Ibis Pride Quotes

Pride is a wonderful terrible thing a seed that bears two vines life and death.

We’re not gonna throw away the past as if it meant nothing. See? That’s what happens to whole neighborhoods. We built something, it was messy, but we’re not gonna throw it away.

Because the thing about sharp corners is, the right turns can bring you back home.

IT’S A TRUTH universally acknowledged that when rich people move into the hood, where it’s a little bit broken and a little bit forgotten, the first thing they want to do is clean it up. But it’s not just the junky stuff they’ll get rid of. People can be thrown away too, like last night’s trash left out on sidewalks or pushed to the edge of wherever all broken things go. What those rich people don’t always know is that broken and forgotten neighborhoods were first built out of love.

never let the streets know when you’re upset. Don’t let any strangers see you cry. Hold your head up and look as if you’re ready to destroy the world if you have to.

Sometimes love is not enough to keep a community together. There needs to be something more tangible, like fair housing, opportunities, and access to resources. Lifeboats and lifelines are not supposed to just be a way for us to get out. They should be ways to let us stay in and survive. And thrive.

Ah, mija! There you go! Rivers flow. A body of water that remains stagnant is just a cesspool, mi amor! It’s time to move, flow, grow. That is the nature of rivers. That is the nature of love!

Every book is a different hood, a different country, a different world. Reading is how I visit places and people and ideas. And when something rings true or if I still have a question, I outline it with a bright yellow highlighter so that it’s lit up in my mind, like a lightbulb or a torch leading the way to somewhere new.

We have more space and less time. And the love we had for our whole neighborhood now only fits into this wood-frame house in the middle of a quiet block. We don't know the people who live across the street or on either side of us.

I killed chivalry myself with a pocketknife

They got married at a very, very young age. And thank los espíritus, as Madrina would say, that they at least liked each other. They more than liked each other, though. They are actually still in love. I know this because as we’re all yapping in the living room, Papi washes the dishes, cleans the kitchen, and comes back to offer Mama a glass of water while he takes her empty plate.

All of us must have something or someone to be proud of.

If Madrina’s basement is where the tamboras, los espíritus, and old ancestral memories live, then the roof is where wind chimes, dreams, and possibilities float with the stars, where Janae and I share our secrets and plan to travel all over the world, Haiti and the Dominican Republic being our first stop.

warm summer breeze blows, and tiny bumps form on my arms. This is what Madrina calls grains of sugar adding sweetness to my soul; the first sparks of love and attraction, of something so new and tender that if I’m too firm with it, it will burst.

Everything is how it’s supposed to be—except for that mini-mansion that’s like a newly polished pair of Jordans thrown in with a bunch of well-worn knockoffs.

I have always thought of Bushwick as home, but in that moment, I realize that home is where people I love are, wherever that is.

Papi reads as if the world is running out of books. Sometimes he’s more interested in stories and history than people.

Late June in Brooklyn is like the very beginning of a party-when the music is really good, but you know that it's about to get way better, so you just do a little two-step before the real turn-up starts.

It occurred to him now to ask himself if this was how it happened : was it possible that the mere fact of using one's hands and investing one's attention in someone other than oneself, created a pride and tenderness that had nothing whatever to do with the response of the object of one's care - just as a craftsman's love for his handiwork is in no way diminished by the fact of it being unreciprocated?

Okay, but don’t underestimate bougie rage. That’s on another level.

floor. And when Papi looks up from his food to add his two cents to the conversation, it’s like his words are a tambora adding deep wisdom to all that superficial gossip.

the thing about sharp corners is, the right turns can bring you back home.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders, pull him in, and give Darius a deep, long kiss for what feels like forever.

wanna get white-boy wasted?

He laughs and I pick up the sweatshirt—a logo of Hillman College from that old TV show A Different World—and hand it to him.

They did not know that I did it for myself; that pride, whose slave I was, spoke to me louder than al their voices, and that Doodle walked only because I was ashamed of having a crippled brother.

I give them each a kiss on the cheek, and in that moment, I feel like I can fly around the world and back if I want to, because this is what will always be here waiting for me: my parents’ love; my loud sisters; my crowded and cluttered apartment; and the lingering scent of home-cooked meals.

Read to travel,” Papi always says. Every book is a different hood, a different country, a different world. Reading is how I visit places and people and ideas. And when something rings true or if I still have a question, I outline it with a bright yellow highlighter so that it’s lit up in my mind, like a lightbulb or a torch leading the way to somewhere new. It’s usually enough to make me forget I’ve barely left Bushwick.

As he was raising his hand to his lips, it occurred to him that this was the first time in all his years that he had eaten something that was prepared by hands of unknown caste. Perhaps it was this thought, or perhaps it was just the smell of the food--it happened, at any rate, that he was assailed by a nausea so powerful that he could not bring his fingers to his mouth. The intensity of his body's resistance amazed him: for the fact was that he did not believe in caste, or at least he had said, many, many times, to his friends and anyone else who would listen. If, in answer, they accused him of having become too tash, overly Westernized, his retort was always to say, no, his allegiance was to the Buddha, the Mahavira, Shri Chaitanya, Kabir and many others such--all of whom had battled against the boundaries of caste with as much determinations as any European revolutionary. Neel had always taken pride in laying claim to this lineage of egalitarianism, all the more so since it was his prerogative to see on a Raja's guddee: but why, then, had he never before eaten anything prepared by an unknown hand?

I did not know the that pride is a wonderful, terrible thing, a seed that bears two vines, life and death.

What are the words that can solder cracked pride?