Labels are Not for People

I dislike labels. Let me restate that. I like labels, a lot, but only on certain things. My office at work, for example, looks like a label factory exploded. There are labels on my books, labels on my folders, labels on my drawers, and even labels on my food in the refrigerator. There is a reason for all of this compulsive labeling, and I came to clearly see that reason when I arrived at my desk this morning only to discover the absence of my stapler – incidentally the ONLY item on my desk that was not labeled. However, let me reiterate my original point. I dislike labels, but only when they are applied to people.

What are labels? In the physical sense of the word, they are little pieces of paper with writing on them that indicates what lies beneath. They tell us what is inside a file, they distinguish something that is mine from something that is not mine, and they dictate and define. But they also set limits and codify expectations, especially when they are applied to people.

Take gendered identity, for example. I was married, which means I was in a relationship with a man. This fact labels me as a heterosexual. I have also dated women since my divorce. To be perfectly honest, women are my preference. This labels me as a lesbian. Or does it make me bisexual? Or would that label only apply should I make the decision to date a man again.  Does this ambiguity make homosexuality a choice? It has been my philosophy for some time now that loving someone has more to do with the person that the gender, but that belief system makes it difficult for society to fit me with the right label.

I don’t look like a lesbian. Not in the traditional sense at least. While at dinner the other night, some friends pointed out a matched pair of lesbians wearing typical “butch” attire, short hair, no makeup, basically the masculine identifying image that society has given to lesbians. While I freely admit to rarely being seen in a dress, I prefer tailored suits with my four inch heels. And I wouldn’t be caught dead without my liberally applied cosmetics. I tried a short hair cut once. It was a disaster. I love my hair, and it has taken me the better part of three years to grow it back to the length that it was when I first made the idiotic decision to chop it all off.  I don’t fit the image. But, then again, how many women can say that they were taught how to be a girl by a drag queen?