by Olivia Sullivent

There is a particular tone some men use when they say the word feminist. A slight upward lift at the end, like they’re waiting for applause. Like they’ve done something admirable. 

I’ve heard it most often on run ins at parties or on first dates, the kind of dates where, before he asks where I grew up or what I care about, he lets me know that he “loves women.” He says it the way people announce they’ve run a marathon once: proud, slightly out of breath, deeply invested in how it sounds.

Once, they avoided the word feminist entirely. I remember the half-laughs, the dismissals, the way conversations would pivot when mentioning equality. And now, all at once, it’s different. Suddenly, the word slips from the mouth as easily as a greeting. 

But somewhere between performative male competitions and the rebrand of soft masculinity, caring became something to perform.

Men began competing over who could appear the most enlightened, who could love women the loudest, name the most female authors, hold the matcha, read the paperback, say “I’m a feminist” with the right tone. Being seen as safe started to matter more than being accountable. And so, feminism became an accessory. Something you wear, not something you do. A word that signals: I’m one of the good ones.

I’ve noticed that when a man learns the right language early, when he knows to simply say the words “respect” and “emotional intelligence,” he can skip the proof. When the word feminist comes before behavior, it stops being a belief. It becomes a strategy.

He claims awareness. I offer vulnerability. This is not equality. It’s choreography, and he already knows the steps.

Men are taught the script long before they understand the meaning. 

They learn when to nod, when to soften their voice, how to repeat a woman’s pain back to her without taking responsibility for it. A man can carry the language of care without ever learning the practice of it. He can name empathy and still avoid it. He can talk about women fluently without ever listening to one.

And yet, hearing a man say he’s a feminist used to automatically disarm me. Sometimes, it still does.

When a man says he’s a feminist, my body reacts before my mind can intervene. I gasp. I get giddy and flooded with relief. Oh yay, I think. A keeper.

Because the bar has been set so low it feels radical when someone simply says the word. Because so many men once treated the word like an accusation instead of a belief or value. So I mistake saying the right things for actually meaning them. I mistake their ease for pure intention.

I want the word to mean something, a promise instead of a performance. That’s why I lean in, why I soften. I let the word do the work. I let it reassure me, even when his actions lag behind his language.

This is the quiet trick of it, not just that men learn how to say the right things, but that I’ve been taught to be grateful when they do. 

So yes, I fall for it. Not because I’m naive, but because I’m hopeful. The word alone makes me optimistic and gives me a sense of safety. That’s what makes it dangerous. I’m responding to the promise of a word, not the reality of him.

And I am learning, slowly, that a man calling himself a feminist is not the moment to relax. It’s the moment to watch.

I don’t doubt that men can be feminists. I doubt the performance of it. The smile that accompanies the label. The quiet expectation that saying those words will earn him access, softness, and the benefit of the doubt.

And eventually, I noticed the men who announced their softness the loudest were often the ones who needed mine to validate it. They didn’t want to understand women so much as they wanted to be seen as the kind of men who do. Which is not the same thing.

So now, when I hear it, that bright, rehearsed I’m a feminist, I don’t lean in. I wait. I watch. Because the boy who cries feminist isn’t always lying. But he is always asking for something.

Honestly, 

Liv