When I was in the 8th grade, we were studying the feminist movement of the 1950s and 1960s and one day, our teacher announced an exercise: we were going to be married off to other kids in the class and we would work out the points of marriage so to speak, our budget, our jobs, and our kids. I remember what I was wearing to this day, a white soccer league shirt I got at a volunteer event (I did not play soccer), flared Abercrombie jeans I wore until I was 20 when I finally grew out of them, and gray running shoes. My teacher married me to a boy, who was the object of affection™️ of my best friend at this time since he was tall and floppy-haired and ~edgy (for an 8th grader in the nerd class anyways), and I thought he was cute, not that I understood what that even signified back then.
Be the Heroine of your Life, Not the Victim
Be the Heroine of your Life, Not the Victim
Be the Heroine of your Life, Not the Victim
When I was in the 8th grade, we were studying the feminist movement of the 1950s and 1960s and one day, our teacher announced an exercise: we were going to be married off to other kids in the class and we would work out the points of marriage so to speak, our budget, our jobs, and our kids. I remember what I was wearing to this day, a white soccer league shirt I got at a volunteer event (I did not play soccer), flared Abercrombie jeans I wore until I was 20 when I finally grew out of them, and gray running shoes. My teacher married me to a boy, who was the object of affection™️ of my best friend at this time since he was tall and floppy-haired and ~edgy (for an 8th grader in the nerd class anyways), and I thought he was cute, not that I understood what that even signified back then.