Updated: July 27, 2016
Originally Published: October 24, 2015
“I want to be a nerd,” declares my 5-year-old daughter. In today’s world, the term “nerd” has transformed into something positive and trendy. It signifies intelligence, sass, and a connection to contemporary culture. This evolution of language is truly remarkable. She’s captivated by Big Hero 6, particularly the scene where Hiro designs superhero costumes, and her enthusiasm is infectious.
“I want to be someone who builds things,” my 7-year-old chimes in.
“You mean an engineer?” I respond.
“YES, AN ENGINEER!” she exclaims, repeating it with a beaming smile for days on end. My heart swells with pride. The Barbies remain untouched on the floor, and when she refuses to buy a back-to-school dress because it would hinder her speed, I high-five her.
I believe I’m doing everything right. I’ve embraced the role of Every Mother.
While visiting my sister, I overhear my youngest telling her cousin that colors aren’t specifically for boys or girls—they’re just colors. “Look at what I’ve accomplished!” I boast to my friends.
But the Parenthood Gods are merciless. Pride is a feeling to tread lightly around, like dipping your toes into the icy waters of a Great Lake.
My 7-year-old has become engrossed in Minecraft. She constructs castles and roller coasters, and even mines filled with wolves (Why wolves?). She talks about hunting animals for food (disturbing yet oddly realistic), and discusses strategies for defeating zombies. “There’s so much about killing here,” my husband comments. “You wouldn’t mind if she were a boy,” I counter, reaching a stalemate.
She shouts at her “iPad”—the affordable knock-off tablet we gifted her for her birthday, inspired by its reputed benefits for developing problem-solving skills.
“Die, zombies!” she yells, and I struggle to suppress a cringe. It feels hypocritical, but the words coming from my sweet daughter sound so boyish, so aggressive. My ingrained biases clash with my aspirations for her empowerment. The external world seems louder than my voice.
“Run away like the little girl that you are!” she growls at the screen one afternoon.
“Where did you pick that up?” I ask, taken aback. #Likeagirl now represents strength and power.
She shrugs, “Camp.”
Camp—where she interacts with 12-year-old boys, and where the concept of girl power means little.
“Do you think little girls run away?” I inquire, seeking to challenge her perspective.
“Mom, it’s just an expression,” she replies, rolling her eyes.
My confidence crumbles. I feel powerless against a culture that perpetuates the idea of girls being inferior. My voice seems drowned out in an echo chamber of doubt.
Yet, I can’t remain silent. “Don’t you think little boys run when they’re scared? And that little girls can stand their ground sometimes?” I persist. She chooses to ignore me.
Later, while watching The Sandlot, a childhood favorite of mine that is rife with sexism and inappropriate language, I am reminded of a scene I once considered innocent but now cuts deeply as a parent. “You play ball like a girl!” exclaims Porter, the loud, freckled kid (my personal favorite, despite his derogatory comments). The crowd gasps; this is deemed the ultimate insult.
I hold my breath, glancing at my daughters.
My older daughter turns to her younger sister, smirking, “Um, whatever. We’re better than those guys, right?”
“Right!” replies my 5-year-old, as they clasp hands, jaws set, and eyes narrowed. They look fierce.
It’s a small victory in a cha-cha of conflicting messages.
This article was originally published on October 24, 2015.
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In summary, the journey of raising a feminist daughter is fraught with cultural challenges and moments of pride. Balancing empowerment with societal influences is an ongoing battle, but small victories can spark hope for a brighter future.