Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

Last week, a co-worker entered the elevator. As we descended, she asked, “So, are you still writing your little books?”

[Hrmnmrmnm.]

My wife and I have a phrase.

We got it from the movie Keeping the Faith (one of my favorite rom-coms: it’s about a rabbi, a priest, and a high-powered businesswoman, played by Ben Stiller, Edward Norton, and Jenna Elfman). In one scene, the rabbi is going on a date (yes, single rabbis can do that) and in making small talk, he expresses mild surprise at her strong interest in fitness. During this exchange his date, Ali (played by Lisa Edelstein), admonishes him: “No one thing defines me.”

It’s the high point in a scene of brilliantly comic awkwardness that immediately went into our private lexicon. Modified for our personal use (we don’t include the gut-punch), we use this phrase whenever one of us does something a little out of character, exhibits a new interest, or in some way surprises the other. Here. Try it with me…

Finger up. “No one thing.”

It’s a joke, but it’s also serious. No one thing defines me. No one thing defines you. We are, each and every one of us, a multitude of talents, interests, foibles, achievements, failures–a million things large and small. We are legion.

Our human tendency, our natural pattern-matching impulse, is to label things, including people. She’s a cop, he’s a teacher, he’s the soldier, she’s the novelist…we like labels. Social media encourage this, and we foster it too. By posting the same memes over and over, we become (in others’ eyes) the evangelist, the right-wing neo-con, the left-wing socialist, the vegan, the pot-head, the [insert label here].

Labels add simplicity to our social interactions, but in most cases, we only apply a single label to folks we meet. As acquaintances become more familiar and approach our inmost circles, as we come to care about and admire each person’s individual complexity, we give them additional labels until, through sheer numbers, those labels lose their usefulness and we see the person as a whole, a single entity filled with faults and gifts.

I understand that this is part of our nature. I understand that, to many people, I am just one thing, one label. To some, I’m a cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch. To others, I’m a generous benefactor. To most people–if I’m anything to them–I’m the guy who does crossword puzzles at lunch or the guy who lives at the end of the block. To others, depending on when they met me, I’m the violist, the foodie, or–as I was last week–the guy who writes those little books.

Finger up. “No one thing.”

I try to keep this in mind when I find myself labeling others. I also try to keep it in mind when I encounter people who have only given me a single label. I try to be patient. I try not to take offense.

To my co-worker, I smiled and said, “I’m on hiatus, right now. Working on my music.” The doors opened, and we went our opposite ways. I could hardly be upset by her question; I only had two labels for her, myself, so expecting her to have more for me would have been unfair. I don’t know if she picked up the new label I dropped for her–that decision was hers, not mine–but it was there if she wanted it.

So here’s my suggestion: share your labels. Broaden your image of yourself, and you will broaden others’ view of you in turn. If you have a passion–animal rescue, social injustice, government overreach, whatever–that’s fine and dandy; just don’t let it define you.

You are more than that. We all are.

k