Momma Raised Quotes

Momma didn’t raise no fool. Chuck E. Cheese was for mouth breathers and kids with Velcro shoes.

Men: they are what they are and women have to accept that and try to shift around them. Especially men with power. Money. The upper hand. The raised hand. Momma`s philosophy. Here`s to you, Momma. She raised the empty cup. What`s the use of fighting them. What`s the use. To struggle, to live in anger takes everything out of you, drains you, makes people hate you and what`s the use? You get nothing you want, all you get is tired.

I say, "Not every woman got the same strong." "What'd you say?" "Your momma had the strong to give birth to you, to raise you, to put the strength inside you to do something she never could. Maybe she couldn't be your strong. In the end, you saved yourself.

And, Momma, if there is a separate heaven for gay people,” Danny continued with a smile, “well, you’ll just have to come visit.” He raised his mother’s chin gently with the side of his index finger, forcing her to look at him. “I hear it’s on a rainbow, not a cloud, so at least you’ll get some color.

I didn’t know much about God, ’cept that if you pissed Him off, He’d getcha one day. My momma knew God—she was raised a Methodist. In fact, her daddy was a Methodist preacher. Still, Momma said she wanted more from God, so for the past couple of years she’d been searching for more. I got to go with her on some of those searches. First, we tried the Jehovah’s Witnesses. They were cool, till I learned they didn’t celebrate Christmas. God or no God, I wasn’t giving up Christmas! Then we tried the Muslims (or the “Black Muslims,” as Momma called them). I didn’t like them because when we got to their church (which they called a mosque), they made us change our clothes and put on some of their clothes: floor-length dresses and material to wrap our heads in so our hair wouldn’t show. And they searched us too, which pissed me off. But Momma seemed to understand; she said it was because white folks thought the Muslims were militant, so white folks was always messing with ’em—you know, harassing them, arresting them, threatening them. Momma said the Muslims had to be careful so that’s why they were searching folks. uring Momma’s God search, we tried a few other religions. I never really did care one way or the other. I never really seriously thought about God because, no matter what the religion, they all wanted you to be perfect. And I knew I was far from perfect. So I figured God wouldn’t wanna mess with me. I don’t know which religion Momma finally decided on. Maybe she realized she didn’t need a particular religion to know and love God or for God to know and love her. Whatever she decided, she also decided that she wasn’t going to choose for me. She wanted to wait until I was old enough and then let me decide my religion.

The scene unfolded before him as though he were a ghost. His mother stood on the raised stump, her body tied to the tall stake behind her. A pile of wood encircled her feet. Only a small crowd had gathered in the courtyard, despite his father’s commands that all should attend. Alasdair sobbed at her feet, calling out to her. The young Alasdair climbed on the pile and clutched her flowing gown. She had been dressed in her finest, not stripped down to her chemise like the handmaid who stood tied to a post beside her. His father had always liked a display. Alasdair’s hands reached and passed over his mother’s large pregnant belly. With that, she sobbed, too. “Oh, Ali, be good for Momma. I’ll see you in the pearly white heaven that God has promised us. Be steadfast, son. Trust your heart.” “Light it,” his father ordered.

Momma didn't raise any fool, she put me in fostercare

Your momma still doing that?” “Yes. She thinks I need a man to ‘see to my needs.’ Every time she says it, an angel loses its wings and I know Baby Jesus cries.” He smirked. “Your momma wants to make sure you get laid.” “I don’t know where to start with her. She makes no sense, trying to set me up all the time. She raised me to believe everyone is an axe murderer.” “Is this about that Layorona lady? The one your brother told me wanders around looking for her kids?” “It’s pronounced La Llorona, and yes. She is the ghost of a woman in white, searching for her children, because she murdered them. Fear of strangers is second only to fear of La Llorona when you're a Mexican kid.” Hank’s grin was pained, like a wincing grin. “Your momma is funny.” “It’s not funny. It’s terrifying. We all grew up knowing who she was and being told we must listen or La Llorona will find you. I'm still not sure if the lesson is listen to your parents or La Llorona will find you and kill you, or listen to your Mexican mother because she might go crazy and kill you. Oh sure, she'll spend eternity crying and searching for you, but she will kill you.” “Maybe if you’d listen to her, you’d find a good man.” I scoffed and snorted, shaking my head. “No. She just enjoys flinging random men in my direction.

Yep, just how my momma raised me. If I like you, I like you. I’m an all-or-nothing person, always have been.

Wright told Klein that he saw the Obamas as secularists, for whom “church is not their thing”: And even after Barack and Michelle came to the church their kids weren’t raised in the church like you raise other kids in Sunday school. No. Church is not their thing. It never was their thing. Michelle was not the kind of black woman whose momma made her go to church, made her go to Sunday school, made her go to Baptist Young People’s Union. She wasn’t raised in that kind of environment. So the church was not an integral part of their spiritual lives after they got married. But the church was an integral part of Barack’s politics. Because he needed that black base.

You should learn some manners, Ollie, but I realize Hell’s Kitchen boys were raised by their momma’s pimps and don’t know no better.

I heard her footsteps behind me and the sound brought me up short. I'd left her to carry the boxes, and that was discourteous. My momma raised me better, even if I was suffering from penile engorgement.

There you are,” I told my mother, standing in the hot breeze that had entered along with the rattle of traffic and the voices in the street. “Brooklyn.” My mother turned to Gabe, who was holding her hand. “Show me,” she said again. The strain of this vigil was evident in the shape of his shoulders and the weariness in his eyes. He glanced up at me where I stood by the window and then down at her again. “All right,” he said softly. He got up slowly, pushing back the old dining-room chair. He leaned over the bed, slipping his hands beneath her. I watched in some astonishment as he lifted her, the bedclothes trailing. “Get the door,” he said over his shoulder as he made his way out of the room with our mother in his arms like a child. He turned to his side to fit them both through the passageway, and I overtook them in the living room. We had lined the woodwork here with boric acid, to keep the roaches at bay, and there was something of its pale dust over everything in those days. It sometimes made me recall: sand of Syria and Mount Lebanon. I went ahead to open the door. Gabe slipped through it, our mother in his arms. I followed them down the stairs, astonished, full of objections, but unable to object. I watched him as he gently negotiated the turnings. I wondered briefly if he planned to carry her all the way to the hospital. In the vestibule, the door to the parlor-floor apartment was still patched with plywood. Gabe turned to me and nodded toward the street. My mother’s eyes were closed. In my brother’s arms she seemed as small and light as an infant. I went ahead to pull the first door open, and then slipped around them to get the outer door as well. There was a blast of heat. Gabe carried my mother into the sunlight and down the steps. There were kids on the stoop across the street, there was the tinny music from their transistor radios. They glared, open-mouthed. A pair of dark men passing by looked up as Gabe came down the stairs with my mother in his arms. They walked to the curb, glancing over their shoulders, giving him wide berth. Gabe, too, went to the curb and then turned around to look back up at the house. I rushed to scoop up the sheet and the blanket that was now brushing the sidewalk. “You’re here, Momma,” I heard him say. “Where we’ve always lived.” My mother raised her head. She extricated one thin hand from the winding bedclothes and raised it to her eyes against the sun. She looked down the street and then up at our building, the blue summer light reflecting in the glass of the front door, the bowed parlor window—some plywood there, too—and then up to the fourth floor, where a bit of lace curtain, her handiwork, had been drawn through the opened window. “Not home,” I heard Gabe tell her, reassuring her. “Brooklyn.

My mom raised me the best way she could with the tools she had available. I asked her once if she found being a single mom harder than being a not-single mom. "Just because I was married to your father doesn't mean I wasn't always a single mom," she said more than once.

Pray for Momma [Verse] I pray for Momma, to ease her every pain, For the strength she’s shown me, in her own special way. With hands that cradled me, and a heart so true, She's the light of our home, and I pray she'll pull through. [Chorus] Oh Lord, help her heal, give her strength to live another day, We still need her laughter, her smile to lead the way. In the quiet of the night, I whisper a tearful plea, Watch over my Momma, like she's watched over me. [Verse 2] Her gentle voice, a soothing lullaby, The warmth of her touch, never asked why. Through storms and trials, she's our steady guide, I've seen her stand tall, though she’s hurting inside. [Chorus] Oh Lord, help her heal, give her strength to live another day, We still need her laughter, her smile to lead the way. In the quiet of the night, I whisper a tearful plea, Watch over my Momma, like she's watched over me. [Bridge] Years of sacrifice, she gave all she could, Raised us with love, in a small neighborhood. Now it’s her turn to rest, but still she fights on, Lord, give her peace, before her strength is gone. [Verse 3] Every dawn I rise, I see her face anew, A beacon of hope in skies once gray and blue. Her love has shaped me, every step of my track, I’ll keep praying for her, until she gets back.

You’re a detective? Really?” “That’s what it says on the waistband of my underwear. Abe, lay one of our cards on the man.” Abe already had a business card in his hand. He set it in the middle of the desk, oriented so McMahon could read it without touching it. “I’m Abe. That’s Duff. Forgive him. He was raised in the woods by a family of sasquatch, and not the cultured kind of sasquatch, either.” “I miss my hairy momma.” Duff kissed his fist and pointed at the ceiling. “Skookum Valley ain’t the same without you, Mom!

We're not responsible for what our parents do. They're not perfect people." My sister raised an eyebrow at me. I was walking a fine line, and she wanted to shove me over to the safe side to protect her charmed memories of Momma. "Well, it's the truth. Parents are prone to failure," I reiterated. "You and I know this better than anyone." Marvina glared at me. "No one is perfect. Not mothers. Not daughters, either." "I never claimed to be perfect. I made a mistake." "No. A mistake is when you act without realizing those actions will have negative consequences as a result. That's different from a lapse in judgement." She didn't mince words. The way she sounded all calm and collected while criticizing me--- classic Momma move. "Do you get a pass for being young? Naive? Inexperienced?" Kerresha's spoon clacked against her bowl. "Ummm... Are we talking about me or one of y'all?" "These are general understandings," Marvina deflected in a soothing manner. "I call BS," Kerresha said.

Afterward, Marvina and I fried the chicken, and, I tell you, all hell broke loose when Kerresha tasted the meat. "Oh my God! Holy Jesus and Guadalupe Mary!" Before Marvina could ask her to stop using the Lord's name in vain, Kerresha leaned back in her chair and feigned a heart attack. "Oh my God! Mmm, mmm mmmmm! Where? What kind of voodoo did you put in this chicken?" "Ain't no voodoo here in this house," Marvina bucked. "Yes! There is!" Kerresha licked her fingers. "I promise you. On God." She put a hand on her heart. "This chicken just took me back to the spiritual power of the ancestors." Marvina was so flattered she couldn't be mad. We both looked at each other and laughed, because, truth be told, this was exactly the reaction people gave the first time they tasted Momma's seasoning on expertly fried chicken. "Y'all." Kerresha raised both hands in the air like she was getting happy in a holiness church. "Is it the grease? The seasoning? Chickens raised by unicorns?" "It's the seasoning," my sister and I said simultaneously. Kerresha swallowed another bite. "Whatever y'all put in that seasoning is a miracle. A double miracle, since it also has the power to make y'all finally both agree on something.

My momma didn’t raise no bitch. And even if she did, it was my brother.

My MOMMA DIDN'T RAISE NO FOOL... A FREAKIN" PSYCHO MAYBE. "BUT NO DAMN FOOL.