An Open Letter to My Dad on Fathers Day: Thank You for Being the First Feminist in My Life

Dear Dad,

Thank you for being the first feminist in my life. You haven't even read this yet, and I can already feel you rolling your eyes from the other side of your screen. It's true, though—you are, in so many ways, the reason I am the opinionated, empowered woman I have grown to be. While other dads were raising princesses, you were busy creating what my friends call a real-life Beth Dutton (which I am pretty sure is meant to be an insult). In a world that often expects women to fit into delicate molds, you encouraged me to embrace fierceness, to be bold, and to never let another person tell me what a girl should and shouldn't be or could and couldn't do (within reason, of course). Pretty damn cool for the old conservative male you are— NOTE THE SARCASM AND EYE ROLL. Sorry, I had to!

From a young age, you taught me that strength is not purely about the physical, but about courage. Courage to speak my mind and stand up for what I believe in—even if I was standing alone. Sometimes I wonder if you regret that one—you say it's the reason all your hair fell out. You gifted me courage to go against any societal norm that tried to conform me—I can still hear your laugh anytime someone says, "Ladies aren't supposed to behave that way." Oh my, that threatening sarcastic laugh, followed by a "Yeah? Says who?" You instilled courage in me to never back down to a bully and to always stand up for those being bullied—the first "I'm so disappointed in you" speech I got was for not defending someone who couldn't defend themselves, and believe me, that speech stuck. It is a speech I have had with my own child and it made me smirk, thinking of you. When my son said, "Mom, what if they beat ME up?" it brought me back to the same conversation I had with you—more than once. "Then you make sure they never want to put their hands on you again. Put up a good enough fight and it won't matter if you win or lose. We will go get ice cream after. Just know it's your ass if you put hands on them first."—and ice cream you took me to get, on two occasions, and my ass it was on one single occurrence.

From my earliest memories, you have emphasized that life is not always gentle, and being strong is essential. You taught me to face any challenge thrown my way head-on. Tough as nails. You have always told me I am as tough as nails. Someone's inability to handle my boldness was their problem—not mine. You taught me that sometimes being strong meant being vulnerable, real, and raw—and I could do that with tears in my eyes; I just better be able to articulate if I was going to let the feelings verbally fly. Life isn't easy; you made sure I knew it wasn't easy nor was it kind, and you made sure I was never going to get caught lying down long, ready to give up. Head up, shoulders back, and onward—it has gotten me through some of the hardest times in my life. Life is a bitch, Ashley, so go show it who you are. I didn't raise you to be scared—another dadism I am thankful for that plays on repeat in my head often.

Growing up, I was always the tallest in the classroom—not just among the girls. My thighs started jiggling long before my peers, and they started defining muscles that I just wanted to hide away as soon as the boys started noticing the girls in class as more than classroom peers. You didn't let me hide away. I hated you for it back then, but I am more than thankful for it now. What did you do? You signed me up for a boys' basketball league. Mom was less than thrilled, and I was mortified. "Never shrink," you preached. If a boy can't find beauty in your strengths, he isn't worth your time was the lesson—although in your typical fashion, it was harsh and included a lot of f-bombs. Other parents told you I was going to get hurt; you laughed. Those same parents were mad when I outplayed their boys; you laughed. Boys cried and picked on me; you laughed. A boy took a liking to me for my ability, and the lesson was learned—never shrink for acceptance; someone is going to accept you just the way you are.

Thank you for raising me to know it is perfectly fine to be outspoken and opinionated—even if it meant making you particularly stressed. "Oh Ashley, you effing liberal," you have huffed an infinite number of times at the dinner table while still encouraging me to continue laying out my beliefs that you hardly ever agree with. You have celebrated my headstrong ways even when they have left you completely speechless, wondering how we view the world so differently. My voice matters because you made sure I knew it mattered—no matter how badly it pissed you off. You made sure I knew my opinions were not a flaw but a strength. I was your daughter regardless of how hard you'd shake your head at me. Thank you for raising me to be not only loyal to my loved ones when they are hard to love but for raising me to have the strength to stay loyal to my convictions even when the odds are stacked against me.

Thank you for the little things you have taught me as well. I can change my own oil because of you. I will never have to sit waiting for my flat tire to get changed because of you (but I probably will because I like my clothes too much for all of that, and it makes my husband feel good when I let him help me). Thank you for teaching me how to throw a mean right hook. Thank you for helping me learn to use my left hand when my right was stuck in a cast for three months. Thank you for showing me the proper way to mow a lawn. Thank you for teaching me how to shoot a gun and making sure I knew if I ever had to use it—I better be ready to empty it. Thank you for teaching me how to make a fire margarita and for sharing the secret family recipes with me—our spaghetti sauce is something my friends continuously ask me for. Don't worry—I have yet to share it. Thank you for being humble enough to know you were never going to teach me how to drive stick with your sanity and for passing on the baton to your brother.

Thank you, Dad, for all the little things you took your time to teach me because even the little ones don't seem little anymore.

Thank you for teaching me I held just as much importance and space as the most important man in any room. Thank you for making sure I felt beautiful, but for never placing importance on it—because I was always so much more than that. I cherish the lessons you have imparted on me and for the strength and grit you have helped to mold me upon. Thank you for every argument we have ever had and every gray hair I have caused you. Thank you for all the coaching you have done through the years and all the sleepless nights I have caused. Thank you for being the first feminist in my life. Here's to many more debates, discussions, and eye rolls!

Happy Fathers Day Dad,

Love Ya Grumpy!