Yesterday during one of my Memoir workshops, a writer's husband walked in and we convinced him to stay and to participate. He oozed gentleness and good energy. And because there was a new writer in the group in addition to him, I asked everyone to introduce themselves. When it was the husband's turn, he told us of being the first born child to his parents who then divorced when he was three. He went to live with his mother, he said, who married a man who was poor. As a couple, his mother and this new man proceeded to have half a dozen children. I watched this lovely man's face turn somber as he looked at the table. He was not thin, nor overweight; he was just right with a round face, bald head, and enormous smile. But we could tell his story was a troubled one. "I was skin and bones," he said, "and always hungry."

But by 12, his father, he told us, had found him, and was able to convince him to return with him and to live with them as he had just remarried. And he did and grew healthier and found himself interested in school and subjects such as history, social studies, and more. But he said what he learned the most was that in those dark years he was blessed by girls, girls who noticed he didn't pull their hair to get their attention, and so they invited him home to eat dinners with them, and there he would walk into rooms with food from one end of the table to the other.

"I couldn't believe it," he told us, "food everywhere on those tables."

And when our workshop was over for the day, he walked with me out the door. "You know, I always feel like I owe women so much," he said. "I owe them to be kind, gentle, and to help because they helped me so much in my youth. I have been told," he said, smiling, "I am a feminist."

Yes, you are, kind sir.

Yes you are.