Nonfiction: Unlabeled
by R.W. Ward
Unlabeled
by R.W. Ward
​
I’m 17 years old and still haven’t thought a guy looked “cute.” I mean, it’s not all that bad. Like I can tell if someone has good personal hygiene or not. Or that according to beauty standards they are “hot.” I mean I’ve had crushes in elementary, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. I’d always pick the kid who my parents said had a good upbringing. One of my friends when I told him asked, ”So are you still planning on getting married? How’s that going to work?”
​
Good question. The truth is I don’t know. My parents could pick him out for all I care. I even told them that. Like I want to get married, God willing, but I’m not capable of that kind of romantic stuff. Like I don’t want some guy thinking that’s going to be reciprocated, it’s not. But at the same time, I feel like it’s something I need to work on or fix.
​
When I told moms I’d be off to the store for some stuff, she phrased it, “If you see any cute boys on the way, tell me about them, maybe even snag a date with one of them.”
I made one of my grossed out faces. Because hell, no. She’s joking but there’s some truth to it. I’ve never been on a date.
​
She says it like there's something wrong with me. Like I should go and fix it. I don't know how to fix it. I thought about going and finding a guy to pay to kiss and take a photo of it and “accidentally” leave it out. Maybe that would make her stop. And get all serious, with a, I didn’t mean for you to go out and start dating or that you should be kissing a boy.
You know what, maybe I will.
​
Or maybe I won’t.
​
Shit, maybe if I close my eyes and imagine drifting off into space in waltz of Mr. Forever that I conveniently meet in college, find out his father’s a billionaire with a mother who loves designer dogs and have two perfect little children, she’d be in heaven.
But she doesn’t believe in heaven, not the one everyone else does. Forever doesn’t last forever, she found that out the hard way, after her father died. He never got to meet her husband. Everyone knows forever, doesn’t last forever, but yet they still pretend like it does. Maybe I won’t feel like this forever. I’ve read article after article, academic journal after journal and still not know where you belong.
I don’t think you need a long-winded list of labels to go through every time you meet someone. And I don’t think a label equals personality.
​
But somedays it feels like that. To be unlabelled, is to not be in existence. Today I would like to add a “label.” It’s not a personality. It’s not because I’m too busy to date.
Part of me thinks that moms is right, I’ll grow out of it someday.
​
Maybe I will.
​
You grow out of stuffed animals eventually, don’t you?
​
You can grow out of being asexual, can’t you?
​
I don’t know how to feel. There’s a part of me that says I’m wrong, and that you have to wait a while because your brain hasn’t completely finished growing yet. That I’m not ready to make decisions yet because I’m too young to know about my sexuality. And a lot of people don’t want to have sex in high school.
A brief note about work
The piece is a creative nonfiction piece about questioning yourself and giving yourself space and time to breathe.
​
About the author
R.W. Ward is an ace teen. She is an editor at Polyphony Lit and has been recognized by Scholastic Arts & Writing Awards, Appleseed Writing Project and The Writing Conference.