I'm the best and greatest me
You ain't the best me
Me me me me me
The greatest and the best is me
Me is the best [weird voice] and greatest me
You're the worst worse than me
Chorus:
I'm me the best greatest me
You are just as lame as my pee
Me is the me me me me
Me best me greatest me
[weird voice] You are not as greatest as me!
No one as as best or as greatest as me
I am all the greatests and also me
You're a bitch and a hoe unlike me
I'm the biggest bitch hoe greatest me
[weird voice] I I I I I I I I I (me)
[still weird voice] I'm the greatest and bestest its me me me me!
(chorus X2)
End
The official dance move for the music video is walking in place
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Sunday, April 29, 2012
It isn't welcome here anymore
How are you this morning? Are you good? Or are you well?
If I'm describing how I am, I've always gone with good (or okay, or some other adjective). "I am well" has never quite sat right with me. But the people who use it seem so sure! In fact, they even correct people sometimes. So, since I could never quite figure out how to argue my case, I agreed to a truce with the I am well folks: I'd let them say it their way, and I would say it in mine.
But not any more. I can now definitively say that there is only one correct version of this phrase. It is "I am good." Anything else is absolutely incorrect. I'm sorry, but you're not well; you're wrong.
Yes, an adverb usually modifies a verb, which is why well is so appealing here. Think about the other contexts: I feel well, I dance well, etc. You would never (or at least, should never!) say I dance good. So the correct phrase is I am well, right?
Wrong. The verb "to be" is an exception here. Let's imagine you are having a terrible day. Just absolutely the worst. When someone asks you how you are, would you say "I am poorly"? No. But "am" is a verb, and it takes an adverb, so it should be "poorly", right? No, "am" is an exception. To be sure, we don't say "I am poor" either (not in this context). Nothing quite works in this circumstance, so we'd usually find a way to state it differently: I'm not doing well, I'm feeling badly, or my condition is poor.
Okay, I admit, I've never actually heard someone say "my condition is poor." But I think anyone with a 7th grade education can agree that it is grammatically correct, even if stuffy and overly formal. But look at it again. My condition is poor. "Is" is a verb--it is the 3rd person singular form of the word "am." But it's taking an adjective, not an adverb. Could you ever say "my condition is poorly"? No, it sounds awful! That's because this verb is able to take adjectives, unlike most other verbs. This case is called a predicate nominative, which happens when you equate the object of your sentence with the subject.
Now let's take a few more examples just to test out this point. Try saying:
I am tiredly
I am happily
I am sloppily
You can try any number of adverbs in this sentence, and you'll find they just don't fit. So why should the adverb "well"?
Have a better case for "well"? I'm willing to argue it! Post it in the comments. But otherwise, I'm ready to say I am good, and if you think you're well, you're wrong.
If I'm describing how I am, I've always gone with good (or okay, or some other adjective). "I am well" has never quite sat right with me. But the people who use it seem so sure! In fact, they even correct people sometimes. So, since I could never quite figure out how to argue my case, I agreed to a truce with the I am well folks: I'd let them say it their way, and I would say it in mine.
But not any more. I can now definitively say that there is only one correct version of this phrase. It is "I am good." Anything else is absolutely incorrect. I'm sorry, but you're not well; you're wrong.
Yes, an adverb usually modifies a verb, which is why well is so appealing here. Think about the other contexts: I feel well, I dance well, etc. You would never (or at least, should never!) say I dance good. So the correct phrase is I am well, right?
Wrong. The verb "to be" is an exception here. Let's imagine you are having a terrible day. Just absolutely the worst. When someone asks you how you are, would you say "I am poorly"? No. But "am" is a verb, and it takes an adverb, so it should be "poorly", right? No, "am" is an exception. To be sure, we don't say "I am poor" either (not in this context). Nothing quite works in this circumstance, so we'd usually find a way to state it differently: I'm not doing well, I'm feeling badly, or my condition is poor.
Okay, I admit, I've never actually heard someone say "my condition is poor." But I think anyone with a 7th grade education can agree that it is grammatically correct, even if stuffy and overly formal. But look at it again. My condition is poor. "Is" is a verb--it is the 3rd person singular form of the word "am." But it's taking an adjective, not an adverb. Could you ever say "my condition is poorly"? No, it sounds awful! That's because this verb is able to take adjectives, unlike most other verbs. This case is called a predicate nominative, which happens when you equate the object of your sentence with the subject.
Now let's take a few more examples just to test out this point. Try saying:
I am tiredly
I am happily
I am sloppily
You can try any number of adverbs in this sentence, and you'll find they just don't fit. So why should the adverb "well"?
Have a better case for "well"? I'm willing to argue it! Post it in the comments. But otherwise, I'm ready to say I am good, and if you think you're well, you're wrong.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
I didn't get it. But now I do. But it's too late to do anything about it. But that's okay.
One day in the first week of after school during my first City Year, I led a group of Mathson students in an activity. There were about ten of them--more than half of our program at the time--and they were about what you'd expect from a group of 6th and 7th graders: sullen, quiet, disinterested and often disruptive. We had tried to do a few things with them that week but they weren't into it; they didn't like our games, and all they did was complain about how awful our program was.
So I decided that I should turn the tables. If they hated what we did, what would they rather do? I just had them all sit down in a circle and I asked them real simple questions, like why they had come to our after school program, what did they want to get out of it, what they wanted to be when they grew up, what their best subject in school was. We went around the circle one by one and answered the questions. I pressed the shy students a bit when they didn't want to talk, but for the most part, I just asked the questions and wrote down the answers.
And then, after we had been at it for ten minutes or so, I heard one of the quietest students (a girl who I would struggle with a lot throughout the year) whisper "this is fun" to the girl next to her. I was stunned. Of course, when designing an activity for middle schoolers, this is about the strongest praise you can get, and I was certainly thrilled to hear it. But it also didn't occur to me that it might even be fun. I had designed it for my own benefit; I wanted to get ideas from them. How were they enjoying it?
That moment has stuck with me ever since, and for two and a half years, I relished it, but still didn't get it. And then, today, it clicked. It was fun because they were able to talk about themselves, to a room of their peers and an adult, and everyone had to listen. They got to say what was important to them, and what they valued and aspired to, and faced no judgment. Most adults are constantly looking for opportunities to talk about themselves; we've become very talented at using a segue to make an unrelated conversation about us. So as a trained adult, I should have realized that these kids wanted the same thing. Throughout the year I would give them the chance to speak, but only about subjects I would force on them. Tell me how this earthquake makes you feel. Tell me why joining a gang is a bad idea. If they didn't want to talk about my subjects, they would just have to sit down and shut up. But right there, in the first week of school, that student was telling me exactly what I needed to know, but would take years to realize: young people need to be listened to, and they need to be given a chance to express themselves on the topics they want to talk about.
I didn't get it. But now I do. But it's too late to do anything about it. But that's okay.
So I decided that I should turn the tables. If they hated what we did, what would they rather do? I just had them all sit down in a circle and I asked them real simple questions, like why they had come to our after school program, what did they want to get out of it, what they wanted to be when they grew up, what their best subject in school was. We went around the circle one by one and answered the questions. I pressed the shy students a bit when they didn't want to talk, but for the most part, I just asked the questions and wrote down the answers.
And then, after we had been at it for ten minutes or so, I heard one of the quietest students (a girl who I would struggle with a lot throughout the year) whisper "this is fun" to the girl next to her. I was stunned. Of course, when designing an activity for middle schoolers, this is about the strongest praise you can get, and I was certainly thrilled to hear it. But it also didn't occur to me that it might even be fun. I had designed it for my own benefit; I wanted to get ideas from them. How were they enjoying it?
That moment has stuck with me ever since, and for two and a half years, I relished it, but still didn't get it. And then, today, it clicked. It was fun because they were able to talk about themselves, to a room of their peers and an adult, and everyone had to listen. They got to say what was important to them, and what they valued and aspired to, and faced no judgment. Most adults are constantly looking for opportunities to talk about themselves; we've become very talented at using a segue to make an unrelated conversation about us. So as a trained adult, I should have realized that these kids wanted the same thing. Throughout the year I would give them the chance to speak, but only about subjects I would force on them. Tell me how this earthquake makes you feel. Tell me why joining a gang is a bad idea. If they didn't want to talk about my subjects, they would just have to sit down and shut up. But right there, in the first week of school, that student was telling me exactly what I needed to know, but would take years to realize: young people need to be listened to, and they need to be given a chance to express themselves on the topics they want to talk about.
I didn't get it. But now I do. But it's too late to do anything about it. But that's okay.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
On how we treat ourselves in this community
I love being gay. It's taken me a while, but I've really grown into it. It's not just that I love men, that I love being different. It's that I feel like I'm part of a culture, a member of a group, and I really like that culture. I've discovered what it means to be gay, not just homosexual, and I really love it.
But there are some things I hate about this culture. Mostly, it's the way we treat each other. We've created a hierarchy based on assimilation. For as much as we are our own people, completely distinct in culture from straight people, we still ascribe the most value to those who represent heterosexuality to us.
In my ever-increasing number of interactions with gay people over the last few years, I've noticed a few trends. "Straight-acting" is a compliment; "gay-acting" is never said, mostly because too many of us would see it as an insult. "Masculine" is a compliment, "feminine" is an insult. When a straight person says "I didn't know you were gay when I first met you," we too often take it as the compliment they ignorantly meant it to be. But it's not a compliment! There's no reason to be flattered; it's just someone mistaking you for someone you're not.
We, as a community, demean bottoms as much as we can, at every opportunity we get. If someone is accused of being a bottom, he often denies it vociferously, or at least hangs his head in shame, but no one ever gets embarrassed about being a top. Tops love to rag on bottoms, but guess what, tops: without bottoms, you all would just be a bunch of sexually frustrated, pretentious pricks.
I'm tired of it. I'm tired of us rejecting our vibrant culture and identity by scorning those who represent it most. I'm tired of us seeking to assimilate into the dominant culture. And yet, I get it. Tonight I was walking home and someone screamed "FAGGOT" out his car window at me. What was it? I was all alone, walking down an ordinary downtown street. Was it my skinny jeans, my nice jacket, my scarf? Was it the way I walked? Why had I garnered this harassment? When things like that happen, for a split second I just really want to fit in. I get upset that they figured me out, because that means I might be victim to this sort of thing. But then I realize that people like that are the very people encouraging us toward this awful mentality. Homophobia in straight people is what drives this homophobia in gay people. And our homophobia divides us, and enables straight people to go after us.
Well I've had enough. I'm not going to demean members of my community anymore. I'm not going to hate my fellow queens for being queeny. I love this community and that means loving all of its members, even from their differences.
But there are some things I hate about this culture. Mostly, it's the way we treat each other. We've created a hierarchy based on assimilation. For as much as we are our own people, completely distinct in culture from straight people, we still ascribe the most value to those who represent heterosexuality to us.
In my ever-increasing number of interactions with gay people over the last few years, I've noticed a few trends. "Straight-acting" is a compliment; "gay-acting" is never said, mostly because too many of us would see it as an insult. "Masculine" is a compliment, "feminine" is an insult. When a straight person says "I didn't know you were gay when I first met you," we too often take it as the compliment they ignorantly meant it to be. But it's not a compliment! There's no reason to be flattered; it's just someone mistaking you for someone you're not.
We, as a community, demean bottoms as much as we can, at every opportunity we get. If someone is accused of being a bottom, he often denies it vociferously, or at least hangs his head in shame, but no one ever gets embarrassed about being a top. Tops love to rag on bottoms, but guess what, tops: without bottoms, you all would just be a bunch of sexually frustrated, pretentious pricks.
I'm tired of it. I'm tired of us rejecting our vibrant culture and identity by scorning those who represent it most. I'm tired of us seeking to assimilate into the dominant culture. And yet, I get it. Tonight I was walking home and someone screamed "FAGGOT" out his car window at me. What was it? I was all alone, walking down an ordinary downtown street. Was it my skinny jeans, my nice jacket, my scarf? Was it the way I walked? Why had I garnered this harassment? When things like that happen, for a split second I just really want to fit in. I get upset that they figured me out, because that means I might be victim to this sort of thing. But then I realize that people like that are the very people encouraging us toward this awful mentality. Homophobia in straight people is what drives this homophobia in gay people. And our homophobia divides us, and enables straight people to go after us.
Well I've had enough. I'm not going to demean members of my community anymore. I'm not going to hate my fellow queens for being queeny. I love this community and that means loving all of its members, even from their differences.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Think, then, on what it means to fly
I just had a great meditating session. I don't meditate, but...well, ever. Last time I recall doing it was a year and a half ago, at Starry Starry Night 2010, when I laid on the floor and practiced flying.
I've been meaning to return to that practice, thinking that I one day might truly learn to fly. So, for a few brief moments this morning, I gave it another shot. I closed all of my doors and windows so as to nearly drown out all sound. I cleared a spot on the floor and took off all my clothes and laid down, such that there were nearly no external stimuli. I made sure that my body was in as little contact with itself as possible--thighs apart, arms out with palms up, my torso flat on my back.
And then I practiced flying. It was a bit rough at first, as I was locked in the room, and wanted to fly out of the house. But I learned how to fly through the wall, down the hall and out the front door. I had to go back a couple of times, as a twitch or a wrong movement would require that my practice start over. I wasn't sure where, exactly, I would want to go, merely that I be free.
To my surprise, I began visiting Gregs of Past Despair. I visited scenes I thought I had forgotten. I found Greg at the alcove at Golden West, flew in and grabbed his hand and taught him to fly. I found Greg at Solano, sitting in the cafeteria writing of "Algo bueno me espera," and "Esta vida que no puedo vivir." He, too, flew with me, as did the Greg at Vanden, sitting alone next to the trash can. Greg in the dorms at SF State, lonely and fresh off his break up joined in. Greg in many stages of Michael, including at the first cheating revelation, sitting high outside of Universe wishing he were dead, and at the time of the break-up eagerly joined in, taking but a few of the many good opportunities to leave Michael early. I saw scenes of Greg alone at Citrus Heights, Greg who found solace in TV, Greg who realized--at varying stages--that he was different and didn't have anyone for himself. They all grabbed my hand and flew along with me. I even grabbed Greg of this summer, left to make his own birthday cake, left to spend nearly every minute alone. Greg, in all of those miserable moments at Vanden and on the bus, despairing over el que no me merece, joined the fun, too, and we smiled as we agreed that "he love me not." A later Greg was able to show those Vanden Gregs el que no me merece on the bus a few years later, and how silly times had taken hold. I found Greg in San Francisco, returned for his first visit to Michael since the breakup, sobbing in the car, not knowing what to do.
I found Gregs at different points in City Year, the Greg who had to hid himself after the first ATA as he sobbed and sobbed at Liz's birthday party. The Greg who just could not figure out why nothing was going right in his second year. The Gregs who had to cry in service.
I forgot a few Gregs along the way. Of course, there were still many more Gregs at the stages of Michael. Greg needed to be rescued from every moment of that Pride, as he sought to fit in, realized he couldn't, and just wanted to hide. I even forgot Greg shortly before he turned 25, visiting Sam in San Francisco, when he faced this moment again and just wished he could become invisible. There are more, I am sure, and I promise now that I shall rescue them some day, and teach them to fly as the rest of us are flying, even if it is 18 months hence.
I had thought I had dealt with all of those Gregs. I thought they were gone, but the truth is, every time I return to these moments of despair, of aloneness, I remember all of those Gregs. I remember that it is a pattern, that it is a syndrome that I might find relief from, but that I always fall back on. I have always been alone. I have always faced despair. I will always return to it.
But the new pattern is flight. All of those Gregs will learn to fly. In the face of despair, they fly. It is the single thing they have always wanted most to do. And now I know that when I face despair, when I am alone, I shall learn to fly, even if that flight comes a dozen years later.
Thing, then, on what it means to fly.
I've been meaning to return to that practice, thinking that I one day might truly learn to fly. So, for a few brief moments this morning, I gave it another shot. I closed all of my doors and windows so as to nearly drown out all sound. I cleared a spot on the floor and took off all my clothes and laid down, such that there were nearly no external stimuli. I made sure that my body was in as little contact with itself as possible--thighs apart, arms out with palms up, my torso flat on my back.
And then I practiced flying. It was a bit rough at first, as I was locked in the room, and wanted to fly out of the house. But I learned how to fly through the wall, down the hall and out the front door. I had to go back a couple of times, as a twitch or a wrong movement would require that my practice start over. I wasn't sure where, exactly, I would want to go, merely that I be free.
To my surprise, I began visiting Gregs of Past Despair. I visited scenes I thought I had forgotten. I found Greg at the alcove at Golden West, flew in and grabbed his hand and taught him to fly. I found Greg at Solano, sitting in the cafeteria writing of "Algo bueno me espera," and "Esta vida que no puedo vivir." He, too, flew with me, as did the Greg at Vanden, sitting alone next to the trash can. Greg in the dorms at SF State, lonely and fresh off his break up joined in. Greg in many stages of Michael, including at the first cheating revelation, sitting high outside of Universe wishing he were dead, and at the time of the break-up eagerly joined in, taking but a few of the many good opportunities to leave Michael early. I saw scenes of Greg alone at Citrus Heights, Greg who found solace in TV, Greg who realized--at varying stages--that he was different and didn't have anyone for himself. They all grabbed my hand and flew along with me. I even grabbed Greg of this summer, left to make his own birthday cake, left to spend nearly every minute alone. Greg, in all of those miserable moments at Vanden and on the bus, despairing over el que no me merece, joined the fun, too, and we smiled as we agreed that "he love me not." A later Greg was able to show those Vanden Gregs el que no me merece on the bus a few years later, and how silly times had taken hold. I found Greg in San Francisco, returned for his first visit to Michael since the breakup, sobbing in the car, not knowing what to do.
I found Gregs at different points in City Year, the Greg who had to hid himself after the first ATA as he sobbed and sobbed at Liz's birthday party. The Greg who just could not figure out why nothing was going right in his second year. The Gregs who had to cry in service.
I forgot a few Gregs along the way. Of course, there were still many more Gregs at the stages of Michael. Greg needed to be rescued from every moment of that Pride, as he sought to fit in, realized he couldn't, and just wanted to hide. I even forgot Greg shortly before he turned 25, visiting Sam in San Francisco, when he faced this moment again and just wished he could become invisible. There are more, I am sure, and I promise now that I shall rescue them some day, and teach them to fly as the rest of us are flying, even if it is 18 months hence.
I had thought I had dealt with all of those Gregs. I thought they were gone, but the truth is, every time I return to these moments of despair, of aloneness, I remember all of those Gregs. I remember that it is a pattern, that it is a syndrome that I might find relief from, but that I always fall back on. I have always been alone. I have always faced despair. I will always return to it.
But the new pattern is flight. All of those Gregs will learn to fly. In the face of despair, they fly. It is the single thing they have always wanted most to do. And now I know that when I face despair, when I am alone, I shall learn to fly, even if that flight comes a dozen years later.
Thing, then, on what it means to fly.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Everything but me
Maybe it's the flu that's turned me into a virtual shut-in this week. Maybe it's my feeling so week and exhausted from the flu. Maybe it's because I haven't been able to exercise very much in the last two weeks. Maybe it's my brain drumming up feelings to focus on them, rather than work on homework. Either way, I feel awful, and it's not just physical.
I hate my job. I hate how my social life doesn't exist. And slowly, I'm starting to hate my graduate program. With all that, the only thing I have going for me is me. Which is to say, my long-term happiness continues to be stellar, but my short-term happiness is non-existent. There is nothing in the short-term that I look forward to. Classes are, for the most part, awful, and even in classes in which I can express my intellect, I don't feel like I'm doing anything, but instead merely practicing. I've gotten so used to creating things, to implementing things, that I had forgotten that in school, you're merely trying things and imagining things that, far more often than not, will never leave the classroom.
I feel undervalued, misunderstood, ignored, forgotten. I don't understand how I can be so miserable when I love me so much. I don't understand how I can have so much despair in my life when I am so proud of who I am. How can I be this despondent? I'm me! I love me! It just doesn't make any sense. I can't seem to make sense of life, except for temporary bright spots every couple of years.
I hate my job. I hate how my social life doesn't exist. And slowly, I'm starting to hate my graduate program. With all that, the only thing I have going for me is me. Which is to say, my long-term happiness continues to be stellar, but my short-term happiness is non-existent. There is nothing in the short-term that I look forward to. Classes are, for the most part, awful, and even in classes in which I can express my intellect, I don't feel like I'm doing anything, but instead merely practicing. I've gotten so used to creating things, to implementing things, that I had forgotten that in school, you're merely trying things and imagining things that, far more often than not, will never leave the classroom.
I feel undervalued, misunderstood, ignored, forgotten. I don't understand how I can be so miserable when I love me so much. I don't understand how I can have so much despair in my life when I am so proud of who I am. How can I be this despondent? I'm me! I love me! It just doesn't make any sense. I can't seem to make sense of life, except for temporary bright spots every couple of years.
Friday, September 30, 2011
There is no comfort to a young mind in an old body
I'm getting older. I don't look older, I don't feel older. I don't think I would choose to act older.
But I can tell I'm getting older because of the way the people around me act. It's the reason why no one wants to go out with me anymore. They're all too old. They've all settled into something older. So I must be getting older. But I don't have anything to settle into. I'm so alone.
But I can tell I'm getting older because of the way the people around me act. It's the reason why no one wants to go out with me anymore. They're all too old. They've all settled into something older. So I must be getting older. But I don't have anything to settle into. I'm so alone.
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