In yesterday’s post, I was listing all the labels I use that are close enough, but not quite. I acknowledge the need for labels, but I don’t like them. Not in the deceptive ‘no labels, but, really, labels, but no, we won’t call them labels’ way of certain billionaires in this country.
I pretty much listed all the labels that I have used reluctantly. I’m scanning to think if there are others. I will say that I call myself fat without reservation. I am not chubby, zaftig, plump, or fluffy. I am fat, and I have no issues with that. I don’t see it as a bad thing, and I have worked hard to reclaim it. I now see it as neutral, and it amuses me when people rush to assure me that I’m not fat. Yes, I am, and I am not upset about it.
I understand the need for labels, but I think that we have to remember that they are not still shots of a person. They are living, breathing things, and they can change over time. I think that’s another way people can get tripped up–in thinking that identity is static. Or that if one aspect of a person’s identity changes, the prior ones are null and void.
Now, of course, there are times when this is true. Or rather, when a person’s change in identity is permanent and complete. Like me and Christianity. Once I realized what a fraud it was (at least the version I was indoctrinated with), I wanted nothing more to do with it. I have not changed my mind at all about that, and I highly doubt I ever will.
When it comes to my gender identity, though, it’s squishier. I have always known that I’m not very womanly. Many of the things I prefer to do are coded male, as is the way I dress. However, my hair is down to my mid-thighs, and I would grow it longer if I could. I have huge boobs, and I definitely read as female. My voice, on the other hand, is masculine. Deep as fuck, and I constantly get called ‘sir’ on the phone.
In college, I used to cut my hair every four months or so. I would just go to my hair dresser and tell her to do whatever she wanted. She never steered me wrong, and she gave me some great haircuts. One time, I went for a super-short cut (think Rachel Maddow) and wore a long black trenchcoat when I walked around the campus. I got mistaken for a guy from the back, which never bothered me.