Labels : An Essay on Finding My Sexual Identity in High School

It was apparent. Obvious. Clear. Whatever word you wanted to describe just how visible their labels were. In my eyes, they were just like post-its plastered onto their bodies written in bold ink. Straight, Gay, Bisexual, Loner, Single, Taken – it was all there for the world to see. People would look at me wondering what exactly my label was. The most common label given to me was Gay. But that’s all it was. A given label. When in reality, my label was nonexistent; my post-it blank.

I didn’t know what my “label” was nor did I actually care. It wasn’t really a concern to me until freshman year in high school, specifically during fourth period in my Spanish 1 class, when I really started to question exactly who I was.

It was around late October, only a few days before Halloween. I was exhausted from running up and down bleachers under the cloud-engulfed sun in my gym class last period and my legs felt like they were injected with jelly. I sat in the back of the classroom, a fitting seating arrangement considering I was such a misfit and didn’t have anyone to call friends.

In front of me sat a boy in the same grade as I. I could’ve identified his label without my imagination creating the illusion of a post-it stamped upon his forehead with the word, “Straight”, written boldly onto it. From his sleeveless shirt that revealed his long, bony chopsticks for arms to the basketball shorts that hung low below his waist, his stereotypical “straight guy” attire was all anyone needed to see to know what his label was.

Now there’s nothing wrong with being straight just as there’s nothing wrong with being gay, but most of the straight guys I’ve met haven’t been the nicest. In fact, I sort of had a rocky history with them. It always began and ended the same way; teasing to bullying all because I didn’t exactly “act straight”. The boy who sat in front of me was no different.

I could always tell when someone thought I was gay immediately after I open my mouth to speak so it was easy for me to tell that this boy wasn’t going to be my friend. His eyes stared at me curiously with a glint of disgust or annoyance with an occasional glance to his peers as if to silently ask if I was gay or not. Then from there it evolved to some light teasing; sometimes the loathed nickname, “faggot”, would be thrown lightly in the conversation hurting me ever so slightly. Eventually, it manifested to full on bullying and his words that used to prick me like thorns were now jabbing me like knives. But nothing would hurt more than what he had said to me.

“You know that makes you gayer than you already are, right?”

I was asking one of my classmates if they were dressing up for Halloween when he said that. I didn’t respond. How could I? I wasn’t talking to him and yet he intruded the conversation to say that! I just stared at him and he stared back like he had just told me I have cancer and only a month to live. He looked at me like he felt sorry for me! Gayer than you already are.

I didn’t realize I already was.

I ended up dressing up for Halloween despite what happened but for some reason I felt uneasy that day and didn’t know why until I met up with my peer helper during gym class. Being a freshman I somehow ended up in the peer helping system and met up with my very own peer helper every other week. I never shared what happened between me and that boy but I was reported to my counselor once I shared that I once had thought about committing suicide due to issues in the past. As I met with my counselor the topic of bullying came up and I managed to tell her what happened. But when I thought words of wisdom, reassurance, or even sympathy would escape her lips, what she asked left me stammering.

“What is your sexual preference?”

I gawked at her and told her I was straight. I could see the imaginary post-it on my chest and saw that it remained blank. My counselor seemed unsatisfied; as if she thought I was lying or was in denial. It wasn’t a complete lie. I just didn’t know for sure. I couldn’t help but wonder why she would ask though. If I told her I was gay would that change anything? Would it matter? I continued peer helping afterwards but the questions still lingered in my head.

Freshman year continued. Since my meeting with my counselor, my seating arrangement had changed and I sat far away from the boy. However, distance didn’t stop the awful words that attacked me nor did the heavy feelings of uncertainty in my heart. I began to feel confused and angry because I was confused. Suddenly my label began to have some sort of high importance. Eventually, I built up the courage to turn to family about my “label problems”.

Sexuality has always been an awkward subject in my family as it wasn’t a topic that we could always talk freely about. I always try to avoid it seeing that it always led to some argument or left my father with the assumption that I was trying to “come out of the closet”. The thing is both family and friends seemed to assume that I was gay because of the way I acted. I wasn’t the manliest boy but it wasn’t because I liked guys. I suppose I act the way I do because of how much time I spent with my mother and her friends and seeing that I was quite the mimic in my younger years, I managed to (involuntarily) pick up on some female mannerisms I found intriguing as a child. And although no one would say it out loud, I could tell that my family, specifically my father, was afraid of me being gay. But I didn’t think it was because he was homophobic.

In fact, I think he reacted so strictly because he didn’t want me to get hurt. He was trying to protect me. My father knew how many people treat those who were labeled “gay” and didn’t want anything bad to happen to me. Nonetheless, I refrained from talking to him about my dilemma and instead turned to my mom’s cousin who has had a brother who came out and was shunned by their father.

When I spoke to her she asked me the same question my counselor did and I responded with the same lie. And like my counselor, her response was something I wasn’t very enthusiastic to hear.

“You know there’s nothing wrong with being gay. I’ll still love you.”

Although her intentions were good, I couldn’t help but feel angry with her. It’s like she saw that my label was gay! What she had told me wasn’t news to me. I know that my family will love me no matter what I label myself as! I know that it’s okay but why are they making it seem like I need to know now and assume I’m in denial when I don’t even know who I am?!

Sophomore year came and the heavy feeling of uncertainty had transformed into a desperate need of knowledge. What did I like? Who did I like? What did others see as my label? Straight? Gay? Bi? Asexual? But my label was still blank. I was lost. Why was everyone’s label so clear to them? How did they know? More importantly, why did they need to know?

And then it clicked. I can’t remember how it did, but it did. My label was not important and held no prestigious significance. I couldn’t let it define who I was and what kind of person I was going to be. It was my actions that would define my character. It was my talents, my weaknesses, my passions, and my experiences. That’s what should be important.

Junior year approached and we read Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, a story about a woman who had to wear a scarlet A on her chest to show her society that she was an adulterer. But she did not allow the letter to define her. She let her kind and benevolent actions show who she really is and that the letter sewn upon her chest was nothing but a letter.

It was the first time my label was no longer blank. I realized I did have a label.

And that label read, “Me”.