There was a time when I was younger that I didn’t know there was a difference in how society viewed boys and girls. I really did think we were all equal. That belief changed one morning when I was nine years old. I asked my mother an innocent-sounding question.

“Why did you decide to have five children?” It seemed like a lot of children to me. There were so many answers I would have accepted. “I love children,” or “We wanted a big family,” or “No reason at all. It just happened that way.” But that was not what my mother said.

In a matter-of-fact tone, she replied, “Your grandparents wanted us to have boys.”

I was baffled. Why would having boys be so important? I thought my grandmother would enlighten me. Since she lives in our apartment building, a few days later I cornered her in the elevator and asked her why it was so important for my parents to have a boy.

“Because we raise the girl to give her away,” my grandmother said.  I was nine years old, and this statement would forever change how I thought about the world, my family, and my culture.

I asked her what “to give away” meant, and she told me that when girls are older, they marry into someone else’s family, take that family’s last name, and, in essence, become their daughter.

I was suddenly furious. How could I not be offended? I was the eldest child, and a daughter at that. I was a person, not an object to be given away. Until then, I believed I was as good as anyone. Suddenly, I felt like I would never be good enough. That day marked my first grudge. I decided to stop talking to my grandmother for as long as I could.  

The next January, my grandfather died. I was 10 years old. Again, I learned that I was of lesser value than the boys in my family. There is a tradition that, during the funeral, the oldest grandson of the oldest son would wear special clothes and carry flowers to help the dead in their journey. My parents gave this honor to the oldest of my twin brothers, who was only five years old at the time. This really hurt me. I was a good grandchild. I was responsible. I behaved. And, as all the adults around me had said, I was my grandfather’s favorite grandchild. Why should I be cast aside for being female?

I asked my grandmother what would happen if there were no sons and no grandsons. “Luckily for us,” she replied, “we aren't in that situation.”

My anger returned, and, at that moment, I decided that I would stop talking to her (again). Of course, I did not want to make a scene right then because it was, after all, my grandfather’s funeral. But I did move away from her, even though I was not supposed to move. I sensed people looking at me. I looked right back at them. This was not my fault.

As I got older, I observed the many ways my culture (and most others) marginalized women from a young age. As I sift through these gender imbalances, I can’t help but notice the paradoxical – and downright illogical – realities of a woman’s life. Women are always expected to be more responsible than their male counterparts. If a teenage girl becomes pregnant, the blame is ultimately placed on her. Told that the world is a dangerous place for a girl, women must be on the lookout at all times and avoid places where they might find trouble.

Yet, with all this added responsibility, boys get all the perks. it is the sons who are the heirs. Boys inherit the family business. Boys don’t have to worry about the curfew. Boys are encouraged to date. Girls are told to wait. This particular fact is both simultaneously hilarious and maddening. Who are straight boys supposed to date?

In light of these revelations, I became a staunch feminist.

Feminism means equality for all. Just as men control their own healthcare decisions, women should be able to control their reproductive healthcare without any input from men who don’t have medical degrees. Women should be able to walk down the streets at night and not worry about strangers murdering, kidnapping, and raping them. And there should be equal representation in the government.

As a feminist, I actively promote the need for this equality and speak out when I notice unacceptable sexist behavior, no matter who the perpetrator is. Incidentally, I find myself speaking out the most in the presence of my mother.

“Look at that girl,” my mother said one day while we were strolling through the mall. “She’s dressed so revealing. I wonder why her parents would let her wear that.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Honestly, I don’t get why anyone would wear clothes like that,” My mom continued.

I couldn’t help myself. I had to push back. “Mom, she’s literally just showing her shoulders. Everyone has shoulders. Why should she hide them? Also, you’re not her. Why do you care?”

She turned to me, her face showing some surprise and anger. “Well, no respectful women should dress like that.”

“Mom, she’s literally thirteen. If she’s happy wearing that, you should be, too.”  

“I don’t want you wearing anything like that.” She continued, ignoring me.

But she wouldn’t let up. “Those clothes look so slutty.”

“Mom, can you just stop shaming people and viewing the world with your traditional views?”

She turned around and pointed to a different girl. “Wow, her shorts are so short you can see her butt.”

“Well, why are you looking at her butt in the first place? Just let people wear what they want. It’s not hurting anybody.”

“Why are you always so argumentative?”

“I’m not argumentative. You’re always shaming people for what they wear even though it’s none of your business.”

She turned around and ignored me for the rest of the night. She knows how to hold a grudge, too.

So much of history is about people seeking equality, and yet it is blatantly obvious that women have been lagging far behind in this pursuit. Look no further than a woman’s last name. Traditionally, brides have taken the husband’s last name. If last names are part of a person’s identity, it is ridiculous that a woman’s identity should be based off of a male. In a move toward equality, many women in the past few decades have decided to reject this practice and keep their own last name. Long ago, I decided I would do this, hoping to make a stand, no matter how small. But recently I’ve thought about my last name. It is the name given to me by my father. So either way, my name reeks of patriarchy. This is why I’ve decided to give my child, either boy or girl, my last name. If I’m the one who has to go through the pregnancy, I should be able to label the baby. Obviously, it’s okay for women to take their husband’s last name, as long as she is not pressured to do so. Feminism is about having the choice to choose for themselves.

Interestingly, my mother kept her last name. I’ve always been curious about how this happened. After much prodding, she finally told me that my father had wanted her to change her name. He pressured her to do so. But my mother wouldn’t give in. Her excuse was that she would have to do a lot of paperwork since we have two passports.  I find this hilarious. And when I asked her if that was the real reason, she was quite candid. “No. I just didn’t want to change my name.”

In one respect, this is a trivial detail about my mother who, in nearly every other instance, has abided by the societal norms placed on women for generations. But to me, this is an example of how women have moved closer to equality.  And, in truth, I admire my mother for it.