How to Spot a Feminist

I am pretty proficient at navigating Facebook. And by proficient, I mean that at any given moment, I am pretty plugged in to what friends in my virtual world are up to. I can tell you who is obnoxiously sharing pictures of their food or potty training play-by-plays. I can even tell you which of my friends most resembles what Disney princess (thanks, Buzzfeed).

But I’m still trying to figure out the Twitters.

I get that retweeting is like sharing, and the little star means the same thing as the little thumbs up Facebook “me likey” thingie. I’m even starting to understand hashtags. Hashtags are cool, people. You put the pound sign in front of a concept or an event like #mommyproblems or #coachella and BAM! All the tweeps on the Twitters will be able to cross reference your mama drama or your music festival attendance. Pretty handy.

But the other day, Twitter confused me a little more than usual. I tapped the pretty blue birdie icon on my phone and I was bombarded with stuff about feminists. Apparently, the trending hashtag was #HowToSpotAFeminist.

Apparently, some dude who goes by the name of “Doc Thompson” decided to take assholery to a new level and start a Twitter discussion on #HowtoSpotAFeminist. I don’t know if Doc is a real doctor, or if he plays one on TV, but apparently he has his own radio show. I’ve never heard of it before but I’m gonna go out on a limb and say it probably won’t be high on my future list of “for your listening pleasure.”

Do I consider myself a feminist? Hell yes. I believe men and women should have equal social, political and economic rights. And stuff. Do I look at myself in the mirror every morning and think “good morning you sexy feminist beast?” No. Most of my social identity is tied up in being a wife, a mom and a writer. My life goals aren’t that ambitious. I want to be happy, healthy, do the right thing and make things better for the people who come after me, mainly my kids.

But, I am a feminist.

It’s not on my business card. I don’t say stuff like, “Jill Robbins, feminist. Happy to meet you,” when I shake hands with someone. I don’t have any tee-shirts, bumper stickers or key chains that identify me as a feminist. But that day, Twitter suggested there was a hashtag to identify me… and I wasn’t amused.

It’s 2015. Women can become doctors, lawyers and ministers. We can vote, buy weapons, buy property and jump out of airplanes. There are very few things women can’t do if women wanted to do them. And yes, I know all about gender stereotyping and the glass ceiling. I think we’re getting there. I want to think we’re getting there, anyway.

But when I read some of the #HowToSpotAFeminist tweets, I had to wonder about that.

According to the tweeps of Twitterland, “I’m fat, ugly and braid my pit hair #HowToSpotAFeminist”

I’m a feminist. According to the limited people of Twitterland that are of the same mindset as Doc Dumbass, I’m fat and ugly. I braid my armpit hair. If that’s not enough of a description, follow the smells of patchouli oil and look for the woman hunching because the weight of the chip on her shoulder is too much for her poor, aching back. I’m wearing trousers because I want to look like a guy. I want to be a guy, and I probably wish I had a penis.

Uh… no.

I’m a feminist whose mom taught her that beauty is on the inside and “pretty is as pretty does.” My armpit hair (or lack thereof) and my choice in fragrances is none of anyone’s damn business and has nothing to do with what I think and how I believe. I’m standing up straight, tall and proud of who I am and what I can do. If I did have a chip on my shoulder, I’d brush it off. If it ricocheted off the ground and bounced up to hit Doc not-really-a-doc Thompson on his ignorant little nose, I’d apologize, because I’m not an asshole. But I’d laugh because, well, karma. I also happen to be wearing a skirt right now and I shaved… well… at some point this week I did, I’m not gonna lie. But that has nothing to do with wanting to be a dude. Penises are great but I don’t happen to want one of my own. And if I did, well, the world is a pretty advanced place and I could probably make that happen.

Do you really want to know how do you spot a feminist? Look this way, Doc Thompson. Look at me. I’m the one over here going about my business raising two little boys who hopefully won’t turn out to be jackasses that will someday make up stupid shit like #HowToSpotAFeminist. They know what a feminist looks like. A feminist looks like their mother. And you know what, Doc Douchebag? Tomorrow when I get up and look at myself in the mirror, I believe I will start my day with a hearty “good morning you sexy feminist beast.” Boom.

Jill Robbins writes about adoption, motherhood and midlife on her blog, Ripped Jeans & Bifocals. She has a degree in social psychology that she uses to try and make sense out of the behavior of her husband and three children but it hasn’t really helped so far. She enjoys dry humor and has a love/hate relationship with running. Her work has been featured on Babble, Scary Mommy, In the Powder Room, and Blunt Moms. You can also find her in the December print issue of Mamalode. She willingly answers any questions that end with “and would you like wine with that?” You can follow Jill on Facebook and Twitter.