On Super Bowl Sunday, I imagine what it would be like to not be a feminist. I imagine being excited about “the greatest game on the grandest stage.” I wish I could find the magic in two brothers coaching against each other. I wish I could support making it a national holiday. And if I can’t support the notion it’s a spiritual event complete with divine intervention, then at least I’d like to simply enjoy a good party with beer and wings. But alas, no Super Bowl fun for me. The New York Times says, the Super Bowl speaks to all of us in different ways. For me, that means wondering if the threat of sex trafficking is real, how women can enjoy a game where the only role they’re allowed to play is half-dressed eye candy, what the long-term impact of sexist ads will be on my daughter, if people really think throwing a pigskin can lead to redemption for anyone, especially guys like Ray Lewis and, a few years ago, Ben Roethlisberger? It’s no fun being a feminist on Super Bowl Sunday. For just one day, I wish I could simply kick back and enjoy the game. It [...]












