Last year, during the U.S. assault on the Taliban in Afghanistan, my seven-year old daughter, Jane seemed truly puzzled by the photos of Afghani women that dominated the news. Why, she wanted to know, did those women want to wear clothing that covered them from head to toe? Weren't they hot? How could they run or even smile at other people? Why weren't there ever interviews on television with any Afghani women? What was meant when it was said that now, women and girls in that country could read and write again?
I explained to Jane about the cultural and religious restrictions faced by these particular mothers and daughters, and she listened, mouth hanging open in vivid disbelief. She peppered me with questions about every aspect of the lives of Afghanistan's female population, and seemed utterly astounded when I told her that there are actually many places and cultures around the world in which girls cannot go to school; choose what they will wear or whom they will marry; own property; or vote.
As sad as it made me to explain the state of so many of the world's women to the most important girl in my life, I realized that the fact that Jane found this information so incomprehensible represented something very positive. The environment in which my daughter is growing into adulthood is one in which she sees few, if any restrictions on what is possible for her. Her American girlhood is very different from the one in which I came of age only a few decades ago.
When I was Jane's age, my working, feminist mother was an anomaly among the women I knew, and my parents had to make a conscious effort to be sure I understood that, although most doctors, police officers, and engineers were men, this didn't mean that "only" men could hold these jobs. My parents had to be ever-vigilant to protect both their daughters from being held back by unfair and sexist limitations, and they worked to be sure that we were exposed to art, music, and great ideas by women. They ensured that we had "Free to Be You and Me" books and records around the house, and a lifetime subscription to Ms. Magazine in our mailbox.
Today, however, the world has changed enough that parents don't have to make these kinds of special efforts to promote a sense of equality and possibility in our young daughters. Basic feminist consciousness has become an organic part of our culture, and we are all the better for it.
My third grade girl gets her news and information from terrific female journalists, and she is personally acquainted with women lawyers, priests, doctors, firefighters, farmers, athletes, social workers, and artists. Jane is an aggressive and successful competitor in her own chosen sport, and she enjoys listening to music by everyone from 'tween queen Hilary Duff to riot-grrls Sleater-Kinney.
Unlike my own parents, I do not feel compelled to pontificate on the wrong-headedness of rigid gender roles every time I see Jane playing with her dolls. I'm confident that she understands clearly that motherhood is not incompatible with professional achievement or civic engagement.
Also different from my own childhood as the daughter of '70s "women's libbers," Jane and her friends don't seem to feel any conflict between their femininity and their power. When I was a little girl, equality often meant trying to act or look like the little boys. Jane, however, is growing up in a pop culture infused with grrl-power -- from the Powerpuff Girls to Jessica Lynch. I observe her and her little friends playing superheroes, but their superheroes proudly wear sparkly pink capes as they save the world.
While all of this progress is terrific, I also recognize that my daughter is growing up in a society where women still earn less money than men for performing the same work; where women continue to live in realistic, ever-present fear of sexual assault; and where girls are still too often discouraged from studying math or science. There is still work ahead for her generation of rising young feministas. But as I watch her playing things like "President Barbie solves the Mideast peace crisis" with her friends, I feel hopeful.
Katie Allison Granju lives in Knoxville and is the mother of three children. She is the author of Attachment Parenting (Simon and Schuster, 1999) and her website is www.locoparentis.blogspot.com. This article first appeared in Metro Pulse Online.
