If you asked me if I was a feminist in high school, I would have answered, “Probably.” I figured that because I was a girl and I believed in equality.
In university, without a grasp on what feminism actually was, I was surprised when one of my female professors she said she believed in women’s rights but didn’t consider herself a feminist.
Why didn’t she identify herself as a feminist? Were feminists actually… bad? Did I want to be labeled one?
I’d love to go to school just for the sake of interest.
I’d take anything that sparked my curiosity—sample a science course, take history courses that were related to my literature readings, learn all the languages taught at the university, take the Italian cuisine course, or take a bunch of courses I didn’t know anything about because I wouldn’t worry about choosing a subject Post that counted towards a future job.
When the air crackles with autumn’s cold, when the leaves blush, when the nights grow longer, or when the wool sweaters emerge, I know it’s time. Every October, around Thanksgiving, my family visits St. Jacob’s Farmers’ Market, located just outside of Kitchener.
Growing up in Europe, my parents didn’t have Thanksgiving. Instead, they had Harvest Day. On this day, families grabbed bushels, bags, and buggies and descended on their local farmers’ market to buy the fruits and vegetables they would can for the winter.
The Friday before Thanksgiving, Mom bakes her cinnamon chocolate Bundt cake. We stash shopping bags, a trolley, an empty picnic basket, and a car fridge into the trunk.