A few weeks after I had my daughter, I met a woman with a girl a few days younger than mine. She wore a green onesie that read “Baby Activist,” and her name was Cameron, chosen specifically for its gender neutrality.
I thought I’d be that kind of mother, the kind who painted her feminist values onto the heart and soul of her child. That’s probably because I always thought of myself as a feminist — even as a tween, I had a Rosie the Riveter keychain, and when I got my first driver’s license, I would pop in my Helen Reddy cassette and imagine that I was woman, and one day, the world would hear me roar. READ MORE