20131204.0642

I was at a company party yesterday evening,
Attending as my wife's +1,
And during the introductions,
The repeating ritual of offering labels for others to use,
Both implicitly
(Through race
Through gender
Through age
Through demeanor)
And explicitly
(Hi, I'm X--
And I often want to say "Inigo Montoya" for X
Or "Bob"
Though neither are true),
I labeled myself as what I am
Or at least as one part of me is.

The usual thing happened.
Eyes narrowed slightly.
Stance shifted slightly,
Moving backward
Narrowing the profile.
"That is what I was worst at in school,"
Or words not far removed from it.

I should be used to it by now.
But, as a pastor once told me,
We do not do well to should all over ourselves.

At the end of the evening,
I was thanked.
There was another at the party,
One like me,
One whose speech and dress and manner
One whose profession of professing
Make him an outsider
Despite his connections
To the people at the party.
I found him a fine interlocutor
Enjoyed his company,
And I think he mine.

I wonder if this is what it is like
In some small way
To be a token.