Written by Karen D. Swim
This side up. Fragile handle with care. Ship to. Labels, clear, definitive providing direction so that we do not damage, misuse, insert the wrong way or deliver to the wrong destination. Factory Direct. Made in China. Country of Origin. Labels that tell the starting point, where it was before it came to be. Do not remove. Stop. Do Not Cross Line. Labels of authority, defy them at your own risk.
We look to labels to help us understand the contents, provide direction, guide our decisions. The labels help us to put things in their proper context and neatly box them in their place.
My labels define me only in the moment. I effortlessly slip them on and off calling upon them when needed like a uniform that signals my purpose, my calling my need. Boxing gloves for the ring to counterpunch the opponent that hinders my progress, hiking boots to climb the mountains that lead me to my destination, the cape that celebrates my ascent. Labels and uniforms that do not define nor direct but are mine to own, to use at will.
I have been wife, daughter, student, teacher, friend, gospel rapper, corporate success story. The labels of my experience written upon my soul allowing me to take the pieces and shift them into new places reusing, recycling, as they guide what I am called today.
Labels that put me in a mindset, cue up the music and set the tone for the task. I sit at the keyboard, eyes locked on the blank screen and declare in defiance “I am a writer,” calling forth the muse, shutting out the voices that whisper “you can’t, you won’t, you are not.” I am a writer as I silence the critic and allow my hands to connect with my spirit and pour forth the words of my heart.
I am a woman, soft, sensual deserving to be loved. Nurturing, caring, protective and loyal. I am a woman. Smart, sassy with fierce shoes, I own this oh yea this fits.
I am African American, daughter of the motherland dipped in red, white and blue, a melding of histories and continents, once shackled but now free. Junk in the trunk, full thighs, yes the daughter of my ancestors who sought hope in the Promised Land, the songs of Mother Africa alive and dancing in my heart. Yes I am proudly African American.
I am a runner. I lace up my shoes and look to the horizon. Confident, forward momentum, feet moving to an internal rhythm of joy and effort. Legs pumping, heart beating, sweat pouring from my brow, ponytail swinging in the wind as I propel myself through mile after mile with sheer determination. I am a runner.
I am all of these things and so much more. One label cannot define the sum total of my being. Defying to be classified by one word, one label, shrugging off the stiffness of finality preferring to move in and out, intertwining them, and creating friction with their opposition. Rejecting narrow-minded definitions and descriptions my mouth screams my rebellion. Writer, woman, runner, strong, soft, practical, carefree. I dare you to box me in and define me with one label. I courageously accept them all.
I’ve done the mic check and it’s on and ready for you to take the stage. What say you dear reader? How have labels defined you or have they? Share it, shout it, sing it. The comment box is open and ready.
The above post was written as a spoken word piece. If you are not familiar with spoken word or slam poetry, Melissa Donovan has a great post that will enlighten. The Image is by David Shankbone (what a talent!) and is being used via a CC Attribution 2.5 License.