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

