I was raised in the South by a Feminist. 

This did not happen very often.

I remember in seventh grade this obnoxious kid turned to me at our lockers and said, “are you a feminist?”  He asked it in the way you might ask someone “Are you a Nazi loving pedophile who regularly eats babies?” 

I knew full well what he was getting at, but also knew full well that he didn’t have the foggiest idea what he was talking about because he was an ignorant redneck sociopath (also the mayor’s son), so I cleverly asked, “what do you mean by “feminist” because I suspected that in his mind the word feminist equated to some kind of Amazonian world where the women would rule over the men with leather whips and force us to clean toilets, change diapers, and scrub the floors on our hands and knees and…

(as I now look at my own life, this seems somewhat less ludicrous than I had intended)

Anyway, he didn’t respond.  He just looked at me in disgust, mumbled “nevermind” and then walked off.  Although, to be fair, mumbling and walking off, were two of his better developed skills.

Anyway, I was raised by a woman with NOW stickers on the refrigerator and who once had me dress up as Harry Burn on a League of Women’s Voter’s 4th of July float.

(What?  You don’t know who Harry Burn is?  I think it’s universally known that Harry Burn was the young Tennessee politician who cast the final vote, allowing Tennessee to ratify the 19th amendment giving women the right to vote.  He apparently did so because his mother told him to. How did you not know this?  Didn’t you get your edjumication at the skoolz?)

(fun fact:  Mississippi was the last state to ratify the 19th amendment when they did so in 1984)

(funner fact: Mississippi ratified the 13th amendment outlawing slavery in 1995!)

But back to whatever point I was slowly meandering toward:

My mom was a big supporter of the failed Equal Rights Amendment.  This radical pro-woman commie amendment has this crazy concept as its foundation:

“Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of sex.”

Hoo boy!  Shall we take dibs on when Mississippi will pass that sucker?

The ERA was crafted by militant feminist Alice Paul (she’s the one that Phyllis Schlafly was always talking about).  Paul was sort of the Malcolm X of the women’s movement.  She felt like more radical approaches needed to be taken like chaining herself to courthouses and leading protest marches around the white house and burning her petticoats (ok, that last parts not true, but I bet I could slip it into Wikipedia.)

Anyway, the ERA needed 38 states to ratify it but only got 35.  (I bet you could draw up that list of refusing states right now)  So it died, a sad, ignominious death.

And that’s why Hilary Clinton didn’t become president.

(just kidding…. sort of)

Anyhoo.

But why am I telling you all this?  Why am I dragging you through this ramdon footnote to our nation’s history?  Well, I’ll tell you why.  It’s because I am a big supporter of the ERA and can not wait to get it passed.

Sure, I would like for my daughter to grow up in a world where she has her rights protected and as a 20 year old I was very in favor of women getting drafted because I figured it cut the odds of me getting drafted in half, but that’s not the main reason I support the ERA.  The main reason and the most important reason that I believe the ERA should become the law of the land is this:

Restroom Changing Tables.

There is, perhaps, no greater symbol of gender inequality in this land than that of the Restroom Changing Table.

You know what I’m talking about.  That weird plastic thing that’s attached to the wall with a stupid name like Koala Bear Care or Diaper Dais or the Poop Deck.  Well, you may glance at that and think “whatever.”  But for me it’s a big deal.  I use the poop deck every day.  Sometimes multiple times a day!  And it’s very important!

There is nothing grosser than having to huddle down on the floor of a men’s restroom with your infant while you try to change their diaper, surrounded by urinals and just inches away from what I shall refer to as “the splash zone.”

This is not sanitary.

And yet I am forced to do this – to take my beautiful little boy and lay him in one of the dirtiest places known to man. 

What makes this so galling is that most places have a changing table in the women’s restroom (child rearing being wimmin’s work and all) but often do not have one in the men’s restroom.  Even in a progressive state like Maryland, there are many many restaurants, stores and malls that only have changing tables in the women’s restroom.

If you go down South that number hits almost 100%.  Most men in Mississippi have never even seen a changing table – they don’t even know what it looks like.  To be fair a lot of the women’s restrooms in MS don’t have changing tables either, they just expect you to change your kid in the bed of your pick up truck or out back by the dumpster.

I will now take a moment to call out a few places that often do not have changing tables in the men’s room:

Chipotle
California Tortilla
Safeway
Every gas station in America
Old Burger Kings

Just to name a few.

I was at a truck stop recently that had a changing table.  I feel like if the truck stop can have one, Safeway can shell out for one.

And what do we call this blatant placement of changing tables only in female restrooms?

DISCRIMINATION!

And that’s why the ERA would take care of this.  As soon as that sucker passes, I have a list of places I am going to sue to make sure that I can change my kids diaper at least 3 feet off the floor. 

I know there are some people out there (probably women who already have access to changing tables) who would say that this is not what the ERA was designed for – that it was intended to address the wage gap or to keep Wal-mart from willingly passing over female managers, or to protect female astronauts from always being responsible for making the freeze dried ice cream each night…

But let me be clear. 

Almost half of these babies who are having their diaper changed on top of a petri dish of urine, dirt and other unmentionable residue are in fact (wait for it) FEMALE!

Didn’t think of that, did you?

So write your congressman, call your legislator, protest outside your Chipotle:

Hey Yo!
Our Kid Had To Go!

Your Deranged!
Our Kid Must Be Changed!

Hell No!
Not On The Flo!

The time to take back out bathrooms is now.  The moment is upon us.  Our motto is HOPE!  And CHANGE!

As in, boy I hope I don’t have to change my kid in a puddle of mello yello.

YES WE CAN!

Make Alice Paul Proud.  Or make Ron Paul proud, or make Mrs. Paul’s frozen fish sticks proud.  I don’t care, just get me a changing table in California Tortilla.