Ideas For Yearbook Quotes

Suddenly, it's all too much. Bryn and the bump watch. Vanessa with my high school yearbook. The idea that nothing's sacred. Everything's fodder. That my life belongs to anyone but me.

Your Lexicon is exceedingly impressive." "Listen back to that last sentence, you literary show-off." "I have no idea what you mean.

Grimod de La Reynière was the founder of culinary journalism. His articles in newspapers and yearbooks fed restaurants with new ideas. No more was the art of good eating a luxury reserved for the banquet halls of nobility. The one whose fingers were all over this had none: Grimod de La Reynière, grand master of pen and spoon, was born with no hands, and he wrote, cooked, and ate with hooks.

Before World War II, there was no such thing as organic food. All food was organic. Food was just food—plants, grains, meats, and dairy that we could all recognize or grow. There were no long lists of ingredients on packages that you couldn’t pronounce, much less have any idea what they did to your body or the environment. In 1938, the USDA’s Yearbook of Agriculture was called Soils and Men, and it remains a handbook of organic farming today, but back then that was the norm.

The end of childhood is when you realise that adults have no idea what the hell they're doing

On May 27, Bryn Mawr awarded 167 bachelor of arts degrees. Sixty percent of the class was headed straight to graduate or professional school. My friends and teachers had assumed I would go to law school, but I could not imagine devoting myself to the details of torts or civil procedure. If I decided to pursue further education, I knew it would be for graduate work in history. What had always captured me intellectually was the broad sweep of ideas and social forces. And having grown up in a changing and not-changing Virginia, I knew how those assumptions and circumstances exerted their power through time, often creating silences and blindnesses that undermined human possibility. From at least when I had written to Eisenhower as a nine-year-old, I had recognized the force and the burden of history; I understood the words of the white southern poet and novelist Robert Penn Warren: “History is what you can’t / Resign from.”11 Coming to terms with the past would ultimately become an intellectual and professional commitment as well as a personal necessity. I grew up to be a historian. My page in the Bryn Mawr college yearbook, 1968. On my right wrist I am wearing the bracelet my grandmother gave me the night my mother died. But not yet. I had decided I needed to be in the real world for a while. I had loved school since I began kindergarten at the age of four, and at Bryn Mawr I had become caught up not just in learning

These victim-blaming talking points were being repeated just hours after the shooting, not only by the media but by the president himself. The idea that it’s up to the threatened classes to protect themselves from bigots rather than up to the bigots not to spread hatred and act on their terrible instincts is as stupid as, well, Trump. “Everyone knows people hate Jews! Lock the doors next time!” So comforting.

I stare at the mirror, running my fingers around my round face and my wide nose and wondering if Mom really does think she could have done better than Dad—better than Asian—and if she does, does she think she could have done better than me? It hurts. It hurts hearing her vocalize my fear—that people might not look at me the way they look at her. And it hurts to think she looks down on Dad, and maybe down on me, and Taro, and Shoji. Closing my eyes, I think of all the faces in my sketchbook. The ones I’ve drawn since Hiroshi told me beauty isn’t just one thing. They’re all different and special and unique. I don’t look at them the way Mom looks at the faces in a yearbook. Because it wouldn’t be fair. It feels cruel, like I’m saying one type of face is better than another. Like I’m saying one kind of heritage is better than another. It’s an ugly thing to do. I’d rather have an ugly face than an ugly heart. I let my hands drop to my sides and shake my head at the mirror. And I decide, right there and then, that I don’t care if I’m not someone’s idea of pretty. I don’t care if my name might disappoint someone, or if my face might disappoint someone’s parents. Because that says so much more about them than it does about me. Who cares what anyone else thinks? Who cares what Mom thinks, when she’s immature enough to keep a last name she hates just to maintain an imaginary war with Serena? I love my last name. And maybe I’m even learning to love my face. That can be enough. It has to be. It will be.