Boxes: Labled and Otherwise

A TED talk I watched today (Here's the link) really got me thinking about the boxes we put ourselves and others in and how we label those boxes.  

We label things out of necessity, otherwise everything we owned would be put into a giant junk drawer/closet/garage, never to be found again.  So, labels serve a purpose...for things.

Labels are good for people if, and only if, the person you are labeling identifies with the label and you may use it only if they feel positively about it.  For example, you could label me fat, but unless you want to make me cry, please don't.  Label me funny and you will be right...and if I cry it will be because I am a total sap, not because you've hurt my feelings.  

Positivity in labeling is VERY tricky in the world of disabilities.  That is a post (or seven) for another day.  All I will say here is PLEASE follow the lead of the individuals with disabilities and their advocates; always.  Words matter.  

I found it interesting when Ash spoke about how angry it made her to be asked whether she was a boy or a girl.  I wondered why she chose to dress in a way that made it ambiguous if it was such an issue.  I mean why?  If you want people to know you are a woman you should have long hair and wear pink and not camouflage, right?

I'm kidding, ...sort of.  The problem, of course, is the boxes that we put people into.  The ??? box does not work for us.  We need to name it.  We need to know.  Does a gay man go in the pink box or the blue box?  What about a woman?  What if she is straight but HATES the color pink? What if she had cancer and her hair has not grown back?  What if she is happily married, but HATES long, sweaty hair?  What if she is a lesbian but (horrors!) looks straight?  What if they are trans-gendered?!?!? Boom. Heads explode.  

And to answer my own question about how Ash dressed:  Maybe she was comfortable that way.  Maybe she wanted a fight (I can relate to that).  Or maybe, it was a little of both.  Or, maybe she just didn't feel that she had to put herself in the "girl" box.  She is a girl/woman, she is gay, she dresses in jeans and button downs and her hair is short.  Geez, that's a long label.  It doesn't fit and that bothers us.  In turn, it bothers(ed) Ash (she seems cool with it now) that it bothers others.  

This is getting to be like a movie that involves time travel.  I'm going to leave the "chicken or the egg" conundrum for another day as well.

This talk also made me pause and think about how my occasionally (okay, often) militant approach to issues might have backfired.  It is something I have been thinking about; trying to figure out a way to get my REALLY IMPORTANT POINT across without resorting to shouting, or my absolute favorite: sarcasm.

It's really, really hard.  

I don't think I realized I was doing it, or rather, realized how it sounded until I encountered some other shouty people with whom I mostly agreed.  The substance of what they were saying had merit, but the delivery system was flawed, to say the least.  

NOONELISTENSWHENYOUSHOUTATTHEM!!!

Wait, what?  No one listens when you shout at them.

They might hear you for a few seconds before it becomes BLARRRGH!  and they tune you out; maybe forever.  

So, you need to pick your battles, your forum and recognize that you are not the only one fighting.

Lastly, this talk got me thinking about my own labels.  It's funny, because when I think of labels for myself, none really come up, other than ME.  Finally, I am me, after years of trying to figure myself out.

I have short hair, which I love.  I am a mom.  I am a terrible dresser.  I have blue eyes that I think are nice. I am married to the best guy I have ever known.   I identify as being straight, but I love K.D. Lang and think Salma Hayek is hot.  What does that mean?  I means I have ears and eyes; not much more.

It's not that I don't think labels can be useful.  They can.  They can help navigate grocery aisles, or libraries, or help you find a file.  I'm just not so sure how great they are when used to identify an actual, living breathing human and not some caricature.  Labels don't tell the whole story, just a little, tiny piece of it and only the piece that your mind can perceive.  No matter how many labels you put on me, you'll never never know ME, unless you put them away.

Meanness

I updated my Facebook status this morning ( as I do most mornings ) and this is what I wrote:  

Hey Annoying Neighbor! The chances of you being discovered and given a recording contract while twanging on your front porch are about a zillion to one. The chances of me coming over there and smashing your guitar Pete Townshend style? Getting better every day.

It got a few likes and a few comments.  Another neighbor agreed that this guy was among the most irritating people on the planet.

I knew it was negative and nasty; but it was also funny.  Funny usually trumps negative and nasty for me.  Uh oh.  Now I sound like Bill Maher.  Not a road I really want to go down.  We'll save that post for another day.

So, I began to think about why this guy bugged me so much and what it meant for me as a wannabe good and kind and peaceful person to write this about him.  

Sure, it's a joke (sort of) and he won't ever see it (maybe), but does that make it okay?

You know that saying "if you have to ask you already know the answer"?  Yeah.  Well, I do.  Making fun of this guy makes me no better than him.

Sure, he drives me nuts.  When he's not twanging out of tune on his front porch, he's yelling (yelling is his communication style of choice) at his kids or weed whacking.  These seem to be his only hobbies; except in winter when it is yelling and snow blowing.

I am aggravated that my dear husband (who is so much nicer and more tolerant than me) cannot even be in the front yard when this guy is out there, or he will get caught up listening to him for an hour or more.  There is no give and take with this guy; just "here is a laundry list of my problems and some anecdotes that I will blather on and on about until you literally turn your back and walk away from me".  Sometimes, even walking away is not good enough to deter him.  He is the human version of a remora.  Or the animal version of a burr.  He is very hard to shake off.

There is also the fact that he is milking the system for an injury sustained on the job, when he is clearly not injured anymore.  

And then, he complains about the "system".  And I just go ballistic.

So, what does it mean if I can't be nice to this guy?  Am I a bully?  I kind of feel like one.  The more I think about it, the more I see that he is just a little bit off center; not quite in the range of what one would think of as "typical".  Maybe he's got a diagnosis, but probably not.  I'll bet he did poorly in school, though.  I'll also bet that the silly, attention seeking stunts he pulls (like yelling so we can all hear him and playing tuneless ballads to the neighborhood) are holdouts from his childhood.  Maybe he was the kid that tagged along but never fit in.  Maybe he wasn't invited to play.  

Then, I feel sad for him because I know that feeling.  And though I certainly don't think my kids are (by a long, longshot) annoying, they do have some trouble socializing and making and keeping friends.

I'm not sure that I could ever be friends with this guy, but I need to look at myself when I plead with the world for tolerance and acceptance for my children and anyone who doesn't fit the neurotypical mold.

Maybe I need to give this guy a break before I expect one for my kid.

Maybe I'll be a better person if I take a moment to put myself in his shoes.

And maybe I won't post anymore mean status updates.

Fantasy

I have a rich fantasy life.  I always have.  Most of my fantasies are not fit for public consumption.  Let me re-phrase that:  Most of my fantasies are not things that I want my mom to read.  Maybe in a few years, under a pseudonym.  :)

Anyway, what I am talking about now is a fantasy I have for the future of Down syndrome.  

In this fantasy, Wils and Kate give birth to a royal, gorgeous, sweet baby with Trisomy 21 and they and the Royal Family and the whole world embrace this baby with no reservations. 

The baby is photographed and cooed over and no one on late night television feels the need to tell "r"-word jokes.

What would a famous-from-birth child with Down syndrome do for the acceptance of other people with Down syndrome?

What would it do for children whom, at this very moment, are living in filth and isolation and despair in institutions around the world?

What would it do for parents to be, who, today, receive a diagnosis of T-21?  

What would it do to stereotypes of all kinds?

What would it do to us as human beings?

Would we collectively become more compassionate?  

Would we start to look at our own personal prejudices?  

Would the lightbulb go off for the world that maybe, just maybe we are all one, instead of: 

black
white
brown
native
freckled
christian
muslim
atheist
gay
straight
somewhere in-between
young
old
abled
disabled
rich 
poor?

Would we start to think in terms of love instead of labels?

Possibilities instead of limits?

Would we start to see a BABY; nothing more or less than that.  Just a baby, wanting and needing love and nurturing and every chance available to grow into their potential, whatever that potential may be.

It is a fantasy, I know.

But, oh, if it were real.

The Unwelcome Teacher

We all have them.  

They come in many forms:  a layoff from a job, an illness, some other life event that makes us question the big picture, or in the form of a person.

Mine comes in the shape of a relative that I used to be very close with. Her particular brand of attack is a constant, thinly veiled hint that my soul is in danger.  She feels that because I have not accepted Jesus Christ as my savior, that I am going to Hell.

There are so many problems with this, not the least of which is the fact that I don't believe in Hell.

No matter how many times I asked her to stop, the bombardment continued.  I began asking less nicely, than less, until I became downright hostile.  

Kinda like this:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iogo35GvYtE

Damn, I love Phil...

It's kind of funny, but, then it isn't.  I've lost someone close to me because she couldn't see that she was making me hostile with her words.  She would not hear me when I said that I would no longer speak to her if she continued. It got to the point that I was getting so angry over it, that I was turning into the exact kind of person that I imagined she thought I was.

It made me angry that she could not just accept me as I was; flawed like anyone else, but overall, a good person.  I hold no malice for anyone, I am active in fighting for justice, I volunteer, I help those in need.  I don't ask for praise or even acknowledgement of these things, I just ask that you overlook my shortcomings (however you perceive them) and see the good.

As I am writing this, I am realizing that I am asking of you (and that judgey relative) what I cannot do for myself.  I guess I am having an epiphany of sorts.  What I mean is that I am the harshest, judgiest, meanest, least tolerant of my flaws.  If I can't see my inherent good, how can I ask anyone else to see it?  If all I see when I look in the mirror is a middle aged, chunky failure, why should I expect anyone else to see me differently?

The biggest and most wonderful irony is that those who truly love me (not just my soul), see my beauty and my goodness and my charity and my passion and my authentic self.  They see what I am begging myself to become.  They see that I am already that person.  

See yourself through a loved one's eyes.  See yourself as you see them; perfect because you love them.  We don't love others despite their flaws, we love them because we don't dwell on their flaws.  We dwell on what makes them beautiful to us.

So, to my unwelcome teacher, thank you.  You have made me realize that in wanting to change me, you only want to change yourself.  I may be a disappointment to you, but to those that matter, I am perfectly imperfect and worthy of love without judgment.  

I am blessed without your blessing.