinuated that girls shouldn’t sleep with as many people as boys.

ME

What the fuck, Dad. That’s disgusting.

DAD

It’s just different.

ME

That is so sexist Dad. I can’t believe you think that.

My chest felt hot and knotted and my ice cream started melting in my lap.

DAD

OK, Ali, that’s enough I don’t want to fight.

I didn’t understand Dad’s flippancy towards something that affected me so directly.

ME

Are you serious? Do you even care about me?

At this point I think my Dad was just wondering how this had happened, but because he is a stubborn he wasn’t going to admit his mistake, and because I am just as stubborn I wasn’t going to let it go.

DAD

It’s Geordie Shore Ali, calm down.

I was really confused. This was the same man who raised me to believe I was capable and clever; he had never led me to believe that my gender would stop me from accomplishing anything. It was partially because of him that I felt like I was able to challenge the boys at high school.

Dad told me the next day he was just winding me up and I felt the same weariness I had when I started to wane in my arguments at high school. Is this what all discussions with men would be like throughout my entire life?

I scoffed at him being so concerned with being masculine, which progressed to an argument over whether or not boys and girls are inherently different.

(I recently talked to my Dad about this fight. He said, “I can’t imagine I would have ever thought that.”)

We had a lot of these fights that created distance between Dad and me, and would make us both feel weird and sad. Several years later, the dark argument corner had expanded.

We got into a fight about him not wanting to hold Mum’s bag. I scoffed at him being so concerned with being masculine, which progressed to an argument over whether or not boys and girls are inherently different.

ME

Don’t be so hetero-normative, Dad.

I thought if I used big words then he would realise that I knew what I was talking about.

DAD

So I should treat you like a strong man then? And if I need help lifting something heavy I’ll ask you?

I changed my tactic and decided to talk about the colors pink and blue and how ridiculous it is to have colors assigned to gender.  

ME

That’s not the point, that isn’t even about gender; it’s about how capable you are.  It’s like the colours pink and blue. They are just colours right, but for some reason they’re gendered and it’s stupid. The reason boys don’t like pink is cause it’s feminine which means it’s embarrassing to be female. It’s dumb and harmful.

This made sense right? Right?!

DAD

I still can’t treat you how I would a strong man.

We were just talking at each other about different ideas.

ME

Dad, pink and blue. Like pink and blue, they are just colours. Just colours. You get that right? Surely you understand that.

DAD

OK, Ali, that’s enough.

I was desperate; I wanted my dad to understand me.

ME

Pink and blue…

I was doing better in this argument, but I still got frazzled and my real argument got lost somewhere in the pink and blue. Neither of us wanted any more arguments to be jostled into the corner but neither of us knew how to talk about this stuff.

I wanted to explain every last feminist idea I knew to Dad. I wanted him to be an advocate for women’s rights. I wanted to be able to have open discussions with Dad about feminism, but the only time I ever spoke about it to him is when I was telling him he'd said something wrong.

I was stuck in a cycle. I didn’t want to feel worn down after talking to Dad about gender or feminism. I gradually started to try and be more forgiving of people. I realised that if I had met myself then we would not agree on everything either.

​I thought I knew better than Dad, and Dad thought I was cherry picking, pulling at his words and cutting them to pieces.

I thought I knew better than Dad, and Dad thought I was cherry picking, pulling at his words and cutting them to pieces. he'd try to stop the argument before it got too heated but I would see this as brushing the issue away. I underestimated what Dad already understood, but when we were fighting he would never show me what he did understand.

Learning when to try to have a conversation and when to walk away became very important for me to be able to maintain the energy to have these discussions at all. I started being kinder and softer when I have these discussions, not only with Dad, but with other people when these issues would come up.  It was easier for me to be understood and to be heard when I was gentle and forgiving. While anger is valid and important and I never want to devalue or discredit this, I realised that the way to get through to my dad and often others was to try and discuss these issues in a way that didn’t feel an attack.

Over time, Dad also started to meet me halfway. He started to make fewer comments of this nature and recognised when a comment might cause a fight. This also helped us clear out that dark corner where we'd send our unresolved arguments.

I would still speak up when Dad said something I thought we could talk about. At family barbeque one summer, Dad made a comment about boys never growing up. He's very responsible himself, so I thought that maybe here we could come to an understanding.

ME
Well, that’s a bit reductive.

DAD
Yeah, all right, Ali.

I think Dad understood this idea, but I also wanted to make sure.

ME
Well it is, it sucks when people joke about that because men are in charge of a lot of things and it normalises a culture of men not being responsible for their actions.

DAD
There are worse things to say, Ali.

I knew what Dad meant. I also knew this wasn’t the point. Neither of us wanted to fight.

ME

Ok fine, can you understand what I mean though?

DAD

Yes, I do.

This was a compromise. I no longer felt the tight knot in my chest or the need to swear.

I will always be more ready to feel hurt or offended by my dad’s words. I can't write him off or disregard his comments like I might do with someone else. I will continue to tell my Dad when he says something that I think is dumb, and I hope he can take ownership of his comment. I will try to do it in a forgiving way that expects more of him, and I hope he can see that I just want to know that he understands.

The corner is getting less dark as we learn to navigate these discussions. My Dad and I have grown and we understand each other more clearly. My Dad makes an effort to think about what he says. I know this and need to remember that this means he knows more than I give him credit for. I try to be softer in my approach to these discussions, so I can be understood and I do not become worn out and give up.

This is our peaceful compromise.