A Different Blue(66)

we discredit a strong woman today?”

The class stared back at Wilson, not understanding. And then it clicked.

“You label her a bitch,” I offered boldly.

The class gasped, as was customary when someone let a bad word fly. Wilson didn't flinch though.

He just looked at me thoughtfully.

“Yes. It's often the very same thing. Let's compare. Throughout history, women have been

defined by beauty. Their worth has been tied to their faces, has it not? So as a woman ages and

her beauty fades, what happens to her worth?”

The class was following now.

“Her worth would diminish, but what about her freedom? In some ways, a woman who is no longer

beautiful, no longer competing for the hand of the richest or most eligible man might have less

to lose. A fifty-year-old crone in the 1500's might not be as afraid to speak her mind as a

fifteen-year-old girl who feels the pressure to marry and marry well. In that way, the less

attractive woman might be more free, more independent, than the beautiful girl.

“Nowadays, women are still judged according to their physical attributes, moreso than men. But

times have changed, and women don't necessarily need men to provide for them. Women today have

less to lose by speaking their minds, and calling someone a witch is fairly ineffective. So we

use the same tactics that were used long ago, just different words. I find it interesting,

though, that the label used to discredit a strong, independent woman has only changed my a mere

letter.”

The class laughed, and Wilson smiled with us before he moved on.

“Which brings us to our end-of-year project. What label do you wear? Why do you wear it? Many

of you are seniors and will be moving out into the larger world. You don't have to continue

wearing the label you've worn. Will you choose to drag it along with you and don it in your new

circles, or will you choose to shed it and make a new name for yourself?” Wilson looked at the

attentive faces surrounding him.

“Sadly, in school, and often in life, we are defined by our worst moments. Think about Manny.”

The room was silent with contemplation, and Wilson paused, as if the memory was difficult for

him as well.

“But for most of us, who we are is made up of the little choices, the little acts, the little

moments that comprise of our lives, day after day. And if you look at it that way, labels are

pretty inaccurate. We would all have to wear a thousand labels with a thousand different

descriptions to honestly depict ourselves.” Wilson strode to his desk. “Here. Take one and

pass them back. Go on.” Wilson handed a stack of heavy white pages to the first person in each

row. Each page had about twenty labels on it. I took a page and handed the rest to the kid

behind me.

“If I told you to peel each label off and stick it to yourself and then walk around the room

and let different people write something about you – just one word, like witch, for instance –

on the label, what do you think they would write? Should we try that?”

I felt dread pool in my belly like hot wax. There was a general unease in the classroom, and

people started to grumble and murmur under their breaths.

“Don't like that idea, eh? Lucky for you, I don't like it either. For starters, people would

either be too nice or too brutal – and we'd get very little honesty. Secondly, although it DOES