Wednesday, November 14, 2018// The Statement
3B
O
n the first day
of middle school
after
moving
to
Michigan,
I
took
a
mathematics
test.
Our
teacher
walked
slowly
up and down each aisle,
handing every student their
test with a straight face.
This was a pre-algebra test
that would determine if we
were
competent
enough
to stay in the “advanced”
math track, and everyone
was expected to pass, as
it covered concepts from
the previous year, seventh
grade.
The only problem was
that in the seventh grade,
my school in Mexico taught
me
geometry,
not
pre-
algebra. Algebra was our
subject in the sixth grade,
but we didn’t use calculators
or graphing paper. Slope
was foreign to me, and the
easy test every “advanced”
student was supposed to
fly through wasn’t a breeze
for me. The next day, the
teacher again walked up
and down each aisle, but
this time she was smiling at
students.
Congratulations! You get
to stay in this class. You get
to have high school credit
before going to high school.
You get to call yourself
smart. You are “advanced.”
My test was facing down
when she walked by my
desk. Her eyes darted away
from mine and my smile was
met only with pursed lips. I
turned it around and saw I
had gotten a failing grade,
only a fifth of the questions
were marked as correct. She
never directly spoke to me
or offered to help me catch
up. She simply requested a
meeting with my parents to
talk about the logistics of
moving me to the math class
“adequate” for my level.
“The
advanced
mathematics class is too
fast-paced.
Andrea
will
never be able to catch up.
I believe it will be best for
her to have an easier class.
She will adjust better. She
doesn’t need to be in the
“advanced” level. Not every
student can learn at the level
of my algebra students.”
At which point, my father
simply excused himself and
went home, sat me at the
dining room table, opened
my algebra book and told me
that I was going to stay in the
class. Every day after that,
we sat at the table for two
hours. He taught me how to
foil, how to find the slope,
corrected my homework
and went over my tests with
me. He sat with me after
work every day because
he knew I could do it. My
father so believed in me
that he became something
he wasn’t supposed to be:
my algebra teacher.
My father became a lot of
other things for me. He was
a mentor for my reading, a
book scout for our monthly
book club, a dance lover
during
my
recitals.
He
even encouraged me to play
soccer despite my objective
lack of athleticism. He was
always
there
at
games,
watching me fall, step on
the ball or score on the
wrong goal, but he never
once told me he thought I
shouldn’t do it. He never
once told me I shouldn’t do
anything.
I always quietly believed
my father to be a feminist,
but I never worked up the
nerve to ask him because,
where
we
come
from,
most men are everything
but feminist. My father
grew up in a society where
men are dry of tears and
emotion and women have
nothing but. Men are strong
and practical and women
care for nothing other than
cooking, vanity and gossip.
At
family
reunions,
men are never seen in the
kitchen. After dinner, they
never pick up their plates.
During the party, a man is
seldom seen taking care of
a crying child or changing
a diaper, and at the end of
the night when it is time to
clean up, the men wait in
the living room while their
wives and daughters clean
the kitchen. My dad was
always different, and often
got made fun of because of
it. When he went back to
the kitchen to heat up his
own tortilla, my mother’s
competency was questioned.
When he made sure us kids
were fed (and didn’t get
away with only eating cake),
jokes were made about who
“carried the ropes” in the
relationship.
These
gendered
lines
and toxic stereotypes color
and shape family life in
Mexico. Breaking them is
not easy, and the acceptance
of new and more egalitarian
family dynamics is harder
yet. Which is why I was
surprised that when I called
my father and asked him
if he was a feminist, he
responded with a decided
yes. He had never acted to
make me believe he wasn’t,
but I never thought he
would admit to it.
“Para mi, el feminismo
significa que los hombres
y mujeres deben tener las
mismas
oportunidades,
derechos y obligaciones. Las
mujeres deben de sentirse
orgullosas de ser mujeres y
de ser diferentes.”
“To me, feminism means
that
men
and
women
should
have
the
same
opportunities, rights and
obligations. Women should
feel proud to be women and
to be different”
Maybe
speaking
those
words out loud in front of
the rest of our family in
Mexico would have brought
about even more jokes and
sneer name calling, but here,
to me, it meant everything.
Throughout my life, my
father has become many
things for me. He has been
my math teacher, my soccer
fan, my reading mentor
and a shoulder to cry on.
He has believed in me and
encouraged me to pursue
my dreams and passions
despite any hardship. Never
once has he made me believe
that I am not enough. I am
a feminist because of my
father, and he is a feminist
because of me.
On feminism, a question for my father
BY ANDREA PEREZ, DAILY ARTS WRITER
I always quietly believed my father
to be a feminist, but I never worked
up the nerve to ask him because,
where we come from, most men are
everything but feminist.
ILLUSTRATION BY CHRISTINE JEGARL