As I write this, it is December 6, 2020. It’s a significant day, full of memories and powerful emotions for me, my family, but especially for my dad.
Thirty-one years ago, a deranged man walked into a prestigious institution to kill women—simply because they were women. I was four years old at the time; I couldn’t grasp the scale or the significance of that tragedy. I just know that Mom and Dad held me tighter that night before tucking me in.
In the weeks that followed, Dad emphasized even more strongly that I could become whatever I wanted when I grew up. That I could do it, that I had the right to, and that I had plenty of options. No matter my gender. He’s told me this my whole life, and he still tells me so today. If I work hard, walk with my head held high, and speak up—while respecting everyone around me—I can do anything.
My father is a feminist. Yet, contrary to everything we hear these days, he’s never said so. I’ve never heard him say, “Oh, I’m a feminist!” However, I’ve seen him in action. If only for having guided his two daughters without imposing any particular worldview on them—except that of self-respect.
He comes from a rough-and-tumble background. He’s worked “by the side of the road” his whole life. With young people, old people, macho types, shy folks—but mostly loudmouths. You know, the kind who talk a big game but don’t actually do much…
The “sides of the road” aren’t just in the countryside—they’re in the city, too. Where women walk freely and live their lives. You can imagine how many of them he’s heard—crude, insidious, or downright disgusting comments… Well, not that many.
Because as soon as the first remark was made, my dad would step in. “What would you say if I told you that this woman is my daughter?” “I’d apologize right away,” they’d often reply (yeah, right…). “Well, I have two. There’s a six-year age gap between them. You know how old I am, so I can have two daughters, between 15 and 35. You don’t know that. Every time you feel like making a comment you wouldn’t repeat if she were my daughter… Just tell yourself that this girl right here is mine, and then shut the f*** up!”
Take action, guys. As soon as something shouldn’t be said. As soon as something shouldn’t be done. My dad does it. Not because he says he’s a feminist… But because he is, deep down. In fact, he’s also anti-racist, a labor unionist—his father was a victim of Nazi forced-labor camps—and he’s pro-science, all while maintaining a beautiful spirituality that he keeps to himself… A well-rounded man, in other words. The cause of women has always been a particularly sensitive issue for him. Maybe because he’s the son of a woman, the brother of a woman, the husband of a woman, the father of two daughters, the uncle of eight nieces and nephews, and the adoptive father of so many others!
He’s not perfect (oh no!), but he’s an ally. A leader—a real one… Because he shuts the hell up about it and takes action. And once he’s taken action, he gets on with his life, expecting nothing in return. He’s my hero, not just because I’m his (little) daughter and that’s just the way things are, but also because I know that many others share my opinion of this man. And that’s what makes me the proudest.
May all men who want to become allies read this and take notes.
In the photo: my older sister, my dad, and a very young me… Sometime in the early 1990s