You Name It
Or: In Protest of Definitions
Or: I Am Not This or That – I Am Somehow, Splendidly, In Between
Ever since I was a little girl I loved to name things
I’d line up the stuffed animals on the end of my bed and recite the names
Of each dependable doggy and tender teddy
Whenever I needed self-assurance, because
To label was to enable, and to designate was to create
To clasp together an understanding of my own wacky worlds
So maybe one day I could understand the big wacky world around all of us
Ever since I was a little girl I loved to count things
In the backseat of my parents’ old Plymouth Voyager
I’d add up all the cars as they zoomed by like overgrown dragonflies
And enumerate the license plates of all the different fifty states
I’d cast up the colors of the wildflowers on the side of the road,
And the changing colors of the sky
While biting back the more pressing question, the question of “why”
Ever since I was a little girl I loved to question things
I’d point to a hazy hue and ask my mom, “Is that color green, or is that blue?”
I’d point to somebody and ask, “Is that person a boy, or a girl?”
“Is green just a boy color, or can it be a girl color, too?”
“And what color is that person?”
To label was to enable, and to designate was to create
And I classified no crime as more severe than that of an ambiguous answer
So for much too long my world was wrong
When it wasn’t washed-out white or brightest black
A nightmare of brittle binaries or a daydream of extremes
So, LGBT? Androgyny? My whole, general life philosophy?
Being a triplet, but my own person, too? Sharing so much with my siblings, but unafraid to start new? Not particularly religious, but still feeling like a Jew?
It took way too long to face the music of my repressed hypocrisy
And it takes too many people even longer
Have you ever noticed that a high note resolves to a low note? That you can start up at an A and settle at a D? Have you noticed that the answer is never as high, never as nigh, never as pure, never as sure as the question?
And what have I been asking all this time, when society tells me that my names don’t count the same as everybody else’s?
Are you imparting reason or rhyme, when you say that what counts the most to me is a love that dare not speak its name?
And I know, okay, I know
That teaching children to think for themselves about diversity is like a drum beat
You’ve gotta start off slow
But the more iniative they show
You can’t be afraid to let them grow
At first they may not grasp the rhythm and the beauty and the flow
But saying “yes” is almost always better than saying “no”
Can you name all the children who’ve been called names because their friends were taught to stereotype and assimilate?
Can you count all the children who’ve counted on teachers who failed to stand up for them, leading classrooms that are cesspools of intolerance and hate?
Some people in their bigotry
Call those who identify like me
Those words that start with “d” or “k” and end with “i(y)ke”
They would spew such hateful words because
They claim there’re fundamental parts of my identity that they don’t like
They would rather that I didn’t question and ultimately name who I am, but for different reasons entirely
They would rather that I didn’t count
They would rather that the little girl, asking herself, “boys can like girls, but can girls like girls, too?” not ever determine the right answer
When I was a little girl, one of the stuffed animals lined up on the end of my bed was a tender pink teddy bear named Keshet. In Hebrew, “keshet” means rainbow. And whenever I need self-assurance, that’s always nice to know.