Where I grew up in the Deep South, feminist was a dirty word and gender roles were stuck in the 1950s. Certain jobs were for boys, while girls had their own list of chores.
Every Sunday after dinner, the men would trot off to the living room, plop down on the sofa, and loosen their belts while my mother made my sisters and me wash the dishes. As my nails grew brittle in the warm, soapy dishwater, I dreamed of someday joining the men.
One Sunday in the spring of 1998 Aunt Virginia and Uncle Calvin were visiting us and decided to stay for dinner. As the meal came to a close, Uncle Calvin rose from his chair and methodically began to collect our dirty dishes. No one seemed bothered by this — we had witnessed men helping clear the table before — but then we all heard the water running in the kitchen. Maybe he was washing his hands, I thought. As my eleven-year-old brain tried to make sense of what was happening, I locked eyes with my mother. The water continued to flow, gurgling and bubbling as the sink filled.
