Quotes About Heritage

I'm very proud to be Arab.

I grew up speaking Arabic at home.

My dream is to play for Argentina because I feel Argentinian.

I'm an Arizona boy.

My mom's side of the family is from Arkansas!

Most of my family is from Arkansas on my Mom's side, and my Dad's family is from up north in Chicago.

But I am Armenian and I understand what it is to lose a country and lose a family and have massacres and genocides and everything against my people.

My father's family didn't really know much about our ancestry. I mean, they had the story that I think a lot of white Americans have, which is, well, we came from Europe. And we arrived here.

I play the way I do because it's the Arsenal way.

My dad is white, he's an art history teacher, he's very traditional.

My mom was heavily in the arts; my entire family, they're all musicians and draw. They have much more artistic talent than me!

I'm not ashamed of being American; I'm very proud.

We travel often to Asia, Africa, Europe, where they were born.

I grew up in Asia. I was born in Asia.

a true Provencal version of the Harlowe family.

For the last thirty years, however, these pictures of ancient times are beginning to fade and disappear. Modern industry, working for the masses, goes on destroying the creations of ancient art, the works of which were once as personal to the consumer as to the artisan. Nowadays we have products, we no longer have works.

Balzac's father Bernard-François Balssa, was one of eleven children from a poor family in Tarn, in the south of France. The author's mother, Anne-Charlotte-Laure Sallambier, came from a family of haberdashers in Paris. Her family's wealth was a considerable factor in the match. She was eighteen at the time of the wedding and Bernard-François fifty.

The elder, Mademoiselle Virginie, was the very image of her mother. Madame Guillaume, daughter of the Sieur Chevrel, sat so upright in the stool behind her desk, that more than once she had heard some wag bet that she was a stuffed figure.

We are the earth, the land. The tongue that speaks and trips on the names of the dead as it dares to tell these stories of a woman's line. Her people and her dirt, her trees,

Come day, go day, as the old folks say,

Aggie pondered the stories of her mother, about the creatures that her African grandmother had told Kiné of, in a courtyard, long ago. Were there truly supernatural monsters stalking the water? Or were these monsters only white men who walked on two legs, abominations but not strangers? Only dangerous because they were familiar—in one's home, in one's temple, on the dirt of natal land?

partus sequitur ventrem

Sylviane Diouf's Servants of Allah: African Muslims Enslaved in the Americas is a must-read for anyone interested in Muslim history on the American side of the Atlantic.

Master Nathaniel Chanticleer, the actual head of the family, was a typical Dorimarite in appearance; rotund, rubicund, red-haired, with hazel eyes in which the jokes, before he uttered them, twinkled like a trout in a burn.