Back in my day, we wrote our labels in books. No, we didn’t use those fancy bio-techno things that we’re given now, although something like that would have been helpful. Instead, everyone had a big, fat book that you would tuck under your arm and carry with you wherever you went. They all looked the same, with a faux-leather cover and thin pages like parchment paper. Each came with a black pencil that was attached to the book with a beaded cord. We’d use this to handwrite our labels. I know, dear, it’s crazy to think. Believe me, I don’t know how we did it. We were writing in that giant thing all the time. I suppose it just became habit. When you first met someone, you’d flick out your book to the freshest page and write down your label for them. Then it was kind of general knowledge that you’d pause for a moment after you finished a conversation with someone, in case either of you wanted to update your book. It was always kind of awkward whenever someone did, but, you know, we had to, it was--and is--the law. You’re lucky you don’t know when your friends are updating their books. Oh, don’t look at me like that, like you really want to know when someone’s giving you a new label. Trust me. Once, I cracked a joke to Grandpap when we were on a date, and he flipped open his book and scribbled something into its pages. I later learned that he wrote down, “funny,” but at the time I had no idea. See, it was a common courtesy to smile warmly when you were writing down a good label, but Grandpap wasn’t like that. He just stared at me. Nope, he didn’t even laugh. Of course now I know that he did find my joke funny, and his staring was because he was so in love with me, but how was I supposed to know then? But hey, at that point, I was so used to people randomly writing in their books, it kind of just rolled off my back. I think that’s why we hit it off so well. Some people got very stressed about what other people labelled them as. Oh, I cannot tell you the amount of sleepovers and parties I went to where there were girls--and guys--begging to see my book. If they asked to see their own page, they’d come off as desperate, so instead these people would ask to see what I thought about everyone else. Their thinking was, if I showed them my book, I must trust them enough to like them. The trick was to show them only a little bit of my book, and as I got to know them, I’d show them more and more. They’d do the same. And if we got really close, like me and my best friend Sal, I’d even show them their own page. Sal wasn’t too happy to see that my first impression of her was “loud” and “big-boned,” but I eventually convinced her that I had crossed them out almost immediately after I got to know her. To tell the truth, I never really wanted to label her those mean words, but, like I said, it was habit. I’d always see Mr. Harrison’s face and know that it wasn’t too bad, everyone did it, and besides, I really didn’t have a choice. Oh, yes, you probably don’t even know what I’m talking about, this “Mr. Harrison.” Well, Mr. Harrison was the man who visited us at the end of every month to look through our label books. Yep, I know, it sounds crazy now, with everything being digital and constantly updated, but it's true. I think my labels for him were “short” and “quiet,” and nothing else. He would knock on our door twice at around three or four in the afternoon, his suitcase in one hand and his official government badge in the other. My mother would promptly invite him in and offer some iced tea, or, if it was winter, hot coffee, to which he would politely decline, and he’d settle himself down at the kitchen table and ask for our books. We’d quickly hand them over, and he’d swing open his suitcase to reveal at least four or five fancy black binders. It took him ten minutes tops to scan through our books, occasionally putting little tick marks next to a name in one of his binders. That’s right, in those binders, he had the names of everyone who lived in our county. After he finished, he’d always leave with a short, “thank you for your time, please plan to see me next month,” and we’d go back to doing whatever we were doing before. When the government switched to using the new technology you’re used to say, thirty years ago, he was actually the one to take our books and give us these nifty little things. Of course, I was living with Grandpap by then, so he dropped by our house, which was a few blocks over. Funny, he hadn’t aged a bit. After saying “thank you for your time,” without adding “plan to see me next month,” he left, and I never saw him again.
What was he doing the checking for? Why, dear, I thought you already knew. I suppose you wouldn’t, since it’s all rather hush-hush nowadays, especially since everything’s digital. Well, he was making sure that there wasn’t anyone who needed to go unlabelled. We took it that once he returned to whatever government facility he came from, they looked through all the labels everyone had gotten in the last month to see if anyone had too many negative labels. They’d mark these people as unlabelled. We used to see videos explaining it all the time on television, in between the scheduled programs. It was just the government’s way of finding the bad people before they did anything dangerous. Sure, when I was little, I was scared for a few days after Mr. Harrison had gone, thinking I’d be unlabelled and taken away. My older brothers certainly didn’t help. But my mother would tell me that if I was a good little girl and always wore a smile on my face, then I had nothing to worry about. She was right, of course. I did know a girl who was unlabelled, but not well. Her name was Suzie. She went to high school with me, and I quickly labelled her as “short” and “quiet,” just like Mr. Harrison. What made her different from Mr. Harrison was that she didn’t really have a reason to be quiet, and I think this scared people--heck, it even scared me. I didn’t think about her much, though, or at least not until my eleventh grade social studies class with Mr. Potts. See, he was telling us about unlabelling, and all the different kinds of horrible disasters that could have happened if it weren’t for this system. Then, Suzie suddenly spoke out, saying, “Mr. Potts, why is it up to other people if someone is bad?” Yep. That’s what she said, I remember it exactly. And he said, “Pardon me?” She repeated herself, and I just remember thinking it was so strange, because I don’t think I could recall a time when she talked before then. Mr. Potts said he didn’t know what she meant. So she explained herself, saying, “Well, how can the government know if someone is bad just based on what other people label them as? What if they are the nicest person in the world, but they just look mean?” Oh, you should’ve seen it, Mr. Potts' face got real red after she said that. He’s loyal to the government, see, as we all should be, and he certainly didn’t tolerate people who weren’t. He quickly said, “The government just knows. Do you really think the government would unlabel innocent people?” And you know what she said? She said, right to his face, “Yes.” For a few moments, we just sat there, dumbfounded. Then Betsy Truga pulled out her book and started scribbling furiously in it, and suddenly everyone had their books out, their pages flipped to Suzie’s page. I think I labelled her as “radical” and “anti-government” and “outspoken”--all of which I got from what I saw in other people’s books, mind you. I didn’t even know what “radical” meant. Once Mr. Potts recovered, he sent her down to the principal’s office, and she didn’t come back to school the next day, or the day after that, or after that. It was about a month later when I heard the rumor that she’d been unlabelled.
What happens to unlabelled people? Well, I don’t know, dear, but I certainly do not want to find out.