Elizabeth Acevedo Quotes

And I think about all the things we could be if we were never told our bodies were not built for them.

The world is almost peaceful when you stop trying to understand it.

I only know that learning to believe in the power of my own words has been the most freeing experience of my life. It has brought me the most light. And isn't that what a poem is? A lantern glowing in the dark.

Burn it! Burn it. This is where the poems are,” I say, thumping a fist against my chest. “Will you burn me? Will you burn me, too?

A queen offers her hand to be kissed, & can form it into a fist while smiling the whole damn time.

Maybe, the only thing that has to make sense about being somebody's friend is that you help them be their best self on any given day. That you give them a home when they don't want to be in their own.

Just because your father's present, doesn't mean he isn't absent.

Fight until you can’t breathe, & if you have to forfeit, you forfeit smiling, make them think you let them win.

And sometimes focusing on what you can control is the only way to lessen the pang in your chest when you think about the things you can't.

Late into the night I write and the pages of my notebook swell from all the words I’ve pressed onto them. It almost feels like the more I bruise the page the quicker something inside me heals.

I will never let anyone see my full heart and destroy it.

The world is a turntable that never stops spinning; as humans we merely choose the tracks we want to sit out and the ones that inspire us to dance.

I've had a lot of things to feel ashamed about and I've learned most of them are other people's problems, not mine.

Their gazes and words are heavy with all the things they want you to be.

My parents probably wanted a girl who would sit in the pews wearing pretty florals and a soft smile. They got combat boots and a mouth silent until it’s sharp as an island machete.

My brother was born a soft whistle: quiet, barely stirring the air, a gentle sound. But I was born all the hurricane he needed to lift - and drop- those that hurt him to the ground.

...you can't control how people look at you, but you can control how far back you pull your shoulders and how high you lift your chin

Pero, tú no eres fácil.” You sure ain’t an easy one.

Can you be from a place you have never been? You can find the island stamped all over me, but what would the island find if I was there? Can you claim a home that does not know you, much less claim you as its own?

Maybe anger is like a river. Maybe it crumbles everything around it. Maybe it hides so many skeletons beneath the rolling surface.

And isn't that what a poem is? A lantern glowing in the dark.

When has anyone ever told me I had the right to stop it all without my knuckles, or my anger, with just some simple words.

We're different, this poet and I. In looks, in body, in background. But I don't feel so different when I listen to her. I feel heard.

She tells me words give people permission to be their fullest self and aren't these the poems I most needed to hear?

It's wild to miss someone so much, and yet in order to care for them you have to constantly say goodbye.

But one thing I learned from the Saints, when the crossroads are open to you, you must decide a path. I will not stand still while the world makes my choices.

When your body takes up more room than your voice, you are always the target of well-aimed rumors.

The body is a funny piece of meat. How it inflates and deflates in order to keep you alive. But how simple words can fill you up or pierce the air out of you.

And I know the past isn't a mirror image of the future, but it's a reflection of what can be; and when your first love breaks your heart, the shards of that can draw blood for a long, long time.

It's about any of the words that bring us together and how we can form a home in them.

Sometimes it seems like writing is the only way I keep from hurting.

I feel like I'm being pulled in a hundred different directions and my feet are stuck in cement.

You do not let your words stunt unknown possibilities.

Your silence furnishes a dark house. But even at the risk of burning, the moth always seeks the light.

One thing I know for sure is that reputations last longer than the time it takes to make them.

How can you lose an entire person, only to gain a part of them back in someone entirely new?

The patron saint of the ocean is known for containing many parts of herself: she is a nurturer, but she is also a ferocious defender. & so I remember that to walk this world you must be kind but also fierce.

The way the words say what I mean, how they twist and turn language, how they connect with people. How they build community.

He is not elegant enough for a sonnett, too well-thought-out for a free write, taking too much space in my thoughts to ever be a haiku.

Whatever we are to become, I'm glad that we can laugh through the uncomfortable moments.

I've forced my skin as thick as I am.

I close my eyes and let myself find in music what I've always searched for: a way away.

If I say those words, if I snap apart the air with them, whatever is binding me together will split too.

Where we come from leaves its fingerprints all over us, and if you know how to read the signs of a place, you know a little bit more who someone is.

Maybe there are no words to say. I just want to be held.

She is a nurturer but she is also a ferocious defender. Remember that to walk this world, you must be kind but also fierce

So he created a theater of his life / & got lost in all the different roles he had to play.

Papi was a man split in two, / playing a game against himself. // But the problem with that / is that in order to win, you also always lose.

She knew since she was little, the world would not sing her triumphs, but she took all of the stereotypes and put them in a chokehold until they breathed out the truth.

Never, ever, let them see you sweat, negra. Fight until you can’t breathe, & if you have to forfeit, you forfeit smiling, make them think you let them win.

the fear you have for someone else’s life always eclipses the fear you have for your own.

If I were on fire who could I count on to water me down? If I were a pile of ashes who could I count on to gather me in a pretty urn? If I were nothing but dust would anyone chase the wind trying to piece me back together?

That's when I feel like a fake. Because I nod, and clap, and "Amen" and Aleluya," all the while feeling like this house his house is no longer one I want to rent.

Sometimes someone says something and their words are like the catch of a gas stove, the click, click while you’re waiting for it to light up and flame big and blue...

Cooking is about respect. Respect for the food, respect for your space, respect for your colleqgues and respect for your diners. The chef who ignores one of those is not a chef at all.

People say that you're stuck with the family you're born into. And for most people, that's probably true. But we all make choices about people. Who we want to hold close, who we want to remain in our lives, and who we are just fine without.

I am beginning to learn that life-altering news is often like a premature birth: ill-timed, catching someone unaware, emotionally unprepared & often where they shouldn’t be:

i think of all the things we could be if we were not told our bodies were not made for them.

....and my heart is one of Darwin's Finches, learning to fly.

About a holy trinity that don’t include the mother.

God, if you're a thing with ears: please, please.

If I were nothing but dust, would anyone chase the wind trying to piece me back together?

There is freedom in coming and going for no other reason than because you can. There is freedom in choosing to sit and be still when everything is always telling you to move, move fast.

I only know that learning to believe in the power of my own words has been the most freeing experience of my life. It has brought me the most light. And isn’t that what a poem is? A lantern glowing in the dark.

And even that young I learned music can become a bridge between you and a total stranger. -Xiomara

Sometimes the best way to love someone is to let them go.

I wrap myself tight around the feelings I cannot share, an unopened present, a gift no one wants.

Dreams are like the pieces of fluff that get caught in your hair; they stand out for a moment, but eventually you wash them away, or long fingers reach in & pluck them out & you appear as what everyone expects.

When I’m told girls Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t. When I’m told To wait. To stop. To obey. When I’m told not to be like Delilah. Lot’s Wife. Eve. When the only girl I’m supposed to be was an impregnated virgin

The world is almost peaceful when you stop trying to understand it.

Freedom seems like such a big word. Something too big; maybe like a skyscraper I've glimpsed from the foot of the building but never been invited to climb.

This whole time she's swallowed her words like bitter pills not realizing they were slow-drip poison.

If Medusa was Dominican and had a daughter, she might wonder at this curse. At how her blood is always becoming some fake hero's mission. Something to be slayed, conquered.

But who knew the words, when said by the right person, by a boy who raises your temperature, move heat like nothing else? Shoot a shock of warmth from your curls to your toes?

I’ve learned to trust pretty words even less than a pretty face.

There is freedom in choosing to sit and be still when everything is always telling you to move, move fast.

Swimming might be the closest to flying a human being can get. There is something about your body displacing water in order to propel through space that makes you feel Godtouched. That makes me understand evolution, that we really must have crawled up from the sea.

There is an artist my mother loved, Juan Gabriel, who was once asked in an interview if he was gay. His reply: What's understood need not be said. I remember how Mami's eyes fluttered to me like a bee on a flower acknowledging the pollen is sweet.

Who knew death must be so damn polite?

What's the point of God giving me life, if I can't live it as my own?

And ain’t that what it means to be a sister? Holding things tight when the other one is falling apart?

But even at the risk of burning, the moth always seeks the light.

Trust. Yourself, mainly, but the world, too.

My little words feel important, for just a moment. This is a feeling I could get addicted to.

And I think of all the things we could be if we were never told our bodies were not built for them.

Onward. Always onward. I blow her a kiss across the linoleum, & whisper blessings under my breath, divide a piece of God from my heart for her to carry. I know she does the same for me.

Is this what sisterhood is? A negotiation of the things you make possible out of impossible requests?

I feel like something has risen inside me too, and it tastes a bit like hope.

I will not stand still while the world makes my choices. This Yahaira will learn what carving your own way means.

I think you should write about the one that scares you most. Taking risks and making choices in spite of fear—it’s what makes our life story compelling.

Maybe, the only thing that has to make sense about being somebody's friend is that you help them be their best self on any given day. That you give them a home when they don't want to be in their own.

After It happens when I’m at bodegas. It happens when I’m at school. It happens when I’m on the train. It happens when I’m standing on the platform. It happens when I’m sitting on the stoop. It happens when I’m turning the corner. It happens when I forget to be on guard. It happens all the time. I should be used to it. I shouldn’t get so angry when boys—and sometimes grown-ass men— talk to me however they want, think they can grab themselves or rub against me or make all kinds of offers. But I’m never used to it. And it always makes my hands shake. Always makes my throat tight. The only thing that calms me down after Twin and I get home is to put my headphones on. To listen to Drake. To grab my notebook, and write, and write, and write all the things I wish I could have said. Make poems from the sharp feelings inside, that feel like they could carve me wide open. It happens when I wear shorts. It happens when I wear jeans. It happens when I stare at the ground. It happens when I stare ahead. It happens when I’m walking. It happens when I’m sitting. It happens when I’m on my phone. It simply never stops.

Mami wanted me to be a lady: sit up straight, cross my ankles, let men protect me. Papi wanted me to be a leader. To think quick & strike hard, to speak rarely, but when I did, to always be heard. Me? Playing chess taught me a queen is both: deadly & graceful, poised & ruthless. Quiet & cunning. A queen offers her hand to be kissed, & can form it into a fist while smiling the whole damn time. But what happens when those principles only apply in a game? & in the real world, I am not treated as a lady or a queen, as a defender or opponent but as a girl so many want to strike off the board.

If you asked me what I was, & you meant in terms of culture, I’d say Dominican. No hesitation, no question about it. Can you be from a place you have never been? You can find the island stamped all over me, but what would the island find if I was there? Can you claim a home that does not know you, much less claim you as its own?

That’s what I learned, about him and most guys: who they are when they’re giving you flowers and trying to get in your pants is not who they REALLY are when it’s no longer spring and they’ve found a new jawn to hang out with. And I know the past isn’t a mirror image of the future, but it’s a reflection of what can be; and when your first love breaks your heart, the shards of that can still draw blood for a long, long time.

If you are not from an island. you cannot understand what it means to be of water: to learn to curve around the bend, to learn to rise with rain, to learn to quench an outside thirst while all the while you grow shallow until there is not one drop left for you. I know this is what Tia does not say. Sand & soil & sinew & smiles: all bartered. & who reaps? Who eats? Not us. Not me.

Every day I searched for new songs, and it was like applying for asylum. I just needed someone to help me escape from all the silence. I just needed people saying words about all the things that hurt them. And maybe this is why Papi stopped listening to music, because it can make your body want to rebel. To speak up. And even that young I learned music can become a bridge between you and a total stranger.

Things you can buy with half a million dollars: a car that looks more like a space creature than a car. A designer platinum purse to carry a small dog. A small dog. A performance by your favorite musical artist for your birthday. A diamond-encrusted bottle of Dominican rum. A mansion. A yacht. A hundred acres of land. Houses, but not homes. All four years of college or beautician school & certificate. Five hundred flights to the Dominican Republic. A half million Dollar Store chess sets, with their accompanying boxes. A hundred thousand copies of Shakespeare's The Tempest. Apparently a father.

It is easy in a moment like this to want to speak over this woman, to tell Tía there is nothing more we can do, to say out loud the woman is lucky that her lungs still draw breath. But I learned young, you do not speak of the dying as if they are already dead. You do not call bad spirits into the room, & you do not smudge a person's dignity by pretending they are not still alive, & right in front of you, and perhaps about to receive a miracle. You do not let your words stunt unknown possibilities.

The weird thing about the bible is that almost everything in it is a metaphor. So it seems to me that when the bible describes church as a place where two or more people discuss God, they don’t mean just the cathedral like churches. I don’t know what, who or where God is; but if everything is a metaphor, I think he or she is a comparison to us. I think we are like, or as God. I think when we get together, and talk about ourselves, about being human, about what hurts us; we are also talking about God. So that’s also church, right? I know this might seem blasphemous, but my priest tells me its okay to ask questions, even if they seem bizarre.