Quotes About Self-expression

She never forgot the day she'd met him, or how his friends had told her to be more than pretty. She never forgot Elizabeth, Yennenga, Abhaya Rani. She wore his gold coin on a chain around her neck until the day she died. But the thing she treasured most was the memory of his smile, a smaile that was a wink and a dare. A wild road on a windy night. A kiss int he dark. A smile that had given her all she'd ever wanted-a chance. A chance to be herself.

Oh, Astrid... You can't sing. - Becca

This world, the people in it - my mother, Tantine - they sort us. Put us in crates. You are an egg. You are a potato. You are a cabbage. They tell us who we are. What we will do. What we will be." "Because they're afraid. Afraid of what we could be," Tavi said. "But we let them do it!" Hugo said angrily. "Why?" Tavi gave him a rueful smile. "Because we're afraid of what we could be, too.

She doesn't get to tell my story. I do.

When does a fake Mohawk become a real Mohawk? Who decides? How do you know if it's happened?

I managed to memorize half of "The Eve of St. Agnes," and would mutter stanzas to myself when I was bored, alone, or at aerobics class.

She was 'clean': no piercings, tattoos or scarifications. All the kids were now. And who could blame them, Alex thought, after watching three generations of flaccid tattoos droop like moth-eaten upholstery over poorly stuffed biceps and saggy asses?

The photos on her page had not done justice to the arresting, wide-eyed symmetry of her face, the radiant shine of her hair. She was 'clean': no piercings, tattoos or scarifications. All the kids were now. And who could blame them, Alex thought, after watching three generations of flaccid tattoos drop like moth-eaten upholstery over poorly stuffed biceps and saggy asses?" (p. 314)

Knowing all of this makes us one step closer to being real, but not completely. When does a fake Mohawk become a real Mohawk? Who decides? How do you know it's happened?

As a model, of course, I'd carried my face like a sign, holding it out a foot or so in front of me—not out of pride or vanity, God knew; those had been stamped out long ago, or at any rate, disjoined from my physical appearance. No, out of sheer practicality: here's what I am. Calling card, handshake, précis, call it what you like; it was what I had to offer to the world where I had spent my life.

She was clean": no piercings, tattoos, or scarifications. All the kids were now. And who could blame them, Alex thought, after watching three generations of flaccid tattoos droop like moth-eaten upholstery over poorly stuffed biceps and saggy asses?

I used to stand at the lectern in my coat and tie, waving my glasses around, urging students to find the courage to become themselves. Then I'd go back to the office and lock the door and put my head down on the desk.

We aren't here on earth in order to bend over backwards to resemble everyone else. We're here to be ourselves, in all our gnarly brilliance.

The line between male and female turns out to be rather fine. Although we imagine our genders as firm and fixed, in fact they are as malleable as a sand castle.

I really did "choose" to be Jim every single day, but that once I put my sword down I haven't chosen Jenny at all; I simply wake up and here I am.

I can only speak for myself, and hope people hear my words and see me on television speaking for myself. And, hopefully, they'll be able to make their own judgment. And at the end of the day, I just want my work to speak for itself.

Don't you ever apologize for being what you are.

What fun is it playing by other people's rules?

Don't," Judd told her sharply. "Don't you ever apologize for being what you are.

I looked down at my hands, unable to meet her eyes. My wrists were still angry and red. The raw skin looked how I felt.

I don't do vulnerable. It clashes with my bitch aesthetic.

If I were a boy," Thea told him with a Southern belle smile, "people would just call me driven." "Thea." Constantine frowned at her. "Right." Thea dabbed at her lips with her napkin. "No feminism at the dinner table.

Reggie had always been a quiet kid, even with her own family, and part of the reason for this was that she never knew the right thing to say. Words didn't come easily to her, they were stumbling blocks rather than lines of connection. And only later, after the fact, when she was replaying conversations in her head late at night, did the right words come—a cruel joke, too little, too late.

Do whatever it takes to remind myself that I'm still here and have a say.