I was sitting in the backseat of the truck, on my boyfriends lap, when the freshman in the passenger seat looked back and asked, “So, are you, like, some kind of feminist?”

I had just been explaining that Sweet Briar is a women’s college that I attend. This is the conclusion he must have jumped to: women’s college equals lesbians and feminists. Both were groups of people I could already tell he was not a fan of. It was not a sincere question. The inflection of his voice flagged the remark as an insult. Everyone laughed, because feminism is kind of funny to testosterone fueled fraternity boys, but I laughed too. I began to answer. My boyfriend, sensing that my rationality would only be shot down by this kid with a bowl cut, spoke over me, “She appreciates her traditional gender roles.”

And I really do. I believe in equality of the sexes and a woman’s ability to choose her own path in life. The path I foresee myself choosing is the more traditional route. Feminism is the reason I have the agency to make that decision, but it’s also the reason I feel guilty for that decision.

Often I ask myself why I didn’t speak up when he insult-asked if I was a feminist? A real feminist would have said something. A real feminist wouldn’t be wearing a miniskirt and sitting on her boyfriends lap, and stroking his ego with whispers of sweet nothings. A real feminist wouldn’t want a ring before spring and two babies before the age of thirty-five.

I’ve been trying to force myself to become comfortable with a more radical approach to feminism. For me, that’s calling sexism like I see it. Sexism is alive and well on the campus of the men's college I frequent on the weekend. This past weekend, as a friend and I were walking out of a fraternity, a student drawled, “Excuse me sweetheart, move along, the men are talking.”

That’s a real thing somebody said in 2016.

The taunting and cat-calling continued as we walked out of earshot. I was fuming. I wish I could’ve thought of something valid and articulate to retort back on the spot. I couldn’t. I could feel my voice stuttering and my face turning red at the mere thought of speaking up. The likelihood of being argued with was too much to handle. Maybe feminism takes practice.

So, by the dictionary definition, yes. Yes, I am a feminist. By the cultural and societal understanding and implications of the word? I’m not too sure about that, but I’m willing to try the title on for size. I am willing to argue and explain why I am a feminist, but only in a safe space. I have work to do. I hadn’t realized how fully sexism still exists until I left home, which means I’ve only had two years to feel the need to call myself a feminist, and I’m still trying to figure out what that means for me.