We, a global society, need feminism.
Visiting India for the first time in 1996, I saw my boy cousin use a Barbie-pink backpack we had brought from America. The sight was as foreign as cows wandering the streets, tails swatting the ubiquitous flies. My mother explained that pink for girls and blue for boys was an American obsession. In a small town where growing girls were expected to wear dresses or longer pants, no one gave a damn what color they were, although everyone had an unfortunate predilection for neon.
Luckily, I'd spent my childhood in blues and greys because the only person who bought my clothing didn't like pink herself. My clothes came from the boys' section. I got cars, Legos, K'nex. Not as many video games as I'd wanted. I had to play Mortal Kombat on the boys' consoles, thankful that the only other girl in our social group wasn't around too often. She liked dolls and, unlike the rest of us, cried to get her way. Nobody told her to man up.
We do not need bigotry or