So much of growing up is an unbearable waiting. A constant longing for another time. Another season.
Sonia SanchezRead
I still hear you humming, Mama. The colour of your song calls me home. The colour of your words saying, Let her be. She got a right to be different. She gonna stumble on herself one of these days. Just let the child be. And I be, Mama.
Interpretation
This quote expresses a deep emotional connection to a mother's guiding presence and the importance of accepting one's individuality.
In this quote, Sonia Sanchez reflects on the enduring impact of a mother's love and guidance, suggesting that even in her absence, the mother's influence remains strong. The speaker acknowledges the value of embracing one's uniqueness and the freedom to grow, while also honoring the comforting memories of her mother's encouragement to be true to oneself and to accept life's inherent challenges.
In practice
In a speech about personal growth and individuality.
So much of growing up is an unbearable waiting. A constant longing for another time. Another season.
The black artist is dangerous. Black art controls the 'Negro's' reality, negates negative influences, and creates positive images.
I shall become, I shall become a collector of me. And put meat on my soul.
And I cried⦠for all of the women who stretched their bodies for civilizations, only to find ruins.
You practice forgiveness for two reasons: to let others know that you no longer wish to be in a state of hostility with them and to free yourself from the self-defeating energy of resentment. Send love in some form to those you feel have wronged you and notice how much better you feel.
I like to see people reunited, I like to see people run to each other, I like the kissing and the crying, I like the impatience, the stories that the mouth can't tell fast enough, the ears that aren't big enough, the eyes that can't take in all of the change, I like the hugging, the bringing together, the end of missing someone.
My dad was a homicide cop in the gay neighborhood in the city when gay neighborhoods were desperate, depressing, sad places run by the mob. The only gay people he'd met when I came out to him were corpses.
No journalist has ever been in my house and no photographs have ever been taken of where I live. I don't parade my family out for display, which is the way it will stay.
I'm the only one in my family who is deaf, and there are still conversations that go around me that I miss out on. And I ask what's going on, and I have to ask to be included. But I'm not going to be sad about it. I don't live in sad isolation. It's just a situation I'm used to.
The most loving parents and relatives commit murder with smiles on their faces. They force us to destroy the person we really are: a subtle kind of murder.
Subscribe for the occasional hand-picked quote. No noise.