P.s. Be Eleven Quotes

If a penny can bring luck and a dime can grant a wish, how come my eleven cents hasn’t bought me what I need.

(Golden Globe acceptance speech in the style of Jane Austen's letters): "Four A.M. Having just returned from an evening at the Golden Spheres, which despite the inconveniences of heat, noise and overcrowding, was not without its pleasures. Thankfully, there were no dogs and no children. The gowns were middling. There was a good deal of shouting and behavior verging on the profligate, however, people were very free with their compliments and I made several new acquaintances. Miss Lindsay Doran, of Mirage, wherever that might be, who is largely responsible for my presence here, an enchanting companion about whom too much good cannot be said. Mr. Ang Lee, of foreign extraction, who most unexpectedly apppeared to understand me better than I undersand myself. Mr. James Schamus, a copiously erudite gentleman, and Miss Kate Winslet, beautiful in both countenance and spirit. Mr. Pat Doyle, a composer and a Scot, who displayed the kind of wild behavior one has lernt to expect from that race. Mr. Mark Canton, an energetic person with a ready smile who, as I understand it, owes me a vast deal of money. Miss Lisa Henson -- a lovely girl, and Mr. Gareth Wigan -- a lovely boy. I attempted to converse with Mr. Sydney Pollack, but his charms and wisdom are so generally pleasing that it proved impossible to get within ten feet of him. The room was full of interesting activitiy until eleven P.M. when it emptied rather suddenly. The lateness of the hour is due therefore not to the dance, but to the waiting, in a long line for horseless vehicles of unconscionable size. The modern world has clearly done nothing for transport. P.S. Managed to avoid the hoyden Emily Tomkins who has purloined my creation and added things of her own. Nefarious creature." "With gratitude and apologies to Miss Austen, thank you.

Dear Delphine, When you are older I want you to find Chinua Achebe. I want you to read Things Fall Apart. Don't be hardheaded and try to read this book now. Don't be hardheaded, Delphine. You are the smart one, but you are not ready. You can read all its words. Even the African words. But you will not know what Achebe is saying. It is a bad thing to bite into a hard fruit with little teeth. You will say bad things about the fruit when the problem is your teeth. I want you to read this book. I want you to know Things Fall Apart. Fourteen is a good age to find Chinua Achebe. Nzila. Your Mother. P.S. For now you are eleven. Be eleven.

Only the fool would take trouble to verify that his sentence was composed of ten a’s, three b’s, four c’s, four d’s, forty-six e’s, sixteen f’s, four g’s, thirteen h’s, fifteen i’s, two k’s, nine l’s, four m’s, twenty-five n’s, twenty-four o’s, five p’s, sixteen r’s, forty-one s’s, thirty-seven t’s, ten u’s, eight v’s, eight w’s, four x’s, eleven y’s, twenty-seven commas, twenty-three apostrophes, seven hyphens and, last but not least, a single !” —Lee Sallows

P.S. Be eleven.

Heckle and Jeckle again

Once you give an ultimatum, you have to mean it. You can't pull back. Sometimes your 'or else' is all the power you have and you can't be afraid to do what you threaten to do.

It is a bad thing to bite into hard fruit with little teeth. You will say bad things about the fruit when the problem is your teeth.

Every good-bye ain't gone.

Garcia One Crazy Summer P.S. Be Eleven Gone Crazy in Alabama Blue Tights Every Time a Rainbow Dies Fast Talk on a Slow Track Jumped Like Sisters on the Homefront No Laughter Here

There is something about sudden darkness in a classroom of twenty-four sixth graders that sets off mischief. There was giggling on one side of the room. Spitballs on the other.

That night I wrote to Cecile. If anyone understood things about books, my mother did. ... I must have scribbled without stopping. I couldn’t wait to tell her how much I’d grown that day. And that my teacher read a book by Chinwa Acheevie. That I planned to read Things Fall Apart as soon as I finished reading Ginger Pye.

Big Ma came out of the bathroom to see what was going on. “John-Isaac,” she said, getting a good look at him. “Do you want to go to jail? Get shot up in the streets? ... He put his arms around her. “Hey, Ma.” “Don’t ‘Ma’ me nothing. ... He took off his beret and planted it on Big Ma’s scarfed head and walked right by her

As young as they were, it was funny to listen to Vonetta, Fern, and Michael sing about how they’ve been lonely all their lives. I felt like I was watching my sisters singing, really singing, and not clowning. That somehow it would be ruined if they caught me watching them. I didn’t want Vonetta or Fern to stop singing, so I closed my eyes.

As we walked toward the door, he said, “Delphine, you need to also know you’re a lady. It’s always a lady’s choice and never the other way around." I didn’t know if he was telling me how to behave at the dance or if he was telling me why he and Cecile never married. I still said, “I know, Papa,” just the right way, although I didn’t know a thing.

What did Michael Jackson know about life without the ones you loved the most, when each of them moved farther and farther away until they were voices you heard and pictures that flashed before you? Vonetta knew. Fern knew. I knew. There wasn’t a day that went by that we didn’t wonder about everyone who had flashed before us. There wasn’t a day that went by that we didn’t close our eyes and go wishing.

Prayer works.

And wasn’t it good to have a chance to improve upon our first effort? He didn’t mean for us to answer, but we all said no.

Well, Big Ma had gone down to Friendship Baptist Church to hear Senator Kennedy tell the black people they were American citizens who deserved decent homes, decent education for their children, safe neighborhoods, and opportunities. But Big Ma talked more about taking off her glove to shake a Kennedy’s hand than she talked about his speech. You’d have thought Big Ma would’ve been baking cookies for the “Vote for Bobby” office on Fulton Street, the way she talked and talked about Senator Kennedy. But she said she wouldn’t vote for him because his hair was too long and he let people call him Bobby and not Robert. He was too young, talking about changing things in Bedford-Stuyvesant and in every other ghetto. She said that while that sounded good, and the people hollered and clapped for him, he was still a rich, young Catholic boy whose daddy made millions selling liquor.

And then more hugging and kissing went on until Big Ma said, “Let’s stop all this carrying-on, making a grand Negro spectacle for all these folks hanging out their windows.” But no one watched out the window or watched TV more than Big Ma. Before she got halfway to the car, she told us to keep the Lord with us, night and day. Then she said, “Every good-bye ain’t gone.

Mrs. meant well, but she didn’t understand.

We danced until Big Ma told us to stop that noise-making “like a herd of stampeding hippos.” That we should use that energy for praising the Lord. And that was enough to start the other two praising Jesus for helping us to save and I fell in with them, praising and stomping. Then Big Ma said, “That’s not the meaning of ‘Jesus saves.’” But it was too late. “Jesus saves for the Jackson Five” was the only praising going on in our room. Even Big Ma had to laugh.

A whipping didn’t come without what Big Ma calls “a wisdom.” According to Big Ma, a whipping and a wisdom went together. The wisdom is what you’re supposed to remember long after the sting of the whipping became a memory.

The few times when Big Ma was sick, Uncle Darnell brought in a pizza pie. Big Ma never liked that and always got well the next day so we wouldn’t get used to take-out food.

Big Ma never made quick-fast-in-a-hurry food. She made food that needed washing before it touched a knife, pot, or pan. Or she made beans that soaked overnight and simmered with neck bones for a good part of the next day. And stewed meat in heavy enamel pots, with bay leaves and carrots and potatoes that soaked up gravy. Big Ma cooked food meant to stick to your insides and keep your belly full. She cooked food that took time.

I got into an argument in class with Danny McClaren.” “You’re in class to learn from the teacher,” Big Ma said. “Not to be arguing with some know-nothing boy.” I heard myself while I retold the whole thing. It sounded silly. Big Ma never looked up once from her sewing. ... “My teacher might call.” Might as well let the other shoe drop. “Let him call. I’ll straighten him out.” Big Ma was funny, as in hard to figure out.

Big Ma was funny, as in hard to figure out. She had loved President John F. Kennedy but hadn’t wanted a Catholic president. She loved keeping up with the Kennedys in the supermarket gossip papers but also loved wagging her finger at them.

,,, Miss Marva Hendrix clapped her hands together and said, “That’s a marvelous subject for social studies. Right on!” Vonetta and Fern had to say it too. “Right on!” And Big Ma scolded them for talking ghetto at the dinner table, half blessed as it was. ... Big Ma said to Pa, “Do you hear that, son? Are your ears and eyes open? Teaching foolishness in school, and bringing it home to this half-blessed table.

All I knew about my parents was that Pa took Cecile in when she was sleeping on a park bench. They had us, and Pa painted the walls every time Cecile wrote on them. Then she left us after Fern was born. Pa wore his long face every day after that for seven years.

... Miss Marva Hendrix clapped her hands together and said, “That’s a marvelous subject for social studies. Right on!” Vonetta and Fern had to say it too. “Right on!” And Big Ma scolded them for talking ghetto at the dinner table, half blessed as it was. ... Big Ma said to Pa, “Do you hear that, son? Are your ears and eyes open? Teaching foolishness in school, and bringing it home to this half-blessed table.