Essay about I Am A Feminist, But That Doesn 't Make Me A Nazi

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I Am A Feminist, But That Doesn’t Make Me A Nazi
When I was 7 years old my mom took me into a small stuffy room that reeked of mothballs. Inside were hundreds of what looked like small wedding dresses and child tuxedos. Communion my mother had said. I had no clue what that meant let alone who Jesus was and why I was drinking his blood-but my mother corrected me when upset assuring it was actually just wine and the body just bread. I was hoping communion wasn 't like a wedding; I had just realized that I wasn 't really as into boys as I was girls and knew what child marriages were-yeah, at 7 I panicked about all sorts of things like rape, natural disaster, and child marriage.

I touched all the dresses reaching inside the plastic outer covering. The rough tulle hurt my delicate skin. Then I came across a tuxedo. Soft, black, and gorgeous it reminded me of the ones I had seen my father in for his dinner club. I wanted to walk down anywhere wearing that. I tried to yank it off the hook on which it hung-it was too high for me to reach, but as the suit fell down my mother grabbed my wrist and hissed, “Abby you can’t do that.”
“But why?” I would ask.
“Because you’re a girl and a young lady, asks permission before taking something down.”
“Can I take this down?”
I pointed at a small purple suit which I thought was snazzy at the time, but nowadays I myself would laugh a little at it.
“No.” My mother replied, “That’s a suit, girls don’t wear that. How about this?”
My mother…

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