Quotes About Stereotypes

My mother pictured a daughter as a counterinsurgent: a fellow lover of lapdogs, a seconder of proposals to attend the Ice Capades. In

We weren't prejudiced against them. We wanted to include them in our society if they would only act normal!

Supimos de esa cárcel que es ser chica, de los impulsos y sueños que genera y por qué acaban sabiendo qué colores combinan y cuáles no.

We were happy when Joe the Retard showed up. He arrived on his mother's arm, wearing his baggy Bermuda shorts and his blue baseball cap, and as usual he was grinning with the face he shared with every other mongoloid.

our fellow Negro citizens could be summed up in something Tessie said after watching Sidney Poitier's performance in To Sir with Love, which opened a month before the riots. She said, "You see, they can speak perfectly normal if they want.

As long as I can remember, male candy eaters have been ill-used, misunderstood, and denigrated, in films and on television, as weak, self-indulgent, soft, effeminate, undisciplined, and venal. Most of us have been driven underground. We eat our candy alone and on the sly. We never experience the intimacy of sharing candy with others—unless we have chosen our mates wisely.

Grizzled white men poured drinks and dispensed dubious wisdom. Young white women in tight clothes delivered the food and the smiles and said sorry all the time. Short brown men cooked it all and cleaned it all up, and still managed to rise above the racial oppression of the United states to make kissing sounds at us waitresses whenever we were in the kitchen.

Not to make sweeping generalizations about men, but I can pretty well guess how this conversation would go down. Jack: Everything okay? You seem down in the mouth lately. Maxime: It is fine. Jack: Okay, just checking. See ya.

In the bad old days, men kept women from choosing to work. In the bad new days, women keep women from choosing to stay home.

Statistics show that men are interested in three things: careers, sports, and sex. That's why they love professional cheerleaders.

There never were any women who liked to cook for men everyday. There were only women who cooked for survival and pretended to like it. And now there are men who cook for survival. Like you. Think of this as survivalist training. Very macho.

I'm thirty-four. You don't look thirty-four. That's because I'm not married. Mae's smile felt as if it were set in concrete. Marriage tends to age a woman.

Hefty? I'd railed to Peter, waving the clipping for emphasis. Hefty? For the record 'Hefty' is a trash bag. I'm festively plump.

When your mom and I were your age, there weren't a lot of options for girls. Like, you know how your mother's always telling you that you can be anything you want to be when you grow up? That wasn't what we heard. Men could be doctors or lawyers. We were just supposed to marry them.

A writer wasn't a body, just a byline. My words would be sharp and spiky, punchy and pointed; my stories would be swift and lean, sleek and enviable, moving fast and hitting hard. I would not, I vowed, write like a fat girl.

There was a general tendency to ascribe almost any irregular or bad behaviour to the French. [...] A tonsil-tickling embrace is still known as a French kiss, as if somehow it would never have occurred to an English person to stick their tongue into another person's mouth if the French hadn't invented it.

The moment a Frenchman opens his mouth, he declares his identity. The French speak French. The English speak a language which belongs to no one.

Where's your kilt? How about this, he said in a low voice. You don't ask me about haggis and bagpipes, and I won't ask you about garlic and Goodfellas.

She rode a bicycle. It was unwomanly, then, to ride a bicycle. There were so many things, in those days, that were unwomanly to do. It must have been quite difficult to be a woman, and remain so day after day.

Inside his house, a kid gets one name, but on the other side of the door, it's whatever the rest of the world wants to call him.

For the life of him, he couldn't figure why these East Enders called themselves black. He kept looking and looking, and the colors he found were gingersnap and light fudge and dark fudge and acorn and butter rum and cinnamon and burnt orange. But never licorice, which, to him, was real black.

What else would you expect? Whites never go inside black's homes. Much less inside their thoughts and feelings. And blacks are just as ignorant of whites. What white kid could hate blacks after spending five minutes in the Beale's house? And what bleak kid could hat whites after answering Mrs. Pickwell's dinner whistle? But the East Enders stayed in the east and the West Enders stayed in the west, and the less they knew about each other, the more they invented.

His accent was coarse, pure backcountry Minnesotan. If he had to string together more than five words, we'd hear the "I seen it" and "can you borrow me some" that my parents said were the signs of ignorance

They're all blackface caricatures.