Anonymous asked:

why do black people use you in the wrong context? such is "you ugly" instead of "you're ugly" I know u guys can differentiate, it's a nuisance

prettyboyshyflizzy answered:

you a bitch


It’s called copula deletion, or zero copula. Many languages and dialects, including Ancient Greek and Russian, delete the copula (the verb to be) when the context is obvious.

So an utterance like “you a bitch” in AAVE is not an example of a misused you, but an example of a sentence that deletes the copular verb (are), which is a perfectly valid thing to do in that dialect, just as deleting an /r/ after a vowel is a perfectly valid thing to do in an upper-class British dialect.



The night air was soothing.  The cold was bitter.  Her arms were tired, yet she could not stop.  The momentum of it kept her going, back and forth, back and forth. 

She could see it all in front of her—the cloud and the flashes, the fires and the destruction. It was more real than a dream, yet she found herself completely unable to trust her own senses.  Transfixed on the scene in front of her, the cold air stinging her eyes, she let out a sigh.

The set was rusty, it creaked as she moved.  It was summer, but the night was unforgiving.  Her fingers grasped the cold metal chains, and she could feel them numbing.

The hill was grassy.  As her feet swept under, they sometimes caught the earth, shredding it up.  Some dirt filled her shoes, and as she shook her feet to loose it, her mind was briefly taken away from the situation at hand.  But it was not enough.

Faster and faster she swung, as if the next cycle she would finally be free, but alas, alas, the weight of the Earth struck harder and harder, bringing her down into its grasp only to bring her back up again. 

She could feel the heat from the fires.  It wasn’t like she was used to.  It engrossed her, swallowed her, entranced her.  She swung harder, faster, higher, her head towards the sky.

The night air was soothing.  The cold was bitter.  Her arms were tired, yet she could not stop.  The momentum of it kept her going, back and forth, back and forth.


The Mountain - Louise Glück



My students look at me expectantly.
I explain to them that the life of art is a life
of endless labor. Their expressions
hardly change; they need to know
a little more about endless labor.
So I tell them the story of Sisyphus,
how he was doomed to push
a rock up a mountain, knowing nothing
would come of this effort
but that he would repeat it
indefinitely. I tell them
there is joy in this, in the artist’s life,
that one eludes
judgment, and as I speak
I am secretly pushing a rock myself,
slyly pushing it up the steep
face of a mountain. Why do I lie
to these children? They aren’t listening,
they aren’t deceived, their fingers
tapping at the wooden desks—
So I retract
the myth; I tell them it occurs
in hell, and that the artist lies
because he is obsessed with attainment,
that he perceives the summit
as that place where he will live forever,
a place about to be
transformed by his burden: with every breath,
I am standing at the top of the mountain.
Both my hands are free. And the rock has added
height to the mountain.