Hall.pass Quotes

The point of this language of “intention” and “personal responsibility” is broad exoneration. Mistakes were made. Bodies were broken. People were enslaved. We meant well. We tried our best. “Good intention” is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream.

Good intention" is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream.

Mistakes were made. Bodies were broken. People were enslaved. We meant well. We tried our best. “Good intention” is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream.

It does not matter that the “intentions” of individual educators were noble. Forget about intentions. What any institution, or its agents, “intend” for you is secondary. Our world is physical. Learn to play defense—ignore the head and keep your eyes on the body. Very few Americans will directly proclaim that they are in favor of black people being left to the streets. But a very large number of Americans will do all they can to preserve the Dream. No one directly proclaimed that schools were designed to sanctify failure and destruction. But a great number of educators spoke of “personal responsibility” in a country authored and sustained by a criminal irresponsibility. The point of this language of “intention” and “personal responsibility” is broad exoneration. Mistakes were made. Bodies were broken. People were enslaved. We meant well. We tried our best. “Good intention” is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream.

Trust me, divorce is not a hall pass. While it can feel like freedom to some, it can feel like death to others. Either way, it inevitably comes rushing upstream carrying a containership of grief and guilt. It’s like a bad dream, even when you didn’t realize you were asleep.

But a great number of educators spoke of “personal responsibility” in a country authored and sustained by a criminal irresponsibility. The point of this language of “intention” and “personal responsibility” is broad exoneration. Mistakes were made. Bodies were broken. People were enslaved. We meant well. We tried our best. “Good intention” is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream.

All around me, grown-up voices called out, "Amen!" as if the word was a hall pass into Heaven.

We meant well. We tried our best. "Good intention" is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream.

With a strong need for approval, it can feel like you’re walking through life like a student who is wandering the halls without a hall-pass. At any time, someone might jump out and chastise you for doing something wrong, and they’d be justified. This creates a chronic unease and fear that makes it very hard to relax, let go, enjoy your relationships, feel love, and be in the moment. It undermines your self-esteem because you value others’ opinions more than your own; it sucks the joy out of life.

Heaven is a condition and a sanctified nature toward which all godly striving tends; it is not a place to be found by walking through the right door with a heavenly hall pass.

Okay. There was a word that covered a lot of ground. If you were in an airplane crash from thirty thousand feet and walk away with broken bones and burns, you're considered a survivor. You are okay. If you trip going upstairs to play Nintendo and get a bloody nose, you are not okay. In which category did getting splattered with grease fall?

Trauma. The word haunted him through his police questioning and his academic meetings all the way to the school-sanctioned single apartment they’d moved him into. Trauma. The word that had helped him crack the code, helped him pinpoint the origins of EOs. Trauma became a kind of hall pass. If only they knew how much trauma he had sustained. They didn’t.

[At first, Calvin's at school, in his classroom.] CALVIN'S TEACHER: "We'll see what the principal has to say about your attention span, young man." A THOUGHT BUBBLE FANTASY FROM CALVIN's MIND (With visuals to match.) "The valiant Spaceman Spiff has been captured." A THOUGHT BUBBLE FANTASY FROM CALVIN's MIND (With visuals to match, coming from a space alien.) "The aliens doubtlessly want the secret formula to the Atomic Napalm Neutralizer!" ANOTHER THOUGHT BUBBLE FANTASY FROM CALVIN's MIND "Moments from the torture chamber, Spiff springs into ACTION." CALVIN, HIS TEACHER, AND THE PRINCIPAL. (The school principal is looking at Calvin, who seems intent on something...) THE PRINCIPAL: "Why is he eating his hall pass?

I always felt that someone, a long time ago, organized the affairs of the world into areas that made sense-catagories of stuff that is perfectible, things that fit neatly in perfect bundles. The world of business, for example, is this way-line items, spreadsheets, things that add up, that can be perfected. The legal system-not always perfect, but nonetheless a mind-numbing effort to actually write down all kinds of laws and instructions that cover all aspects of being human, a kind of umbrella code of conduct we should all follow. Perfection is crucial in building an aircraft, a bridge, or a high-speed train. The code and mathematics residing just below the surface of the Internet is also this way. Things are either perfectly right or they will not work. So much of the world we work and live in is based upon being correct, being perfect. But after this someone got through organizing everything just perfectly, he (or probably a she) was left with a bunch of stuff that didn't fit anywhere-things in a shoe box that had to go somewhere. So in desperation this person threw up her arms and said, 'OK! Fine. All the rest of this stuff that isn't perfectible, that doesn't seem to fit anywhere else, will just have to be piled into this last, rather large, tattered box that we can sort of push behind the couch. Maybe later we can come back and figure where it all is supposed to fit in. Let's label the box ART.' The problem was thankfully never fixed, and in time the box overflowed as more and more art piled up. I think the dilemma exists because art, among all the other tidy categories, most closely resembles what it is like to be human. To be alive. It is our nature to be imperfect. The have uncategorized feelings and emotions. To make or do things that don't sometimes necessarily make sense. Art is all just perfectly imperfect. Once the word ART enters the description of what you're up to , it is almost getting a hall pass from perfection. It thankfully releases us from any expectation of perfection. In relation to my own work not being perfect, I just always point to the tattered box behind the couch and mention the word ART, and people seem to understand and let you off the hook about being perfect a go back to their business.

Educators spoke of “personal responsibility” in a country authored and sustained by a criminal irresponsibility. The point of this language of “intention” and “personal responsibility” is broad exoneration. Mistakes were made. Bodies were broken. People were enslaved. We meant well. We tried our best. “Good intention” is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream.

She had lived in eight different countries growing up and had visited dozens of others. To most people, this sounded cool, and in some ways, Ayers knows, it was cool, or parts of it were. But since humans are inclined to want what they don't have, she longed to live in America, preferably the solid, unchanging, undramatic Midwest, and attend a real high school, the kind shown in movies, complete with a football team, cheerleaders, pep rallies, chemistry labs, summer reading lists, hall passes, proms, detentions, assemblies, fund-raisers, lockers, Spanish clubs, marching bands, and the dismissal bell.

I stroked my palm along that hard shaft, acting like what I was doing was no biggie. Then I said, “Fuck, I think I’m drunk.” Because that seemed like the right thing to say. Like alcohol was the reason we were doing this. Alcohol was our hall pass. It worked, because he choked out, “Me too.” But his voice was smoky and distracted. And maybe he was drunk. Maybe the flush on his cheeks was all thanks to the whiskey and not from the feel of my other hand yanking his shorts down further. Maybe his breathing quickened because alcohol was surging through his bloodstream and not from my fingers curling around his shaft.

In Dimond Library, on the way to the basement stairs, I see a pale boy hunched over a desk in the carrel, sipping from a Styrofoam cup, surrounded by books, reading. His face is gaunt and his hair a greasy mess. On the ground beside him is a clotted leaking pile of discarded teabags and beside him a bucket that I realize with horror is full of urine. There's a tall stack of books on one side of him and a taller stack on the other: out pile, in pile. I stand for a second watching this guy, frozen in place but alive with small action: muttering to himself as he reads, almost humming like an electric motor, his hands twitching at the edges of the pages, until with a sudden flash of motion, he turns the page, flings it over like he can't consume the words fast enough. "Come on," says Nico, and we continue down the hall, passing four more of these carrels, each with its quiet, intent occupant-- earnestly, frantically reading.

Adam: Adam was a young man whose anxiety turned into a monster. Where Shelly had a very mild case of social anxiety, Adam’s case could only be called severe. Over a period of several years, his underlying social fears developed into a full-blown school phobia. A quiet, unassuming person, Adam had never stood out in the classroom. Through elementary school and on into high school, he neither excelled nor failed his subjects. By no means a discipline problem, the “shy” Adam kept to himself and seldom talked in class, whether to answer a teacher’s question or chat with his buddies. In fact, he really had no friends, and the only peers he socialized with were his cousins, whom he saw at weekly family gatherings. Though he watched the other kids working together on projects or playing sports together, Adam never approached them to join in. Maybe they wouldn’t let him, he thought. Maybe he wasn’t good enough. Being rejected was not a chance he was willing to take. Adam never tried hard in school either. If he didn’t understand something, he kept quiet, fearful that raising his hand would bring ridicule. When he did poorly on an exam or paper, it only confirmed to him what he was sure was true: He didn’t measure up. He became so apprehensive about his tests that he began to feel physically ill at the thought of each approaching reminder of his inadequacy. Even though he had studied hard for a math test, for example, he could barely bring himself to get out of bed on the morning it was to take place. His parents, who thought of their child as a reserved but obedient boy who would eventually grow out of this awkward adolescent stage, did not pressure him. Adam was defensive and withdrawn, overwrought by the looming possibility that he would fail. For the two class periods preceding the math test, Adam’s mind was awash with geometry theorems, and his stomach churning. As waves of nausea washed over him, he began to salivate and swallowed hard. His eyes burned and he closed them, wishing he could block the test from his mind. When his head started to feel heavy and he became short of breath, he asked for a hall pass and headed for the bathroom. Alone, he let his anxiety overtake him as he stared into the mirror, letting the cool water flow from the faucet and onto his sweaty palms. He would feel better, he thought, if he could just throw up. But even when he forced his finger down his throat, there was no relief. His dry heaves made him feel even weaker. He slumped to the cold tile and began to cry. Adam never went back to math class that day; instead, he got a pass from the nurse and went straight home. Of course, the pressure Adam was feeling was not just related to the math test. The roots of his anxiety went much deeper. Still, the physical symptoms of anxiety became so debilitating that he eventually quit going to school altogether. Naturally, his parents were extremely concerned but also uncertain what to do. It took almost a year before Adam was sufficiently in control of his symptoms to return to school.

I know he’s hot, just like I know Chris Hemsworth could swindle the panties off any woman, but I don’t want to jump him. Wait, that’s not true. Chris Hemsworth is everyone’s hall pass.

I don’t mention that a third of the women on the dating apps here are married ladies with a “hall pass” or couples looking for a bisexual to be their third,

The white leather couch glowed with a spot of luminescent scarlet as light from the front door on the far end of the hall passed through my stepbrother.

Very few Americans will directly proclaim that they are in favor of black people being left to the streets. But a very large number of Americans will do all they can to preserve the Dream…The point of this language of “intention” and “personal responsibility” is broad exoneration. People were enslaved. We meant well. We tried out best. “Good intention” is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream.

If a task is easy, it is hardly worth doing. The purest joy in life is meeting great challenges head-on and bludgeoning them into submission. Otherwise the empty feeling returns.

Good intention' is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream.

I came to see the streets and the schools as arms of the same beast. One enjoyed the official power of the state while the other enjoyed its implicit sanction. But fear and violence were the weaponry of both. Fail in the streets and the crews would catch you slipping and take your body. Fail in the schools and you would be suspended and sent back to those same streets, where they would take your body. And I began to see these two arms in relation—those who failed in the schools justified their destruction in the streets. The society could say, “He should have stayed in school,” and then wash its hands of him. It does not matter that the “intentions” of individual educators were noble. Forget about intentions. What any institution, or its agents, “intend” for you is secondary. Our world is physical. Learn to play defense—ignore the head and keep your eyes on the body. Very few Americans will directly proclaim that they are in favor of black people being left to the streets. But a very large number of Americans will do all they can to preserve the Dream. No one directly proclaimed that schools were designed to sanctify failure and destruction. But a great number of educators spoke of “personal responsibility” in a country authored and sustained by a criminal irresponsibility. The point of this language of “intention” and “personal responsibility” is broad exoneration. Mistakes were made. Bodies were broken. People were enslaved. We meant well. We tried our best. “Good intention” is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream. An unceasing interrogation of the stories told to us by the schools now felt essential. It felt wrong not to ask why, and then to ask it again. I took these questions to my father, who very often refused to offer an answer, and instead referred me to more books. My mother and father were always pushing me away from secondhand answers—even the answers they themselves believed. I don’t know that I have ever found any satisfactory answers of my own. But every time I ask it, the question is refined. That is the best of what the old heads meant when they spoke of being “politically conscious”—as much a series of actions as a state of being, a constant questioning, questioning as ritual, questioning as exploration rather than the search for certainty. Some things were clear to me: The violence that undergirded the country, so flagrantly on display during Black History Month, and the intimate violence of “Yeah, nigger, what’s up now?” were not unrelated. And this violence was not magical, but was of a piece and by design. But what exactly was the design? And why? I must know. I must get out…but into what? I devoured the books because they were the rays of light peeking out from the doorframe, and perhaps past that door there was another world, one beyond the gripping fear that undergirded the Dream.

Mistakes were made. Bodies were broken. People were enslaved. We meant well. We tried our best. "Good intention" is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream.

As Courtney Hall passed through the streets of Great Yu, it was repeated at every tram halt, every public breakfast stall, every Food Corps costermonger’s barrow, anger and confusion and shouting voices, a ball of confusion gathering a thousand, ten thousand, a million, ten million souls into itself as it rolled behind Courtney Hall through the boulevards of Yu.

You walked into the life of a writer, You’ve just gained a hall pass to immortality. Your essence will live on, loving after you are gone.

Forget about intentions. What any institution, or its agents, 'intend' for you is secondary… The point of this language of 'intention' and 'personal responsibility' is broad exoneration. Mistakes were made. Bodies were broken. People were enslaved. We meant well. We tried our best. 'Good intention' is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream.

Good intention” is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream.

Sir, we would…” Blitz adjusted his pith helmet. “But we’re not technically allowed in Valhalla, not being, you know, dead.” “I can fix that!” “Don’t kill us!” Blitz yelped. Thor just rummaged around his worktable until he found a two-by-four with a key attached to one end. Burned into the side of the plank were the words THOR’S HALL PASS. “This will get you into Valhalla,” he promised. “Just return it. I’m going to fix this chariot so our gender argr bride can use it tomorrow. Then I’ll gather my assault squad and scout out this location, Bridal Veil Falls.” “And the rest of us?” I asked reluctantly. “You and the two children of Loki will be our guests tonight!” Thor announced. “Go see Sif upstairs, and she will get you settled. In the morning, you will ride forth to a glorious matrimonial massacre!” “Oh,” Otis said with a sigh. “I do love weddings.