The Tropeification of Friend Groups

How has categorization leached into our interpersonal lives?

I plan birthdays, I give pep-talks, I care deeply, and — in more ways than one — I keep my friends sane and safe. Who am I? Ding! Ding! Ding! I’m the quintessential ‘mum’ of the friend group. 

Let's try another one … I am funny, witty, and usually self-effacing in my humour. Any guesses? Yep, you got it again … I’m the joker. 

I could go on forever, but you get the point: friends have labels. The Cast List has been released, and now we all have a designated role. Time to wear our costumes and clear our throats as we assume our positions on stage: the character of the jester, or the therapist, or the nerd. 

I have always been the 24/7 emotionally available therapist-mum character. And, it's not that I hate the planning or the pepping or the perpetual caring — I hate the label. I hate that even amongst friends, I must have a particular task which I am assigned and rewarded for completing. Companionship has been caught in the crossfire of today’s labelling frenzy. Now, even my purpose as a friend has been reduced to a distinct, monosyllabic tag, and I loathe it. The truth is, we have a ‘job title’ and a hyper-specific place in every other facet of life; for example, I am a nineteen-year-old female, Indian, bi-curious, liberal, coffee-loving, psychology major who likes to read and is, currently (kind of), in her amateur-but-hopeful-writer era. These labels follow me around everywhere like a shadow. But once upon a time, they would leave me at the door to my friend’s kitchen, and I would finally get to just exist as … Well, me. 

Some may argue that the caring, the joking, the intelligence: they're part of who we are to begin with, and therefore, all the label does is provide a sense of belonging. But where you see labels on placards defining us, I see a mask being pulled over the faces of my loved ones. I see all the rough, storied edges being smoothed down into uncanny pixelated versions of what once was. 

All the labels do is box people into ideas of what they should be and how they benefit us in a relationship. It doesn’t matter, then, if what they bring us is stability or laughter, as long as both parties are aware of the transaction that is taking place: You play your part, and I’ll keep you on my ‘Close Friends’ list. Not only is this a reductive way to assess the value of our relationships, but it also furthers the impending sense of isolation that we Gen-Zers feel from our community. After all, we are so much more than a first impression: my initially quietest friends have become the loudest, and the smart ones have revealed that they truly are the most brainrotted of the lot. 

From what I've seen, as we settle into our dramatic personas, we forget to branch out. People stop trying to share more of themselves because, guess what, we’ve already secured our coveted seat at the tropeified friend-group round-table. Stay smart. Stay silly. Stay right where you started, and we never have to worry about getting lost or splitting up. But, alas, we are wandering beings. We are meant to change, yet our labels keep us tightly chained to places we — more often than not — need to leave in order to grow. 

In a world where our friends, our chosen families, are meant to help us spread our wings, our name tags are keeping us caged. I reckon, as you fly the nest, you should bring your flock of friends with you. Brave all the winds on this journey as one, solid, multi-hyphenate unit. Just please, please, leave the labels in the dirt. 

Instead, find your nearest ‘therapist,’ ‘fashionista,’ ‘club-rat,’ ‘nerd,’ ‘movie-geek’ acquaintance and ask them, can we just be friends? And let them show you who they are before you tell them. 

Because if to be loved is to be known, we need to try to know better, so that we can love harder.

Illustration by Ramona Kirkham