No Handouts In Life Quotes

If I should have a daughter…“Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.” She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried. And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.” But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it. I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind. Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this, “There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away. You will put the “wind” in win some lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. “Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.” Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

My Creed I do not choose to be a common man, It is my right to be uncommon … if I can, I seek opportunity … not security. I do not wish to be a kept citizen. Humbled and dulled by having the State look after me. I want to take the calculated risk; To dream and to build. To fail and to succeed. I refuse to barter incentive for a dole; I prefer the challenges of life To the guaranteed existence; The thrill of fulfillment To the stale calm of Utopia. I will not trade freedom for beneficence Nor my dignity for a handout I will never cower before any master Nor bend to any threat. It is my heritage to stand erect. Proud and unafraid; To think and act for myself, To enjoy the benefit of my creations And to face the world boldly and say: This, with God’s help, I have done All this is what it means To be an Entrepreneur.

Life doesn't offers charity, it offers chance.

The first thing you notice about New Orleans are the burying grounds - the cemeteries - and they're a cold proposition, one of the best things there are here. Going by, you try to be as quiet as possible, better to let them sleep. Greek, Roman, sepulchres- palatial mausoleums made to order, phantomesque, signs and symbols of hidden decay - ghosts of women and men who have sinned and who've died and are now living in tombs. The past doesn't pass away so quickly here. You could be dead for a long time. The ghosts race towards the light, you can almost hear the heavy breathing spirits, all determined to get somewhere. New Orleans, unlike a lot of those places you go back to and that don't have the magic anymore, still has got it. Night can swallow you up, yet none of it touches you. Around any corner, there's a promise of something daring and ideal and things are just getting going. There's something obscenely joyful behind every door, either that or somebody crying with their head in their hands. A lazy rhythm looms in the dreamy air and the atmosphere pulsates with bygone duels, past-life romance, comrades requesting comrades to aid them in some way. You can't see it, but you know it's here. Somebody is always sinking. Everyone seems to be from some very old Southern families. Either that or a foreigner. I like the way it is. There are a lot of places I like, but I like New Orleans better. There's a thousand different angles at any moment. At any time you could run into a ritual honoring some vaguely known queen. Bluebloods, titled persons like crazy drunks, lean weakly against the walls and drag themselves through the gutter. Even they seem to have insights you might want to listen to. No action seems inappropriate here. The city is one very long poem. Gardens full of pansies, pink petunias, opiates. Flower-bedecked shrines, white myrtles, bougainvillea and purple oleander stimulate your senses, make you feel cool and clear inside. Everything in New Orleans is a good idea. Bijou temple-type cottages and lyric cathedrals side by side. Houses and mansions, structures of wild grace. Italianate, Gothic, Romanesque, Greek Revival standing in a long line in the rain. Roman Catholic art. Sweeping front porches, turrets, cast-iron balconies, colonnades- 30-foot columns, gloriously beautiful- double pitched roofs, all the architecture of the whole wide world and it doesn't move. All that and a town square where public executions took place. In New Orleans you could almost see other dimensions. There's only one day at a time here, then it's tonight and then tomorrow will be today again. Chronic melancholia hanging from the trees. You never get tired of it. After a while you start to feel like a ghost from one of the tombs, like you're in a wax museum below crimson clouds. Spirit empire. Wealthy empire. One of Napoleon's generals, Lallemaud, was said to have come here to check it out, looking for a place for his commander to seek refuge after Waterloo. He scouted around and left, said that here the devil is damned, just like everybody else, only worse. The devil comes here and sighs. New Orleans. Exquisite, old-fashioned. A great place to live vicariously. Nothing makes any difference and you never feel hurt, a great place to really hit on things. Somebody puts something in front of you here and you might as well drink it. Great place to be intimate or do nothing. A place to come and hope you'll get smart - to feed pigeons looking for handouts

People love to say, “Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish, and he’ll eat for a lifetime.” What they don’t say is, “And it would be nice if you gave him a fishing rod.” That’s the part of the analogy that’s missing. Working with Andrew was the first time in my life I realized you need someone from the privileged world to come to you and say, “Okay, here’s what you need, and here’s how it works.” Talent alone would have gotten me nowhere without Andrew giving me the CD writer. People say, “Oh, that’s a handout.” No. I still have to work to profit by it.

I do not choose to be a common person. It is my right to be uncommon-- if I can. I seek opportunity--not security. I do not wish to be a kept citizen, humbled and dulled by having the State look after me. I want to take the calculated risk--to dream and to build, to fail and to succeed. I refuse to barter incentive for a dole; I prefer the challenges of life to the guaranteed existence, the thrill of fulfillment to the stale calm of Utopia. I will not trade freedom for beneficence nor my dignity for a handout. I will never cower before any master nor bend to any threat. It is my heritage to stand erect, proud and unafraid, to think and to act for myself, to enjoy the benefit of my creations and to face the world boldly and say, This, with God's help, I have done. All this is what it means to be an Entrepreneur!

I can’t even believe the world we live in. My parents raised me to work hard, not to ever expect any handouts in life – and to treat people with respect.

People love to say, "Give man a fish, and he'll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish, and he'll eat for a lifetime." What they don't say is, "And it would be nice if you gave him a fishing rod." That's the part of the analogy that's missing. Working with Andrew is the first time in my life I realized you need someone from the privileged world to come to you and say, "Okay, here's what you need, and here's how it works." Talent alone would have gotten me nowhere without Andrew giving me the CD writer. People say , "Oh, that's a handout." No. I still have to work to profit by it. But I don't stand a chance without it.

You just take and take don´t you? Out there with your thumb in the air—not a care in the world, just grabbing whatever you can get. Yes, sir, you just take and take until you´re ready to burst. But what about giving? Did you ever think about that? Of course not—you´re too busy taking, Mr. Handout, Mr. Gimmee, Gimmee, Gimmee. Me, I´m what you call a ´taxpayer.´ Tax, it´s a... tariff that working people have to pay so that someone like yourself can enjoy a life of leisure. I give and give until I´ve got nothing left! Nothing! Then I turn around and give some more. I give and I give to all of Uncle Sam´s little takers, every last one of you, but what´s in it for me? I´ve been thinking that maybe it´s time I get a little something in retum. Yes, indeed, maybe it´s about time we try that shoe on the other foot for a change. You, my young friend, are going to wash my car inside and out. And you´re going to pay for it!

Humans need challenges to overcome, just like a muscle needs resistance to grow. In a zero-gravity environment, an astronaut’s muscles atrophy because there is no resistance. The government giving you a bunch of handouts and living your life for you is the equivalent of doing push-ups in outer space. Big government is like the void of space—it’s massive, constantly expanding, and if we immerse ourselves in it, we’ll simply wither away.

I do not choose to be a common man. It is my right to be uncommon—if I can. I seek opportunity—not security. I do not wish to be a kept citizen, humbled and dulled by having the state look after me. I want to take the calculated risk; to dream and to build, to fail and to succeed. I refuse to barter incentive for a dole. I prefer the challenges of life to the guaranteed existence; the thrill of fulfillment to the stale calm of utopia. I will not trade freedom for beneficence nor my dignity for a handout. I will never cower before any master nor bend to any threat. It is my heritage to stand erect, proud and unafraid; to think and act for myself, enjoy the benefit of my creations, and to face the world boldly and say, this I have done.

I watched with incredulity as businessmen ran to the government in every crisis, whining for handouts or protection from the very competition that has made this system so productive. I saw Texas ranchers, hit by drought, demanding government-guaranteed loans; giant milk cooperatives lobbying for higher price supports; major airlines fighting deregulation to preserve their monopoly status; giant companies like Lockheed seeking federal assistance to rescue them from sheer inefficiency; bankers, like David Rockefeller, demanding government bailouts to protect them from their ill-conceived investments; network executives, like William Paley of CBS, fighting to preserve regulatory restrictions and to block the emergence of competitive cable and pay TV. And always, such gentlemen proclaimed their devotion to free enterprise and their opposition to the arbitrary intervention into our economic life by the state. Except, of course, for their own case, which was always unique and which was justified by their immense concern for the public interest.

We have to convince people that the handouts – just taking a few little handouts, where you have a subsistent living, where you never grow, just get a little check and a few food stamps, it will keep you on the plantation for the rest of your life, that’s not a life. That’s not living. It is not good enough. It is not acceptable. We have to educate our people that that is no longer good. You have to get off the plantation, off the government plantation,

What is more, when the funds do run dry, blacks, having never learned how the dollars were earned, will be left in the position of once again needing to beg the government for survival. Handouts absent hard work render men weak, and with depleted self-esteem; they stifle the entrepreneurial spirit, by removing our innate senses of drive and aspiration. Poverty and despair become the life of the man who is given a fish but never learns to cast his own line. And though many will sympathize, prosperity will never be won until we become our own lifeline.

And so you carried life for the world, Mary, as you fled, to protect that very life from threats of death. Joining the world's mass of displaced people you became Refugee, Alien, Immigrant, Homeless, and settled in a foreign land-- the only place to safely nurture your fragile dream. Like so many other women who flee violence, clutching their babies, you crossed the border defining you a stranger, dependent on foreign aid, welfare and hand-outs-- the charity of others-- to feed the Son of God.

When you attend a seminar, do so with the resolve to part with every handout distributed. If you regret recycling it, take the same seminar again, and this time apply the learning. It’s paradoxical, but I believe that precisely because we hang on to such materials, we fail to put what we learn into practice.

People love to say, “Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish, and he’ll eat for a lifetime.” What they don’t say is, “And it would be nice if you gave him a fishing rod.” That’s the part of the analogy that’s missing. Working with Andrew was the first time in my life I realized you need someone from the privileged world to come to you and say, “Okay, here’s what you need, and here’s how it works.” Talent alone would have gotten me nowhere without Andrew giving me the CD writer. People say, “Oh, that’s a handout.” No. I still have to work to profit by it. But I don’t stand a chance without

Throughout his life, he was the opposite of all show business clichés. His marriage endured: by all accounts, he dearly loved his wife. Words most often used by those who knew him were “decent,” “genial,” “gentle,” and “generous.” He was a constant target of panhandlers and always had a roll of money in his pockets for handouts. He was not, apparently, a chummy man. His few real intimates, old friends like Doc Rockwell and Uncle Jim Harkins, had been with him in vaudeville and appeared occasionally on his show. He and Portland avoided crowds, lived simply in a New York apartment, and never owned a car. “I don’t want to own anything,” he once told a reporter, “that won’t fit in my coffin.

She stands before the abortion clinic, confounded by the lack of choices. In the Welfare line, reduced to the pity of handouts. Ordained in the pulpit, shielded by the mysteries. In the operating room, husbanding life. In the choir loft, holding God in her throat. On lonely street corners, hawking her body. In the classroom, loving the children to understanding.

It is interesting to me that people assume that since I am black and grew up in foster care, I would automatically want to be a Democrat. Why would I embrace the mentality that I saw hold so many other people in bondage? Why would I want to be told how to think when I can think for myself? Why would I want to depend on the government to live when America has given me the opportunity to make my own way? The American Dream is not poverty and the projects. The American Dream is not victimhood and handouts. The American Dream is not subjugation and suppression of free speech and thought. The American Dream is the freedom to succeed and thrive, blossoming in the gifts and abilities that God has endowed within us. I believe in this beautiful Nation that God has given us. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are the things that make our Nation great. The wool had been pulled over our eyes

After centuries of marginalization and neglect, we need to cast our own movements, projects, and ideas as a battle for relevancy in the face of historical manipulation, exploitation, and oppression. We need to fight, tooth and nail, for equity in all areas of social life. One point to make clear, ethnic and racial minorities are not looking for scraps or a handout from the old paternalistic system but an equitable, stable, and leveled playing field.

Oh, do you, Milo? You’re so selfish. You don’t see the bigger picture.” “What’s the bigger picture?” “You’re still here looking for handouts. Who’s going to take care of me?” “I’m on my knees here, Mom. Not for me, for my family. For my wife. For a beautiful grandson you have totally ignored.” “He’s kind of a brat. I’ll be in his life when he gets a little impulse control.” “He’s not even four.” “I have needs. I’m tired of this child-worshipping culture. You’re just a slave to it, Milo.” “I’m only trying to be a decent dad.” “Don’t waste your time. It’s not in your genes. Besides, try making some money. That might be a good dad move. For heaven’s sake, the system’s rigged for white men and you still can’t tap in.” “You’re right, Mom. What can I say? But still, it would mean a lot to me if you made a little more of an effort with Bernie.” “Bernie schmernie. This is my decade.” “Okay, you wrinkled old spidercunt, have it your way.

And so we must imagine a new country. Reparations—by which I mean the full acceptance of our collective biography and its consequences—is the price we must pay to see ourselves squarely. The recovering alcoholic may well have to live with his illness for the rest of his life. But at least he is not living a drunken lie. Reparations beckon us to reject the intoxication of hubris and see America as it is—the work of fallible humans. Won’t reparations divide us? Not any more than we are already divided. The wealth gap merely puts a number on something we feel but cannot say—that American prosperity was ill gotten and selective in its distribution. What is needed is an airing of family secrets, a settling with old ghosts. What is needed is a healing of the American psyche and the banishment of white guilt. What I’m talking about is more than recompense for past injustices—more than a handout, a payoff, hush money, or a reluctant bribe. What I’m talking about is a national reckoning that would lead to spiritual renewal. Reparations would mean the end of scarfing hot dogs on the Fourth of July while denying the facts of our heritage. Reparations would mean the end of yelling “patriotism” while waving a Confederate flag. Reparations would mean a revolution of the American consciousness, a reconciling of our self-image as the great democratizer with the facts of our history

She sacrifices for us,” Mordecai said with a note of pride in his voice. Also sadness. “She sits here, with her rickety setup, and lets the masses belittle her. For us. She takes odd jobs that are way below her intelligence level. She begs, takes handouts, and doesn’t have any use for pride, all because she wants to give us the chance at a future. So while you sit there on your high horse, inspecting her choices like she’s some colorful yet insignificant bug, she’s busting her ass to give us a chance. She’s forfeiting her own life so that we get to have one. You won’t ever find a truer, bigger-hearted person in the world. So you should pack up your enormous ego and go find someone else to mildly threaten with your presence and your interest. We have enough problems around here.

The Church today still thinks of the poor as objects rather than subjects of their own liberation. That is due to focusing more on hand-outs and band-aid solutions rather than substantial systematic change, which will arise only by empowering the poor and oppressed in their struggle for liberation. Thus, the Church does not properly help the poor by standing above them, offering occasional top-down help. Instead, the Church serves Christ in the poor by joining their plight directly, and by taking up solidarity with the oppressed. Accordingly, the Church is not merely the Church for the poor but of the poor. This radical solidarity empowers the poor and oppressed, who have been so often subject to the brutalization of powerlessness, to organize and struggle for their rights to life, dignity, and humanity.

We were in Pittsburgh at the end of September. The Pirates had already clinched the division, and the great Roberto Clemente was looking for his 3,000th career hit. I wasn’t in the lineup again. Clemente wasn’t a power hitter like Mays or Aaron, but he had won four batting titles, was a perennial All-Star, and even at the age of 37 was hitting well over .300. Roberto lined a sharp double down the left-field line in the fourth inning, and we saw history being made again. He joined Willie and Hank and a handful of others to reach that milestone. I remember thinking at the time how difficult it must be to get all of those hits, and for Willie and Hank to get all those home runs. I’d only reached about 900 hits with more than 2,000 to go if I ever was to hit that mark. That put it into perspective for me, that I really was watching one of the greats of the game. It was a dark day for baseball on the last day of 1972 when Roberto’s plane went down while delivering supplies to Nicaragua. He was only 38. I heard about the plane crash the next day, and it was like losing a brother. It was a great loss for the game of baseball and humanity—especially knowing how his fellow Puerto Ricans felt about him. He was a treasure, and he did it the way nobody else could. Some say he did everything wrong at the plate but he had great results behind it. You wouldn’t teach hitting the way he hit, but it was right for him. What he did was in him like it was in with me. He was a man of stature, and it was his calling. Some people are called to preach, some people are called to teach, and some people are called to serve. He was called to serve, and he served his entire island. I believe everything is predestined, and we just have to act out what’s already on the wall of your life. He’d probably always been aware of the need to do something more for others than for himself. He looked around and saw a need and acted on it. I’m certain he looked at who he was and what he accomplished and how he could take being famous into being a blessing for others. I’ve said this many times before, that those who depend on you are seeking a hand up and not a handout. I didn’t think about it then, but I think about it now, how good the Almighty was to wait to call Roberto home after he got his 3,000th hit—a milestone hit that put him next to the greats of the game.

And so we must imagine a new country. Reparations—by which I mean the full acceptance of our collective biography and its consequences—is the price we must pay to see ourselves squarely. The recovering alcoholic may well have to live with his illness for the rest of his life. But at least he is not living a drunken lie. Reparations beckon us to reject the intoxication of hubris and see America as it is—the work of fallible humans. Won’t reparations divide us? Not any more than we are already divided. The wealth gap merely puts a number on something we feel but cannot say—that American prosperity was ill gotten and selective in its distribution. What is needed is an airing of family secrets, a settling with old ghosts. What is needed is a healing of the American psyche and the banishment of white guilt. What I’m talking about is more than recompense for past injustices—more than a handout, a payoff, hush money, or a reluctant bribe. What I’m talking about is a national reckoning that would lead to spiritual renewal. Reparations would mean the end of scarfing hot dogs on the Fourth of July while denying the facts of our heritage. Reparations would mean the end of yelling “patriotism” while waving a Confederate flag. Reparations would mean a revolution of the American consciousness, a reconciling of our self-image as the great democratizer with the facts of our history.

When the time comes, & I hope it comes soon, to bury this era of moral rot & the defiling of our communal, social, & democratic norms, the perfect epitaph for the gravestone of this age of unreason should be Iowa Senator Chuck Grassley's already infamous quote: "I think not having the estate tax recognizes the people that are investing... as opposed to those that are just spending every darn penny they have, whether it’s on booze or women or movies.” Grassley's vision of America, quite frankly, is one I do not recognize. I thought the heart of this great nation was not limited to the ranks of the plutocrats who are whisked through life in chauffeured cars & private jets, whose often inherited riches are passed along to children, many of whom no sacrifice or service is asked. I do not begrudge wealth, but it must come with a humility that money never is completely free of luck. And more importantly, wealth can never be a measure of worth. I have seen the waitress working the overnight shift at a diner to give her children a better life, & yes maybe even take them to a movie once in awhile - and in her, I see America. I have seen the public school teachers spending extra time with students who need help & who get no extra pay for their efforts, & in them I see America. I have seen parents sitting around kitchen tables with stacks of pressing bills & wondering if they can afford a Christmas gift for their children, & in them I see America. I have seen the young diplomat in a distant foreign capital & the young soldier in a battlefield foxhole, & in them I see America. I have seen the brilliant graduates of the best law schools who forgo the riches of a corporate firm for the often thankless slog of a district attorney or public defender's office, & in them I see America. I have seen the librarian reshelving books, the firefighter, police officer, & paramedic in service in trying times, the social worker helping the elderly & infirm, the youth sports coaches, the PTA presidents, & in them I see America. I have seen the immigrants working a cash register at a gas station or trimming hedges in the frost of an early fall morning, or driving a cab through rush hour traffic to make better lives for their families, & in them I see America. I have seen the science students unlocking the mysteries of life late at night in university laboratories for little or no pay, & in them I see America. I have seen the families struggling with a cancer diagnosis, or dementia in a parent or spouse. Amid the struggles of mortality & dignity, in them I see America. These, & so many other Americans, have every bit as much claim to a government working for them as the lobbyists & moneyed classes. And yet, the power brokers in Washington today seem deaf to these voices. It is a national disgrace of historic proportions. And finally, what is so wrong about those who must worry about the cost of a drink with friends, or a date, or a little entertainment, to rephrase Senator Grassley's demeaning phrasings? Those who can't afford not to worry about food, shelter, healthcare, education for their children, & all the other costs of modern life, surely they too deserve to be able to spend some of their “darn pennies” on the simple joys of life. Never mind that almost every reputable economist has called this tax bill a sham of handouts for the rich at the expense of the vast majority of Americans & the future economic health of this nation. Never mind that it is filled with loopholes written by lobbyists. Never mind that the wealthiest already speak with the loudest voices in Washington, & always have. Grassley’s comments open a window to the soul of the current national Republican Party & it it is not pretty. This is not a view of America that I think President Ronald Reagan let alone President Dwight Eisenhower or Teddy Roosevelt would have recognized. This is unadulterated cynicism & a version of top-down class warfare run amok. ~Facebook 12/4/17

Sharon passed around a handout: "Triangle of Self-Actualization" by Abraham Maslow. The levels of human motivation. It resembled the nutrition triangle put out by the FDA, with five horizontal levels of multiple colors. I vaguely remembered it from my one college psychology course in the 1970's. "Very applicable with refugees," Sharon said. "Maslow theorized that one could not move to a higher level until the prior level was satisfied. The first level, the triangle base, is physiological needs. Like food and water. Until a person has enough to eat and drink, that's all one would be concerned with." I'd never experienced not being able to satisfy my thirst or hunger, but it sounded logical that that would be my only concern in such a situation. For the Lost Boys, just getting enough food and water had been a daily struggle. I wondered what kind of impact being stuck at the bottom level for the last fourteen years would have on a person, especially a child and teen. "The second level is safety and security. Home. A sanctuary. A safe place." Like not being shot at or having lions attack you. They hadn't had much of level two, either. Even Kakuma hadn't been safe. A refugee camp couldn't feel like home. "The third level is social. A sense of belonging." Since they'd been together, they must have felt like they belonged, but perhaps not on a larger scale, having been displaced from home and living in someone else's country. "Once a person has food, shelter, family and friends, they can advance to the fourth level, which is ego. Self-esteem." I'd never thought of those things occurring sequentially, but rather simultaneously, as they did in my life. If I understood correctly, working on their self-esteem had not been a large concern to them, if one at all. That was bound to affect them eventually. In what way remained to be seen. They'd been so preoccupied with survival that issues of self-worth might overwhelm them at first. A sure risk for insecurity and depression. The information was fascinating and insightful, although worrisome in terms of Benson, Lino, and Alepho. It also made me wonder about us middle-and upper-class Americans. We seldom worried about food, except for eating too much, and that was not what Maslow had been referring to. Most of us had homes and safety and friends and family. That could mean we were entirely focused on that fourth level: ego. Our efforts to make ourselves seem strong, smart, rich, and beautiful, or young were our own kind of survival skill. Perhaps advancing directly to the fourth level, when the mind was originally engineered for the challenges of basic survival, was why Prozac and Zoloft, both antidepressants, were two of the biggest-selling drugs in America. "The pinnacle of the triangle," Sharon said, "is the fifth level. Self-actualization. A strong and deeply felt belief that as a person one has value in the world. Contentment with who one is rather than what one has. Secure in ones beliefs. Not needing ego boosts from external factors. Having that sense of well-being that does not depend on the approval of others is commonly called happiness." Happiness, hard to define, yet obvious when present. Most of us struggled our entire lives to achieve it, perhaps what had brought some of us to a mentoring class that night.

Emma, you and your poetry, me and my acting--what are we trying to do? We can't top this city. We poor would-be artists can't compete with or improve on the rich density of human experience on any random, average, slow summer night in New York--who are we trying to kid? In the overheard conversation in the elevator, in the five minutes of talk the panhandler gives you before hitting you for the handout, in the brief give-and-take when you are going out and the cleaning lady is coming in--there are the real stories, incredible, heartbreaking and ridiculous, there are the command performances, the Great American Novels but forever unwritten, untoppable, and so beautifully unaware.

The Sensible Shoes Club sat in Meg’s parlor in front of a crackling fire, chairs from the kitchen gathered into a circle. “It’s nice to meet you guys,” Becca said to Mara and Charissa after a few minutes of friendly introductions. “And congratulations on the baby.” “Thanks!” Charissa tucked the pink shoes back into her purse. “Great to meet you too!” Mara chorused the same. “I’ll be in my room, Mom,” Becca said, “if you need anything.” “Thanks, honey.” Becca would probably spend the next two hours on the phone with Simon. To her credit, she had spent very little time texting or talking with him whenever she and Meg were together. But at night, after Meg went to bed, she could hear Becca through the wall, her voice animated with infatuation. Meg waited until she heard Becca’s bedroom door close upstairs. Then she looked around the circle at her friends. “I’ve been meditating the past week on some of the stories about the end of Jesus’ life—not to be morbid, but to watch his love. The prayer exercise I chose for tonight caught my attention because it shows him with his friends, loving them.” She passed around the handouts and

What did you find out?” I asked. “That’s Prince Jason’s ship, all right,” he replied. “I talked to one of the crewmen overseeing the work. That is, he talked to me. Yelled at me, I mean. Told me to get out of the way so Lord Pelias’s slaves could do their work.” “Is that why you’re wearing such a long face?” I asked. “I’ll teach him better manners.” Milo shook his head. “Forget him. He’s nothing. The man with him, the one who called him ‘brother,’ he’s why I’m worried. He said, ‘Let the boy be. Can’t you see he’s only hoping for a handout?’ And when I told him I wanted to earn my keep as his weapons bearer, he answered, ‘Better look elsewhere. This ship’s fully manned. We’re not looking for any extra hands.’” “Maybe he only said that to get rid of you,” I suggested hopefully. Milo shrugged again. “They’re still there, by the ship, and plenty of others who don’t look like slaves. Talk to them yourself. Maybe they just didn’t like my looks.” “Then they’re fools and I wouldn’t waste my breath on them,” I said. “You’re always too kind to me, La--Glaucus. But you mustn’t worry. Someone’s got to be ugly in this world.” He grinned. “You’re not ugly,” I said hotly. And that was true. The same harsh slave’s life that had left Milo so skinny had also given him wiry muscles under sun-browned skin. He reminded me of images I’d seen of the young Hermes, thin but fit and graceful. His dark hair was growing longer, like a noble’s, and his brown eyes shone when he smiled. “Have it your way,” he said good-naturedly. “But in case they do prefer your looks, see if you can persuade them to hire me, too.

Adversity comes before opportunity, but you shouldn’t allow it to be an obstacle to stop you from drawing your opportunity out of it. God created all of us with a purpose—tribulations will refine and prepare us for the high purpose if we don’t give up or give in. The spirituality that shaped my life involved struggle between my soul, my psychic nature outside God, which includes the mind and the intellect, and my spirit, my pneuma, my pure consciousness that relates to God. I experienced divine intervention and miracles and always won when I allowed my soul and spirit to work in my life in harmony. In Matthew 10:16, Jesus said, “Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves. Therefore be wise as serpents and harmless as doves.” My services did indeed take me among the wolves, but my dove personality dominated in my life, exposing me to many harms. The good thing is, God used it to strengthen me to fulfill the mission He gave me. My self-confidence and faith grew so strong that I was filled with boldness to take risks in the steps I took toward achieving my goals. Handouts create dependency, but handiness builds independence and self-esteem

in my life I realized you need someone from the privileged world to come to you and say, “Okay, here’s what you need, and here’s how it works.” Talent alone would have gotten me nowhere without Andrew giving me the CD writer. People say, “Oh, that’s a handout.” No. I still have to work to profit by it. But I don’t stand a chance without it. —

people fear sobriety because without booze, you’re forced to see Clockwork Orange style that you’re bad at relationships, and bad at vulnerability, and bad at honesty, and your rants about life’s injustices are generally not cute. and if you see all that you have to give up the dream that some brave soul is gonna show up and extend themselves to you even though your arms are crossed and your back is turned. you have to stop pretending and actually start earning your keep, it’s basic human math, you gotta bring something to the table, you can’t just show up empty-handed and expect to be fed.

As long as our legislators continue to pocket handouts from the NRA, as long as they continue to condone a way of doing business that readily puts guns in the hands of the marginalized and the desperate, of children who see no other access to their share of the American dream …

When they say they are maintaining the status quo and keeping things balanced. They mean gatekeeping wealth , land, economy, and business. Keeping us poor, uneducated, unskilled, untrained, underpaid, undeveloped and unemployed. The very same people will be having dementia few years down the line and will be saying we are poor, stupid, thieves, criminals, useless, uneducated, unskilled and dangerous. How we like handouts and everything to be given to us for free. How we like complaining about everything. Forgetting that they had stolen everything from us. Our resources and opportunities. They had tipped the scale to favor them. They were busy sabotaging and tempering with our progress and development. They were busy meddling with our affairs, policies, politics, business, government, and economy.

There are two ways to live your life: one is as though nothing is a miracle, the other is as though everything is a miracle. —Albert Einstein

Some of us worry, though, about living a life that’s so grounded on handouts. Idleness leads to trouble. We’re seeing more alcohol. Our kids are using more drugs.” Hugo

While I was walking down the beach one bright and sunny day, I saw a great big wooden box a-floatin’ in the bay. I pulled it in and opened it up and much to my surprise, Oh, I discovered a   *     *   right before my eyes, Oh, I discovered a   *     *    right before my eyes. I picked it up and ran to town as happy as a king, I took it to a guy I know who’d buy most anything But this is what he hollered at me as I walked in his shop: Oh, get out of here with that   *     *   before I call a cop… I turned around and got right out, a-runnin’ for my life, And then I took it home with me to give it to my wife, But this is what she hollered at me as I walked in the door: Oh, get out of here with that   *     *   and don’t come back no more… I wandered all around the town until I chanced to meet A hobo who was looking for a handout on the street.

Then Peter said, “Silver or gold I do not have, but what I have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk." —Acts 3:6       The story in Acts 3 and 4 of the healing of a congenital cripple is the story of my life and yours. This man had been looking for a handout, nothing more. Like him, we tend to think that money will solve our problems and make us happy. The truth is, a little more money cannot fundamentally help us at all. Why not? Because our problem is sin. Sin has crippled us—it has radically affected our thoughts, wills, and affections so that by nature we are arrogant, proud, and at enmity with God. Sadly, we are not interested in being rescued from our total depravity; we just want to make more money.

Damon Silvers, an AFL-CIO attorney and a member of the panel, was grilling me about PPIP, trying to get me to admit it was a heads-Wall-Street-wins-tails-taxpayers-lose scam, when the cross-examination took a personal turn. “Let me stop you right there,” Silvers said. “What I don’t get—and I practice law, and you’ve been in banking—is a deal—” “I’ve never actually been in banking,” I interrupted. “Well, a long time ago,” he said. “Actually, never,” I replied. “Investment banking,” Silvers retorted. “Never investment banking,” I said. “I’ve spent my entire life in public service at the Treasury and the Federal Reserve.” “All right,” Silvers conceded. “Very well then.” And then he continued his attack on PPIP as a shocking handout to financial interests.

Too often we're told that advocates of new policies are putting values of fairness above practical concerns, while supporters of laissez-faire are the ones who are serious about the economy. This isn't correct. For today's economy, the question is not whether we should help families with handouts; it's how to help families so they can thrive as workers and consumers. To boost long-term economic growth, businesses need a highly skilled workforce, ready and able to work. In today's economy, where most workers also have care responsibilities, this means we must find ways to address conflicts between work and life. These conflicts aren't trivial private travails; they're serious economic problems.

There's times when I thought running away and looking for handout will help till I learn that running away increase problems handouts doesnt fix anything It where i stand firm with a bold like lion face tell it that I'll come in it shine like a gold scares will be my promotion as God authorise me. My lesson on that were never fight awardless battle like battling permanent situations.Now welcome and give situation a room will not stay forever if so you'll be safe in your room and learn to live with it to save your breath and time.

It’s always hard to admit you’re wrong, but I suppose we were. The casino has lifted us out of poverty and given us nice things, so that’s a positive, a big one. We are healthier, happier, secure. There’s a certain satisfaction in watching outsiders flock in here and hand us their cash. We feel like we’re finally getting something back, perhaps a bit of revenge. Some of us worry, though, about living a life that’s so grounded on handouts. Idleness leads to trouble. We’re seeing more alcohol. Our kids are using more drugs.

Life was good, and none of it would have happened without Andrew. Without him, I would never have mastered the world of music piracy and lived a life of endless McDonald's. What he did, on a small scale, showed me how important it is to empower the dispossessed and the disenfranchised in the wake of oppression. Andrew was white. His family had access to education, resources, computers. For generations, while his people were preparing to go to university, my people were crowded into thatched huts singing, "Two times to is four. Three times two is six. La la la la la." My family had been denied the things his family had taken for granted. I had a natural talent for selling to people, but without knowledge and resources, where was that going to get me? People always lecture the poor: "Take responsibility for yourself! Make something of yourself!" But with what raw materials are the poor to make something of themselves? People love to say, "Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish, and he'll eat for a lifetime." What they don't say is, "And it would be nice if you give him a fishing rod." That's the part of the analogy that's missing. Working with Andrew was the first time in my life I realized you need someone from the privileged world to come to you and say, "Okay, here's what you need, and here's how it works." Talent alone would have gotten me nowhere without Andrew giving me the CD writer. People say, "Oh, that's a handout." No. I still have to work to profit by it. But I don't stand a chance without it.

People love to say, “Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish, and he’ll eat for a lifetime.” What they don’t say is, “And it would be nice if you gave him a fishing rod.” That’s the part of the analogy that’s missing. Working with Andrew was the first time in my life I realized you need someone from the privileged world to come to you and say, “Okay, here’s what you need, and here’s how it works.” Talent alone would have gotten me nowhere without Andrew giving me the CD writer. People say, “Oh, that’s a handout.” No. I still have to work to profit by it. But I don’t stand a chance without it.

Gungren knew that there were some folks who spent the majority of their lives trying to game the system. They didn’t work to help others or to improve society. Instead, they did all they could to take advantage of mistakes, or to take handouts. Gungren’s thought was that everyone deserved a hand up, but handouts were dangerous because they seemed to lead to a life of complacency.

And so we must imagine a new country. Reparations—by which I mean the full acceptance of our collective biography and its consequences—is the price we must pay to see ourselves squarely. The recovering alcoholic may well have to live with his illness for the rest of his life. But at least he is not living a drunken lie. Reparations beckon us to reject the intoxication of hubris and see America as it is—the work of fallible humans. Won’t reparations divide us? Not any more than we are already divided. The wealth gap merely puts a number on something we feel but cannot say—that American prosperity was ill gotten and selective in its distribution. What is needed is an airing of family secrets, a settling with old ghosts. What is needed is a healing of the American psyche and the banishment of white guilt. What I’m talking about is more than recompense for past injustices—more than a handout, a payoff, hush money, or a reluctant bribe. What I’m talking about is a national reckoning that would lead to spiritual renewal. Reparations would mean the end of scarfing hot dogs on the Fourth of July while denying the facts of our heritage. Reparations would mean the end of yelling “patriotism” while waving a Confederate flag. Reparations would mean a revolution of the American consciousness, a reconciling of our

You’re middle-aged, Daddy. What are you going to do with the second half of your life? Because, I’m telling you now, if you run through all of your money before you’re eighty, don’t come looking to me for a handout ‘cuz I’ll just put you in an old folks’ home and go party.

People who receive a free lunch end up paying the price.

It is important to remember that while we see waiting in line for food handouts as an act associated exclusively with impoverishment, the late Romans viewed it as a mark of citizen status and even privilege.

Why do people pay expensive fees for such courses when they can read the same content in a book or elsewhere? Because they want to feel the passion of the teacher and experience that learning environment. Thus the real material is the seminar itself, and it must be experienced live. When you attend a seminar, do so with the resolve to part with every handout distributed. If you regret recycling it, take the same seminar again, and this time apply the learning. It’s paradoxical, but I believe that precisely because we hang on to such materials, we fail to put what we learn into practice.

Extreme poverty isn’t just an African issue or an Asian issue or a South American issue. It is a global issue. Before flying overseas to help relieve poverty abroad, consider the poverty in your own backyard. Every country on every continent has people impacted by poverty—whether it is relative or absolute. Bringing extreme poverty down to zero will take more trial and error, more methods, more innovation, and more communication. Most importantly, it will take more trust—the trust that people are aware of their problems and are creative enough to solve them when given the right resources. People need opportunities, connections, and education to learn more about life’s possibilities, not handouts, performative sympathy, and empty promises.

I won’t pretend to be a hotshot with a perfect life, but I know where I come from, and I’m proud of what I’ve achieved. I’ve seen more of the world than most, married the woman of my dreams, I’ve published a book, and built the body I envisioned for myself. Everything I’ve accomplished, I’ve done without handouts. Some will think I’m a loser; others will see me as a winner. It doesn’t matter. If my 20-year-old self could see me today, he would be amazed.