Quotes About Heritage

My name is Antoinette Beauchamp, pronounced BEECH-um, and I am my mother's daughter

THERE'S OLD SORROW in your blood like second nature and new sorrow that maddens the halls of sense. Causes

A child is never the author of his own history. I suppose this is well known.

Krezy, he pronounced it, krezy. Pure Roscommon. Pure Ghana.

I think things like food, the food of the south is sort of the common tie that binds us all, Black and White, the sense memories. It's a very particular part of the country.

With the possible exception of grits, there's no food more Southern than greens, whose bitter smell while cooking down in salty fatback amid the jittery hiss of a pressure cooker is a Proustian madeleine for generations of black and white Southerners alike. The

go greek or go home

Once, long ago, there was a world in which we called different languages "ours".

Men love their country, not because it is great, but because it is their own.

He who boasts of his ancestry is praising the deeds of another.

But it is nearly as inaccurate to style the Irish people pure Milesian because the land was conquered and settled by the Milesians, as it would be to call them Anglo-Norman because it was conquered and settled by the twelfth century English.

I think my dad is the only Arabic descendent who is an unsuccessful businessman.

Every Jew was the last Jew; Tevye the Terminal, every single one. Yet, Kugel couldn't help but observe, in all that time - no last Jew. There had been a last Assyrian. There had been a last Ammonite. There had been a last Babylonian, a last Mesopotamian, a last of the Mohicans. But no last Jew.

America, every black men's dream. Africa, every black men's home

Every St. Patrick's Day every Irishman goes out to find another Irishman to make a speech to.

Becky, are you studying conversational Yiddish?

The god of creation broke me from stone The mountain's the only ma I've known My pa is the blue sky sheltering me So stone I am and stone I'll be

I know muckers are the simplest of commoners and becoming a lady's maid is a right honor, but I couldn't give up the wild steppes forever, couldn't turn my back on Mama and all she taught. I feel like a mucker from the ends of my hair to the mud of my bones.

We cried. The bones and dust of our fathers cried with us.

You know, children, quilts, like stories, are part of our heritage, part of our culture. Some quilts even tell stories. Our past is a patchwork of memories and tales. You all keep that forever tucked in your pockets, you hear?

Mountains have long-lost kinfolk on the other side of the Atlantic. The bloodline that marks that kinship is a vein of a green mineral called serpentine ...

Oh, son, hardly anybody wants to leave. These mountains are more than just a place for folks around here.

That was when I realized how fragile a cultural tradition is. If just one generation breaks the chain, a bit of the family's cultural heritage can be lost forever. Each of us is the only link between the past and the future. All the songs and stories you heard from your elders, all the people you knew as a child who are gone now, all the family traditions—if you don't keep them alive by sharing them with the next generation, they will disappear.

India is not, as people keep calling it, an underdeveloped country, but rather, in the context of its history and cultural heritage, a highly developed one in an advanced state of decay.