My Labels
We are a world of labels written into our skin. We feel the overwhelming need to put a name to the things around us to understand, empower and control. We put labels on ourselves and the people around us, and we rely on those labels to build opinions of ourselves, our family our friends, and even our strangers. We often dangerously make judgments based solely on these labels.
We even force these labels on our children, both in meaning and in physical marks. Required by law for the much of the last century, three labels must be tattooed on each child's left wrist before they reach one month old. The top label delineates race. A line for biological gender at birth follows. Lastly, a single number to represent the socioeconomic status of the family you are born into. If the numbers fade over time or stretch to the point they are unreadable as the child grows, the tattoo must be restored. If a person's socioeconomic status changes, the tattoo must be changed as well. It is forbidden to remove these tattoos or cover them in any way.
I was born with labels of my own: w, f, two. Indelible marks that reduce all that makes me a person into three lines of ink. I wouldn't learn what my labels meant until I was older or how they would bind me.
Before I reached school age, there wasn't much of a reason to care about what the words etched into my wrist meant. I made friends regardless of labels because words don't incredibly matter to children who can't read. Those were the best years of my life. People liked you or disliked you solely based on you as a person, not the three words on your wrist. You were judged for your actions, thoughts, and feelings, not for your labels.
After I started school, I learned how powerful three words could be. I attended a private, theocratic school from the age of 4 until the age of 12. I never had many friends during my years there. A two, I was surrounded mostly by ones. The only reason my family was able to afford tuition was because we received a discount due to my mother working as a teacher there. Other little girls would often be forced by their mothers to invite me to their parties. After all, what socialite would not want to be able to gossip to their peers: "Look at how nice and generous my daughter is. She even has friends beneath her!"
My parents knew I did not have very many friends, but I never had the heart to tell them why. They tried to put me in as many extracurricular activities as they could afford. I stuck with basketball and soccer but gave up softball as early as possible. I also loved dance until I was told that I was built too 'manly' to be a ballerina. Sports gave me an outlet from the empty judgment at school. No one on my team cared about my labels, just how good I was with a ball.
Years passed. My brother, recovering from two ear surgeries, was accused over and over by his teachers of refusing to obey orders he could not hear. We changed schools. There was much more of a mix at the new school. People did not care about the two on my wrist anymore. But years of being a social outcast had taken its toll. I was awkward and not at all confident. I still did not make many friends. At least this time, it was on my own merit and not because of the labels.
During our teen years, the three words gained strength. Everyone around me started pairing off or getting part time jobs. We were becoming adult-shaped. There was new pressure to look and act female, something that was hard to achieve for someone who loved sports and video games while having no desire to wear makeup or get their nails done.
Like those around me, I started looking for a job. I soon learned to list my labels on my resumes after more than one interviewer dismissed me. One hiring manager even had the audacity to tap my wrist as she told me that I did not have the qualifications they were looking for.
I was born with labels. I must live with labels. I will most likely die with labels.
And I hate them. I hate them.
From larger project: Labels of Separation