Quotes About Identity

In the real world, the Sergeant was tired of worrying and sick of cocoa. He was disturbed by feelings in his mind that he was not really himself at all. Several times he half-started out of his chair on an impulse to get out on the streets to ask the first person he met: "Where were you at ten past three on the morning of December the thirteenth, nineteen fifty-four"; just to prove to himself that he was still the Sergeant and that he knew how to do his duty.

If I could take all my parts with me when I go somewhere, and not have to to say to one of them, 'No, you stay home tonight, you won't be welcome,' because I'm going to an all-white party where I can be gay, but not Black. Or I'm going to a Black poetry reading, and half the poets are anti-homosexual or thousands of situations where something of what I am cannot come with me. The day all the different parts of me can come along, we would have what I would call a revolution.

Therefore, you, as human personalities, see yourselves separated from who you really are. It is the clothes you have donned in each incarnation to impersonate who you are.

In writing, we see, sometimes with fear and trembling, who we have been, who we really are, and we glimpse now and then who we might become.

Maybe she is right. Maybe the old self has to die for the new self to be born. Or maybe, for me, the old self doesn't have to die. Maybe who I have been is not erasable on the tablet of who I am, or in the book of who I will become. Maybe writing, like painting, can be pentimento—one layer over another, the early layers now and then showing through.

I remember every player—every single one—who wore the Tennessee orange, a shade that our rivals hate, a bold, aggravating color that you can usually find on a roadside crew, "or in a correctional institution," as my friend Wendy Larry jokes. But to us the color is a flag of pride, because it identifies us as Lady Vols and therefore as women of an unmistakable type. Fighters. I remember how many of them fought for a better life for themselves. I just met them halfway.

Once out of work, Monty, like many actors, lost his confidence, and his sense of identity.

Mercy is not a proper Indian name."..........."Rash Coyote Who Runs With Wolf. We could shorten it to Dinner Woman.

Identity was partly heritage, partly upbringing, but mostly the choices you make in life. ~ Bran

It is hard to accept being different, hard to have people avoid looking at you, and still believe in yourself.

Stefan: "Indian with a dot, not a feather.

Mine, ... Mine is what she is.

There are big bad wolves all over the world who tremble at the sound of his name, yet a little puny coyote girl peanut-buttered the seat of Bran Cornick's car because he told her that she should wear a dress to perform for the pack.

I was going to have to come up with a rank for myself besides Alpha's mate. In the pack, I was just Mercy- but if ten more people called me the Alpha's mate, I was going to hit someone. It sounded like a chess move.

We are none of us perfect, and...we learn to take these imperfections and make them only a small part of who we are

If you make my children, make any child, feel bad for who they are, I will teach you why people fear mama grizzlies more than papa grizzlies.

In this dream, I wasn't a coyote shapeshifter trying to hold a werewolf, I was Coyote's almost daughter, and I had all the strength of the world in my arms.

There was I thinking being a shifter had its upsides. Looks like I was wrong.

my grandfather would have loved to have met you," Charles told her huskily. "He would have called you 'She Moves Trees Out of His Path.'" She looked lost, but his da laughed. He'd know the old man, too. "He called me 'He Who Must Run into Trees,'" Charles explained.

I'm a coyote shapeshifter playing in a world of werewolves and vampires--outmatched is an understatement.

Shame is...not a productive emotion," Charles told her. There was a funny little pause when he tilted his head to look at her face and then away. "Brother Wolf liked claiming you in front of the others so that there will be no question who you belong to. While I... I regret your embarrassment but otherwise I agree with Brother Wolf.

Wizards don't all look alike.

I am the reality of all coyotes. The archetype. The epitome. You are just a reflection of me.

If I let them all treat me like I was broken, then how was I going to convince myself I wasn't?