It wasn't until my sophomore year of high school that I met my first, honest-to-God(dess?), self-declared feminist.

Now, by no means had I lived a particularly sheltered life. I grew up with Showtime and HBO. My step-dad did (and does) tattoos for a living, so a man named Pig used to babysit me. (When Greasy Jack was busy.) My mom was a hippie, and one day I'll actually tell my children that she backpacked from Ohio to California. And my dad's favorite joke was yelling, "Hey! Emersom!" at Baywatch (ah, '90s) or any woman at Toys R Us. He never remarried.

(If you're unfamiliar with emersom, e-mail me and I'll fill you in. I don't know if you're old enough.)

So, sheltered I was not. Still, feminists were not a part of my life — unless you count Pig's Ol' Lady, who may have burned a bra had she ever worn one.

But back to my sophomore year. Like most young lads of 16 or 17, I was often found discussing The Little Mermaid. More specifically, whether or not it was a better movie than Beauty and the Beast — which it is, slightly, but that's another story entirely.

My journalism teacher, later mentor, nemesis and friend (of sorts), informed me that the movie was horrible.

Ariel? The Little Mermaid? My mermaid, horrible?

This article appears in Nov 25 – Dec 1, 2009.