For nearly my entire 20 years of life, I have relied on labeling others. When I was in high school, I learned about the Myers-Briggs personality types, and I became obsessed. I began to categorize everyone based on their personality and characteristics. Today, I keep everyone I know in a tight, little box, and when those boxes break, I start to fall apart.
It is quite simple and even fun to box others in. First, one studies and observes a person until a conclusion can be made. Next, one puts a label on the person. This label is based on personality, quirks, hobbies, major, occupation, etc. Once one has adequately categorized someone, that person is now permanently trapped in a box, where all of their words, thoughts and actions can be moderated and explained.
I am unsure where this categorizing fascination originated from, but I know I use it as a form of control. I want to control my surroundings. If I can regulate my environment, I have a grip on my emotions and reality because I know what to expect. I hate surprises and uncomfortable situations. When I see people suddenly start to change or act abnormal, the world around me is no longer my own shelf of boxes. This is why I love to label people; if everyone stays within the label I have them, nothing can shock me. Nothing can shake or rock me into a state of the unknown or the unpredictable. There is just one problem with my flawless theory—I am categorizing people.
If human beings were meant for boxes and labels, the world would be an extremely dull and lifeless place. Everyone would be where they should be, do what they should be doing, and think what they should be thinking. The change would be a foreign concept. New ideas would cease. Progress and innovation would not be in our vocabulary. We would all simply be mindless robots fulfilling out designated duties without protest, and that is not the world I want to be a part of.
Earlier this year, I read Henry James’ "Daisy Miller: A Study." This novella showed me the true cost of studying and labeling others. I will not spoil the story for anyone who desires to read it, but throughout the novella, James shows how humans categorize others and how that is very unhealthy and cruel. Winterbourne tries to put Daisy in a box; Daisy tries to put him in a box. Society also studies and categorizes Daisy. I, as a reader, labeled each character to a specific type or personality, and James labels me and all his readers by assuming that all human beings are obsessive labelers. In the end, it is revealed that no one truly understood Daisy because people spent too much time trying to figure her out and put her in a box, rather than actually striving to get to know her, the real Daisy Miller.
After reading that novella, conviction overtook me as I realized how cruel it was to box people in like that. I felt appalled and guilty about my habitual analyzations of others. Yes, it can be fun and even beneficial to study others, but we should never allow our deductions to solely dictate how we view someone else—we must remain open minded because one can never truly know what to expect when it comes to other people.
Even though I now fully realize that people are more than labels, I still rely on my familiar boxes, and I honestly do not know how to break myself away from them. If I cannot categorize someone, I cannot organize them into my life; that terrifies me, to be frank. Yes, the truth sets you free, but it releases you into a chaotic, unpredictable world, and I do not know quite how to handle the truth at this moment in time.
Every day, another box of mine starts to fall apart as the people in my life continue to evolve and surprise me. I have no way of stopping people from stepping outside of the boundaries that my mind has set for them, and I should not try to stop them; that would be a ruthless thing for me to attempt. I could never live with myself if I prevented someone from becoming the person they were meant to be just for the sake of my own comfort and worldview.
I feel like a scientist sometimes. I study and observe humans like specimens. I label them and expect them to stay within that label, yet they never do. I despise this trait of mine. When I categorize people, I limit them; I dehumanize them. I hate feeling limited, and I am ashamed that I limit others with my compulsive need for labels. How dare I consider another human being less than a human being because of the imaginary boxes I keep on my shelf.
