Leaving Primary School Quotes

From the primary school till he leaves the university a young man does nothing but acquire books by heart without his judgment or personal initiative being ever called into play.

She spent much of her childhood and adolescence planning elaborate scheme to remove herself from family conflict: staying completely silent, keeping her face and body expressionless and immobile, wordlessly leaving the room and making her way to her bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. Locking herself in the toilet. Leaving the house for an indefinite number of hours and sitting in the school car park by herself. None of these strategies had ever proven successful. In fact her tactics only seemed to increase the possibility that she would be punished as the primary instigator.

It is necessary for the oppressors to approach the people in order, via subjugation, to keep them passive. This approximation, however, does not involve being with the people, or require true communication. It is accomplished by the oppressors' depositing myths indispensable to the preservation of the status quo: for example, the myth that the oppressive order is a "free society"; the myth that all persons are free to work where they wish, that if they don't like their boss they can leave him and look for another job; the myth that this order respects human rights and is therefore worthy of esteem; the myth that anyone who is industrious can become an entrepreneur--worse yet, the myth that the street vendor is as much an entrepreneur as the owner of a large factory; the myth of the universal right of education, when of all the Brazilian children who enter primary schools only a tiny fraction ever reach the university; the myth of the equality of all individuals, when the question: "Do you know who you're talking to?" is still current among us; the myth of the heroism of the oppressor classes as defenders of "Western Christian civilization" against "materialist barbarism"; the myth of the charity and generosity of the elites, when what they really do as a class is to foster selective "good deeds" (subsequently elaborated into the myth of "disinterested aid," which on the international level was severely criticized by Pope John XXIII); the myth that the dominant elites, "recognizing their duties," promote the advancement of the people, so that the people, in a gesture of gratitude, should accept the words of the elites and be conformed to them; the myth of private property as fundamental to personal human development (so long as oppressors are the only true human beings); the myth of the industriousness of the oppressors and the laziness and dishonesty of the oppressed as well as the myth of the natural inferiority of the latter and the superiority of the former.

In the mid-1950s, there were 476,000 pupils in the primary education system, but just 83,000 in secondary and vocational schools, suggesting that more than 80 per cent dropped out of formal education at fourteen, the legal school leaving age.

Development means a capacity for self-sustaining growth. It means that an economy must register advances which in turn will promote further progress. The loss of industry and skill in Africa was extremely small, if we measure it from the viewpoint of modern scientific achievements or even by the standards of England in the late eighteenth century. However, it must be borne in mind that to be held back at one stage means that it is impossible to go on to a further stage. When a person is forced to leave school after only two years of primary school education, it is no reflection on him that he is academically and intellectually less developed than someone who had the opportunity to be schooled right through to university level. What Africa experienced in the early centuries of trade was precisely a loss of development opportunity, and this is of greatest importance.

We become better conversationalists when we employ two primary objectives. Number one: Take the risk. It is up to us to take the risk of starting a conversation with a stranger. We cannot hope that others will approach us; instead, even if we are shy, it is up to us to make the first move. We all fear rejection at some level. Just remind yourself that there are more dire consequences in life than a rejection by someone at a networking event, singles function, back-to-school night, or association meeting. Number two: Assume the burden. It is up to each and every one of us to assume the burden of conversation. It is our responsibility to come up with topics to discuss; it is up to us to remember people’s names and to introduce them to others; it is up to us to relieve the awkward moments or fill the pregnant pause.

waited, I read that morning’s out-of-date newspaper. Paul the Porter sometimes leaves them for me on my bedside cabinet. I like the local newspapers best—where the rest of the world doesn’t exist, and all that matters is the local primary school’s new nature garden and an old woman who knitted a quilt for charity. Children are turning one year older, teenagers are graduating, and grandparents are being laid to rest. Everything is small and manageable and everybody waits their turn to die. When I’d finished

PART II THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS TO HIS OWN COUNTRY CHAPTER V. Odysseus on the Island of Calypso VI. Odysseus Constructs a Raft and Leaves the Island VII. Odysseus is Saved on the Island of Scheria VIII. Nausicaä is Sent to the River by Athena IX. Odysseus Arrives at the Palace of Alkinoös X. Odysseus in the Halls of Alkinoös XI. The Banquet in Honor of Odysseus XII. Odysseus Relates His Adventures XIII. The Lotus-Eaters and the Cyclops XIV. The Cave of the Cyclops XV. The Blinding of the Cyclops XVI. Odysseus and His Companions Leave the Land of the Cyclops XVII. The Adventures of Odysseus on the Island of Æolus XVIII. Odysseus at the Home of Circè XIX. Circè Instructs Odysseus Concerning His Descent to Hades XX. The Adventures of Odysseus in Hades XXI. Odysseus Converses with His Mother and Agamemnon XXII. Conversation with Achilles and Other Heroes XXIII. The Return of Odysseus to the Island of Circè XXIV. Odysseus Meets the Sirens, Skylla, and Charybdis XXV. Odysseus on the Island of Hēlios XXVI. The Departure of Odysseus from the Island of Scheria XXVII. Odysseus Arrives at Ithaca XXVIII. Odysseus Seeks the Swineherd

Except then a local high school journalism class decided to investigate the story. Not having attended Columbia Journalism School, the young scribes were unaware of the prohibition on committing journalism that reflects poorly on Third World immigrants. Thanks to the teenagers’ reporting, it was discovered that Reddy had become a multimillionaire by using H-1B visas to bring in slave labor from his native India. Dozens of Indian slaves were working in his buildings and at his restaurant. Apparently, some of those “brainy” high-tech workers America so desperately needs include busboys and janitors. And concubines. The pubescent girls Reddy brought in on H-1B visas were not his nieces: They were his concubines, purchased from their parents in India when they were twelve years old. The sixty-four-year-old Reddy flew the girls to America so he could have sex with them—often several of them at once. (We can only hope this is not why Mark Zuckerberg is so keen on H-1B visas.) The third roommate—the crying girl—had escaped the carbon monoxide poisoning only because she had been at Reddy’s house having sex with him, which, judging by the looks of him, might be worse than death. As soon as a translator other than Reddy was found, she admitted that “the primary purpose for her to enter the U.S. was to continue to have sex with Reddy.” The day her roommates arrived from India, she was forced to watch as the old, balding immigrant had sex with both underage girls at once.3 She also said her dead roommate had been pregnant with Reddy’s child. That could not be confirmed by the court because Reddy had already cremated the girl, in the Hindu tradition—even though her parents were Christian. In all, Reddy had brought seven underage girls to the United States for sex—smuggled in by his brother and sister-in-law, who lied to immigration authorities by posing as the girls’ parents.4 Reddy’s “high-tech” workers were just doing the slavery Americans won’t do. No really—we’ve tried getting American slaves! We’ve advertised for slaves at all the local high schools and didn’t get a single taker. We even posted flyers at the grade schools, asking for prepubescent girls to have sex with Reddy. Nothing. Not even on Craigslist. Reddy’s slaves and concubines were considered “untouchables” in India, treated as “subhuman”—“so low that they are not even considered part of Hinduism’s caste system,” as the Los Angeles Times explained. To put it in layman’s terms, in India they’re considered lower than a Kardashian. According to the Indian American magazine India Currents: “Modern slavery is on display every day in India: children forced to beg, young girls recruited into brothels, and men in debt bondage toiling away in agricultural fields.” More than half of the estimated 20.9 million slaves worldwide live in Asia.5 Thanks to American immigration policies, slavery is making a comeback in the United States! A San Francisco couple “active in the Indian community” bought a slave from a New Delhi recruiter to clean house for them, took away her passport when she arrived, and refused to let her call her family or leave their home.6 In New York, Indian immigrants Varsha and Mahender Sabhnani were convicted in 2006 of bringing in two Indonesian illegal aliens as slaves to be domestics in their Long Island, New York, home.7 In addition to helping reintroduce slavery to America, Reddy sends millions of dollars out of the country in order to build monuments to himself in India. “The more money Reddy made in the States,” the Los Angeles Times chirped, “the more good he seemed to do in his hometown.” That’s great for India, but what is America getting out of this model immigrant? Slavery: Check. Sickening caste system: Check. Purchasing twelve-year-old girls for sex: Check. Draining millions of dollars from the American economy: Check. Smuggling half-dead sex slaves out of his slums in rolled-up carpets right under the nose of the Berkeley police: Priceless.

We danced to John Michael Montgomery’s “I Swear.” We cut the seven-tiered cake, electing not to take the smear-it-on-our-faces route. We visited and laughed and toasted. We held hands and mingled. But after a while, I began to notice that I hadn’t seen any of the tuxedo-clad groomsmen--particularly Marlboro Man’s friends from college--for quite some time. “What happened to all the guys?” I asked. “Oh,” he said. “They’re down in the men’s locker room.” “Oh, really?” I asked. “Are they smoking cigars or something?” “Well…” He hesitated, grinning. “They’re watching a football game.” I laughed. “What game are they watching?” It had to be a good one. “It’s…ASU is playing Nebraska,” he answered. ASU? His alma mater? Playing Nebraska? Defending national champions? How had I missed this? Marlboro Man hadn’t said a word. He was such a rabid college football fan, I couldn’t believe such a monumental game hadn’t been cause to reschedule the wedding date. Aside from ranching, football had always been Marlboro Man’s primary interest in life. He’d played in high school and part of college. He watched every televised ASU game religiously--for the nontelevised games, he relied on live reporting from Tony, his best friend, who attended every game in person. “I didn’t even know they were playing!” I said. I don’t know why I shouldn’t have known. It was September, after all. But it just hadn’t crossed my mind. I’d been a little on the busy side, I guess, getting ready to change my entire life and all. “How come you’re not down there watching it?” I asked. “I didn’t want to leave you,” he said. “You might get hit on.” He chuckled his sweet, sexy chuckle. I laughed. I could just see it--a drunk old guest scooting down the bar, eyeing my poufy white dress and spouting off pickup lines: You live around here? I sure like what you’re wearing… So…you married? Marlboro Man wasn’t in any immediate danger. Of that I was absolutely certain. “Go watch the game!” I insisted, motioning downstairs. “Nah,” he said. “I don’t need to.” He wanted to watch the game so badly I could see it in the air. “No, seriously!” I said. “I need to go hang with the girls anyway. Go. Now.” I turned my back and walked away, refusing even to look back. I wanted to make it easy on him. I wouldn’t see him for over an hour. Poor Marlboro Man. Unsure of the protocol for grooms watching college football during their wedding receptions, he’d darted in and out of the locker room for the entire first half. The agony he must have felt. The deep, sustained agony. I was so glad he’d finally joined the guys.

The Time Line is great for getting things into perspective when you feel a bit lost and lacking direction or if you have a big change coming up such as moving to secondary school, your parents splitting up or having a new family arrangement. When you experience grief or loss, whether that is for a person or a part of your life such as leaving your Primary School, you can travel back along the time line, identify which skills you need from your old life, anchor them and bring them into the present as you move forward to Secondary School. Once you’ve done the Time Line a few times it will be in your head and you can conjure up the image and the steps without moving. This can be useful in situations when you can’t actually move physically, in class for instance.

And that's when the doorbell rings. Marcus freezes. As do I. "That must be your friend," I somehow manage to say, even though my throat is trying to close. Marcus is clearly torn between remaining immobile and opening the door. The bell rings again. "Want me to get it?" "No," he says. "No." I stand, not knowing what to do while he slowly springs open the door. Not surprisingly, Marcus's old schoolfriend is a petite and extraordinarily pretty brunette. She steps into the apartment and kisses Marcus full on the lips. "Hello, darling," she says. Marcus recoils slightly and casts a worried glance in my direction which his friend follows. "Hi," I say, extending my hand as I try to force my face into a smile. She takes it. Her hand is cool and delicate, as slender as the rest of her. "I'm Lucy," I continue brightly. "Marcus's girlfriend." Now it's her turn to recoil. "This is my friend, Joanne," Marcus says tightly. I look at my lover. "An old schoolfriend. That's what you said, isn't it?" I turn back to Joanne. "Which school did you go to with Marcus? Primary? Grammar? Or maybe it was the harsh school of life?" His old schoolfriend looks at him blankly. "I don't know quite what's going on here, Marcus," she says. "But I don't think that I want to be a part of it." She turns away from him, spinning on her heel toward the door. "Jo," Marcus pleads as he catches her sleeve. "Don't go." And I think that's my cue to leave. "Oh, Marcus," I say sadly. "Do you have so little respect for me?" "I can explain," he says, and I notice that he's still looking at Jo rather than at me. "You're welcome to stay and listen to it," I say to Jo. "I'll be the one to leave." Marcus does nothing to stop me, so I hitch up my gym bag once more and move toward the door. "It's been nice meeting you," I say to Marcus's new love. "You'll enjoy your dinner. It smells wonderful. It even covers the smell of a rat. The chocolates are great, by the way. I hope you both choke on them.

The collapse of society was the western front, that conflict augmented by a lack of preparation, limited physical resources, and a severe shortage of human assets. A dark, ominous cloud of uncertainty was the enemy’s primary weapon. Levi was certain that this was going to be a war of attrition. On the eastern front loomed old age. Twenty years ago, Levi would have feared no man. While he’d never spoiled for a fight in any theatre, when one came his way, he had always felt up to the task. Years of military schools and courses had instilled this confidence. Numerous engagements on the battlefield had proven him worthy. That man, however, had been a different Levi York, both physically and mentally. Now, Father Time was employing a strategy that seemed destined to make him fail. He knew the outcome of this battle was inevitable. Ultimately, he had no chance of winning. He was a ball player intentionally fouling his opponent, merely wrangling to prolong the game, desperately trying to stop the clock from counting down to zero. “Aren’t we all fighting for more time?” he reflected as he prepared for his shift on patrol. “Isn’t that what this is all about? I’ve fought insurgents, radicalized religious zealots, power-hungry holy men, and indoctrinated crazies,” he proclaimed to the mirror. “In every single case, we gave better than what we received. I controlled the field at the end of day, each and every time. Is it finally my turn to fall? Will the combination of foes we’re facing finally take me out of the fight?” he ranted. As he pondered his own questions for several moments more, Levi’s spine stiffened, his shoulders squaring off. “Doesn’t matter,” he grunted. “You’re not going down without leaving your best on the field. You’re not going to fade quietly into the night. To the end, you’re going to give it your best, old man.

The UN report was not yet done depressing me. The next section revealed that over 100 million children of primary-school age were not enrolled in school. One hundred million. Mao once said that a single death is a tragedy, but a million deaths is a statistic.

All that he could fish out from the sea of memory were a few fragments, and the farther back he went, the fewer there were. Had he really been to high school? Had he really attended primary school? Had he really had a first love? Some of the fragments bore clear scratches, reminding him that those things had indeed taken place. The details were vivid, but the feelings had vanished without a trace. The past was like a handful of sand you thought you were squeezing tightly, but which had already run out through the cracks between your fingers. Memory was a river that had run dry long ago, leaving only scattered gravel in a lifeless riverbed.

that this genius transcended was his humble origins, which Oxfordians would deprive us of. And so, the Oxfordian position doesn’t just ‘solve the mystery’ of Shakespeare’s accomplishment, doesn’t just demystify the man, it deprives the Shakespeare community of its primary source of power…. In less hyperbolic terms, anti-Stratfordians spoil the fun. They provide an answer to a question that we don’t want answered. They provide the final pieces to a puzzle we’d prefer to keep on solving. How did a young man from the depths of Warwickshire scale the heights of literary fame, armed with nothing more than a grammar school education? Well, he didn’t. Instead, an extremely well-educated, well-off, well-traveled, and well-connected young aristocrat wrote the plays. His well-documented life explains everything, in fact, and in so doing leaves little room for speculation.

Education in Italy is paid for by the state. All children must attend school between the ages of six and 14. Most go to local state schools, although there are some private schools where parents pay for their children’s education. Children leave primary school at the age of 11, taking an exam before entering middle school. At 14, it is possible to leave school altogether, but most pupils take another exam to qualify for further education. According to their skills and interests they might choose to continue with academic studies at a liceo (grammar school), or they may prefer technical studies, taking an arts course at an academy, or training to become a teacher. Pupils in further education can take an exam which, if they pass, entitles them to a place at a university. There are some government grants for university students, although most of them pay about 200,000 lire ($160) each year in fees. In recent years, the Italian government has made a great effort to improve standards of education and to make sure that everyone learns to read and write. However, the northern, more industrial part of the country still has better equipped schools than the less populated south.

The regular public schools ... have become more secular ... and more value-free. The education profession's cherished "progressivism" is part of the reason. And the close scrutiny of fierce watchdog groups ... has made schools and educators gun-shy. In recent years, however, perhaps the strongest influences have been postmodern relativism and multiculturalism, which first trickled, then gushed from university campuses into primary and secondary school classrooms. If scholars, teachers, and those who train them abjure fixed distinctions between right and wrong, if all judgments are said to depend upon one's unique perspective or background rather than universal standards of truth, beauty, or virtue, if every form of family, society, and polity is deemed equal to all other forms, and if every group's mores and values must be taught ... who is there (in school) to help children determine what it means to be an American, how to behave, and what to believe?

The key to the understanding of any society lies in the observation and analysis of the insignificant and the mundane. For one of the primary functions of societal institutions is to conceal the basic nature of the society, so that the individuals that make up the power structure can pursue the business of consolidating and increasing their power untroubled by the minor carpings of a dissatisfied peasantry. Societal institutions act as fig leaves for each other's nakedness...And so, when seeking to understand the culture or the history of a people, do not look at the precepts of the religion, the form of the government, the curricula of the schools, or the operations of businesses; flush to johns.