Manila Girl Quotes

A particularly intriguing case is that of an eleven-year-old girl, Meera, who was kidnapped from India’s west coast and then sold to the Spanish in Manila. She was then taken to Mexico where she is remembered as Catarina de San Juan.

Inside the saloon, a band of plump, middle-aged gentlemen in Stetson hats and leather jackets crooned about an Ibaloi girl from Bahong. Like the roses of Bahong Ambrosial and winsome If they uproot it and bring it to Manila They will kill it They sang in mellow, baritone voices.

Gather around the campfire of crimes committed against children, bodies located an hour from home, in a place so remote screams were muffled to those dark stars. It remains a mystery, they say but there is no mystery when someone knows, and others won’t speak, and all that is left of this investigation at one point fit into a slim manila envelope, because detectives of the past did not seek further, did not track down the road of violence for the violated you won’t name suspects. Shame on those that cradle those girl’s cries in their memory. Bookshelves now tell of their suffering

Then she heaved over a strange round object, like a big basket made of rushes with a tarred overcoat of—canvas, perhaps? Hugh had never seen such a thing before and said so. ‘’Tis a curragh,’ Mr. O’Malley told him. ‘Other boats use a dinghy but they have to haul it and that’s a drag on a boat. Good sticks they’ve got here, they call them manuka, for making of a true Irish boat. Me and my daughter made it ourselves; it’s just the same as a very big cray pot, so it is. Good manila line here and there’s me corks. Over you go now, my girl, and God be between you and harm.’ Gráinne lowered herself down into the little boat, which bobbed like a duck, and began paddling towards a buoy. When she reached it, she hooked the marker onto a line which the old man began hauling.

We were quiet for a minute. I wanted him to continue. “Although sexually I swing both ways, I prefer males to females. I can relate to a male companion more easily. I have a girlfriend in Manila, but she is naive and very needy. I like the Oasis School because I get to have practical carnal training with some of the females from the girl's school. They are in the same situation as we are; they have been taught how to please men sexually.

You don’t need to be a hero.” I stiffened. A year ago, when I’d arrived on the decks of the Saratoga to set sail for Manila, I’d lived a small life. I was lonely and knew little about friendship. But since I’d been here in the Philippines, I’d become a part of something bigger than myself. This sprawling group of nurses and doctors and soldiers had become my family, and while serving alongside them, I’d learned I could withstand fear and deprivation and help others. That shy orphaned farm girl was half a world away and in her place was someone I barely recognized—but I liked her a lot. Now I was strong, independent, and resourceful. Though saying no to George hurt like hell, I knew it was the right answer.

I am told that my grandmother, the Beautiful Wife, was in awe of Imelda Marcos, the provincial beauty queen whom historians later called the Iron Butterfly. My grandmother, a girl from the provinces who worked her way to Manila, saw in Imelda an ideal. “Her favorite book

adventure. Or maybe it’s just because I’m dumb. “No. I don’t know anything about Linus that might help you.” Colton folded his hands and exhaled slowly. “That’s a shame, because you seemed like a kid with common sense.” He stood from the desk and cracked his knuckles. I didn’t know what he was planning on doing, and luckily I didn’t have to find out. The speaker by the door crackled, and a girl’s voice spoke loud and clear. “Colton, to the front office please. Your bike is parked in a tow away zone. Colton, to the front office immediately.” “Blazes!” Colton shouted as he hopped off his seat. “My bike is in trouble?” As Colton started walking to the front door of the art room, I managed to sneak a peek at the page he had written notes on. The manila folder was open on the desk next to me. The paper on top was filled with chicken scratched words and doodles that looked like blueprints. Paper clipped to that sheet was my school picture. What the heck was my picture doing in his folder? Stopping at the door, Colton flipped around and headed back to the desk. Slapping the folder shut, he slid it along until it fell into his hand. “Don’t want to leave this thing sitting out, do we?” I didn’t answer, watching as he left the room. Before he disappeared out of view, I saw him say something to the