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“The ‘I’ll kick your ass if you break my brother’s heart’ one?”

“Nope. The ‘wear protection every single time because diseases are real, I don’t care where you put your thing’ speech.”

Coffee spews from my mouth this time. Seventeen’s not too young for a heart attack, right?

I kick her foot. She cackles. Half-sisters are the worst. I’d rather get The Talk from Aunt Sandra than live through this. She’s coming tomorrow, with Uncle Dawson and Gabriel.Uncle Dawson’s fiancé Gabriel. I can’t wait to celebrate that.

“I like his style.” Free’s still studying Ian. He’s wearing a denim jacket—because it never gets too cold in Georgia until January—and that one hoop earring and a plain black beanie. Why do I love this boy?

“It’s okay. Can’t top mine.”

“You’re a walking advertisement for American Eagle,” she deadpans.

I sit taller, prouder.

“Speaking of that,” Free leans closer, “who tops and who bottoms?”

Just that fast, I’m in full-fledged blush meltdown. Luckily, I don’t have to talk to my older sister about that—not that it’s any of her damn business. The jingle bells over Zombie’s door rattle and in come three familiar faces. It’s my family.

Free freezes. My parents do too. Willow bops around like the little unbothered badass she is. Today isn’t just about introducing Free and Ian. It’s about her meeting my family, about them getting to know my half-sister.

Free fiddles with her curls, then tries to fix her ripped sweater with all the safety pins on it. Mom brushes her bangs back and straightens her peach cardigan. Dad’s picking invisible lint from his UGA sweatshirt. It’s this epic two minutes of ‘do I look okay?’ motions.

I swallow a laugh. Willow runs over; my parents slowly trail behind. Free stands.

Ian meets my gaze across the café. I finally crack up. All these strong, caring forces of nature in my life. All in one room. Finally. All these important parts of me colliding. No. Intersecting.

All the pieces in my puzzle finally fitting into place.

Essay

I visited my birth mother’sgrave for the first time today. It was cold and windy; every inch of the earth was covered in either leaves or mud from yesterday’s storm. I had to kneel to wipe the dirt from her headstone. It reads:

“Breathe in art; exhale life.”

I didn’t know exactly what it meant but, for some reason, I knew it was important. In a few ways, it defined who she was.

Her name was Ruby Williams. She loved art and jazz and old-school movies. She died when I was too young to know she existed.

She named me Rembrandt, after the painter. According to Wikipedia, Rembrandt is“generally considered one of the greatest visual artists in the history of art.”That’s a lot to live up to, even at seventeen. I like to think my mother knew I wouldn’t disappoint her.

My full name is Rembrandt Joshua Cameron. My middle name is from my parents, who named me after my grandpa. I don’t remember much about my grandpa, just as I don’t remember much about my birth mother. But I know my grandpa loved to sing to me and rock me to sleep. He was a good man. Sharing his name means another weight for me to carry—to be a good person, to be loving to others, even if they weren’t my blood.

Some people in this world would want me to clarify that myadoptive parentsnamed me after myadoptive grandpa, but I try not to live in that world, a world where we not only use labels to clarify and identify, but also to remind people of what we are not.

From an early age, I learned to carry those labels as an indicator, a definition. When I was five-years-old, a classmate taught me a new label: different. We were drawing portraits of our families and, unlike my other classmates’ portraits, I was not the same color as my parents.

I wasnotmy parents’ birth son.

And even though my parents have always taught me to be myself, I began to only know myself by the labels other people gave me: Black. Best friend. Adopted. Clingy. Popular. Gay. I wasn’t always consciously aware of these labels unless others pointed them out, unless others defined me by what I’m not.

I let them taint how incredible it is to be Black, a best friend, confident, a part of a loving family, the president of the Gay-Straight Alliance in high school.

When I was ten-years-old, I received a new label: older brother. At seventeen, again, I found another label: younger brother. I discovered I had an amazing older half-sister, who loves music and ginger ale and studies biochemistry at Agnes Scott College, who continues to teach me that labels stretch beyond basic definitions and how labels do not encompass the entirety of who we are.

Part of me wants to believe I already knew this, back when I was five-years-old and being given my first official labels. But who are we without our labels? Do our labels define us, or do we give definition to our labels? I think it’s the latter. I’m still learning.

A lot of what I’m learning is being shaped by my family, including my birth mother, who was a woman living outside the lines of definitions. My mother, who loved art and jazz and old-school movies, who loved me enough to give me to my parents, to give me the beginning of my story and the questions probing who I am. And though I may not ever have all the answers, I have one:

We have no control over what labels others give us, but we can define who we are by the ones we choose to give ourselves.

The End