My New Approach to Labels

Photo of a signpost, missing its front cover, that is in front of brick apartment buildings with wrought-iron staircases. An icy sidewalk and busy street are visible to the right. Light blue sky above.

For most of my life, I’ve struggled with labels. I’ve had a hard time finding the right ones to capture my messy and fluid feelings and experiences. The only labels I’ve managed to stick with are the expansive ones, like queer, that operate as umbrella terms and can have a variety of meanings—giving me room to exist, to breathe. I’ve had a difficult time getting more specific than that. I might find a label that works for a little while but wears out or fails to capture all of me.

However, I’ve started to have an easier time with labels since changing my approach to them. I’ve moved away from viewing my identity as being solely about me as an individual. I’ve stopped requiring labels to capture all of the experiences, feelings, and ideas I have about myself. Instead of trying to use labels to sum up who I am, I’ve started to see them as terms for the communities I feel connected to.

This is how I’ve become more comfortable with using labels that seem to contradict. For example, I identify as sapphic but not as a woman. I’m sapphic because of the connection I feel to the sapphic community. I resonate with the issues, jokes, and experiences other sapphics share. Identifying as sapphic doesn’t mean that I also have to identify as a woman. Instead, it means I have a meaningful relationship with that community.

Labels, I’ve decided, are less about trying to sum myself up, less about trying to capture every nuance with a single word, and more about communicating which communities I am in or feel drawn to. I don’t necessarily have to be an active member of a community for a label to fit, but there has to be some connection there. Labels aren’t just about me, they also describe who I am in relation to other people. I can have multiple labels, and some of these labels can seemingly contradict, because I can be a part of multiple communities. I can be queer and non-binary and sapphic and gay and bisexual. I can drop some labels at times and pick up others. I can explore myself and the communities I feel at home in. These explorations, these labels, can be messy, imperfect, and fluid—just like my orientations, just like me.

disaster bisexual buys an iced-coffee

Photo of an open notebook with handwriting on its pages, a pen, and a plastic cup sitting on a table. The notebook is being held open by a hand in the bottom left corner. Pink filter over image. White text in the centre reads: "disaster bisexual buys an iced coffee".

disaster bisexual
buys an iced coffee in february
with the intention to discreetly
slip a straw under their mask
and sip it while riding the train
disaster bisexual
orders in english
to be considerate of subjecting the barista
to their pronunciation en français
so early in the morning
disaster bisexual
orders an iced coffee
et un wrap-matin du travailleur
sans la saucisse
sorry, with sausage? you said sausage
no sausage
eggs please, cheese please
ok, with the hashbrown?
yes
, please!
the wrap, the hashbrown
the iced coffee with caramel (we’re out of syrup)
is passed over the counter to the disaster bisexual
who looks at the funny lid
and remembers that straws are illegal
with their plan gone out the window
they find themselves consuming
their cold caffeinated drink
completely naked
in the face

rough red patches

Photo taken through store window with bars crisscrossing over it of a large red pocket knife on a stand with several blades and pieces coming out of it. The store contains many other miscellaneous items and boxes on tables and shelves. There is also an apartment building reflecting off of the glass window in blue light.

rough red patches on our hands
irritated dry skin
signs of pandemic wear on the body
doesn’t matter how much you moisturize
clean your hands clean your hands
clean your hands
wash them until they crack and bleed
stay healthy stay safe
while we run out of tests run out of vaccines
run out of doctors run out of time
while you run and slip on the sidewalk
fifteen feet from home
fifteen minutes after curfew
slip on the ice
land underground
close your curtains tight
not allowed to go outside
not allowed to be outside
not allowed to look outside
stay safe safe safe
clean
wash
crack
bleed
slip
safe

I’ve Never Allowed Myself to Only Be a Poet Because I’ve Always Felt That Wasn’t Enough

Photo shot from above of a pile of cigarette butts in a can filled with snow that is sitting on the ground in dirty snow.

I wonder if there’s a difference between a poet and a writer.
They speak of the poet’s heart, but what do they mean?
There are times when prose feels so stilted to me,
When I crave the fluidity of line breaks,
The freedom to not be understood fully,
The convention to break convention,
The magic of diving underwater
To retrieve a poem from within the weeds,
Rather than sitting at a desk,
Keyboard at the ready.

I’ve never allowed myself to only be a poet
Because I’ve always felt that wasn’t enough,
But I am starting to wonder if I’ve been wrong.

I Must Write

Photo taken through a store window of an old toilet surrounded by a bunch of stuff, such as a mini toilet, pipes and parts, a faucet, a pair of glasses, a pipe wrench, a rotary telephone, and more. There is a wooden box at the back of the toilet with the top half of a toy Santa sticking out of it. Apartment buildings are reflected on the top right part of the window in blue light.

I moisturize, prepare my tea.
I turn on my music, put my phone on a box of salt.
I send my cryptic messages about the moon and rust.
I change into clean clothes, remember I have laundry to do.
I allow a song to play through in its entirety.
I open my notebook, realize my lips are chapped.
I get up and go to the bathroom.
I check my phone again even though I know better.
I pause over my desk, lost for a moment.
The blank page is daunting,
But I cannot avoid it any longer.
I am faced with what I have to do.
With every distraction but my mind removed,
I must write.