Beg To Differ

 

Warning: Long

If you are like me, you argue. I love a good argument and I just can’t help myself from correcting people. Most of the time people just stare in awe at my wit and intelligence as I correct their every move and constantly prove them wrong. Sarcasm. But because I am going to assume that you share my love for unintentionally pissing people off, I’m going to move on to the point.

“I beg to differ.”

If you identified with that fist paragraph, you probably have said or at least heard this phrase at one point in your life. But what does it really mean? If you asked a normal person they would probably say that it just means  you don’t agree, but I’m a thirteen year old boy who writes a blog and draws for fun. I am not a normal person. Time to break it down.

“I.” pretty self explanatory. “Beg,” is not as simple. When we use this phrase, we don’t beg. We don’t even ask permission when we correct someone, let alone beg for it. Begging is asking humbly, honestly, and overall, wanting something. If you beg, you want something, and you want it badly. “To,” is and action. You are begging to take action. You want to do something. The next word is the big one.

“Differ.”

When we say the overall phrase, we are telling someone we don’t agree. Usually on what the person is saying. I don’t thinks that’s all there is to it. If you look up ‘differ’ you get lots of examples. Diverge from. Conflict with. Run counter to. Go against. So when we say I beg to differ, sure, we’re disagreeing, but it can mean so much more than that.

I want to be different. I beg to differ. I beg to differ my race, my music, my friends, my passion, my thoughts, and my life. My little, insignificant, life begs to differ. That is the significance in insignificance. That is what makes us beautiful.

Last night I went to see a speaker. He was a comedian. He was proud. He was black. He was speaking about civil rights and damn, Ron Jones can speak. Catch a show sometime. But he spoke on how all lives mattered, not how black lives mattered, but how all lives do. He begged to differ his, and everyones race. I’m of Mexican heritage. My mom is hispanic and my dad’s white as chalk. I may be less than 50% Mexican, but all it takes is black hair and colored skin and boom, your not American. We think we live in a non-racist country. We don’t. In every school the Mexicans deal with border jokes, the Negros deal with black jokes, the asians deal with all kinds of shit. Hell, we’ve got a mega-racist running for president and people are freaking supporting him. Literally 7 hours ago A nice girl that I don’t even talk to much said goodbye by light-heartedly saying “don’t get deported,” and my best friend’s mom, who is a nurse that I’ve never formally met says tells me to “stay white,” as a joke. I don’t care though. I don’t want to be the same as the white boys. I don’t want everyone to be identical race. I beg to differ.

My music, which I am listening to right now, is awful, or thats what my friends think at least. We don’t agree on music. they listen to Imagine Dragons, and One Republic, or even some rock songs I like. I like old music, like Journey or Bowie. I like the catchy stuff they play on the radio. I like the Adele crap that hit the charts as soon as she said “Hello.” But not really. I listen to those things, but they don’t speak to me. They don’t mean anything. Hell, most pop artists have never written a lyric in their life. I like the rappers that sound trashy and get judged. I like the emotional who don’t get heard and don’t have fans. I like the people who write from the heart. Rappers, angry lyrics, bad music, not much skill to it. But it means something to them and to those who do listen to them. They don’t ‘sound nice’ but what good is sounding nice when you’re a millionaire pop star writing albums about a breakup you don’t care about anymore. Twenty on pilots. Listen to the lyrics. They mean something. I tried to get a friend to listen to a song they wrote and he hated it because it was “just words words words” and “didn’t sound good.” I told him that wasn’t the point. He goes “yeah it is, it’s music,” and I just think about that. He listens to Skillet and Linkin Park. Fine artists but not my writers. I don’t care if m music is “stupid,” or “doesn’t sound cool enough,” because it reflects me. I like it. It’s deep, it’s different. That scares people. Racism isn’t hate. It’s fear of the unknown. He doesn’t hate my music. He just doesn’t understand it because it’s unique and different. Different. I don’ like Adele and Justin Bieber and One Direction and Skillet and Skrillex. I love my music and I beg to differ.

Next time you are put under pressure or have to defend yourself or your opinion, beg to differ. Be different. Love different. Embrace difference. Beg for your difference. Beg to differ.

The Start

Wow. That sounds really dramatic for a title, but thats okay I guess though because I don’t have a site to meet people or get followers or keep people posted on my life so to speak because I’m 13 and if I needed that I wouldn’t have gone through with making a website. I made this to get better at writing, stop playing so many video games, and just kind of unload occasionally.

If you ask my parents, my teachers, or anyone who really knows me, they will tell you I am a writer. I want to be a writer. I like being a writer. I am not a writer. I want to be a writer. My writing coach, also known as my mother, has a newly found love for writing. I guess we all do though as we get older. Everything that happens to you and to me and to everyone is a lifetime of experiences. We have good experiences that make you smile when you turn back to them. The ones that you remember with passion and long for a repeat of. The winter snow forts and the winning pop fly thudding into your glove. We also have the bad experiences that make you cringe and squirm. The ones that you always try not to focus on and, ironically the ones you know are important in your life. The memories that you learn from, or don’t learn from, are usually the ones we remember the most, try to forget the most, and define us. Through a lifetime of enduring these experiences, wether you took them well or fell apart at one point, we want them to be remembered, heard, understood. We want our lives to be noticed in the billions of unnoticed ones. That is one reason why we write. That is why the truly emotional, proud, and passionate people will always write. That is why my mother writes, that is why I write, that is why we all write.

Nothing can make me more respectful to a person than if they are a writer.