when they define who we are, they control what we're worth

"i am deliberate and afraid of nothing." – audre lorde

the world insists that we be small. that we fit into neat, digestible boxes. that we take up only the space we are given and never demand more. identity, in this rigid system, is not something we define for ourselves—it is something imposed, carved into paperwork, debated by lawmakers, and checked by strangers who somehow believe they have a right to know. but what if we refused to play this game? what if we lived as though we were already free?

ada palmer writes of a world where the state’s need to classify is abandoned, where identity is no longer bound by blood or soil, where a person belongs because they choose to belong. and yet, here in our world, we remain shackled to the old, rusted ledgers—forced to squeeze into checkboxes on a census form, reduced to pronouns that others insist upon assigning to us.

humans crave order, or so we are told. we are taught to sort, to categorize, to believe that in knowing what something is, we can know what it means. but what starts as a helpful mnemonic—round peg, round hole—morphs into a tool of oppression. governments, corporations, institutions—these vast, faceless constructs need us to be legible. they demand to know: are you a man? are you a woman? are you citizen, alien, taxable unit? and gods help you if you refuse to answer.

but even when you answer, even when you assert the truth of yourself, society must first agree before you are permitted to exist as you are. you can say, "i am a man," but unless the world around you nods in recognition, grants you access, allows you to move through space unchallenged, then that identity is no more than a whisper against the wind. the prison of classification is not just about what we say we are—it is about what others allow us to be.

it would be comical if it weren’t so cruel—the way lawmakers clutch their pearls and draft legislation, the way strangers whisper in bathrooms, the way entire livelihoods can be erased because someone checked the "wrong" box. what is this absurd fixation with plumbing? what dystopian fever dream led us to the belief that the way one relieves oneself is a fundamental question of public policy?

outside of reproduction, the function of genitals matters as much to daily life as the price of a loaf of bread. yet gender remains the hinge upon which society swings, the ancient fulcrum of classification that determines wages, safety, autonomy. we laugh at medieval sumptuary laws dictating which fabrics were fit for which class, yet today we live under equally absurd dictates: pink razors for women, blue ones for men; different deodorants for bodies that sweat the same; higher repair costs at the mechanic if you sound "feminine" on the phone.

this is more than cultural obsession—it is profitable. gendered marketing is a gold mine, and corporations have long known that classification means control. women’s products cost more. trans healthcare is locked behind legal mazes. nonbinary individuals are denied even the dignity of being counted. and lurking beneath all of it is a sinister calculus: if we control what you are, we can control what you are worth.

imagine stepping into a mechanic’s shop and being charged extra because your voice is higher, your hair longer. oh wait—you don’t have to imagine. it happens. the economy thrives on these hidden tariffs, these unspoken taxes levied on the marginalized, the misclassified, the inconveniently illegible. the wage gap, the pink tax, the endless bureaucratic barriers—classification is currency, and the house always wins.

who profits from this? not you. not me. not the person forced to "prove" their gender before they can access basic medical care. those who benefit are the architects of the system—the lawmakers who distract and divide, the corporations who profit from segmentation, the employers who justify pay disparities with outdated essentialist nonsense.

it is an old trick: convince the people that their cages are natural, that they must stay in their allotted enclosures lest chaos reign. but what if we stopped playing along? what if we refused to answer the questions? what if we lived as if classification were optional, or meaningless, or—dare we dream—gone?

ada palmer’s terra ignota imagines a world where gender is an aesthetic, where national borders are voluntary, where a person is not the sum of their documents but the essence of their choices. in that world, identity is an offering, not a demand. we have never had that world, but we could.

what would it look like if we stopped measuring people by their parts? what if gender markers on ids vanished, if no one cared what bathroom you used, if paychecks were free of invisible penalties? what if the only classification that mattered was this: are you a person? if yes, congratulations—you qualify for dignity, autonomy, and respect. no further questions needed.

we are closer to this world than we think. we see it in mutual aid networks, in community spaces where identity is self-defined, in the quiet revolutions of language and culture. the question is not if this world is possible, but whether we are ready to insist on it. whether we are bold enough to declare, once and for all: the way i pee is none of your damn business.