Mumma Quotes

As long as Mumma was alive, she knew that some small part of herself had remained a child, cherished and adored. Perhaps you never completely grew up until your mother died.

when it came to listening my mother taught me silence if you are drowning their voice with yours how will you hear them she asked when it came to speaking she said do it with commitment every word you say is your own responsibility when it came to being she said be tender and tough at once you need to be vulnerable to live fully but rough enough to survive it all when it came to choosing she asked me to be thankful for the choices i had that she never had the privilege of making - lessons from mumma

It was Sunday, and Mumma had gone next door with Lena and the little ones. Under the pepper tree in the yard Pa was sorting, counting, the empty bottles he would sell back: the bottles going clink clink as Pa stuck them in the sack. The fowls were fluffing in the dust and sun: that crook-neck white pullet Mumma said she would hit on the head if only she had the courage to; but she hadn't.

And when he got home he started on Mumma. He hated her then, because in her fatness and untidiness and drabness she reminded him of what he himself was when he was sober.

Here, the women of my family all met under one sign, stamped by what confining fates we had been handed. A girl had no choice in the familythat made her. No choice in the many names that followed her, wet-lipped and braying in the street. She was Psssst. And Jubi. And Catty. Mampy. Matey. Wifey. Dawlin. B. And Heffa. My Size. Empress. Brownine. Fluffy. Fatty. Slimmaz. Mawga Gyal. And Babes. Sweets. Chu Chups. And Ting. Machine. Mumma. Sketel. Rasta Gyal. Jezebel. And Daughter.

When people try to come back into my life after doing me wrong... Sorry, I can't because I already told my mom what you did...

We’ll talk more later, all right? You let me know if you need anything. Mumma says you hired Willig, Williams & White to handle the divorce.

But what did it matter what momins of the community said when they picked apart the behavior of her son? What was a believer meant to be like when all their rituals and practices were stripped away? Amar was kind. If one of his sisters came home carrying heavy textbooks, he rose to help them before they even asked. He was generous. He had very little of his own money but still he would bring home the coffee drinks Huda or Hadia liked, or a bag of cherries for Layla come cherry season, or a candle with a floral scent. Layla gossiped sometimes, everyone did, but she had never heard her son speak ill of anyone. Once when she spoke of someone from their community, he said to her, “You don’t know that, Mumma, don’t say that if you don’t fully know it.” Her heart had swelled. How her son was good in a way that she wasn’t, in a way that could instruct her. Layla had begun to think lately that there was no real way to quantify the goodness of a person—that religion gave templates and guidelines but there were ways it missed the mark entirely. And everything a momin should be in his heart, Amar was.

Mumma would always tell them to be completely silent during the nikkah, to put all their energy into prayer, that it was a holy time when something unseen in the universe was torn open and angels descended to bear witness to the momentous occasion.

Here, the women of my family all met under one sign, stamped by what confining fates we had been handed. A girl had no choice in the family that made her. No choice in the many names that followed her, wet-lipped and braying in the street. She was Psssst. And Jubi. And Catty. Mampy. Matey. Wifey. Dawlin. B. And Heffa. My Size. Empress. Brownine. Fluffy. Fatty. Slimmaz. Mawga Gyal. And Babes. Sweets. Chu Chups. And Ting. Machine. Mumma. Sketel. Rasta Gyal. Jezebel. And Daughter.

Here in the gathering numbness was our matrilineal mark: Each of us turned to stone overnight. Thrown, ripple after ripple, into the same strange sea. Delivered by some grief the night before. Here, the women of my family all met under one sign, stamped by what confining fates we had been handed. A girl had no chouce in the family that made her. No choice in the many names that followed her, wet-lipped and braying the street. She was Psssst. And Jubi. And Catty. Mampy. Matey. WIfey. Dawlin. B. And Heffa. My Size. Empress. Brownine. Fluffy. Fatty. Slimmaz. Mawga Gyal. And Babes. Sweets. Chu Chups. And Ting. Machine. Mumma. Sketel. Rasta Gyal. Jezebel. And Daughter. Born under the same relentless sun, we were kindred. Pinned by the weight of our inheritance, the crucible of Black womanhood I had not yet passed through.

Shakespeare: The hell is all empty. Devils are all here. He: SINCE 1992, Creating a chaos in people's mind. I am the devil. I am the evil behind. I drive sports car on high streets. I don't play cricket on low streets. I am a real big baller. I have my father's million dollars. I speak English and i speak to only few. I don't make strangers friends. I only have best friends. I have sleeping partners, dude, personally and professionally. I hunt girls. They say I am a Starboy. Still wonder why people love me? Anyone out there who knows me? Me (On behalf of all who refuse to crawl on your lavish hall): Hi, Rich Guy of earth. I know who You are. I know what you do. I don't just speak English but now I speak for all. I play cricket on streets. I play soccer on fields. I don't feel low when you smoke high. Because I know you're already low. You're the villain of heaven. Well, i am the hero of hell. You make best friends. I make strange friends. Starboy? You are just a Mumma's boy. Sleeping Partners, why would you take sleeping pills? You are no more than 'Mr In Vain'. But I am the one who's in everyone's vein. You are SINCE 1992, I have SINS 1992. F*** you.

....I persist in examining Mumma from all of the angles available to me I will learn. Not learn how to be a good mother to Sarah, who abandoned me on the sidewalk in front of the school building on the first day of kindergarten ("I don't need a mother any more"), but rather, to understand her, to know when to stand at her shoulder, when to sit in the stands and cheer her on, when to place myself squarely behind her, and when to throw myself in front of her onrushing train. Or even, maybe, when to come after her balloon with a hairpin. How to help her see that see is loved and to know, about herself, that her love is welcomed.

People may be the ruin of their own lives, but it's other people that get them started. -"Mumma

Mumma said there would be days like this, Some we live happily; some a dieing wish Only the brave face the unknown, Fight for what you love and accept all the growth. When others speak their worries, clear in their fears, Remember who you are, you've worked on self for years. So listen to your Mumma, she has wise words to say, Live a life you'll be thankful of and I'll always be a phone call away.

Its beauty threatened to make her cry. A short, long-toothed comb like an afro pick, with an ornate handle shaped into curves and swirls. It was exactly like River Mumma: Ancient and ageless. Exquisite. Extraordinary. It had a regality to it—a power, a gravity—and it drew Alicia in. She could understand the desire to take the comb, to keep it, to own it, but she could also tell immediately that the comb could never belong to any human.

Water heals, water nourishes, water has power.

First of all, names definitely matter. It’s history and . . .” She lost her train of thought. “Second of all, you should still be mourning BiWays. The fact that there are no more BiWays is a tragedy. That shit was essential, OK? Like Zellers

Warden’s patties be like . . . That last tweet had a bunch of replies. Someone had used the same meme but crossed out “Warden” and put “Islington,” and that correction got a “yuh dun kno” and a “nah” and an “EEDIAT TING DIS. THEY’RE ALL THE SAME PATTIES.” Another user crossed out both “Warden” and “Islington” and put “Wilson,” and someone else wrote, “Just sleepin on Downsview patties. Disrespectful.

She put her hands together and then touched the sides of her fingers to her lips before speaking. “Let me see if I’m getting this. So Alicia is Frodo carrying the ring, right? And I’m like, ‘Cool, let me be your Samwise whether you want me to or not.’ And you can’t offer your bow or your axe or your sword? Even the fucking Ents got involved.

Mumma had cried every day after that. The police had come back a couple of times, too, and she’d even tried to talk to them, but she was little, and they wouldn’t listen. That’s when Gramma Lily had come to stay with them. Making sure Mumma got the rest she needed. They’d sit on the edge of Lily’s bed, side by side, Gramma smelling of what she called mew-gay. Lily had looked it up. Muguet, it turned out to be. Lilies of the valley. “She’s my little girl again,” Gramma had told her. “We need to take care of your mumma, my little Lil. It’s only the three of us now.

She pictured that notebook, the X-marks Cassie had made. All Cassie’s belongings had been boxed up after seven years, the day the “presumed dead” ruling came. Mumma had made a ritual of it, calling Lily home from college to see the packing and taping and the final discarding. Lily was still heartbroken by the memory of her grieving mother, thinner than ever and brittle around the edges, eyes permanently red-rimmed and bereft. Mumma always seemed to blame herself, which was still a puzzle. And then she died, too. Lily had kept only the one scallop-edged photo, the one she now pinned to her bulletin board.

You’re so pretty, Mumma…” Rowen’s voice trailed off, and her long eyelashes fluttered gently, then closed against her soft cheeks. Lily watched her little chest rise and fall, memorizing her, absorbing the fragile innocence of her seven-year-old. The time seemed to go by so quickly, every day so fleetingly precious, with Lily constantly battling to prevent her own celebrity from coloring Rowe’s view of the world. And increasing her vulnerability.

The way our mumma treated herself is the way she treated us and this becomes how we think about ourselves deep in our core.

when it came to listening my mother taught me silence if you are drowning their voice with yours how will you hear them she asked when it came to speaking she said do it with commitment every word you say is your own responsibility when it came to being she said be tender and tough at once you need to be vulnerable to live fully but rough enough to survive it all when it came to choosing she asked me to be thankful for the choices i had that she never had the privilege of making - lessons from mumma

Olen juuri tiedostanut, että jossain tulevaisuudessa odottaa se hetki, kun mumma hakee kehitetyt kuvat valokuvaamosta eikä kuvassa näy supersankaria, vaan vihainen, verkkopäinen, alaston lapsi, jolle kaikki nauravat.

After all, don't care how you want to sit there and deny the knowledge of River Mumma sitting on her rock - don't care how you deny the knowledge of fallen angels who can jump into your body as they please, or the knowledge of ancestors who sit beside your bed and watch when they not harkening on to the sounds of drumming - don't care how you deny any of it, all of it is still true. All of them things still exist, because them do not need the permission of your belief.

As long as Mumma was alive, she knew that some small part of herself had remained a child, cherished, and adored. Perhaps you never completely grew up until your mother died.

But I don’t tell her that I thought she was dying. I don’t tell her how much my legs shook, how my voice quivered when I said, “Mumma, mumma, mumma.” I don’t tell her how little and alone I felt. I don’t tell her how I’ll always bring her cigarettes, how I’ll watch that movie for sure.