As a young boy, my grandmother was my hero. She is still my hero as an adult, but as a kid it was different. As a kid, her house was a place where there was always a fresh, ice cold, juice box waiting for me. A place where Christmas cookies were baking, and Peter Pan or The Little Mermaid were played on VHS. Where a blue blanket draped over my head could make me believe I was Batman. I would dream about going to grandma’s house for the weekend to stay over, just to experience what it was like to be there, and to be with the person who made it all possible.
My early childhood gave me good reason to long for this type of safe-haven. My father died when I was only 3, and my mother wasn’t ready to be a single parent. After my father died, my grandmother stepped in and provided the opportunity for me to stay with her on the weekends, which led to her taking full custody of me when I was 9. It was because of her that I can consider myself a feminist today, though she may deny being one herself.