Hello my name is...

My friend Emily occasionally reminds me of the first day of law school, where we were herded into groups of twenty or so students, and, under the guidance of a couple of third-year students, asked to give our names, where we got our undergrad degrees, and why we wanted to go to law school. As Emily puts it, I gave my name and my undergrad degree without too much protest, but then I said, “Why I’m going to law school is none of your business, so kindly suck it.”

I recall wording it a little differently, but her general assessment of my hostility at the question is pretty accurate; I didn’t cotton to the idea of distilling every single reason I had for going to school into a neat sentence for general consumption. And it wasn’t because I didn’t think that the people in the room were lovely. With the exception of a few heinous fuckwads, they were and are terrific people; I just did not want to affix a label to myself that people would remember every time they saw me for the next few years.

I haven’t always been so sensitive. I don’t think I really noticed the labels until I had my son in 1993. Suddenly, I became really hyperaware of the label “Single Mom.” At that time, when people heard the term, they thought of black women in the projects, raising a dozen or so kids, all by different men, and just waiting for the welfare check to come in so they could get their nails done and pay for their satellite TV. Or they thought of stupid sluts who didn’t know enough to either use birth control or just quietly get an abortion. My son’s kindergarten teacher, who used to call me at ten o’clock at night, slurring her words (I’m not saying she was a drunk! I’m just saying she slurred her words!) went so far as to ask me if “I had men coming and going from my house.” In this world of labels, I was expected to change their mind or live with the label. Did I want to be a welfare queen or a stupid slut?

For the record, I am too dumb to figure out the paperwork required to be a welfare queen and I’m not cute enough to be a stupid slut. (Just joking! I’m totally cute enough!) (Joking again. I’m a hag.) But reality is way more complicated than the label. The reality of Brittney Spears is that she is probably neither a naughty schoolgirl nor a crazy head-shaved umbrella jockey. Bristol Palin is probably neither a fabulous model of abstinence nor a sad shill for a certain mavericky, gun-toting grandma. We can be relatively sure, however, that she’s not a very good dancer. In any event, reality takes a long time to explain, and it also takes a certain willingness to listen on the other end. It’s just easier to stick a label on it and forget it.

In truth, we are all gigantic freak shows. Personally, and I know I’ve mentioned this before, I’d much rather know what the hell is wrong with you than see your pretty postage-stamp labeled self. We all have an uncle who was a cross-dressing, ferret-raising Colonel in the Korean war. We all have a story that takes place at Six Flags amusement park and ends with the line, “That isn’t mine!” Okay, maybe only I have that story, but I am telling you right now, it is embarrassing, and it is hilarious. My point is that we all have our good side and our movie-of-the-week side. One label simply doesn’t fit, so instead of trying to make ourselves fit into a label, and instead of letting others label us, maybe we should just say this: the answer is more beautiful and more terrible than you can imagine, but it sure is interesting.