I get looks a lot. That shouldn’t really strike me as surprising; everyone gets looks. Amused looks, horrified looks, heartbroken looks, enamored looks…I’ve gotten them all. Still, nothing was quite the punch in the gut as the look my mother gave me when I told her I was going out with a girl.

I’d been dating Megan for something like six months around the time I finally talked to my mom. For six months, I was horrified at the concept of telling my middle-aged, old-fashioned African-American mother that her daughter, the girl she had been a father and mother to for twenty years, was very much in love with your typical Irish girl (sans fiery-red Weasley hair).

I had told my mother that I was bi before, but it was some six years ago and I’m pretty sure that she just passed it off as me being dazed after being hit over the head with puberty. I was almost certain that she’d forgotten (she hadn’t, the old elephant), and when I told her, a look of terror and disgust would follow suit.

It didn’t, and I still can’t decide if I’m grateful for that or not.

It was a little after Christmas when I finally decided I was going to fess up. Megan had just had surgery on her knee, and I wanted to be there for her (read: be her slave for a week). I had told my mother a half-baked excuse as to why I was hoping on a Greyhound and going from Long Island to Virginia to see one of my “friends” from school. After a lot of thought, I decided to just lay it all out.

At first, her expression was the sort of quiet, understanding, thoughtful expression that moms usually have when you’re pouring your heart out to them. I explained in slow, carefully chosen words that I had been in a relationship with Megan for a few months, and that I felt like it was time to tell her such. There was a five second silence that stood between my voice and hers.

“I don’t want you to make decisions based on a few negative experiences,” she finally replied. I hastily explained that, no, it wasn’t because of the horrible ex-boyfriend fiasco (we were never actually going out). She nodded, and I could tell that it was forced. She wasn’t upset or horrified, but I could tell, I could see that she was disappointed, and that hurt me more than if she had thrown me out the house. Here was my mother, a black woman that grew up in Brooklyn during the Civil Rights movement, who was barely a generation removed from Barbados and had been instilled with good, honest West Indian values, and she was disappointed.

“I figured it out already,” she added after a few seconds with a forced smile. I had a feeling she did, and I coughed out a chuckle as a reply. Megan had come to visit me that summer, before she had even asked me out. My mother can be and often is intimidating, so Megan spent most of her time upstairs in my room. (“Megan can sleep in the guest room, if she wants,” my mother helpfully suggested on Megan’s second night with us. “I know,” I sheepishly replied. I think that was when she figured it out.) We were silly and flirty the entire time, but it wasn’t really until she got on the Amtrak back to Virginia that I realized that I was lovesick.

After a few more awkward exchanges (“Does she only like girls, or is she…?” “No, no, she’s…she’s like me, too.” “Just be open to…” “I will.”), I scurried back to the security of my room. The next day, it seemed like nothing had really changed. She didn’t treat me any differently, and it seemed like she had forgotten the conversation entirely. Maybe she had.

My mother occasionally asks how Megan is when I talk to her on the phone, but not often. I’ve come to realize that there will always be a part of her that is disappointed in me, and that realization sleeps in my gut, coming out of hibernation every now and then to pace around and growl at me. In time, I hope that she’ll accept the fact that, yes, I do love this girl. But for now, knowing that my mom still loves me is good enough.

I must have been out of town when this memo was passed around, so perhaps someone can clue me in. When did “feminist” become a four letter word?

I noticed this first earlier this summer, while reading “The Feminine Mystique” by Betty Friedan. My book began to cower in fear any time I attempted to take it out of my purse to do some reading public. While people can openly read Harry Potter books and trashy romance novels, my book was met with hostility.

“Why are you reading that trash?” my cousin scowled.

“What are you, becoming some kind of feminist?” a friend of mine asked, while I did some pool-side reading.

I thought to myself, if I had been reading a book about civil rights and the end of slavery, I wouldn’t get a second glance. But a book about feminism, one that applies to over half of our population, apparently offends people.

In everyday conversation and friendly debates, rarely have I heard the word “feminist” detached from the word “but.” As in, “I’m not a feminist, but…”

Let’s peruse the dictionary, shall we? Ah, just as I thought. It would seem that the word “feminist” means “of or relating to or advocating equal rights for women.” And how peculiar — contrary to popular belief, its synonym is not “man-hating miserable bitch.” So why is that what people hear when they hear the dreaded f-word?

Of course, we reap the benefits provided to us by the feminists that came before us. We go to school, raise children, or do one or the other or nothing at all. We yell at our boyfriends to clean up their dirty socks off the floor and then demand orgasms in bed. We make and spend our own money and don’t have to ask for an allowance from the man we choose to marry. We proudly call ourselves bitches and lovingly address friends with “hey, slut!” and no offense is taken. But if we’re so liberated, why are we still afraid to use the word ‘feminist’?”

Any thoughts, readers?