Without a musket to raise, a barricade to storm, a flag to wave, the question hit me in the face like the cold air: 'Who am I?'
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
Who am I to blow against the wind?
The very flag of freedom that waves over our heads is formed from material cultivated by slaves, on soil moistened with their blood drawn from them by the whip of a republican taskmaster!
I can't tell people what flag to fly.
If you don't stick up for what's yours, and defend what's yours... what are you?
I felt like, by the end of the week in the U.S. Amateur, I was never aiming at a flag; I was just hitting it at slopes and just letting the natural contours take over.
I love a bit of flag-waving.
When I see the American flag, I go, 'Oh my God, you're insulting me.'
When you repeat, in that wooden and perfunctory way, that our situation is better than others, that we're 'well-placed to weather the storm', I have to tell you that you sound like a Brezhnev-era apparatchik giving the party line.
White collar conservative flashin down the street, pointing that plastic finger at me, they all assume my kind will drop and die, but I'm gonna wave my freak flag high.
Standing as I do, with my hand upon this staff, and under the folds of the American flag, I ask you to stand by me so long as I stand by it.