Detention Book Quotes

Well, well, well, if it isn't Ms. Detention. How was it by the way? I’m sure your father was very proud.

I think I know what will help you chill.” The way his eyes devoured me hinted I shouldn’t take the bait, but I did anyhow. “And what would that be?” Noah pressed his body into mine, pushing me against the lockers. “Kissing.” I held my books close to my chest and fought the urge to drop them and pull him close. But that would only encourage his behavior, and good God, bring on his fantastic kissing. Fantastic or not, kissing in public would definitely mean detention and a tardy slip. I ducked underneath his arm and breathed in fresh air, welcoming any scent that didn’t remind me of him. Noah caught up to me, slowing his pace to mine. “You know, you may have never noticed, but we have calculus together,” he said. “You could have waited for me.” “And give you the chance to drag me into the janitor’s closet?

[WAIT—IT WON’T LET ME REDACT THESE LITTLE SUBHEADING THINGS? THAT’S SUPER ANNOYING!] [FINE, I’LL JUST GIVE YOU MY SUMMARY.] [SO, WHOEVER WROTE THIS WAS ALL BLAH-BLAH-BLAH-STELLARLUNE-SOMETHING-SOMETHING-LEGACY. BUT SERIOUSLY, NO ONE WANTS TO READ ABOUT THE CREEPY STUFF MY MOM DID BEFORE SHE GOT PREGNANT WITH ME! (AND WE’RE ALL SUPER SICK OF HEARING ABOUT MY “LEGACY,” AMIRITE?) SO, LET’S JUST LEAVE IT AT THIS: MY MOM IS EVIL. SHE THINKS SHE’S WAY SMARTER THAN SHE IS. AND NOTHING SHE DID IS GOING TO AFFECT MY GENERAL AWESOMENESS, OKAY?] A PHOTOGRAPHIC MEMORY: [WOW, HOW DID YOU COME UP WITH SUCH A CLEVER TITLE?!] [AND YEAH, I HAVE A PHOTOGRAPHIC MEMORY. NOT SURE WHY ANYONE CARES. BUT IT DOES COME IN HANDY DURING MIDTERMS AND FINALS.] AHEAD OF THE GAME: [BASICALLY: I’M A GENIUS. I SKIPPED LEVEL ONE AT FOXFIRE. YES, YOU SHOULD BE IMPRESSED.] UNREASONABLY HIGH STANDARDS: [GOTTA ADMIT, I WAS TEMPTED TO LEAVE THIS ONE ALONE, SINCE WHOEVER WROTE IT ACTUALLY GOT THINGS PRETTY MUCH RIGHT. I GUESS EVEN THE COUNCIL KNOWS MY DAD’S A JERK WHO FREAKS OUT ALL THE TIME BECAUSE I’M NOT A LITTLE MINI-HIM. WHO KNEW?] A POWERFUL EMPATH: [UGH, THAT’S THE BEST YOU COULD DO FOR THIS SUBHEADING???] [HOW ABOUT “LORD OF THE FEELS”? OR “TRUST THE EMPATH”! OR “HE KNOWS WHAT YOU’RE FEELING—AND YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF”?] [OOO! I’VE GOT IT! “HE KNOWS FOSTER BETTER THAN YOU DO! BETTER THAN SHE EVEN KNOWS HERSELF!”] [THOUGH… KEEPING IT REAL? THE FOSTER OBLIVION CAN BE KINDA NOT COOL SOMETIMES.] THE HEART OF THE MATTER: [I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU GUYS NAMED A SECTION OF MY FILE AFTER MY FATHER’S SUPER-BORING BOOK—AND THEN RAMBLED ON FOR TWO PAGES ABOUT HIS SUPER-BORING THEORY!!!!!] [YOU DON’T NEED TWO PAGES ON IT. YOU DON’T EVEN NEED TWO SENTENCES. HERE’S ALLLLLL YOU NEED TO KNOW—BESIDES THE FACT THAT HE’S TOTALLY NOT THE FIRST PERSON TO COME UP WITH THIS (JUST THE ONE WHO LOVES TO TAKE CREDIT): OUR HEADS AND OUR HEARTS SOMETIMES FEEL DIFFERENT EMOTIONS, AND WHAT’S IN OUR HEARTS IS PROBABLY STRONGER.] [THAT’S IT!] [WELL… OKAY… I GUESS HE ALSO GOES ON A BIT ABOUT HOW EMPATHS PROBABLY ONLY READ THE EMOTIONS FROM THE HEAD.] [AND THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT HEART EMOTIONS BEING PURER BECAUSE NO ONE CAN CONTROL THEM.] [BUT THAT’S IT.] [AND DON’T TELL LORD BORINGPANTS I READ HIS DUMB BOOK! I MOSTLY SKIMMED.] PRANKSTER AND TROUBLEMAKER: [100 PERCENT ACCURATE. ALSO, I’M LEAVING YOUR LITTLE ATTACHED DETENTION RECORD BECAUSE IT’S THE GREATEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE!!!!]

When breeders are sluts for enjoying the act, and in pain, while the males are made heroic for all such conquests, we achieve detente in the war between the genders. Confuse, conquer, and control, my son. This rape culture, coupled with the holy trinity of blame, shame and guilt, makes for a yeasty culture of manipulation.

People won't stand for it," Charlie had once argued with Bill, "they'll revolt." "You think those in power don't know this?" Bill had replied. "They've got the laws in place for mass arrests, civilian murder, indefinite detention, military tribunals, and martial law. The people, for the most part, are clueless." He swept a gesture to the nation. "Lambs at the slaughterhouse! Jews on the way to the Holocaust!

...there are enormous regions where I have never been, and what one has not known is what one has not been. An anxiety to start running, go into a house, into that store, jump on a train, devour all of Jouhandeau, know German... What is defective is felt more as an intuitive poverty than as a mere lack of experience. It really doesn't afflict me not having read all of Jouhandeau, at most the melancholy feeling of too short a life for so many libraries, etc. The lack of experience is inevitable, if I read Joyce I am automatically sacrificing another book and vice versa, etc. The feeling of lack is sharper in... zones for detention of your eyes, your smell, your taste, and you can't get beyond that limit when you think you've caught anything fully, just like an iceberg the thing has a small piece outside and shows it to you, and the enormous rest of it is beyond our limits and that's why the Titanic went down.

What do the American people think? I am eager to know. I would like to believe the majority of Americans want to see Justice done, and they are not interested in financing the detention of innocent people. I know there is a small extremist minority that believes that everybody in this Cuban prison is evil, and that we are treated better than we deserve. But this opinion has no basis but ignorance. I am amazed that somebody can build such an incriminating opinion about people he or she doesn’t even know.

Do you know a Psychopath? You do not know me; but after reading my memoir you will know me a little better and you will have had the experience of safely getting into the mind and life of a young psychopath in training. Critics have written: It is a powerful and unusual memoir; brutal and raw. A Psychopath In Training: In 1997 psychiatrist’s contracted by the Correctional Service and the National Parole Board wrote in their final report, before I was released back into the community, they had diagnosed me to be a psychopath. A Psychopath: How does one become a Psychopath? After of the death of my young mother, when I was fourteen, I became a ward of the state and forced into the care and custody of the Catholic Christian Brothers at St. John’s Catholic Training School for Boys until after I turned sixteen. Since then I have been incarcerated over seventeen years in various prisons, institutions and juvenile detention centres. I have been interviewed and treated by so many prison psychiatrists and psychologists I should be called the professional. In my youth I have experienced almost every kind of sleaze, sex and violence humans can inflict on each other. I had to learn the hard way on how to identify and deal with the people who were the dangerous psychopath’s in my life and the proof I succeeded is; I am still alive. My book cover depicts what is coming out of the government foster homes and prisons today: Our communities and our police forces are not at all prepared for the dangerous psychopaths being churned out. Are you ready? You and the educators alike can learn from my memoir.

At this point, perhaps you Hushlanders are beginning to doubt the truth of this narrative. You have seen several odd and inexplicable things happen. (Though, just as a warning, the story so far has actually been quite tame. Just wait until we get to the part with the talking dinosaurs.) Some readers might even think that I’m just making this story up. You might think that everything in this book is dreamy silliness. This book is serious. Terribly serious. Your skepticism results from a lifetime of training in the Librarians’ school system, where you were taught all kinds of lies. Indeed, you’d probably never even heard of the Smedrys, despite the fact that they are the most famous family of Oculators in the entire world. In most parts of the Free Kingdoms, being a Smedry is considered equivalent to being nobility. (If you wish to perform a fun test, next time you are in history class, ask your teacher about the Smedrys. If your teacher is a Librarian spy, he or she will get red-faced and give you a detention. If, on the other hand, your teacher is innocent, he or she will simply be confused, then likely give you a detention.)

A five-year-old could have told us as much,” sneered Snape. “The Inferius is a corpse that has been reanimated by a Dark wizard’s spells. It is not alive, it is merely used like a puppet to do the wizard’s bidding. A ghost, as I trust that you are all aware by now, is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the earth . . . and of course, as Potter so wisely tells us, transparent.” “Well, what Harry said is the most useful if we’re trying to tell them apart!” said Ron. “When we come face-to-face with one down a dark alley, we’re going to be having a shufti to see if it’s solid, aren’t we, we’re not going to be asking, ‘Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?’” There was a ripple of laughter, instantly quelled by the look Snape gave the class. “Another ten points from Gryffindor,” said Snape. “I would expect nothing more sophisticated from you, Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot Apparate half an inch across a room.” “No!” whispered Hermione, grabbing Harry’s arm as he opened his mouth furiously. “There’s no point, you’ll just end up in detention again, leave it!” “Now open your books to page two hundred and

I had a letter from a fourteen-year-old the other day who was in a juvenile detention center. She wrote, ‘My life was a mess and I was on drugs, and I came here and I hated it. And then in the library I found a copy of My Life with the Chimpanzees. I never had a supportive mother, but when I read that book, I thought Jane can be my mother.’ “Her mother had never told her she could succeed. But when she read how my mother had supported me, and the difference that had made, she started to realize that she, too, could follow her dreams. I would be her role model—that’s what she meant by saying I could be her mother. She started behaving well, working hard—she turned her life around.” I thought about this young woman, about the power of books and stories and role models to change a child’s life. And I thought about what Jane had said about how important our environment is and that our human nature is adaptable enough to fit into the world in which we must survive. How we can nurture our children is so very dependent on the larger community in which we live. There can be little doubt that the poverty, addiction, and hopelessness surrounding Robert White Mountain’s son contributed to his dying by suicide at sixteen.

Just because you boys are willing to work off the books doesn’t mean that I am,” Suzy rasped. “First time one of you did that, I ended up in a Union detention center. And now getting mauled by a creepy little demon? No. I’m not writing up the justification for this. If you don’t like it, then you can suck my giant monster dick.” “Monster dick?” Fritz echoed dryly. “Well, isn’t today full of revelations?

More than 100,000 Bosnians were killed during the war. More than 2.2 million people were displaced. There were more than 677 detention centers and concentration camps where Bosniaks and Bosnians were subjected to agonizing, inhumane, excruciating, and horrifying war crimes and conditions by the Serb forces. Several of these camps held thousands of prisoners. Intellectuals, in particular, were targeted because they are the backbone of society. They drive progress and initiate changes that benefit everyone around them. That is why the Serb forces sought to eliminate critical thinkers so they could conquer Bosnian culture more effectively. More books, movies, TV shows, and songs should discuss the Bosnian Genocide and its effect on Bosnian culture.

Books with their power to anchor, to connect, to amuse...and to distract; to terrify...to unite adversaries in detente...A book is to look at and to offer a little rest for the mind and the body.

WOULD YOU RATHER… Be a child who’s always getting in trouble OR a rule-following grownup your whole life? Go to detention

I do all I can to let my students feel as normal as possible, as far from institutionalized. I see how easy it is to allow this conveyor belt of incarceration bring them from my facility to an adult detention, often for the rest of their lives.

his bloody hands as he rode silently in the back of the transport van back toward the juvenile detention

I told Mr. Matsumoto that I created a mod to change my appearance in order to cheat on the test. But I decided not to go through with it because I had a change of heart. Mr. Matsumoto was so impressed with my honesty that he didn’t report me to the principal but gave me detention instead. Now I just stay after school practicing my scare technique with Mr. Matsumoto. I’m

I reached under the table to taunt his hardness. He squealed, causing a few team members at the next table to glance in our direction. Kim’s face went red. He quickly stared at his plate as if nothing unusual had happened.               I seized the opportunity to stroke his covered erection again. This prompted his lower body to squirm uncontrollably while he shrieked for me to stop. I continued joshing the boy (I found his mortification amusing). His silly screeching and fidgeting created such a ruckus that all eyes were on us now. Jules was standing in front of us, and before Kim could find composure, he said, “Stop behaving like silly children. Grow up or I’ll send the two of you to detention.” But amid his stern reprehension, I detected a smirk. He was obviously enjoying his role as a reprimanding doyen.               As soon as Jules walked away, I taunted my buddy again, stirring another rumpus from squealing Kim. This time our instructor barked, “Both of you, come see me after dinner! We need to talk!” We immediately quieted down. As soon as his back was turned, Kim muttered, “We are in deep shit.”               “Really?” I said, smiling to myself.               “You’re truly inscrutable, you moron! He cried. “He’s sending us to clean the toilets.” I sniggered at his assessment but did not respond.               When the hoopla finally subsided, I said to my tent-mate, “You didn’t finish telling me what transpired between the two of you.”               Not wanting to have anything to do with me, the boy walked away.

If nobody wanted me, then I wanted nobody. To Hell with everybody, it’s just me against them! Although I somehow survived this long string of placements in foster homes, group homes and various institutions such as orphanages and detention homes, my emotions and behaviors changed radically. I often stole food and other items, ran away repeatedly and engaged in numerous petty crimes. I was at war with the world.

In order to implement the “Final Solution”, the Nazis established ‘killing centers’, which were distinct from ‘concentration camps.’ The camps were essentially detention and forced labor centers where small groups were targeted for elimination. Killing centers, which were also known as ‘death camps’ or ‘extermination camps’ were essentially factories for slaughtering people.

here? How had he managed to bring Mrs. Kent here so quickly? It didn’t make any... ​Oh, but it did. Mr. Thomas knew that the students would act up in detention. ​This had been Mr. Thomas’s plan all along. Sabotaging my detention class. He had probably bribed Chad to mess it all up. I didn’t stand a chance. ​In a weird way, that made me feel better. ​Now I needed to make a decision. Did I go back inside the room, risk my life, but save Dad’s job? Or did I wait out here, looking like a failure of a teacher, but then use the fearsome Mrs. Kent and her piercing gaze to help me calm the students down?

Well… since you got me some chips, I brought you a book for you to read to me.” “Where’d you find this?” “Oh, you know, just lying on my bookshelf at home.” He flipped through the pages and chuckled. “You have porn books just lying around?” “Excuse me!” I giggled. “It’s not a porn book! There is definitely some romance in there.” “Buried under pages of filth.” I smirked and hmphed at him. “I would like you to read it. I’m having some trouble understanding some of it. And I mean, you are the Literature professor. I’m sure you can find some deep meaning in it.” He cocked a brow. “You have a hard time understanding a chapter titled ‘Fucking 101’?” He continued to flip through the book. “What about ‘Cock Riding?’ ‘Squirting?’ Oh, and my personal favourite…” He smirked. “ ‘Throat Fucking.’ “ He gazed over at me. “This shouldn’t be hard for you to understand, Sakura. You showed me how well you can do this last one today.” “Well maybe I just wanna hear you read it.” “You read it to me,” he said, handing me the book.

Looking over her shoulder, Sakura followed my gaze and pressed her lips together, spotting some cheerleaders in the back that she must’ve thought I had been staring at. She flared her nostrils and glared down at her book. Possessive. My girl was possessive over me.

Her pure innocence the night I had given her detention. Her soft lips against mine in the backseat of my car. The way she had fucking giggled at the cheesy romance book, stuffed away with my literature books. God, it was unreal.

Read me something.” My eyes widened. “You want me to read you this?” “Read it, then do that cute little analyzing thing you do after every paragraph in school.” Warmth exploded through my chest. Sakura thought it was… cute? “I don’t know if you want me to read you this book,” I said, chuckling. “This is a romance book that I—” “A romance book?!” Sakura giggled, placing her hand against her heart. “Mr. Avery—the most prolific, well-spoken reader at Redwood—likes smut?! I have never heard of such a thing!

At school, Pablo found it hard to concentrate. Rather than completing classwork, he filled the margins of his notebook with pencil sketches of animals, birds, and people. His teacher grew exasperated with his lack of attention. She wrote a note to his mother saying: “Pablo should stop drawing in class and pay attention to his lessons.” It was clear that Pablo hated rules, and he took every opportunity to disobey them. When adults told him what to do, he did the opposite. He once got in trouble for coloring the sky a bright red instead of the “normal” blue. Pablo was often banished to the “calaboose,” a bare cell with white walls and a bench, which served as a holding pen for unruly students. “I liked it there, because I took along a sketch pad and drew incessantly,” Pablo later said. “I could have stayed there forever drawing without stopping.” He even began misbehaving on purpose so that he would be sentenced to detention and sent to the calaboose. The one person who understood that Pablo wasn’t acting out for no reason was his father. One day when Pablo’s mother caught him drawing on the wall with a nail, Don José took him to the beach to blow off steam. As Don José stretched out to take a nap, Pablo sat beside him and drew a dolphin in the wet sand. When Don José awoke, he was astonished by the beauty of his son’s drawing. “Could it be Pablo who drew this?” he wondered. That afternoon, Don José took a closer look at the image Pablo had drawn on their living room wall. What at first looked like random scratches soon took shape. Don José recognized a reindeer and a bison running away from a group of men on horseback who were armed with bows and arrows. At that moment, Don José knew what to do to get Pablo to stop misbehaving. He decided to take him into his studio and teach his son how to paint. From that day onward, Pablo and his father were inseparable art partners. In search of new subjects to portray, they began going to the bullfights. Pablo was mesmerized by the sight of the brave picadors as they charged ferocious bulls. He saw El Lagartijo—“The Lizard”—one of the most famous bullfighters in Spain, and he met Cara Ancha,

I look down at my book and begin to read. The rain has started, and I am distracted by the sound of it. Finny used to ask me to go outside with him to save the worms on the sidewalk. It bothered him to see them drying and writhing on the pavement the day after rain. He hated the idea of anyone—anything—ever being sad or hurt. When we were eight, we heard his mother sobbing in her bedroom after a breakup, and Finny pushed tissues under the door. When we were eleven, he punched Donnie Banks in the stomach for calling me a freak. It was the only fight he ever got in, and I think Mrs. Morgansen only gave him detention because she had to. Aunt Angelina didn’t even punish him.

Well, I learnt from the nuns in the convent,’ said my mother. ‘Sister Ursula hated the Jewish girls, but after we’d all made signs of the cross on our foreheads and hearts, we would rub them away and quickly draw a Magen David when her back was turned.’ I was aware that, in spite of my mother’s feverish attempts to erase the sign of the cross from her forehead and breastbone, the nuns had succeeded in infiltrating the very fabric of her ethos, and there remained with her a niggling and persistent conviction, stubborn as the ink stains on the breast pockets of my father’s shirts, which no amount of scrubbing or soak after lengthy soak in bleach could eliminate, that bad children go to hell. Whenever I stepped out of line, she had wasted no time in tallying up my current score in the underworld. ‘That’s ten black marks in your book in hell,’ she’d say. And, if I had really incurred her wrath, she’d add, ‘dripping with pus and blood’. Sister Ursula would have been proud. My Hebrew teachers had never threatened me with an eternity at the pleasure of Beelzebub – detention was generally deemed sufficient. Excerpt from The Trouble With My Aunt by Hedi Lampert

At any hour of the day or night, Stanton will get a call about the latest underage victim who was picked up in a prostitution bust or an undercover operation, and he makes his way to the detention center. He is always struck by how the girls change. When he first sees them in their "work outfits," they do not seem much like children, with skimpy dresses, daring hairdos, heavy makeup, and flashy nails. After they shower, clean up, and put on the detention center's sweatpants and tops, they lose their street-worn years. "Then it hits you, these are really just kids," Stanton says. Invariably, the girls are not receptive to him, at least not at first. They are tough, and they are angry, and Stanton knows he has to be straight with them. "I never try to bullshit them," Stanton explains. "These kids are sharp. They have radar. Their lives depend on reading a man, be it a pimp or a trick, so they know when someone is lying to them. You really have to be genuine to earn their trust.

No, I mean, really how was it? I’ve never had a detention in my entire life, and I don’t plan on having one.

Six days after 9/11, President Bush signed a secret Memorandum of Notification (MON) informing Tenet that his CIA was now authorized to apprehend terror suspects anywhere in the world and interrogate them, indefinitely, in off-the-books prisons. The memo was a triumph of arrogance over values. The administration empowered itself to violate any border, friend or foe, and ignore the rule of law. A top secret report described the Memorandum of Notification as “one of the most sensitive activities ever undertaken by the CIA...” The president’s notification specified that suspects to be abducted “must pose a continuing, serious threat of violence or death to US persons and interests” or “must be planning terrorist activities.”1 No independent judge was making that determination. No suspect was allowed to ask a court to examine the facts and legality of his detention. Since “abduction” carried an unfortunate connotation, this procedure was named “rendition.” People who might have information about terrorism were snatched off streets, shackled to the floor of a CIA plane and “rendered” to black site prisons. The Salt Pit in Afghanistan was one such prison. Another was set up in Poland, another in Thailand. It’s likely there were others.

(...) had she known I’ve never felt the pressure of the wind, the smack of a punch, the warmth of my mother’s kiss, and had she known all that, maybe she wouldn’t have sent me to detention that day.  But eventually, her words sink into my gut and I realize she could’ve sent me somewhere worse.

As I said before, when I first started here at Everdale, I tried my hardest to fit in with Montana and her friends. People referred to them as the Shinies because everything about them was pretty and attention-grabbing. I’d bent over backward trying to be their friend, and in return, Montana played vicious pranks on me. One morning she’d nabbed my clothes while I was taking a shower and locked me in the girls’ room, leaving me completely naked. She also lied to me about a school rule which landed me in early morning detention. If I didn’t do something to stop her, she was going to make my life miserable until our graduation day. If we were going to be spending three more long years together, I was going to have to nip her behavior in the bud. The plan was simple enough. Montana

Dworkin was molested or raped at around age 9; the details, in her writing, and according to her closest friends, are murky, but something bad happened then. In 1965, when Dworkin was 18 and a freshman at Bennington College, she was arrested after participating in a march against the Vietnam War and was taken to the Women’s House of Detention in Greenwich Village, where she was subjected to a nightmarish internal exam by prison doctors. She bled for days afterward. Her family doctor looked at her injuries and cried. Dworkin’s response to this incident was her first act of purposeful bravery: she wrote scores of letters to newspapers detailing what had happened, and the story was reported in the New York Times, among other papers, which led to a government investigation of the prison. It was eventually torn down, and in its place today is the idyllic flower garden at the foot of the Jefferson Market clock tower on Sixth Avenue in Manhattan. Like many members of the women’s liberation movement, Dworkin started out as an antiwar activist and found her way to feminism when she became disillusioned with the men of the New Left. She wrote about the experience in Mercy, a book of “fiction” about a girl named Andrea, who, like Dworkin, was from Camden, New Jersey, and was molested at around 9, protested the war, and was jailed and sexually assaulted in a New York City prison. “I went to the peace office and instead of typing letters for the peace boys I wrote to newspapers saying I had been hurt and it was bad and not all right and because I didn’t know sophisticated words I used the words I knew and they were very shocked to death; and the peace boys were in the office and I refused to type a letter for one of them because I was doing this and he read my letter out loud to everyone in the room over my shoulder and they all laughed at me, and I had spelled America with a 'k’ because I knew I was in Kafka’s world, not Jefferson’s, and I knew Amerika was the real country I lived in.