My father, like many dads, declared himself the king of the grill long ago, and I’m certainly not here to dispute that. My fondest memories are of hot summer days spent in my parents’ backyard, listening to old school R&B while waiting for hot dogs and hamburgers to make their way off my dad’s grill and onto my plate.
Growing up, I looked forward to certain holidays simply because I knew they meant my dad was going to fire up the grill. The fireworks on Fourth of July were great, but not nearly as exciting as a backyard family barbecue. Sure, I appreciated the day off school that Labor Day brought, but that was just a bonus to the barbecue and baked beans. And if we had an unseasonably warm winter, my dad would even grill out on Christmas Day—a gift just as good as anything under the tree.
But my father didn’t just cook on red-letter days—he was just as comfortable in the kitchen at the stove as he was in the backyard at the grill. My father cooked most days of the year, as he was the parent in charge of dinner in our house. And while he was cooking, he was usually watching soap operas—the “Young and the Restless” is his favorite. In other words, my father, though a man most would call strong and tough, defied gender stereotypes in many ways.
My father made me a feminist, though I’m sure he’d never use this word to describe himself. But when I was a little girl, he made me feel that I was strong enough and smart enough to do anything I could dream. By doing most of the cooking for our family, he taught me, without saying a word, that gender roles are dumb. And he taught me that any man who treated me as any less than a queen wasn’t worth my time. It took a few years for that lesson to sink in, but when I finally got it right and married my Mr. Right, it was an honor and a joy for my father to walk me down the aisle.
Ironically, my father is also why it took years for me to call myself a feminist. Ignorant of the true meaning of the word, teenage me would say things like, “I’ll start calling myself a feminist when feminism stops being about hating men.” Back then, I bought into the lie that feminism taught the message that all men are awful, and, as a bona fide daddy’s girl, that was a message I clearly couldn’t accept.
Eventually, I would discover that feminism isn’t about hating men at all, but rather it’s about equality.
My father doesn’t host backyard barbecues much these days, but he still makes chicken, turkey, and his delectable dressing for Thanksgiving and Christmas. And even at age 38, I still am a daddy’s girl.
If, like me, your parents are still living, count your blessings and spend time letting your parents know just how much you appreciate them. And remember to show gratitude for your chosen family, too.
This summer, share a meal with friends who are like family and family members you call friends, whether you’re at a backyard barbecue, a beach bonfire, a kitchen table, or at a restaurant down the street. These moments could make for the best summer of your life. These moments could make you a better person. These moments could even make you a feminist.
This column appears in Birmingham magazine’s June 2019 issue. Subscribe today!