You don’t have to condescendingly tell me my feminism needs to be intersectional. I already know that because yesterday I googled the meaning of “intersectionality.”

Prior to my search-engine enlightenment, I thought, Feminism located at intersections? I feared the busyness of a four-way stop would dilute the message of my THIS PUSSY GRABS BACK poster. Fortunately, my Google expedition led me to the discovery of a different definition: one which describes intersectionality as the connectedness of several types of oppression. Being an upper-middle-class white woman from Massachusetts, I am of course well-versed in oppression; I am a victim of it every morning on my way to buy a cruller at Dunkin Donuts. Do you know how awful it is to be catcalled at 8 am? I am more than just a pretty face — I am an intellectual.

In the moments following my feministic Google search, I felt empowered. A renewed sense of purpose and energy flowed through me like I was Maya Angelou reciting “Phenomenal Woman” on Oprah. It was then I knew I would become the best intersectional feminist in the world.

From here on out, I shall spend my evenings scribing lengthy Facebook posts, lecturing my devoted followers about the purpose of intersectional feminism and its importance in Trump’s America. My grandmother will probably comment, “You are such a thoughtful girl, Catie.” I know, Grandma, but what have you done today for the LGBTQ community and Black Lives Matter? Nothing, Grandma, you’ve done nothing. I, on the other hand, told a Black lesbian to “dream big” and I’m sure it made her day — possibly even her week. Check your privilege at the door, Grandma.

I’m so woke now, I’m basically the Roxane Gay of upper-middle-class white women. Yes, Gay is an accomplished author and feminist whose works will remain influential through generations. I’m aware that comparing myself to her is a bit of a reach, but I feel she would appreciate my 86-tweet thread detailing my personal struggles and subsequent triumphs in combatting sexism and white guilt. It has not been easy for me to leave my privilege behind and to truly appreciate the guilt which has been ingrained in me since my days in private primary school. Coming to terms with my own “white savior” complex has led me on a Jesus-like path to redemption. I am blessed to know I cannot save every minority from persecution.

This morning, I made the courageous decision to take my newfound love for intersectional feminism and merge it with my former misguided definition by protesting in an actual intersection. An intersection of intersectionality! I’ve always been clever like that. There I was, battling the elements, with a sign reading, FEMINISM WITHOUT INTERSECTIONALITY IS WHITE SUPREMACY. The verbiage of the sign displayed my propensity to love and understand, as well as my superior vocabulary.

For a full fifteen minutes, I bravely stood where no self-respecting woman had stood before: on a median in a congested Northampton rotary. I walked the perimeter, but the rain and the tears of joy produced by my fearless silent protest led me to slip and fall into the roadway. I was immediately struck by a speeding Subaru Outback bearing a FEEL THE BERN bumper sticker.

The irony of the situation is not lost on me. What a metaphor for my life, for your life, for ALL our lives. This is indeed the intersectional struggle. A woman fighting for her rights. Fighting for the rights of the vulnerable. Against all odds. Nearly killed by a Bernie Sanders supporter. I shall overcome. We shall overcome.

I’m going to sue the fucking pants off that hipster.