Now, this wasn’t my first time getting high, but it was definitely my first time high at a seventh grade dance. The first time I ever smoked pot was tenth grade, after a musical rehearsal. I was Cogsworth in our school’s production of Beauty and the Beast, and one of the dishes from the “Be Our Guest” sequence thought we needed some bonding time, so we went to the mall, smoked a joint in the parking lot, and went to the food court to eat some Panda Express. I felt nothing, as it was my first time and I probably did it wrong.
The first time I ever felt high was with an upperclassman bad girl, Tiffani Miller. She wore heavy makeup and was a known party girl at my school and once you got to know her, she was incredibly kind, warm, and hilarious. We knew each other from Spanish class, and one day she asked me if I was into smoking. I lied and said yes because I didn’t want to seem lame, and she invited me to come “chill” with her and her friends that night.
Tiffani lived near me, so I hurried over toward her house, which was a bit of a mess from the inside out. Tiffani may have been one of the nicest girls, but her life always seemed to be a bit disheveled. I was nervous and giddy, and when I made it to her front door, I texted her with my flip phone to let her know I had arrived.
On the other side of the door, I heard locks being unlocked and chains being unhooked until finally the door creaked open. She stuck her head out through the crack, eyes already glazed, and said calmly, “Excuse the shit everywhere.” I laughed and assured her that I didn’t care, and she opened the door.
As I stepped through the front door, I immediately realized she was not being figurative. Dog shit was everywhere, and her little Chihuahua circled my feet as I tiptoed among his droppings. I kept my cool, as if every house I visited had animal waste in the kitchen, and we made our way to the stairs leading up to her room. That night, I got way too high. We watched Aqua Teen Hunger Force, and we laughed for what felt like hours. I then walked home, fell asleep peacefully, and woke up feeling refreshed from a good night’s rest. See how evil drugs can be sometimes?
I’ve since had plenty of good times with marijuana, and of course some bad times. The good times would be boring to tell you about, as it’s typically me and some buddies watching Sex and the City and eating everything in the kitchen. The bad times are a little more interesting.
Once, my high school besties thought it would be a good idea to go see X-Men 3 in the theater high out of our minds. It was packed, and we were in the back row. I was experiencing sensory overload and felt very nervous about mutants. As the previews began, I looked over at my friends, and they were so, so stoned. During one trailer, a huge boom sounded out of nowhere. My best friend, Dolan, was so startled that he threw his full extra large bucket of popcorn into the air, and it showered the man in front of him. It was so mortifying that to this day he still brings it up every time we go to a movie.
The first time I combined alcohol and pot was just the worst. Please, if you’re reading this, don’t do it. While writing this, I googled if it had a name, and apparently it’s called cross-fading? Listen, I had no idea what I was doing. All I know is that I was way too drunk and way too high, and I felt like I was going to shit out of every orifice of my body. I ended up having to run outside and lie in the snow because I was overheating.
Nowadays, I don’t smoke often, but it’s definitely far from the worst thing I could be doing with my evening. I’ll do it with friends if I’m in the mood and with good people, but I never do it if I have to go in public. That’s always where I’ve drawn the line. I like to be fully alert, aware, and in control of myself when I’m out and about, and substances—whether alcohol or marijuana—aren’t the best for maintaining that control.
But my worst marijuana experience ever? It was at that seventh grade camp dance. If you read John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars, you may recall a quote about a character falling in love “slowly, and then all at once.” This was me, except instead of love, it was marijuana-induced paranoia. My main strategy was to stand at the perimeter of the dance, smiling and bopping my head, while repressing my terror. I briefly tried hiding in a bathroom stall, but I startled anytime someone came into the bathroom. What if they recognized my shoes? I sat on the toilet, legs straight out in front of me, questioning everything about my life.
I also spent what felt like a long time stirring the punch bowl. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my campers approaching. They were extra-energetic, and when I asked if they were having fun, they all giggled conspiratorially. Obviously, I was too high to investigate further.
The worst moments of the night were when slow songs came on. Seventh graders lined up to slow-dance with the high school camp counselors they had crushes on. In the harsh and sober light of day, this dynamic is already dubious and unnerving. Stoned and with my paranoia reaching a crescendo, avoiding the eye contact of a lovelorn middle school tween while slow-dancing to Enrique Iglesias’s “Hero”? There are no words.
The second the dance was over, I literally ran back to my cabin and announced to my exhausted campers, “Lights out!” Thankfully, they were ready to crash, and as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out. The next morning, we boarded the buses and made our way back home. We said our good-byes and I wished them well, praising God that my accidental high was never exposed.
The next week during one of my classes, my teacher received a call that interrupted his lesson. As he answered, his eyes went from staring off into space to snapping in my direction, and my stomach dropped. He put down the phone and said I needed to go to the office. The class went “OoooooooooOOOOO!” as the color left my face and I packed up my book bag. I made my way down the hall, ready to be expelled for my high-nanigans.
I waited in a chair as the secretary let the principal know I had arrived. After what felt like an eternity, the principal opened the door and solemnly told me to come inside. I walked in, sat in front of her desk, and prepared for the worst.
She started, “So last week at seventh grade camp—”
“I’m so sorry, I honestly didn’t mean to!” I blurted out, on the brink of tears. I was so embarrassed and ashamed. I was ready for my punishment, knowing that this was going to be on my permanent record. I’d lose my job as a drive-thru specialist, I’d never go to college and become a fratguy who whips out his ruler, and I would probably end up living for the rest of my life in a run-down house smoking pot with dog shit all over my kitchen floor.
“Don’t worry. We got a call from a parent this morning. I didn’t even know what Jolt gum was?”
I looked up, puzzled.
“Apparently, he wants to sue the district because you gave his kid caffeinated gum. But honestly, it’s sold in every grocery store and gas station in the candy aisle, you’re fine. We just wanted to let you know about the situation.”
I exhaled the biggest sigh of relief in my entire life. My future kitchen floor would be tasteful, immaculate, and 100 percent dog shit–free.
editor in grief
GOING INTO MY SENIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL, I felt the need for a change. Discussing options with my guidance counselor, I found two great ones: yearbook and journalism. Both classes set out to do the same thing: document the happenings of Okemos High School, one weekly, one annually. The two classes had some type of weird, historical, ongoing feud. With my need to fill two class slots, I decided to enroll in both, and as with a royal marriage to secure peace between two countries, I would end the war. I would bring harmony to my high school once again.
Both classes met separately before the school year started so we could familiarize ourselves with the other staff members. I soon realized that the classes couldn’t have been more different. Journalism was full of hard workers and ambitious writers, all aggressively competing for stories to report on. Yearbook had a roster of uninspired dilettantes who picked straws to see who would be forced to work on the sports pages. The choice was obvious. I had found my tribe. I promptly dropped journalism before the first day of school.
As
one of the unlucky few who had drawn the short straw, I was assigned the page for varsity football, and I was paired with Rachel Crouch, our editor in chief. To get ahead of our deadlines, yearbook staff took advantage of the fall sports teams having summer workout schedules, and we went to practices to take pictures before the school year even started. On a hot summer day, weeks before the start of school, I waited on my porch for Rachel to pick me up. I stepped into her car and shyly made small talk, having never spoken to her before in the past three years of high school together. In one afternoon of photographing hot and sweaty seniors in jerseys, we became best friends, and we were inseparable for the rest of the year. I had no clue that a year later, going our separate ways for college would inspire me to make my YouTube channel to keep in touch.
Yearbook had a new adviser that year, a Snow White lookalike with a high, squeaky voice. Still getting her bearings, she looked to the existing editor in chief for guidance. Displeased with having to teach the teacher, Rachel gave the school an ultimatum: either the teacher goes, or Rachel goes. Unfortunately for Rachel, they called her bluff, because obviously. With insider information about her impending departure, I applied for Rachel’s position early, and I was appointed before anyone else on the staff even knew she was leaving. I had successfully executed the swiftest coup d’état the yearbook class had ever seen. History is written by the victors, and my pen and notepad were poised.
As the new editor in chief, I became obsessed with my role. I spent most of my free time editing layouts, writing copy, interviewing students and faculty, and attending events to document the 2006–7 school year properly. My most brilliant moments were when I abused my position of power to game the system, and by that I mean to get closer to boys.
It was pretty common knowledge at my school that I had an undying thirst for a tall, tan, muscular guy named Nick, who had the thickest caterpillar eyebrows. He was on the lacrosse team, and I was on cloud nine. I flirted with him playfully over the years, and while all of his bros thought it was hilarious, he took it in stride and laughed along, always kind and smiling. My adoration for Nick came to a culmination at the senior BBQ, an annual cookout in the school’s courtyard. The intention was for the senior class to relax, unwind, and say their good-byes in their final week before graduation. As this event was one of my pages to cover for the yearbook, I circled the barbecue, snapping pictures of people who had yet to be featured much throughout the year.
When I saw Nick across the courtyard, I knew what I had to do: it was time to abuse my power and ask him for a picture. In recent years, I’ve mustered up the courage to walk up and ask people such as Harry Styles, Channing Tatum, and Joe Jonas for selfies, but back in high school, this was uncharted territory. We didn’t even call them selfies. That word didn’t even exist yet! While the event was full of my classmates embracing and posing for pictures all around us, I didn’t have the balls to be so bold. Instead, I made up the most ridiculous lie.
“Hey, Nick. So . . . as you know, I’m editor of the yearbook, and it’s really important to us that we get enough pictures of everyone, and this year, both of us have yet to be featured, so I’m sorry to ask, but we kind of have to do it.” He looked at me puzzled. “My adviser is making us, we have to take a picture together. Right now, I’m afraid.”
There it was. Not even a request. A mandate. Without waiting for a response, I awkwardly handed off the camera to another yearbook staff member, who looked at me wide-eyed. She shook her head slightly while gripping the camera, shooting a look that said both, “You know damn well you’ve put both of you in this fucking yearbook more than anyone else in the school” and “Say cheese.”
Sorry, Nick. I’m also the reason why in the back of the yearbook, where parents buy ad space to write dedications for their graduating senior children, our dedications are placed next to each other. Listen, I was eighteen and a little crazy. I swear I won’t do anything weird at our ten-year reunion (you are coming, right?).
My favorite staff member in yearbook class had to be Crystal Lynn. She would sign out the class’s DSLR camera to go take new MySpace pictures in the closest bathroom. Her most iconic moment was while we were all frantically scrambling to meet a deadline, she broke the silence by screaming, “Nobody move. I lost something.” All eyes darted her way as she slid forward off of her swivel desk chair and onto the floor. The yearbook adviser looked at me in shock, and I rolled my eyes, unfazed by Crystal’s antics. After a moment of crawling on the carpet beneath the table, she poked her head back up and groaned, “Has anyone seen my tongue ring?” This girl was in charge of preserving my generation’s high school memories. Sorry, Okemos High School, class of 2007.
One of my favorite things about being yearbook editor in chief was being able to use excuses like “Sorry, I have to go take pictures of custodians” if I ever had to get out of something or go hook up with a guy. In the second semester of senior year, it was mostly the latter, with a straight guy I had known since middle school. Not until that year did we run into each other at a party, refilling our drinks upstairs alone in the kitchen, and end up making out in the backyard underneath the porch. From then on, I was over at his place every day after school, until finally we decided we couldn’t wait until after school, and we began to meet during sixth hour, which was when I had yearbook class.
We’d text each other ten-minute warnings, excuse ourselves from our respective classrooms, approach the fine-arts wing from different hallways, and meet furtively in front of the choir-room door. After lunch, the choir room was empty, and I knew the trick to opening it without a key: a small wiggle and quick thrust. In the privacy of the choir room, I repeated this same maneuver on him, which kept him coming back most days for the rest of the school year. I’d then scurry back to the yearbook computer lab and oversell just how great the shots I just got were, a little too pleased with my own pun.
In between the glorified scrapbooking we staff did during yearbook class, we spent most of our time browsing the Internet. These were the days before Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram, but I remember a life-changing event that happened one day in February during that sixth-hour class. I was nearing a deadline, working hard to finalize a page, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the entire staff huddled around one computer. Before I could insist they get back to work, they burst into laughter, and I had to see what all the fuss was about.
“What . . . is happening?” I asked, peeking over shoulders at a video of a man in a wig, screaming, “Fuck you,” with interludes of a woman dancing with a flaming hula hoop.
“Wait, wait, don’t look yet!” my classmates insisted, saying I had to watch it from the beginning. I did, and thus was my first viewing of one of the first viral videos of the Internet, “Shoes.”
“What TV show was this on?” I asked, bewildered, after watching it in full.
“None, this guy just uploaded it to YouTube,” my classmate replied. “He’s got other videos too.”
Prior to this, I had always thought of YouTube as a place for people to upload class projects or family videos, with the occasional “fail” or “cat” video. But this guy uploaded his work? And people subscribed to find out what he’d upload next? It was so foreign to me. I went back to my desk to continue with the yearbook, but couldn’t get the beat of “Shoes” out of my head. Over the next few months, I wrapped up the documentation of our life in high school through yearbook class, and then I slowly fell down the rabbit hole of finding other content creators on YouTube. I had no clue that this was about to become my life.
Side note: while writing this book, a high school yearbook editor in chief emailed me asking if I wanted to buy an ad for their yearbook. Knowing just how hard it is to sell to sponsors, I decided to pay it forward and purchase a full page. Check it out below, maybe it’ll speak to you if you’re approaching your own graduation.
thtory of my life
EVEN AT A YOUNG AGE, I HAD A PROFOUND distaste for offensive stereotypes. This quality inadvertent
ly led me to an obsession with a kids’ book series called the Adventures of the Bailey School Kids. In the fifty-one-book series (!), the four main characters navigate their world and find mythical creatures breaking the mold and defying harmful stereotypes.
With such titles as Bigfoot Doesn’t Square Dance, Witches Don’t Do Back Flips, Angels Don’t Know Karate, and Wolfmen Don’t Hula Dance, I was exposed to progressive, socially conscious literature that finally exposed humans for what I suspected they were: offensive and prejudiced, even when it came to creatures that didn’t exist. I was appalled.
Growing up gay, I too was subjected to endless stereotyping, and like the titles of the books I read as a child, I was ready to break the mold and teach my classmates a thing or two about what it meant to be queer. You think all gays have a great sense of style? Ha! I’ll show you! Introducing the Bailey School Kids’ latest, Gays Don’t Have Bad Style—the unexpected tale of a twelve-year-old me with a bowl cut parted down the middle, sporting an Old Navy Tech Vest, paired with socks and sandals, single-handedly proving the cliché wrong.
Figuring out who I was in the world wasn’t the easiest. Although I had plenty of representation when it came to being white, male, and cisgender (the opposite of transgender), my sexuality as reflected in pop culture usually boiled down to stereotypical gay characters. Typically sidekicks or the gay best friend, and for whom being gay was their defining attribute. They styled hair, gave makeovers, lisped, and were generally prissy and whimsical. And though being gay I felt underrepresented, I can’t imagine what it would have been like identifying as lesbian, bisexual, or transgender—I may have gotten the bare minimum of a poor representation, but those groups had virtually none at all.