Labels

Sticky or not, they're still labels*

So, I’m an old fogy.

What about you? Do you have a label? And do you wear it proudly?

Labels are tricky things—used both to define and divide, to elevate and exclude.

I am areligious, apolitical, asexual, and a silly old fart. People see my unmarked skin, my unlabeled clothes, my lack of a car, and they judge. The possibilities are endless—am I someone they might want to talk to? Or not? That is, if I speak their language and understand their secret signs.

We’ve always chosen friends based on a mix of traits, just as we’ve rejected those who don’t fit our preferences. The trouble is, rejection has now become discrimination—at least, according to the labels people assign to it.

You don’t like me because… what? I’m a woman? I’m gay? I support the wrong football team? I’m Protestant, Catholic, atheist? I’m too short, too tall, too thin, too fat, too young, too old, too weak, too strong? Because I have red hair, curly hair, no hair? Because I have tattoos, or I don’t? Because I walk with a cane, or I have no legs, no arms, bad breath, body odor? The list never ends.

No, I don’t like you because—I don’t particularly like anyone.

I prefer cats.

I know where I stand with cats. They don’t judge me. They don’t care what I wear, what I believe, or what labels the world slaps on me. They like me for who I am—or, let’s be honest, for the food I provide. They purr when they feel like it, scratch me for the same reason, and never pretend to be anything they’re not.

They are, quite simply, less complicated.

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