The red block goes in the red square, and the green ball goes in the green circle. Everything has its place, its answer, and an explanation. At the tender age of ten, I learned that some words constrict rather than adorn. There was always this nagging feeling that society had built an unhealthy obsession with labels, an obsession that has infected me since elementary.

It was a fourth-grade classroom. Rain was berating the rooftops, yet all we could hear was a rhythmic rumble. The din of children’s voices easily rivaled the storm’s as they bounced off the walls like a game of pong. I watched videos on her iPad in the reading corner with my friend.

Another friend, Grayson, called out my name. I failed to notice until he tapped my shoulder and scooted close to whisper a question. My eyebrows shot up in record time as I comprehended the words. “Are you a lesbian? Because Johnathan thinks you are.” It’s a word I heard once before. At eight years old. A faint moment before going to bed, where I was ranting about my favorite musicians to my mom. They were women because “girls are prettier than boys.” This raises a chuckle from my mom. Prompting her to ask lightheartedly, “What, are you a lesbian?” What does that mean? “A girl who likes other girls.” Oh. That’s not me. I’m certain. I answered Grayson with a confident no. Johnathan’s reason for thinking that was because I “only'' hang out with girls. It was such a simplistic reason that I decided not to consider it further. However, I did notice that word more.

I started viewing my relationships differently. For example, if I was interested in people only as friends or something more. Definitions that told me what to feel when I look at a person. Telling people I’m bi and being responded with that’s hot, that’s weird, or that’s cool. When I got my phone, the search bar would automatically unfurl recurring queries: articles and links shining in purple. My friends were of little help; it was black and white for them. “You dress like a lesbian,” or the occasional, “I wouldn’t be able to tell you weren’t straight.” It felt like a script being changed to boost audience appeal, and I was the last to know. It came to pansexual or bisexual. Only two options, and yet my mind was a labyrinth of contradictions. I had finally settled on pansexual; it was close enough. Most of my friends called me that, even though I never told them to. I made a decorative sign above my desk to celebrate an ending quandary. Days passed as I worked on becoming comfortable with the label. Even after a year, the word was sand in my mouth. The pink, blue, and yellow: an eyesore. I was locking myself in a hall of mirrors, reflecting people’s ideas.

One morning, I stare through bleary eyes at that sign. My movements were swift and confident as I grabbed a chair and reached up to rip the taped corners. I didn’t want this nuisance anymore. I remember the hours spent sketching and lining the letters, but the satisfaction of tearing cardstock and a clean wall was greater. Sun shimmers peeked through the curtains, dust dancing where that sign once was.

I do not need a word to encapsulate who I am. I realize the only security I need is my emotions. I want to experience attraction on my terms, not feed into categories others feel “best” fit me. This mindset ventured into other aspects of my life. I don’t expect labels to frame a person. I don’t expect one idea to summarize a wide group of people. I don’t expect a complex experience to warp into an understandable mold. Life cannot be neatly categorized, and that view has cleared my mind more than anything.

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