I’m Not a Label… But I’ve Been Gifted Many
You look and assume how I should be labelled, maybe try listening instead.
Out at a public event, and it happened again—that small talk question, the innocent one that never fails to flay and slip under my skin. It always manages to tear at the fraying edges of who I am:
“Hey, mind if I ask… what are you?”
The snark flares inside me, and I stutter, uncertain, in my best Ferengi voice:
“Ahh… huu… man?”
The smirk flashes their annoyance.
“Ha. No, I mean, where are you from?”
I shrug.
“Oh, I’m Canadian—born in Ontario. Not far from here…”
They interrupt, eyebrows furrowed, hands vaguely gesturing.
“No, I mean your people. Where are they from?”
“My parents were refugees, fleeing tyranny. And…”
I see a spark of inference cross in their eyes as they interject before I can finish:
“Oh, so you’re Middle Eastern. Turkish? No, Armenian! Like those Kardashians.”
Now I’m annoyed. I feel my emotions rush up, brush across my face, tightening into a scowl. I snap my words:
“How about I finish? They came from Europe in 1956. You know—the failed Hungarian Revolution? My father knew he couldn’t stay because he’d be arrested and tortured again. And my mother had just had a baby. So when the river froze in December of 1956, they walked across the ice to what is now Croatia.”
A nod. I see they are finally listening.
“My mother’s brother was in Toronto, so he sponsored them to come to Canada. And in July of 1957, they arrived in Quebec on a refugee ship. And…”
I can see the interrupting question bubbling before it becomes sound.
“So you are European—'cause you don’t really look white. Kinda Asian, actually. Your almost black hair, and skin with a hint of colour, and your eyes are almond, which is why I said Turkish…”
My turn to speak up and over.
“Yeah. Hungarian-Croatian. Well actually, Croatian-Hungarian is more accurate. The village was mostly Croatian, but in the Hungarian side of the border. That part of Europe is a mix of people spilling between tribes and blending. I hear there is some Gypsy—Roma—ancestry in my genetic makeup. And some of the tribes that settled in the area had Asian and Middle Eastern origins.”
The other listens and nods, and announces my label:
“So you are white then... huh. So hard to tell.”
I feel my anger flare, and I struggle to hold it back. Why does this annoy me so much?
Because labels. Categories. They’re convenient shortcuts that check boxes but erase the history of an individual. My skin was always a little too tanned, my eyes too almond-shaped. And my name—Istvan—clearly not from one of the chosen tribes. Not Anglo, not French, not familiar. Just foreign enough to set me apart, again and again.
The nuanced reality of my neither-nor existence was literally beaten into me on the school playground. I was informed by fists and words of my lesser status by those that knew better how to label those that did not belong.
I sigh, end my inner monologue, and reply,
“Nope, I am not a label, but I’ve been mistaken for one before. I am human. And while my skin has a lighter tone, my attitude is universal. Categorization by pigment swatches of melanin fails to capture the lived experience of an individual. The place of my birth and the color of my skin have nothing to do with how I have interacted with the world or how I think. My advice to you is: stop labelling people based on outward appearances. You cannot judge a book by its cover, nor can you see the person inside if all you see are the shape and color of the body they occupy. Yes, indeed, we are each unique individuals, but close your eyes and open your ears, and you will be surprised to learn that we are all more alike than we are different.”
I can see my words have offended, as they turn sharply and move away. Truly, they really intended no harm in asking their “innocent question.” Yet it wasn’t innocent at all: it was unthinking and presumptive, triggering wounds I sometimes forget I carry. As I watch them leave, I can hear my mother’s accented voice in my head:
“This is why you don’t have nice things—you always break them.”
Yes, Mom, I do break them. Because I expect them to be better than this to begin with, and we can be better.
Where do you belong?