Chaotic Girl Quotes

•Girls can do anything boys can do. •Street smarts are as important as book smarts. •“Your mother is smarter than me and I am fine with it.” •Don’t work too hard. •You can have a chaotic childhood and still provide a stable home.

I can curl my hair and paint my nails and wear my hand-sewn summer dresses. I can roll dice and design costumes for heroes and flip through comic books. All as myself. Finally.

Tonight, though, he could not help seeing his mother as a spiritual sister to the beautiful, needy and depressive girl who had broken apart on a frozen road, and to the plain, homeless outsider now lying in the chilly morgue. Leda, Lula and Rochelle had not been women like Lucy, or his Aunt Joan; they had not taken every reasonable precaution against violence or chance; they had not tethered themselves to life with mortgages and voluntary work, safe husbands and clean-faced dependants: their deathsm therefore, were not classed as "tragic", in the same way as those of staid and respectable housewives. How easy it was to capitalise on a person's own bent for self-destruction; how simple to nudge them into non-being, then to stand back and shrug and agree tnat it had been the inevitable result of a chaotic, catastrophic life.

Rape culture manifests in a myriad ways…but its most devilish trick is to make the average, noncriminal person identify with the person accused, instead of the person reporting the crime. Rape culture encourages us to scrutinize victims’ stories for any evidence that they brought the violence onto themselves – and always to imagine ourselves in the terrifying role of Good Man, Falsely Accused, before we ‘rush to judgment’. We're not meant to picture ourselves in the role of drunk teenager at her first college party, thinking 'Wow, he seems to think I'm pretty!' Or the woman who accepts a ride with a 'nice guy,' who's generously offered to see her safely home from the bar. Or the girl who's passed out in a room upstairs, while the party rages on below, so chaotic that her friends don't even notice she's gone. When it comes to rape, if we're expected to put ourselves in anyone else's shoes at all, it's the accused rapist's. The questions that inevitably come along with 'What was she wearing?' and 'How much did she have to drink?' are, 'What if there was no rape at all? What if she's lying? What happens to this poor slob she's accusing? What if he goes to prison for a crime he didn't commit?

There is another option—one people rarely cling to—embrace the madness. Interestingly enough, the people I know who do this best are the ones whose lives are the most chaotic of all. They’re my friends whose husbands are serving overseas. They’re the women I know who are raising special-needs children. They’re the single mamas working three jobs. I believe it’s because they learned a long time ago that there is beauty in the chaos, as well as freedom in not trying to fight against the tide.

I remember sitting back, on a local beach I called home; thinking about the wild storms I had already faced, the chaotic thunder I somehow learnt to dance through. This time, remembering it, was different. I had no emotional attachment, I felt free of the past and could quietly seperate who I was with who I am now and this moment was empowering , because had I not faced the greatest disasters with courage, I wouldn't have learnt the mastery of life. My self awakening.

It’s all nonsense of course. You can find God in a thunderstorm, or in the smile of a child, or in the wilderness (I believe that Jesus himself tried that at one stage), or in a rain forest, or a puppy, or in a legend, or by just lying under the stars, or in a daydream, or in your lover’s eyes, or in music, or by believing in magic, or in a conversation with a bag lady, or by loving a Gypsy girl, or by stumbling upon a white buffalo, or by dancing around your bones on the edge of extinction.

Girls like Mia and Shanice draw important connections between their desire to learn and their inability to do so in chaotic learning environments. Across the country, Black girls have repeatedly described “rowdy” classroom environments that prevent them from being able to focus on learning. They also described how the chaotic learning environment has, in some cases, led to their avoidance of school or to reduced engagement in school. In other situations, girls described contentious and negative interactions between teachers and students as the norm. In today’s climate of zero tolerance, where there are few alternatives to punishing problematic student behavior, the prevailing school discipline strategy, with its heavy reliance on exclusionary practices—dismissal, suspension, or expulsion—becomes a predictable, cyclical, and ghettoizing response.

Centered means that you feel grounded and at peace with yourself. Centered means that you can’t be knocked off balance regardless of how chaotic things become.

Life is a mess of actions and emotions, a chaotic orb of unknown order, a fuse of color and the void.

Later, when the other Beatles arrived, the crowd in the street had swelled to an estimated twenty-thousand, some of whom were whipped up in a terrific heat. Others, many of them young girls who had been waiting since dawn, suffered from hunger and exhaustion. The police force, which had been monitoring the situation nervously, called in the army and navy to help maintain order, but it was short-lived. By late afternoon, with chants of "We want the Beatles!" ringing through the square, the shaken troops, now four-hundred strong, felt control slipping from their grasp. They didn't know where to look first: at the barricades being crushed, the girls fainting out of sight, the hooligans stomping on the roofs of cars or pushing through their lines. A fourteen-year-old "screamed so hard she burst a blood-vessel in her throat." It was "frightening, chaotic, and rather inhuman," according to a trooper on horseback. There most pressing concern was the hotels plate-glass windows bowing perilously against the violent crush of bodies. They threatened to explode in a cluster of razor-sharp shards at any moment. Ambulances screamed in the distance, preparing for the worst; a detachment of mounted infantry swung into position.

For no obvious reason, I began to look closely at the women on the stradone. Suddenly it seemed to me that I had lived with a sort of limited gaze: as if my focus had been only on us girls, Ada, Gigliola, Carmela, Marisa, Pinuccia, Lila, me, my schoolmates, and I had never really paid attention to Melina’s body, Giuseppina Pelusi’s, Nunzia Cerullo’s, Maria Carracci’s. The only woman’s body I had studied, with ever-increasing apprehension, was the lame body of my mother, and I had felt pressed, threatened by that image, and still feared that it would suddenly impose itself on mine. That day, instead, I saw clearly the mothers of the old neighborhood. They were nervous, they were acquiescent. They were silent, with tight lips and stooping shoulders, or they yelled terrible insults at the children who harassed them. Extremely thin, with hollow eyes and cheeks, or with broad behinds, swollen ankles, heavy chests, they lugged shopping bags and small children who clung to their skirts and wanted to be picked up. And, good God, they were ten, at most twenty years older than me. Yet they appeared to have lost those feminine qualities that were so important to us girls and that we accentuated with clothes, with makeup. They had been consumed by the bodies of husbands, fathers, brothers, whom they ultimately came to resemble, because of their labors or the arrival of old age, of illness. When did that transformation begin? With housework? With pregnancies? With beatings? Would Lila be misshapen like Nunzia? Would Fernando leap from her delicate face, would her elegant walk become Rino’s, legs wide, arms pushed out by his chest? And would my body, too, one day be ruined by the emergence of not only my mother’s body but my father’s? And would all that I was learning at school dissolve, would the neighborhood prevail again, the cadences, the manners, everything be confounded in a black mire, Anaximander and my father, Folgóre and Don Achille, valences and the ponds, aorists, Hesiod, and the insolent vulgar language of the Solaras, as, over the millenniums, had happened to the chaotic, debased city itself? I

He had found the compass for his future life. And like all gifted abominations, for whom some external event makes straight the way down into the chaotic vortex of their souls, Grenouille never again departed from what he believed was the direction fate had pointed him…A murder had been the start of this splendor-if he was at all aware of the fact, it was a matter of total indifference to him. Already he could no longer recall how the girl from the rue des Marias had looked, not her face, not her body. He had preserved the best part of her and made it his own: the principle of her scent.

Stalker The light so thick nothing’s visible, cognoscenti I knew them, stupid apes. Real apes know more Before we said apes. I know how to be you bet- ter — a stupid voice. You must find a mind to respect — why? There was someone with ear buds, speaking gibberish who wouldn’t stop walking beside me; freckle-spattered. I had to ask the métro attendant for help; she extricated him from me ... I respect his chaotic speech, mild adhesive force because it makes no sense. I am back on the alley, discovering adults are un- trustworthy: someone’s lying ... about a fight between a teenage girl and boy — he pushed her hard — first she badly scratched him, she’s worse, his mother says. I’m back at pre-beginning, I don’t want to go through that again. There is no sexuality in chaos, there’s no style, nor hope. I want style — apes have style, people have machines. Show me something to respect This bleuet growing out of a wall on rue d’Hauteville. I picked it and pressed it in a diary. Every once in a while I respect a moment. I am back at pre-beginning: I don’t want to care beyond this ... sudden hue in the sand, yellow or spotted with an hallucinated iridescence. The one who is stalking me ... there has often been someone stalk- ing me. My destiny. He’s gone, stay here in this, I can’t be harmed if I’m the only one who’s thought of being here. Aren’t you lonely? I don’t know.

If absolutely everything important is only happening on such a small screen, isn’t that a shame? Especially when the world is so overwhelmingly large and surprising? Are you missing too much? You can’t imagine it now, but you’ll look like me one day, even though you’ll feel just the same as you do now. You’ll catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and think how quickly it’s all gone, and I wonder if all the time you used watching those families whose lives are filmed for the television, and making those cartoons of yourselves with panting dog tongues, and chasing after that terrible Pokémon fellow…well, will it feel like time well spent? “Here lies Ms. Jackson, she took more steps than the other old biddies on her road”—is that the best I can leave behind? Is it all just designed to keep us looking down, or to give us the illusion that we have some sort of control over our chaotic lives? Will you do me a small favor, dears, and look up? Especially you New Yorkers and Londoners and other city dwellers who cross all those busy streets. How else will you take in the majesty of the buildings that have stood there for hundreds of years? How else will you run into an acquaintance on the street who might turn into a friend or a lover or even just recommend a good restaurant that no one has complained about on that app yet? If you never look out the window of the subway car, how will you see the boats gliding by on the East River, or have an idea that only you could have? Just look up for no reason, just for a moment here and there, or maybe for an entire day once in a while. Let the likes go unchecked and the quality of sleep go unnoticed. Que sera sera, my dears—whatever will be will be, whether we’re tracking it on our GPS devices or not.

What else do you want to know?’ he asked. Possessed by morbid curiosity, her eyes darted to the scar that cut just over his ear. She’d found it shortly after they met, while he lay unconscious in the grass. He didn’t need to ask what had caught her attention. ‘I got that in a fight against imperial soldiers. Ask me why.’ She shook her head, unable to bring herself to do it. The cocoon of warmth that had enveloped the entire afternoon unwound itself in an instant. ‘Are you having second thoughts about being here with me?’ He planted a hand into the grass, edging closer. ‘No. I trust you.’ He was giving her all the time in the world to shove him away, to rise, to flee. Her heartbeat quickened as she watched him. Moving ever so slowly, he braced an arm on either side of her, his fingers sinking into the moss. ‘I asked you to come with me.’ Despite her words, she dug her heels into the ground and inched backwards. ‘I feel safe with you.’ ‘I can see that.’ He affected a lazy smile as she retreated until her back pressed against the knotted roots that crawled along the ground. His boldness was so unexpected, so exciting. She held her breath and waited. Her pulse jumped when he reached for her. She’d been imagining this moment ever since their first duel and wondering whether it would take another swordfight for him to come near her again. His fingers curled gently against the back of her neck, giving her one last chance to escape. Then he lowered his mouth and kissed her. It was as natural as breathing to wrap his arms around her and lower her to the ground. He settled his weight against her hips. The perfume of her skin mixed with the damp scent of the moss beneath them. At some point, her sense of propriety would win over. Until then he let his body flood with raw desire. It felt good to kiss her the way he wanted to. It felt damn good. He slipped his tongue past her lips to where she was warm and smooth and inviting. Her hands clutched at his shirt as she returned his kiss. A muted sound escaped from her throat. He swallowed her cry, using his hands to circle her wrists: rough enough to make her breath catch, gentle enough to have her opening her knees, cradling his hips with her long legs. He stroked himself against her, already hard beyond belief. He groaned when she responded, instinctively pressing closer. ‘I need to see you,’ he said. The sash around her waist fell aside in two urgent tugs while his other hand stole beneath her tunic. She gasped when his fingers brushed the swath of cloth at her breasts. The faint, helpless sound nearly lifted him out of the haze of desire. He didn’t want to think too hard about this. Not yet. He felt for the edge of the binding. ‘In back.’ She spoke in barely a whisper, a sigh on his soul. She peered up at him, her face in shadow as he parted her tunic. She watched him in much the same way she had when they had first met: curious, fearless, her eyes a swirl of green and gold. He pulled at the tight cloth until Ailey’s warm, feminine flesh swelled into his hands. He soothed his palms over the cruel welts left by the bindings. She bit down against her lip as blood rushed back into the tortured flesh. With great care, he stroked her nipples, teasing them until they grew tight beneath his roughened fingertips. God’s breath. Perfect. He wanted his mouth on her and still it wouldn’t be enough. Her heart beat out a chaotic rhythm. His own echoed the same restless pulse. ‘I knew it would be like this.’ His words came out hoarse with passion. At that moment he’d have given his soul to have her. But somewhere in his thick skull, he knew he had a beautiful, vulnerable girl who trusted him pressed against the bare earth. He sensed the hitch in her breathing and how her fingers dug nervously into his shoulders, even as her hips arched into him. He ran his thumb gently over the reddened mark that ran just below her collarbone and felt her shiver beneath him.

Toward the end of the three weeks, I have lunch with a representative from the foundation. She wants to know what could be done to make the girls more “confident.” I rattle on, about girl-only classrooms, giving them room away from the boys, time to talk, permission to question and complain without being afraid of being seen as whiners, complainers, bad girls, tough girls. But I know that all of them, boys and girls both, are still only partly formed, soft as Playdoh. They are like golems — their bodies in full flower and everything else a work-in-progress. I don’t dare say there are essential gender differences here, though I wonder more and more. “But girls have so many more role models now,” the foundation representative says. She is a petite, elegant, beautiful woman in a black suit, perfectly coifed. More role models. Which ones, I wonder? An increasingly impossible physical ideal? A clear-cut choice between career and family? They’ve seen their mothers suffer from trying to do both. They know all about the “second shift” of endless work. When I was 15, my role models were burning bras, marching in the street, starting clinics, passing laws and getting arrested. Role models now are selling diet books and making music videos. The simple fact is, I don’t know. I don’t know how to help them. I know that I have to keep checking my watch during lunch and rush off to make the final bell for sixth period, and that all of these children who are almost grown have spent their entire lives ruled by a clock and the demands of strangers. They have grown up in a fragmented and chaotic place over which they have no control. I know they’ve rarely thought about the possibility of getting out; they don’t see any place to get out to, anywhere to go not ruled by bureaucratic entanglements and someone else’s schedule and somebody else’s plans. If girls are somehow wired toward pliancy, then the helpless role of student in the shadow of the institution is the worst place they can be. If we want to teach them independence, the first thing to do would be to give it to them.

Very quickly, every single child in the village was screaming in terror. Their parents gripped them into tight hugs, tried to reassure them—but every few seconds, another child shouted another terrifying question like, “What does it feel like to be stabbed?” or “Does it hurt to bleed to death?” or “Will they cut us into bits?” and the whole chaotic rabble got even worse. “Hold on, guys!” Alex cried. “Would you just—” “What if their swords are rusty? Does that mean it’ll hurt even more?” cried one child. “Can you please just—” Alex tried again. “Is it true that dying feels like it takes a hundred years, and every single one of those years is more painful than the last?” shrieked another kid. “Everyone, would you just—” “Are they going to eat our faces while we’re dying!?” screeched a terrified little girl.

I was afraid of all girls, most boys and selected male and female adults. My fear derived from my apocalyptic fantasy apparatus. I knew that all things went chaotically bad. My empirical training in chaos was unassailably valid.

Those afflicted with BPD suffer from emotional instability—in Katherine’s case, almost always caused by feelings of rejection or abandonment. They suffer from cognitive distortions, where they see the world in black and white, with anyone who isn’t actively ‘with them’ being considered an enemy. They are also prone to catastrophising, where they make logical leaps from minor impediments in their plans to assumptions of absolute ruin. BPD is often characterised by extremely intense but unstable relationships, as the sufferer gives everything that they can to a relationship in their attempts to ensure their partner never leaves but instead end up burning themselves out and blaming that same partner for the emotional toll that it takes on them. The final trait of BPD is impulsive behaviour, often characterised as self-destructive behaviour. In Katherine’s case, this almost always manifested itself in her hair-trigger temper. When she was enraged, it was like she lost all rational control over her actions, seeing everyone else as her enemies. This manifested itself in the ridiculous bullying she conducted at school, in her lashing out when she failed her test and in the vengeance that she took on her sexual abusers. It is likely that she inherited this disorder from her mother, who showed many of the same symptoms, and that they were exacerbated by her chaotic home life and the lack of healthy relationships in the adults around her that she might have modelled herself after. With Katherine, it was like a Jekyll and Hyde switch took place when her temper was raised. The charming, eager-to-please girl who usually occupied her body was replaced with a furious, foul-mouthed hellion bent on exacting her revenge no matter what the cost. In itself, this could have been an excellent excuse for almost everything that she did wrong in her life, up to and including the crimes that she would later be accused of. Unfortunately, this sort of ‘flipped switch’ argument doesn’t hold up when you consider that her choice to arm herself with a lethal weapon was premeditated. Part of this may certainly have been the cognitive distortion that Katherine experienced, telling her that everyone else was out to get her and that she had to defend herself, but ultimately, she was choosing to give a weapon to a person who would use it to end lives, if she had the opportunity. Assuming that this division of personalities actually existed, then ‘good’ Katherine was an accomplice to ‘bad’ Katherine, giving her the material support and planning that she needed to commit her vicious attacks.

Incidents like Gamergate are partly a response to these conditions of hyper-visibility. The rise of trolling, and its ethos of disrespect and anonymity, has been so forceful in part because the internet's insistence on consistent, approval-worthy identity is so strong. In particular, the misogyny embedded in trolling reflects the way women—who, as John Berger wrote, have always been required to maintain an external awareness of their own identity—often navigate these online conditions so profitably. It's the self-calibration that I learned as a girl, as a woman, that has helped me capitalize on "having" to be online. My only experience of the world has been one in which personal appeal is paramount and self-exposure is encouraged; this legitimately unfortunate paradigm, inhabited first by women and now generalized to the entire internet is what trolls loathe and actively repudiate. They destabilize an internet built on transparency and likability. They pull back toward the chaotic and the unknown.

In contrast, before puberty the abused girls rarely have close friends, girls or boys, but adolescence brings many chaotic and often traumatizing contacts with boys.

By the mid-2000s, it was clear that girls raised in harsh, poor, or chaotic homes reached puberty earlier than those raised in more stable homes.

While Monica’s mind is ferociously orderly and logical, the organization of her day-to-day life is chaotic, a constant searching for keys, shopping lists and the other essential paraphernalia of existence. She is one of the untidiest people I have ever met, a quality which she airily dismisses as being the result of her upbringing, the family having always had a maid to do the tidying up. Monica is the kind of girl who finds it easier to discuss the merits of exculpatory evidence in a law case than to boil an egg.

Myrtle Warren—a sixth year Ravenclaw and muggle-born—was an overly emotional girl with glasses too big for her face and a voice too shrill for her age. She was plain in appearance and not at all charming, but her unpredictable, chaotic nature pulled Tom in like a moth to a flame. He still remembered the first time he’d met her. It was only a few weeks in to their first year, and the Slytherins were already gossipping about the strange girl in Ravenclaw. They disparaged her looks, her lack of a wizarding surname, and her bold rudeness. And yet, despite their clear dislike of the girl, there was an undercurrent of fear in their voices when they spoke of her. She wore a Dark artefact around her neck, or so they claimed, and anyone who asked about it was regaled with a tale of a man tortured to death in a ritual to purify the souls of his followers. A wreath of thorns place atop his head. Nails driven into his hands and feet as his bloodied body was secured to two wooden beams. A spear in his side. Left to die alone and in agony, forsaken by his father. The symbol of that brutal murder hung from a slim chain so that she could always carry its memory with her. Tom had to fight not to laugh hysterically when he’d heard. These stupid purebloods were terrified of a simple crucifix necklace and the story of Jesus Christ. Myrtle Warren wasn’t Dark or dangerous at all. She was Catholic. Afterwards, he sought her out to congratulate her on her clever trick. She’d laughed too loud and for too long at how effective her plan of scaring off her would-be tormentors had been, and asked if Tom would be kind enough to back up any claims she made about growing up in a cult that consumed the blood and flesh of their tortured savior (the eucharist sounded terrifying when she put it like that). He eagerly agreed. If this is what it took for muggle-borns to be respected in the wizarding world, he was more than happy to play along.

When I look back, Elizabeth Duncan's trial is linked inextricably in my mind to the sound of my father's voice--his dramatic, profanity-laced, sometimes humorous stories about witness testimony and crazy antics in the courtroom. Stories of blackmail, a Salvation Army man and a phony annulment, too many husbands to count, and Mrs. Duncan breathing fire to the end, often told in snatches between more chaotic attempts at home repair. I read every work of his newspaper articles, and I scrutinized the front page photos of all the trial participants. But his nightly accounts brought the bizarre and brutal characters to life around our dining room table. Daddy had no filter. I hung on every detail of his spellbinding tales, and although I'd never met any of these people, I knew them all very well.

Even today I enjoy reading a book much more second time around. A first read can be filled with apprehension. What if I don’t like the way the story goes? What if something awful happens to a favourite character? What if I get bored halfway through after I’ve invested something of myself in the story? A second read is a joy. I know exactly what is going to happen, so can immerse myself in the words and the subtleties in a way that would have been too stressful the first time. A good book can stop my head whirling. It can take me to another world, one where the fear can somehow magically be kept at bay. Books are my greatest pleasure. When the world is too loud, chaotic or confusing for my brain to process, I will go to bed with a book I read when I was a small girl and am still able, at times, to lose myself in the printed text

Rae gets me pure and simple, my frustrations with the loop tape that is my thought process, the boiling pot that is my body. She feels my frustrations because she got a mix-up, too; she's not really a girl. Like, she's got a pussy covered with thick hair and she's got a full rack, but she's really a guy trapped in a gold mine of a stripper's body. As a he-she, Rae knows what it's like to feel bananas. Just like I'm chaotic neurotransmitters imprisoned by flesh and bone, she's masculinity poured into a body that curves like a Coke bottle.

Advent slows the rush of a chaotic world into a whisper of peace.

I started calling that girl back . . . The girl who loved living, the girl who danced instead of walking. The girl who had sunfl owers for eyes and fi reworks in her soul. I started playing music again, hoping she would come out. I started looking for beautiful moments to experience, so she would feel safe enough to show herself, because I knew she was in there. And she needed my kindness and my eff ort to come to the surface again.

If someone is sad, or angry, or needs help, then I am your girl. But if someone is hurt and sad and angry about something that has nothing to do with me, but they’re rude or mean to me as a result, then my trust is broken.

Alfred began, on occasion, to scream in public: on the L train; in Times Square; at Whole Foods; at the Whitney. He can recall, with remarkable clarity (for someone who was screaming), the tableaux of chaotic reaction that followed, although these descriptions are curiously inert for the listener, like hearing someone recount a dream. The exception is Duane Reade on Union Square, because of what happened after: Escorted brusquely from the store by two security guards, Alfred encountered a girl whose look of rapt curiosity had stood out among the panicked shoppers inside. Now she leaned against a wall, apparently waiting for him. “What were you doing in there?” she asked, the very question thrilling Alfred. Most people would have said he’d been screaming, but Kristen had seen beyond that. Over latkes and hot apple tea at Veselka, Alfred explained his screaming project.

He and Shinsou followed his gaze to the horizon, and watched with interest as the sky became bluer and gold edged the distant mountains. Todoroki couldn't help a gasp as within minutes the sky was flooded with pinks and oranges, purples and golds. However when Shinsou also gasped he looked over, and froze. Izuku was leant forward, drinking in the view hungrily. The gold of the sunrise lit up his hair, a curly chaotic mass after sleep but angelic in the light. The sun picked out the different colours in his eyes, streaks of blue and flecks of gold among many shades of green. Those beautiful big eyes were wide and innocently fascinated with what they saw Izuku's lips parted in a broad smile. The sight of him like that took their breaths away.

Thursday, August 6 • The Transfiguration of the Lord God Is Never Lost His dominion is an everlasting dominion that shall not be taken away, his kingship shall not be destroyed. Daniel 7:14 We lose the things we most want to keep. The little girl who used to cuddle now pulls away in embarrassment when we try to hug her. Old friendships seem somehow stiff when we try to revive them in adulthood. The old neighborhood changes; the tree in the backyard topples in a storm; the beloved dog can’t climb up on the bed anymore. The bank forecloses on the house we poured our life savings into. Our mother loses her memory, then her gentleness and then her life. If we judged by appearances, life could seem like a chaotic series of accidents and losses. But the Feast of the Transfiguration reminds us that life isn’t what it seems. A lamp is shining in our dark places. Jesus was more than he seemed: He was and is king over all the earth. Faith doesn’t deny the losses but trusts that God cannot ever be lost. Eve Tushnet Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14 • Psalm 97:1-2, 5-6, 9 • 2 Peter 1:16-19 • Mark 9:2-10

That awkward moment when a black girl rejects Black identity, says African-Americans are no people . Black is so gross and ugly. I'm white. I'm Caucasian because everything about me is different from an African-American. When it comes to black people it think they're all ugly and I have nothing in common with them. White people act and think just way more mature than African- Americans . Black people, they think in a criminal way, They ’re really dangerous. If an African-American is on the same street as I am, I’ll cross the street to avoid their chaotic , thuggish ways.