We talk a lot about stereotypes and labels. We decry their use. And, well, a large part of that is the individual being labelled has no control— OTHERS label you, put you in a box with a lot of other people you have nothing in common with, save birth-place, or religion or the colour of your skin. Or sexual orientation, or maybe something else, something you get to choose—like a favourite sport, or a favourite author. Doesn’t matter. A label’s a label’s a label. You get typecast cause you’re white/black/yellow/brown/red; man/woman/other; Indian/American/Chinese/Pakistani/Italian; straight/queer/bi; sci-fi freak/fashionista; religious/pantheist/agnostic/atheist. Stupid limiting little boxes that, even in totality, can never be you.
But I think inviting labels is easy— easier, at any rate, than letting everyone, or anyone, see ‘you’ all the time, which, I assume, would be rather inconvenient. I mean, who wants their parents to know what they’re like around their friends, or their friends to know how deep your emotions run. Much easier to be a sadistic bitch who thinks politeness is a waste of time. After all, it’s hardly as though you’re lying (save, perhaps, by omission), because the one is as much part of you as any of the half-a-dozen others. Those tiny boxes chop you into pieces, sure, but they’re nicely padded and rather comfortable.
So what if they’re also somewhat claustrophobic?
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