I say: Down with labels! Last summer or maybe the summer before, I read the first half of Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking. I really liked the first half, as I recall, because I had so many gratifying moments that sounded like this: "Oooh! Oooh! That's me!" Which is a little weird, because I don't consider myself introverted. I'm fairly outgoing.
I was surprised to discover that I couldn't stand the second half of the book. So I stopped reading and gave the book away in disgust. I don't remember exactly what turned me off, but, looking back at the Table of Contents (online), I'm willing to bet it was this: the rush to reify -- to make real, to etch in stone -- the category of "introvert" (and, by comparison, "extrovert") as something fixed in the brain or in our genes or in our personalities.
This need to build walls around an identity makes me very uncomfortable. One reason, of course, is that it invites people to oversimplify themselves. It can be so relieving to find a label that seems to capture and explain one's experience! I have found that a mental health diagnosis can have this effect on clients. I myself hope and pray every time I take my son to the doctor that he has strep throat because that label means easy treatment. Labels, in their limited ways, can be quite helpful.
But, once we get our hands on labels, we can turn them into self-fulfilling prophecies. A student with a learning disability can quickly learn to avoid certain problems because he comes to believe (and, sadly, so do others) that he is too dumb or limited or incapable to do them. A child who decides he hates sports (because his father loves them) deprives himself of a certain brand of pleasure for the rest of his life. (Here's that story -- it's a good one.) A teacher who refuses to delegate responsibility loads herself down with her own competence and implicitly labels others as "less competent" or, worse, "incompetent."
Which leads me to another reason why labels and walled-in identities make me uncomfortable: Labels are way too easily ranked. It's almost a human reflex: Let's take two opposite labels like "introvert" and "extrovert" and compare them! And let's make the one I identify with the better one! Oooh! Oooh!
I think the author of Quiet wanted to normalize introversion, to make introverts feel better about the label. That's fine -- except when people start ranking. Once I've decided I possess a certain quality, especially when I think that quality makes me look good, it's way too likely that I will avoid self-reflection and just lay claim to the identity, no more questions asked. Carol Dweck, who wrote the book Mindset, has discovered this in teachers, much to her dismay. A colleague of hers calls it "false growth mindset": when teachers who routinely display "fixed" mindset characteristics put themselves in the "growth" mindset category. A kind of ironically "fixed" way of seeing oneself.
My biggest complaint about labels is this: they allow us to overlook the adaptations that underlie the labels. Even if we consider a label we've adopted -- like "introvert" or "growth mindset" or "grit" -- to be good, the underlying adaptations may not be.
Here's an example: I recently ran a Teacher Support Group where I stepped out of my standard facilitator role. Rather than act in a restrained fashion that emphasized observation, reflection, and brief and efficient bouts of psychoeducation, I became impassioned. I began to "exhort." I went into full-fledged pep talk mode. In short, I let 'er rip.
My behavior felt relevant and justified at the time. (After all, I am outgoing.) But no sooner had I left the meeting than I began feeling something terrible: shame. I worried that I had surprised or insulted or bored the teachers. I worried that my self-image did not match their image of me and that my confidence was completely unwarranted. They knew the truth about me and I couldn't even see it! I felt vulnerable and exposed. As I wrote in my TSG journal immediately afterwards, "I felt I took up too much space."
Let's pause for a second. These uncomfortable responses I had to "taking up space" were raw data about myself. They pointed to beliefs that I have created about myself over time. They are bedrock and, therefore, extremely useful.
Now let's let the tape roll again. If I were someone who wanted to escape these uncomfortable responses and ignore my bedrock beliefs (true or not), I had two very good options. One would have been to beat the shame down by saying to myself, "Hey! No problem. I'm an extrovert. It's just how I am. The teachers can take it. They have no choice: It is what it is."
The other option would have been to say, "This is what I get when I push out of my comfort zone. What I should have done and need to do in the future is act more like an introvert. I should not have taken up space, presumed that I knew something important, imposed myself on other people. I should have stopped talking and, instead, sat in supportive silence. I should have been Quiet."
These two adaptations make good use of labels. The first adaptation banishes negative feelings by justifying problematic or risky behavior; the second prevents negative feelings by avoiding problematic or risky behavior. The first is not particularly fair to the teachers; the second is not fair to myself. Both adaptations, both uses of different labels, accomplish the same thing: stagnation. Status quo. Zero growth.
There's a third way, a middle way, a way that transcends personality type or mindset or grit. It's the way I call "emotion work." It's what I do to turn negative feelings into understanding that empowers me to grow.
When I do emotion work, I look for the "good" reasons for my emotions. In the case of my TSG, my shame arose from a number of bedrock beliefs that I have: As a therapist and group facilitator, I'm supposed to make space for others. As a teacher, I value supporting others in coming to their own conclusions, not in agreeing with (or caving to) mine. As a child, I learned to yield intellectually to others -- or else. As a woman, I have been trained to protect others from my power.
These beliefs, even the self-undermining ones, can all come in handy under certain circumstances. It's essential that I make space for my therapy clients and my students so I can listen and learn and so they can come to their own conclusions. As an adult child, I can develop strategies for avoiding intellectual bullies. As a woman, I can tone down the powerful personality in high-stakes situations -- such as when I'm negotiating a salary and want to avoid activating my employer's gender bias.
But these beliefs are maladaptive in other situations. Sometimes my clients and students need to know what I'm thinking. As an adult, I can choose not to be a fearful child. My power as a woman is a force for incredible good in the world. Paying attention to my raw data makes me resilient and invites me to be deliberate and strategic. It also makes me more centered and connected.
Blanketing all these contradictory and complex beliefs under a label robs me of crucial raw data about myself. I mean, come on: "Grit" in one situation is just plain stubbornness in another. Sidestepping the raw data can make me feel better about myself; it can certainly protect me from emotional pain (it sucks to feel shame). But it also prevents me from growing, from taking risks and discovering my own nuances that encourage me to -- dare I say it? -- take up my space with confidence, compassion, flexibility, and wisdom.
Popular enthusiasm about labels worries me because it's just a whole lot easier to take on a label than it is to do emotion work. Blanketing nuance, overlooking the bedrock truth, enacting a distracting adaptation doesn't really help anybody. It just perpetuates stagnation, status quo, and zero growth. I, for one, find these outcomes unacceptable -- especially in schools.