Labels at the Farmer's Market. Who Knew?

Just returned from the farmers’ market.  The morning was really beautiful; cool and slightly overcast as I walked down to the city hall.  I had somehow managed to get there on the early side, when the ‘serious’ foodies are striking the farmers’ booths with amazing skill and precision.  This was a good thing—scratch that, this was a great thing.  I lose patience with people who shop for sport or leisure in crowded places.  I just want my dried persimmons and fresh chard and then I want to move on. 

I had the good fortune to run into a friend I haven’t seen in over a year.  Since we each were just finishing up our shopping for the morning, we decided to have breakfast and catch up a bit.  I bought a spinach and cheese tamale, and she bought some hummus and lentil bread.  We each bought juices from the Roots booth.  It was quite the impressive little impromptu banquet. 

We spent half an hour chatting about what each of us has been up to in the past year.  We’ve both started businesses, we both found long lost relatives, we’ve both lost family members close to us.  We’ve both traveled, and breathed and cried and loved and lived.  We are human.  It’s what we do. 

My friend took off, and as I sat, still nibbling on some of the lentil bread, another acquaintance approached me.  After our initial hellos and how-do-you-dos, he says to me, “So, I saw you were sitting with your gay friend…”

“Why is it important that she is gay in the context of this conversation?”  I asked. 

“Well, no, it’s not, it’s just…” he faded off.

I was surprised that he went ahead and sat down next to me.  I figured that one unfiltered missive out of my mouth was going to be enough to chase him off. 

Next, I offered him some lentil bread. 

“What kind of crazy communist food is this?” 

“It’s Indian food.  India is a Socialist Secular Democratic Republic.  And for the record, it’s delicious food. Try it.”

He didn’t last long after that, making his good-byes and traveling on with his day.  I noticed by the time I walked home, he and I are no longer Facebook friends. 

It occurred to me on the way home that the only pertinent label that could have been applied to breakfast was ‘vegetarian’.  We never even got to that part of the conversation.

What I don’t understand is the weird fixation with labels.  Indian food may be different to many who live in the culturally insular place that is northern California, but let’s talk numbers here.  One of every six people on the planet is from India.  Next to Chinese, Indian cuisine is the most commonly identified cuisine on Earth.  That we in ‘Merica are labeling it as an uncommon or marginalized food choice is myopic.  We can argue as to whether or not we are still the greatest nation circling the sun, but we cannot argue that we are the most populous or prolific. 

And what does political persuasion have to do with lentil bread anyway?  It made me chuckle as I was leaving the farmers' market to realize that part of why I go to the farmers' market in the first place is to be in an environment where I don't have to read labels.  Real, fresh food.  

Labels on people drive me even more insane.  My gay friend?  No, pretty much, she is my friend.  My caring friend.  She is a friend who encouraged me to learn yoga as a means of pain management when I was going through cancer treatment.  To be honest, had I not started reaping the benefits of her shared knowledge, I would have stopped treatment before the last, most caustic round of chemo.  Using yoga to manage pain gave me the extra strength and energy to rock ‘em, sock ‘em through another hellish medical protocol-- one which was designed to poison me just to the point of killing the cancer, but not actually killing me. I likely would not be here had she not encouraged me and loved me and supported me through a challenging time in my life’s journey, because after the second round, I had preliminarily made the decision for myself that the pain and suffering were impeding my quality of life.

Her sexual orientation is not the primary identifier when I think of her.  Period.  But, since we are on the subject, she and her wife have been together for over twenty-eight years.  They have raised two children, one of whom is in medical school to become a doctor, and the other who just graduated summa cum laude and is on her way next month to Africa to do relief work. 

Why is it we only apply these labels when we are looking to marginalize or segregate?  In the information above, should we be considering this Awesome Gay Parenting?  Or Marvelous Gay Monogamy? 

I prefer to think of it as people getting it right.  Enough of the rest of us know all too well what it’s like to be divorced and to have children who are a challenge to raise.

And again, I come back to my general take in life:

It is not my job to judge.  

Or render social stature upon others.  

It is my job to love people.