My older sister was born with severe disabilities and because of her, my parents raised me to be sensitive to the needs of those who are discriminated against and treated unfairly and to not be afraid to stand up for human rights.

It took me a while to realize that I was part of a group that faces discrimination, too: sex discrimination.

I was raised in a Mormon household. When I was growing up, a high-ranking church leader declared feminists to be one of the three biggest threats to the church (and to families). While my parents were in many ways open-minded for Mormons, the anti-feminist beliefs of our religion were still part of the context for my upbringing. For example, I was not given a middle name because I was supposed to marry, take my husband’s last name, and turn my birth last name into a middle one. I was expected to have children, probably not work outside the home unless circumstances required it, and obey my husband.

Fortunately, I was raised in various states outside the Mormon stronghold of Utah, so I saw other ways to live. By my early teenage years, I was questioning the gender roles and restrictions I was increasingly being forced into. I did not delve into feminism, however, until I chose to leave the religion at age 17.

For me, feminism has come to mean that women can and should have the same opportunities to live and thrive that men have (though of course both women and men can face other forms of oppression that prevent this). Feminism means people should not have their life stifled or dictated by their gender or sex.  Women and men are equally intelligent, capable, and worthy of respect and so the laws, societal attitudes and customs, and division of labor should reflect this.

For several years I thought my life’s mission would focus on helping persons with disabilities, but my older sister’s death has left me emotionally incapable of this; I miss her too much. In high school I thought I would become an architect and in college, an historian. But then during college, volunteer work with domestic violence centers, summer internships with women’s nonprofits, and women’s studies classes led me to another path.

Today I work as a program manager for AAUW, one of the oldest and largest women’s organizations in the country. I volunteer with RAINN, the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network. And I spend a lot of my free time addressing women’s unequal access to public spaces through my website and blog Stop Street Harassment (you can share your story for inclusion on the blog). This month my first book Stop Street Harassment: Making Public Places Safe and Welcoming for Women, is available.

I’m 27 and I have most of my career ahead of me. I don’t know if I always will devote my full time to feminist causes. But I do know that feminism helped save my life by opening up the number of paths I could take and ensuring that my sex would not determine my destiny. And for that I am grateful.

I didn’t realize I was intelligent until college; even then, however, I still had my doubts.

In third grade I was diagnosed with a learning disability. According to LD Online, “Fifteen percent of the U.S. population, or one in seven Americans, has some type of learning disability.” It was absolutely horrifying to my third-grade-curly-haired-self. From the way it was presented to me, I knew it was something negative; something no one wanted. Some of you may not know what exactly a learning disability is.

Here’s a definition:

A learning disability is a neurological disorder. In simple terms, a learning disability results from a difference in the way a person’s brain is “wired.” Children with learning disabilities are as smart or smarter than their peers, but they may have difficulty reading, writing, spelling, reasoning, recalling and/or organizing information (LD Online).

I was diagnosed as having two types of learning disabilities, both of which are mild for the most part. One, which is quite common, is called Dyscalculia. This is a “mathematical disability in which a person has a difficult time solving arithmetic problems and grasping math concepts.” The second one I have is called Language Processing, which basically means I have trouble recalling information or retrieving words to express something. I fought with these disabilities long and hard when I was younger.

Immediately after this diagnosis, I was enrolled in special ed class. It was horrible. Us “special” kids would have to leave in the middle of regular class to go to “special” class and it was always so embarrassing. All of the students knew where we were going–they knew we were “dumb.” All through elementary school, I felt different and extremely stupid. In fact, I had many teachers who actually told me things like, “You’re not going to be able to do things like other kids”, or “We don’t expect you to do this that well, because you’re not as smart as the others.” Literally. Or, teachers would say, “Oh, that’s just a crutch.” No, it’s not a crutch–though, if I want to use it as a crutch, that’s my damn right.

When an authoritative figure tells a young girl that she is nothing, those words really stick to her (This is why I’ve never understood the whole, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” saying). Because of the many terrible teachers I’ve encountered, I’ve never been that fond of teachers in general, unless they teach at the university level—these ones seem to have their shit together and appear more educated on the subject of learning disabilities. I still deal with those negative comments in my head to this day. I learned early not to ask teachers questions if I didn’t understand something. When I did ask, they acted like I wasn’t listening. I was always listening.

It’s really difficult to be a girl child in general, but to be labeled “disabled,” and be a girl in this society is a lot to handle. I knew other girls like me in school, but I felt myself not wanting to associate with them. I wanted so badly to fit in and to be considered “normal.” This seems to be the constant struggle for young women. Even though my disability can’t be seen, I used to always feel like I wore it on my sleeve. I always felt others could see my secret shame. I hate that word…”disabled.” It makes me feel like I can’t breathe–like I’m “slow” and “different,” and it’s always used in a negative way. Perhaps this is why I still have trouble telling people, even my closest friends, that I have a learning disability. I worry they will look at me differently. I worry they will pity me.

Today, I know that I’m intelligent. I mean, I’m in a Master’s program, I must be somewhat smart. Though, every now and again I get called back to that 3rd grade place of shame. I used to despise my “disability.” I used to be violent towards it. I hated myself. Then, luckily, once I got accepted into college and received a Fine Arts Scholarship and others, as well as having great supporters, I realized that maybe I was smart. Maybe it wasn’t terrible to be “different.” I can honestly say that I am thankful for my learning disability. I like that I don’t think like everyone else. My 3rd grade self would never, in a million years, think I would say this. But I am saying it–loud and proud.

My hope is that young women with learning disabilities will strive and feel good about themselves and their abilities. A learning disability is not so much a “dis”-ability, but an outright “ability” that makes one’s mind unique and beautiful. It’s no fun to think the same as everyone. Remember that.

Her thoughts on disability and motherhood

Her piece about the feminist movement and how they deal with disability

Her interview with painter Sunny Taylor (posted just yesterday)

(Not to mention the piece she wrote about Girldrive in Bomb Magazine.)

*Emma took the photo on the left at our interview!