I remember a conversation with a gentleman at Georgia State. We had been reading Paolo Freire and bell hooks in a communication pedagogy class. The gentleman, an African-American man older than me, told me I was oppressed. I refused to take that label, that delineation, that world view. "I am middle-class, sitting here in a doctoral program, living in the United States, wanting for nothing, able to vote, express my views without fear of prison, etc. How can I be oppressed." Because I was a woman, just as he was oppressed because he was black. (This is not to say he was unpleasant or radical about it, simply matter-of-fact.) But I wasn't buying that day. "There are women on this planet who are oppressed," I said, "but I am not one of them." I have recounted that conversation to others over the last few years; some laugh, some nod in agreement, and one, my liberal friend, told me maybe I just didn't realize it and was refusing to see the oppression ...