As I went through the door of my apartment, the opening between the literal wall of books at the entrance to our house revealed a brand new bookcase my husband had just made. Eight feet long and three rows high, it fit perfectly between the piano and the smaller black bookcase right next to my desk. The house completely filled with sawdust, we happily set out to finally fight back what I have started referring to as “the book invasion.” And, to our surprise and relative dismay, it turns out we filled the entire thing.

Feminism is not dead — it is part of a tradition. The tradition did not start in the 1960s, nor at the turn of the 20th century. It has been around for centuries, and it lives on. I know this because, quite simply, I can feel it. Some people don’t want to call it feminism, and maybe there’s a better name for it. But I haven’t found it yet. Certain works of art and literature have shaped my understanding of what feminism stands for, by bringing into focus what I always knew but somehow ignored. For my last column at Cornell, I’d like to share them with you, in neither chronological nor alphabetical order.

Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech

A highly entertaining story about appreciating the work and love that goes into being a good mom.