Hooded Justice Quotes

If thou wouldst seek justice, thyself must be just.

Don't be silly," she said. "I don't want us to chase people with scissors. And I don't want us to bite them. That's assault. All I want to do is steal their stuff." There was a pause. "Comparatively, its legal," Kami said defensively. "Stealing in the name of justice is okay," Jared put in. "We'd be like Robin Hood. Steal from the rich, punch them in the face. I'm pretty sure that's how the saying goes.

We don't steal from the rich and give to the poor. We steal from the poor because they can't fight back --most of them-- and the rich take from us because they could wipe us out in a day.

If your child is killed by police, if the water in your community is poisoned, if a mockery is made of your grief, how do you feel? Do you want to be calm and quiet? Do you want to forgive in order to make everyone else comfortable? Or do you want to scream, to yell, to demand justice for the wrongs done? Anger gets the petitions out, it motivates marches, it gets people to the ballot. Anger is sometimes the only fuel left at the end of a long, horrible day, week, month, or generation.

Many people are trying hard to be invincible, and most of the time they fail invisible, while few find their spotlight. But the remarkable person is one, who can be both invincible and invisible at the same time.

But Hood was not yet done with her. He swung her up again, spun and once more hammered her onto the stone. 'I have had,' the Jaghut roared, and into the air she went again, and down once more, 'enough' - with a sob the crushed, broken body was yanked from the ground again - 'of- 'your- justice!

Because the law will never be just. Perhaps it can come close— so close the line is hard to see. But laws are written by men, who are imperfect by nature, and justice belongs to something beyond the power of men.

The Death of Allegory I am wondering what became of all those tall abstractions that used to pose, robed and statuesque, in paintings and parade about on the pages of the Renaissance displaying their capital letters like license plates. Truth cantering on a powerful horse, Chastity, eyes downcast, fluttering with veils. Each one was marble come to life, a thought in a coat, Courtesy bowing with one hand always extended, Villainy sharpening an instrument behind a wall, Reason with her crown and Constancy alert behind a helm. They are all retired now, consigned to a Florida for tropes. Justice is there standing by an open refrigerator. Valor lies in bed listening to the rain. Even Death has nothing to do but mend his cloak and hood, and all their props are locked away in a warehouse, hourglasses, globes, blindfolds and shackles. Even if you called them back, there are no places left for them to go, no Garden of Mirth or Bower of Bliss. The Valley of Forgiveness is lined with condominiums and chain saws are howling in the Forest of Despair. Here on the table near the window is a vase of peonies and next to it black binoculars and a money clip, exactly the kind of thing we now prefer, objects that sit quietly on a line in lower case, themselves and nothing more, a wheelbarrow, an empty mailbox, a razor blade resting in a glass ashtray. As for the others, the great ideas on horseback and the long-haired virtues in embroidered gowns, it looks as though they have traveled down that road you see on the final page of storybooks, the one that winds up a green hillside and disappears into an unseen valley where everyone must be fast asleep.

Egyptians undergo an odd personality change behind the wheel of a car. In every other setting, aggression and impatience are frowned upon. The unofficial Egyptian anthem "Bokra, Insha'allah, Malesh" (Tomorrow, God Willing, Never Mind) isn't just an excuse for laziness. In a society requiring millennial patience, it is also a social code dictating that no one make too much of a fuss about things. But put an Egyptian in the driver's seat and he shows all the calm and consideration of a hooded swordsman delivering Islamic justice.

Ruth does love Jesus, same way she loves Lincoln, Robin Hood, Martin Luther King, and Nat. Handsome men who fight for justice.

Until men learn that of all human symbols, Robin Hood is the most immoral and the most contemptible, there will be no justice on earth and no way for mankind to survive.

Processed It's like I'm meat or wheat Made into a burger or deli slices Made into pasta or bread Processed Not the boy I was before the machine Before the braking down and pulling apart Before the adding and taking away I was made for easy, fast consumption Like food chains in the hood Umi said don't go there That you are what you eat Those jails that system has swallowed me whole

She had begun to understand how priesthoods were born, the necessity of sanctioned forms, rules and prohibitions, the moral filter defined by accepted notions of justice. And yet, she could also see how profoundly dangerous such an institution could become, as arbiters of morality, as dispensers of that justice. Faces like hooded vultures, guarding the door to the court, choosing who gets inside and who doesn’t. How soon before the first bag of silver changes hands? How soon before the first reprehensible criminal buys passage into the arms of the blind, unquestioning Redeemer? She could fashion such a church, could formalize the cult into a religion, and she could impose a harsh, unwavering sense of justice. But what of the next generation of priests and priestesses? And the one after that, and the next one? How long before the hard rules make that church a self-righteous, power-mongering tyranny? How long before corruption arrives, when the hidden heart of the religion is the simple fact that the Redeemer embraces everyone who comes before him? A fact virtually guaranteed to breed cynicism in the priesthood, and from such cynicism secular acquisitiveness would be inevitable. This loss was not just a loss of faith in the Redeemer. It was a loss of faith in religion itself.

Saying down with the blacks but uplift the white race Raising the banner to the sun in haste Mobbed deep, hoods and capes Sun-dried and bloodstained Saying down with the blacks but uplift the white race Unjustly tried an indelible conviction the usual result of five shades of darker skin Justice unjust, black robes and pale face Didn't have a chance, they called us apes I wish I would have known the false smiles Evil intentions fulfilling their taste Why me? Why us? Justice unjust, black robes and pale faces?

Merik swiveled his wrists slowly. At night, the temple was too dark to see the blood dripping from his arms, pooling on the granite flagstones. He felt it falling, though. Just as he felt the new, burned flesh on his hands stretching beneath torn gloves. Yet even as pain shivered through his body, he couldn’t help but think: Only a fool ignores Noden’s gifts. For if Merik looked at this case of mistaken identity from the just the right angle, it could in fact all be seen as boon. The assassin in the night. The fire on the Jana. The attack of a Waterwitch in Pin’s Keep. Each event had led Merik here, to Noden’s temple. To a fresco of the god’s left hand. To the Fury. Twice now, he’d been mistaken for that monstrous demigod, and twice now, it had worked in Merik’s favor. So why not continue using the fear invoked from that name? Was Merik not doing the Fury’s work by bringing justice to the wronged and punishment to the wicked? It was clear that Nubrevnans needed Merik’s help, and his sister Vivia…Well, she was stil out there. Alive. Wretched. So was it not Merik’s moral duty to keep her off the throne? And he could do that if he could just prove she had indeed tried to kill him—that it was she who’d purchased that prisoner from Vizer Linday, and she who’d sent the prisoner to kill Merik. Yes. This was right. This was Noden’s will. It throbbed in Merik’s wounds. It shivered across his scalp and down his raw back. Take the god’s gift. Become the Fury. Merik rose, stiff but strong, from the temple floor, and with a new purpose in his movements, he tugged his hood, his sleeves, his gloves into place. Then he turned away from the Fury’s gruesome fresco and set out to bring justice to the wronged. Punishment to the wicked.

When feminist rhetoric is rooted biases like racism, ableism, transmisogyny, anti-Semitism, and Islamophobia, it automatically works against marginalized women and against any concept of solidarity. It's not enough to know that other women with different experiences exist' you must also understand that they have their own femiminist formed by that experience. Whether it's an argument that women who wear the hijab must be "saved" from it, or reproductive-justice arguments that paint having a disabled baby as the worst possible outcome, the reality is that feminism can be marginalizing

Allies tend to crowd out the space for anger with their demands that things be comfortable for them. They want to be educated, want someone to be kind to them whether they have earned that kindness or not. The process of becoming an ally requires a lot of emotional investment, and far too often the heavy lifting of that emotional labor is done by the marginalized, not the privileged. But part of that journey from being a would-be ally to becoming an ally to actually becoming an accomplice is anger. Anger doesn't have to be erudite to be valid. It doesn't have to be nice or calm in order to be heard. In fact, I would argue that despite narratives that present the anger of Black women as dangerous, that render being angry in public as a reason to tune out the voices of marginalized people, it is that anger and the expressing of it that saves communities. No one has ever freed themselves from oppression by asking nicely.

and soon there was this invisible line we couldn't cross like we can't go where the nice places are Can't touch the nice things because everything about us our skin, our faces, our hair, our words, our music will break things will ruin things will make things ugly just by us being there But those white boys didn't care about no lines The world belonged to them including our hood

The trial wasn’t the finest hour of American justice as the treatment of the prisoners seemed medieval in its barbarism. Almost all of the male prisoners were dragged into the courtroom with linen masks shielding their faces and chains and heavy iron balls strapped to their ankles. With clanking irons, they shuffled in and, once seated, their hoods were removed. The military commission took testimony for seven weeks and ultimately found all eight defendants guilty, with four of them (Mary Surratt, Lewis Powell, David Herold, and George Atzerodt) sentenced to hang while three others (including Michael O’Laughlen) were given life imprisonment and one a six-year term. Mary Surratt, who ran a boardinghouse where Booth colluded with other conspirators, went down in historical annals as the first woman ever executed by the federal government.

O happy age, which our first parents called the age of gold! Not because of gold, so much adored in this iron age, was then easily purchased, but because those two fatal words mine and thine, were distinctions unknown to the people of those fortunate times; for all things were in common in that holy age: men, for their sustenance, needed only lift their hands and take it from the sturdy oak, whose spreading arms liberally invited them to gather the wholesome savoury fruit; while the clear springs, and silver rivulets, with luxuriant plenty, ordered them their pure refreshing water. In hollow trees, and in the clefts of rocks, the laboring and industrious bees erected their little commonwealths, that men might reap with pleasure and with ease the the sweet and fertile harvest of their toils. The tough and strenuous cork-trees did of themselves, and without other art than their native liberality, dismiss and impart their broad light bark, which served to cover these lowly huts, propped up with rough-hewn stakes, that were first built as a shelter against the inclemencies of air. All then was union, all peace, all love and friendship in the world; as yet no rude plough-share with violence to pry into the pious bowels of our mother earth, for she, without compulsion, kindly yielded from every part of her fruitful and spacious bosom, whatever might at once satisfy, sustain, and indulge her frugal children. Then was the when innocent, beautiful young sheperdesses went tripping over the hills and vales; their lovely hairs sometimes plaited, sometimes loose and flowing, clad in no other vestment but what was necessary to cover decently what modesty would always have concealed. The Tyrian dye and the rich glossy hue of silk, martyred and dissembled into every color, which are now esteemed so fine and magnificent, were unknown to the innocent plainness of that age; arrayed in the most magnificent garbs, and all the most sumptous adornings which idleness and luxury have taught succeeding pride: lovers then expressed the passion of their souls in the unaffected language of the heart, with the native plainness and sincerity in which they were conceived, and divested of all that artificial contexture, which enervates what it labours to enforce: imposture, deceit and malice had not yet crept in and imposed themselves unbribed upon mankind in the disguise of truth and simplicity: justice, unbiased either by favour or interest, which now so fatally pervert it, was equally and impartially dispensed; nor was the judge's fancy law, for then there were neither judges nor causes to be judged: the modest maid might walk wherever she pleased alone, free from the attacks of lewd, lascivious importuners. But, in this degenerate age, fraud and a legion of ills infecting the world, no virtue can be safe, no honour be secure; while wanton desires, diffused into the hearts of men, corrupt the strictest watches, and the closest retreats; which, though as intricate and unknown as the labyrinth of Crete, are no security for chastity. Thus that primitive innocence being vanished, the opression daily prevailing, there was a necessity to oppose the torrent of violence: for which reason the order of knight-hood-errant was instituted to defend the honour of virgins, protect widows, relieve orphans, and assist all the distressed in general. Now I myself am one of this order, honest friends; and though all people are obliged by the law of nature to be kind to persons of my order; yet, since you, without knowing anything of this obligation, have so generously entertained me, I ought to pay you my utmost acknowledgment; and, accordingly, return you my most hearty thanks for the same.

They wanted better. They wanted change, if not today, then a fast working process toward truth, justice, and equality for Hood America. All his mind was trained to conceive was justice, justice, justice, freedom, freedom, freedom, and equality by any means necessary.

Robin Hood might not have existed. Maybe there never was a band of Merry Men waiting in Sherwood Forest for King Richard’s return. But I’d like to think it happened. We’ve seen him in other times and places. Some people still stand up for what’s right, some people do protect the helpless, some people fight for justice – and that’s what makes the story of Robin Hood true.

You won’t settle for peace, Rob,” said Owain. “Not after what you’ve seen. You’ll demand justice...yes, and you’ll take it. I know you. And if you want us to be of any help to you when the time comes for you to stand tall, you'll have to teach us how to stand beside you.

justice ought sometimes to protect those least able to protect themselves.

When we entered the library we were surprised to see two other people.  They were friends of Joan who would also be guests here for a part of the holiday.  Their first names were Helen and John and after that the only thing I heard was that she was the Justice of the Peace in Sherwood Forest and he was the Sheriff of Nottingham.      I looked at Tim first who was straight faced as usual, then at Marguerite and we both managed to suppress a grin or a laugh.  I almost said, “Ok, Ok, this shit has gone on long enough, SO we’re not gonna ask if Robin Hood will be here as well.”  Thank heavens I didn’t, because they were deadly serious and it was all true.

One of the religious desired to see Martin very urgently and so came to his cell in search of him. Martin was apparently not in the room for, though it was dark, the religious, calling out, ascertained as well as he could in the darkness that the Brother was not there. However, as he was leaving the cell, the capuche, or cowl, of his habit caught on to something. In his amazement, he looked up to see what it was, and as he raised his hand to free the cowl, he saw, oddly enough, that it was Brother Martin's foot that had caught in the hood of his habit. The servant of God was suspended in the air, rapt in prayer and oblivious to all about him.

New York City is a tinderbox. The Sons of the Serpent - a white supremacist group with a twisted history, deep pockets, and long reach - declared it a combat zone. As they have many times before, they're unashamedly ginning bigotry and hatred into violence and bloodshed. But this time, they've gotten smart about it. Instead of parading through the streets in hoods and robes... they've gone undercover. Dozens upon dozens of them, hiding inside the New York justice system so they can control the law. Control the people. And as God is my witness, I will drive them out and strike them down... no matter what the cost.

I got up and turned off the coffee machine, pouring the last of the brew into my cup. I sat back down and sipped it, wondering why I bothered; there was no reason for me to be awake and alert. I had all the leisure time a man could want—I was suspended from work, and being stalked by somebody who thought he was turning himself into me. And if he somehow missed me, I was still under investigation for a murder I hadn’t committed. Considering how many I had gotten away with, that was probably very ironic. I tried a hollow, mocking laugh at myself, but it sounded too spooky in the sudden silence of the empty house. So I slurped coffee and concentrated on self-pity for a while. It came surprisingly easily; I really was the victim of a gross miscarriage of justice, and it was a simple matter for me to feel wounded, martyred, betrayed by the very system I had served so long and well. Luckily, my native wit trickled back in before I began to sing country songs, and I turned my thoughts toward finding a way out of my predicament. But in spite of the fact that I finished the coffee—my third cup of the morning, too—I couldn’t seem to kick my brain out of the glutinous sludge of misery it had fallen into. I was reasonably sure that Hood could not find anything and make it stick to me; there was nothing there to find. But I also knew that he was very anxious to solve Camilla’s murder—both so that he would look good to the department and the press and, just as importantly, so he could make Deborah look bad. And if I added in the uncomfortable fact that he was obviously aided and abetted by Sergeant Doakes and his toxic tunnel vision, I had to conclude that the outlook was far from rosy. I didn’t really believe they would manufacture evidence merely in order to frame me, but on the other hand—why wouldn’t they? It had happened before, even with an investigating officer who had a whole lot less on the line. The

Robin Hood or my Robyn Hood - a legendary character known throughout the world. Why? Essentially the character is on the side of the poor, the oppressed, those who live in a society with very limited recourse to justice. Hence the attraction of an heroic figure who identifies with the poor and the needy and has the courage and ability to solve the problems. Often at the point of an arrow or sword? Why not. That gives the hero character an adventurous dimension to their actions.

When we only have carceral solutions to social problems, there is very little room for actual justice, much less healing.

justice ought sometimes to protect those least able to protect themselves

Marian shook her head. “Nay, I would see a world that is more concerned with justice and mercy than with rank.

You screamed and cursed like a woman possessed. Now you think he’s the greatest thing under the sun.” “Point taken. I just know it’s not going to be easy obeying the rules of a new kid on the block. Que sera, sera. Anyway, I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s no use worrying about things beyond my control.” The chief proved how well he knew her and asked, “Are you and Tom having problems?” He reached across the desk and placed a hand over hers. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. Without looking up she replied, “Sorry, sir. Slip of the tongue. Ignore me. That package probably affected me more than I realised.” He gripped her hand tightly. “Look at me, Lorne.” She obeyed him. “If you want to talk any time, you know where I am.” Easing her hand from under his, she said, “I’ll remember that, the next time we have an argument and I’m contemplating my life’s journey at three o’clock in the morning.” “Ah, don’t think the wife would be too keen on that idea, do you?” They both smiled, and Lorne stood up to leave the room. “I meant what I said, Lorne. Don’t ever forget it.” She nodded and left his office. As she headed down the corridor towards the conference room, she took a few deep breaths to help push down her bubbling emotions. Chapter 26 “What have we got?” Lorne asked, walking into the incident room. “At 4:32 AM, a suspect delivered the package. Take a look.” Pete nodded at Tracy, and she started the video. A shudder ran up Lorne’s spine as she watched a man, dressed from head to toe in black, deposit the box on the top step of the station. He arrogantly stopped to wave at the camera, obviously knowing his every movement was being taped. His hooded sweatshirt obscured his face; it was impossible to make out his features as he mocked the camera. “Is there any way we can find out how tall he is? It would be a start.” “I’ll line a few of the guys up—varying heights, of course. See what we can come up with. I’ll get on it straightaway,” Pete said. Lorne and Tracy checked the video, frame by frame, for clues. Nothing—no rings, no glimpses of tattoos. Nothing. Mitch burst into the room and threw himself into one of the vacant chairs. He placed a list on the table and slid it across to Lorne. “Fifteen perverts in and around the Chelling Forest area.” “By ‘perverts’, I take it you mean registered sex offenders, Mitch?” she asked, studying the list. “Actually, what I meant to say was, there are fifteen names on the list—thirteen sex offenders and two registered paedophiles.

Five days later, Cassian sat before the desk of the library’s high priestess and watched her enchanted pen move. He’d met Clotho a few times over the centuries—found she had a dry, wicked sense of humor and a soothing presence. He’d made a point not to stare at her hands, or at the face he’d only seen once, when Mor had brought her in so long ago. It had been so battered and bloody it hadn’t looked like a face at all. He had no idea how it had healed beneath the hood. If Madja had been able to save it in a way she hadn’t been able to save Clotho’s hands. He supposed it didn’t matter what she looked like, not when she had accomplished and built so much with Rhys and Mor within this library. A sanctuary for females who’d endured such unspeakable horrors that he was always happy to carry out justice on their behalf. His mother had needed a place like this. But Rhys had established it long after she’d left this world. He wondered if Azriel’s mother had

Five days later, Cassian sat before the desk of the library’s high priestess and watched her enchanted pen move. He’d met Clotho a few times over the centuries—found she had a dry, wicked sense of humor and a soothing presence. He’d made a point not to stare at her hands, or at the face he’d only seen once, when Mor had brought her in so long ago. It had been so battered and bloody it hadn’t looked like a face at all. He had no idea how it had healed beneath the hood. If Madja had been able to save it in a way she hadn’t been able to save Clotho’s hands. He supposed it didn’t matter what she looked like, not when she had accomplished and built so much with Rhys and Mor within this library. A sanctuary for females who’d endured such unspeakable horrors that he was always happy to carry out justice on their behalf. His mother had needed a place like this. But Rhys had established it long after she’d left this world. He wondered if Azriel’s mother had ever considered coming here, or if he’d ever pushed her to.

Truth is, for every galaxy that far surpasses every planet, there is a Hood. In every Hood, there is birthed a remnant of greatness and uniqueness like no other. Against all odds, that remnant shall be a mighty force that changes the game”!

Men are to be brought to this black business hood-winked. They are to be drawn in by degrees, until they cannot retreat…we are breaking through all those sacred maxims of our forefathers, and giving the alarm to every wise man on the continent of America, that all his rights depend on the will of men whose corruptions are notorious, who regard him as an enemy, and who have no interest in his prosperity.

Dump all autocratic nonsense of law-abidance, Tell the right from wrong by conscience rule. If you want human rights to reign supreme, Wake up and be the world leader of your hood.

Justice Wargrave removed his false teeth and dropped them into a glass of water. The shrunken lips fell in. It was a cruel mouth now, cruel and predatory. Hooding his eyes, the judge smiled to himself. He’d cooked Seton’s goose all right!

But the peculiar impact of white fragility on the dynamics between white women means that too often mainstream white feminists get hung up on being polite at the expense of being effective.

There are many spirits trapped in this part of the forest. Many hear voices, children crying, or the screams of the dying." He climbed from the truck and waved a hand at the trees. "The spirits that walk this part of the forest are revengeful and seek justice. Many will never find the peace they seek.

IN A WORLD WHERE THE WEAK ARE PREYED UPON... crime goes unpunished and evil runs rampant in the streets, who will stand up to chaos and fight for justice? There is only one: an outlaw biker with dead set principles and dangerous methods that get the job done. Asking nothing in return, he sets out for war in the name of the people, regardless of creed or colour. These are the stories of an outlaw about to douse the criminal world in gasoline and strike the match. He's a one man wrecking ball...today's Robin Hood, protector of the people.