A Different Blue(67)

matter what others think of you . . . yes, I said it, it does matter.” Wilson paused to make

sure we were listening. “We all like to throw out those cuddly cliches that it doesn't, but in

a business sense, in a relationship sense, in a real-world sense, it DOES matter.” He

emphasized “does” and eyed us all again.

[page]“So although it matters, it doesn't matter as much as what we think of ourselves because,

as we discussed earlier on in the year, our beliefs affect our lives in very real ways. They

affect our story. So. I want YOU to label yourself. Twenty labels. Be as honest as you can. Each

label should be one word – two max. Make it short. Labels are just that . . . short and

unforgiving, aren't they?”

Wilson opened a huge box of black Sharpies and proceeded to hand one to every student in the

class. Permanent marker. Nice. I watched as everyone got busy around me. Chrissy had eschewed

the Sharpie for her gel pens and was busy writing words like “awesome” and “cute” on her

labels. I felt like writing KICK ME on one of my labels and sticking it to her ass. Then I would

write SCREW YOU on the rest of them and smack them one by one on Wilson's forehead. He was so

aggravating! How could someone I liked so much make me so angry?

The image of Wilson with labels on his forehead made me smile for a second. But only for a

second. This assignment was seriously messed up and seriously degrading. I looked down at the

little white boxes in front of me, just waiting for me to tell it like it is. What would I put?

Pregnant? Knocked-up? That would qualify. Two words, right? Or how about Skank? Maybe . . .

LOSER? How about Screwed? Done? Finished? Game over? The word that popped into my head next had

me shuddering. Mother. Oh, hell no.

“I can't do this!” I said loudly, emphatically.

Everyone looked at me, Sharpies paused, mouths open. And I hadn't really been talking about the

assignment at all. But I found I couldn't do it either. I wouldn't do it.

“Blue?” Wilson questioned softly.

“I won't do this.”

“Why not?” His voice was still just as soft, just as gentle. I wished he would yell back.

“Because it's wrong . . . and it's . . . stupid!”

“Why?”

“Because it's incredibly personal! That's why!” I threw my hands in the air and shoved the

labels onto the floor. “I could lie and write down a bunch of words that mean nothing, words I

don't believe, but then what would be the point? So I'm not going to do it.”

Wilson leaned back against the chalk board and stared at me, his hands clasped loosely.

“So what you're telling me is you refuse to label yourself. Right?”

I stared back at him stonily.

“You refuse to label yourself?” he asked again. “Because it that's the case, then you've just

passed this little test with flying colors.” A protest started up around me, kids feeling like

they had been given the short end of the stick because they had done what they had been asked to

do. Wilson just ignored them and continued on. “I want you to throw the labels away. Peel them

off, rip them up, scribble them out, throw them in the rubbish bin.”

I felt the heat of confrontation leave my face and my heart resume a more normal pace. Wilson

looked away from me, but I knew he was still talking to me, especially to me.