What Do I Call Myself? by Donny Kaye

          I’ve noticed a bumper sticker on the back of a friend’s car that reads, “I Am”.

      I am!

      I am?

      Immediately I realize that I begin to search for a label that names what I Am. I am a man. I am a son. In my search for the label that seems to fit at the moment, I begin to realize that to label me something requires a judgment. I am this and in being this, I am not that. It gets confusing. It can become disabling. It can seem unfair at times. It, what it is that is being used as the label, can be empowering, neutral or even the source of shame. Whatever it is that I call myself is the result of judgments that I have been taught. Judgments that are reflective of my culture.

      The culture that we get born into begins to differentiate and separate us at its earliest of opportunities. Immediately we are given a name. When I was born, I was placed in a blue blanket differentiating me almost immediately as the result of the judgment of another. (Trust me, I might not have chosen blue.) It seems that as soon as words began to be associated with defining me, words which were reliant on the judgments of others, I began to see myself separately and became conditioned to the language that was being associated with me for my definition of my own self. The labels started early. After all, if it weren’t for labeling, Margaret and Douglas might have taken another baby home from the hospital. Then, where would I be?

      As soon as culture has its way, there seems to be only more definition and separation that occurs with the labeling. So in my case, my differentiation ‘boy’—I am boy—took on more modifiers like ‘good boy’ and with that judgment, ‘bad boy’. Nice boy. Cute boy. Naughty boy. Guilty boy. And at some point in my formation, I made agreement with some of the labels that were being used to differentiate me. In my mind, in the language I used about myself, I began to accept that I am one way or another. As a result of the culture I got born into, there were some definitions about me that stuck. Some have been positive. Some, negative. Positive, negative or in between, they have all come to serve me.

      At some point in my life journey I began to be confused by the labels that had been used to differentiate me, recognizing that many of the labels just didn’t fit--or at least they didn’t seem to fit any longer. Who am I?

      Psychologists have researched and written about the principles of becoming autonomous for centuries. Immanuel Kant, a German philosopher, was one of the first psychologists at the end of the Eighteenth Century to study these principles.

      Autonomous refers to one who gives oneself their own law-not a law based on another’s thinking, but the thinking that is unique to the individual. Autonomy refers to the capacity of a rational individual to make an informed, un-coerced decision, in this case, about the self. Not influenced by others; but an un-coerced decision about the self. Most psychologists agree that this process of becoming autonomous begins to unfold in the psyche during adolescence. What is interesting for me to realize is that some of the agreements I made about who I am have taken a life time to uncover. Could it be that adolescence actually continues into the sixth and seventh decades of life? Maybe!

      So, here I am. (It’s those two words again, I AM)

      I exist in a culture that is reliant on labels, requiring that everything be languaged in some way. At different times I call myself different things depending on the situation. In different settings, I act and exist with different labels that I assign to myself. Sometimes the label that I give to myself can be harsh and negative. At other times, not. Always it seems, the label I assign to myself is never comprehensive enough to describe the whole of me. These labels I give to myself can end up sounding like background information you might be reading about me in a personal add on one of the social websites. You know what I mean, GWM, cut. Top/bottom or verse. Sensitive. Creative. And the labeling goes on-and-on, attempting to define for myself and others my presence based on what I do.

      Beyond the labels that I assign to myself is the dynamic that gets set up when others label me, based on how they need me to be. At one time I thought it most critical what others thought of me. Now I’m more inclined to rest in the idea that it’s really none of my business what you think of me; unless, of course, it interferes with my safety and my right to happiness. I’ll never forget walking down Colfax in front of the Cathedral and the group of protesters shouting at me “Faggot,” “You’re going to hell,” and the malicious protests continued. Once I realized the taunting was directed at me, I stepped into the space of one of the loudest and looking him in the eye, invited him to “make it a great day and go create some fun in his life.”

      To this very moment, I don’t know what it was that started the enraged shouting at me other than location, and that it was PRIDE weekend. I wasn’t in drag. There were no messages on my shirt. I hadn’t put on any beads yet. What can I say? They just needed me to be their faggot. The one they could spew on with their hateful message and judgment.

      What do I call myself? It does come down to judgment. As soon as something is judged, there is a dynamic or quality that gets set up that requires looking at the label on a spectrum. The spectrum exists with extremes on either end. Someplace along that continuum is me in that one regard. So, I take an attribute like SENSITIVE. To understand sensitive, I have to know IN-SENSITIVE. Or CARING. To know CARING I have to put it along side my experience of UN-CARING. The judgments can only exist in the understanding of the opposites. So for the guy yelling “FAGGOT” he is basing that on his understanding of NON FAGGOT or in his mind, extreme hetero. I’m also reminded in this case of the childhood lesson of “it takes one to know one.” But, that aside; what do I call myself?

      Once all of the labels and the required judgments are set aside, there is the quality of experience within me of just being me. I JUST AM. (The bumper sticker's message.)

      I AM. Beyond words. Beyond definition required by opposites. I AM. The experience of infinite possibility. No limitations. Just me. And what I realize is that when I can allow for the experience of I Am, I recognize an incredible connection, and a oneness with you. With everything. I AM.

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.