Labels are good, actually.

I was standing in front of my open fridge wondering how to assemble various items into a worthwhile meal. I ignored my mother’s voice in my head telling me “the fridge is not a cupboard, Sophia! Don’t let all the cool air out!” I’m a big girl now with my own house and my own fridge. And if it’s performing the dual function of cooling me on this hot day then so be it. Ammi will understand. I spied an unopened pack of sliced mushrooms past their sell-by date. I had bought them to put them in a lasagne, then forgot about both the lasagne and this master plan. So they’ve just been sitting there, slowly sliming. Perhaps I use them today? That seemed reasonable. I ignored the label. Come to me, little fungal giblets. Today is your day to shine.

Now, I need you to be patient with how my mind works. I had intended this to be a post about labels on food. You know, sell-by dates and how they cause food waste. How we really should have a better system or better education so people don’t throw away perfectly good food because a label told them? That was the idea. But the more I delayed writing, the more the thoughts tumbled in my washing machine brain and now I’ve ended up with a post about the labels we give ourselves. Self-identity stuff. And I think those are cool and good and nice. And whilst I can’t provide education on this – I can share my experience.

The labels I give myself help me navigate my world and communicate my true self. A British-Pakistani, a member of a diaspora, South Asian, Muslim, dancer, writer, Third Culture kid, Bicultural, Feminist, curvy, first generation immigrant. These distil the complexity of my experience into a few neat categories that intersect to form a clearer picture of who I am. I can use these labels to find a community of like-minded people of similar experience. I can use them to discover why I might be struggling with certain aspects of my life. It formulates part of my self-knowledge and places power at my disposal.

I find anti-label rhetoric to be quite tiresome. “Oh, I don’t want to be labelled because people might see me differently.” “Oh, my child will be bullied.” Well yeah, people are poop but we can’t diminish ourselves. “Oh, do we need a label for everything, why can’t people just be people?” Bullpoop. We’ve always had labels. People have always assigned words to help their close-minded societies be able to talk about the “different” among them. Those not really of them and not worth making space for. Some people were just “eccentric” or “quirky” or a bit “funny” or “odd”. But at worst disabled people were cripples and, although reclaimed, LLGBTQ+ people were queers. Other slurs are available but I will not use them. We’ve always had labels. It’s just now the “different people” are writing their own. So the power has shifted. Slightly.

There are moments where I don’t like a label at all. I don’t like being labelled as “difficult” or “different” or “confused” or “conflicted”. I don’t like being labelled as “a bad influence” or someone who has “lost her faith”. I don’t like the labels others give me, I don’t accept them and they don’t serve me. They victimise me far more than any self-appointed label ever could. I’m not a victim if I identify as a particular racial group and learn about the injustices that label has to endure. I am saddened, angry and feel my powerlessness – but I’m not a victim – I’m a person with a history and a purpose.

And you know, cards on the table, I’ll own up to being highly problematic in my past. To being homophobic, transphobic, anti-semitic, anti-west, slut-shaming and all sorts of horrible things during my childhood and teen years. I once threw a whole bag of pears in the bin because they were slightly soft, too. And whilst, yes, I didn’t know any better and life is a learning journey etc etc – my ignorance on those issues hurt people. And that makes me keen to learn about the labels people might use to describe themselves – so I can be an ally where needed. Because my own lived experience has shown that when I speak to people who understand my labels – even if they don’t share them – I feel safe. I feel understood. And I want people to feel safe with me. Now isn’t that more worthwhile writing than explaining mushroom expiration dates?

It’s a heavy thing. The shifting sands. People want to feel secure and it’s hard amongst all this change. Our nuances are starting to shine through and we need to accommodate them. Unfortunately, those with these sparkling self-discoveries tend to be in the minority. And the majority doesn’t always seem ready to shuffle up and allow us room on the bench. Because of fear, bigotry, misunderstanding, ignorance… So along with tentatively meeting and embracing my labels for the first time, I’m forced to start using them as if I’ve always known them. I need to quickly learn who I am and use that to fight for a place on this bench.

Recently a loved one is going through this journey of testing out a label. The process is one of hesitation, realisation, grief and joy all tumbled together. But what’s clear is the label is not the problem. The problem is that a celebration of individuality can cost community. And a community should never form at the expense of marginalising members. I come from a collectivist culture and faith, and I’ve witnessed the marginalisation of members who don’t toe the line time and time again. I’m one of those people. Community has to answer for itself if it can’t accommodate the needs of individuals. Because if it can’t, it is not a true community – it is a system of control. It is self-righteous at best, deluded at worst.

I find the people who reject the concept of a label entirely are either lying to themselves to fit in (which I get), have chosen one label as their entire identity and reject their nuances, or have never felt the absence of core aspects of their identity and assume they don’t have “labels” because they don’t relate to these new labels. So ironically, they feel excluded from a tiny corner of a bench they have been taking up this whole time. They can also blatantly victim-blame. They ask why marginalised groups want their label known. Why do they choose to be targets for ridicule? Why do they expect community to accommodate them? Why do they want special attention? Why do they want to point out the accommodations that are needed for society to accept them? Why are they demanding rights that most of the population already have? Why do they demand to be seen? The cheek of it. Equality.

My labels have given me confidence and rage in equal measure. I’m taking form, and taking up space. Manspreading on that bench. The mushrooms will go in a stir fry because tolerance.

And I hope you feel safe with me.

I realise this has come as a bit of an explosion after weeks of nothing from me. I do apologise. I started a new job and have been taking time settling. I have more of a routine now and will try to get back into the rhythm of writing and post every Monday as usual. I was at a training recently on diversity and a lot of those thoughts have been sloshing around in my brain and needed to be released. Anyway, be kind, be curious 🙂

What are your labels? The words that make you feel like yourself? What ingredients are a must-have in a stir fry?

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