When I was five years old, my father cursed the New England winter and took a job in Miami, then (pre-Castro) a one-story, major Southern city rather than the sky-lining capital of the Caribbean it is today. On our first shopping trip, my sister and I wandered to the back of the store in search of a water fountain and we felt lucky to find two! One had a sign on it that said, “White,” and the other had a sign that said, “Colored.” We were smart enough to read, but not smart enough to know what the signs meant. The signs could not possibly, I reckoned, describe the water, so they must describe the users. I knew I wasn’t white, because white was a specific color that you found in snow, clouds, and paper. “Colored” sounded like a box of crayons, and that didn’t seem to fit either. We had already lived in enough states (Florida was my fifth, her sixth) to know that you don’t go drinking water like you own the place; you have to account for local cultural practices. So my sister, age six, whispered in my ear, “Let’s just go.” We found our mom and avoided that confusing corner of the store.
Soon after, I walked out to the front yard of my house and saw eight or nine neighborhood kids sitting in a circle on the lawn across the street, annoying a dog, pulling up grass and chewing the oniony roots, and half-heartedly complaining about having nothing to do while reviewing television sitcom plots from the previous evening—in other words, being Southerners, except no one had socked anyone else while I was watching, which I eventually learned was a long time to go without a fight with one’s close friends. Suddenly, Mrs. Biferie—Italian, dressed in black—stormed out of her nearby house, took me by the shoulder, and marched me across the street to the group of children.
“What’s your name, little boy?”
“Michael,” said I.
“Everybody! This is Mike. He plays.” She stormed back into her house. The kids in the group looked me over, looked back toward each other, and forgot I was there.
I tracked the ball and wanted to tell them I knew how to throw and catch it. I tracked the dog and wanted to tell them I wasn’t afraid of it (this was before the big dogs showed up). I tracked the conversation and wanted to tell them that I had also seen those shows the night before. I shifted my weight from foot to foot and tried not to look too eager, failing miserably.
Suddenly, Mrs. Biferie was beside me, her hand again on my shoulder. “His name is MIKE! If I say he plays, HE PLAYS.” And that was that. The circle parted like the Red Sea, and I found the promised land of friendship.
Morals: 1. You don’t have to choose a category. 2. Channel your inner Mrs. Biferie and insist on playing.
Michael Karson, Ph.D. 
This post is really sticking with me. I am intrigued by the example of practicing inclusiveness rather than just valuing inclusiveness. I also think that we can’t help but create categories, but when do categories actually help? More to discuss!