Random Thoughts

When I was a kid, I wanted to be Nancy Duncan when I grew up. I didn’t want to be LIKE HER, I wanted to BE her. She was my hero. And it is because of her that I know to call her a hero (and not a heroine). You see, Nancy Duncan was the first feminist I ever met. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time.   It was around 1976, which would make me 10 years old, and I was smack dab in the middle of the Midwest in Omaha, Nebraska.   Nancy Duncan was my theatre teacher, my director, and (like I mentioned), my hero . Everything about her was perfect in my eyes.   Her wavy, messy hair.   Her loud laugh.   Her funky, multi-layered clothing.   Her smile.   Her genuine way of caring for those around her.   Her wit.   And her kindness.   I was just one of hundreds (thousands?) of kids she taught and directed.   I am sure nothing stood out about me that made me special in her eyes.   But in my eyes, oh in my eyes...

Maybe it has been the talk of #YesAllWomen recently.  Maybe the stories of the Indian girls who were raped and then hung from mango trees to die last week.  But I have been thinking about WOMEN.  And about myself as a woman.  And about FEMINISM.  I am proud to be a feminist.  If asked, I could not quickly give you a definition of the word.  Yet, I AM the word. So now that I am thinking about it, I looked up the definition.  Dictionary.com says “feminist” means: a dvocating   social,   political,   legal,   and   economic   rights   for   women   equal   to   those   of   men. I can get down with that.  And when put that simply and succinctly, who could disagree with it?  By disagreeing, are you advocating that social, political, legal, and economic rights of women, of ME, should NOT be equal to those of men?  Because they are not, you know.  So I gues...