Peoples Hernandez Quotes

My goal is not to have everlasting fame, it is simply to write the stories that are asking me to write them and to share them with the people that want to hear them.

We have…Settled into a region called “don’t ask don’t tell” and it is hard, i imagine for people who have not experienced this to understand the weight of silence and how the absence of language can feel like a death

In this funny debut, flashy Filipino fashion designer Boy Hernandez sees his American dream become a nightmare when he’s ensnared in a terrorist plot and shipped to Guantanamo. Gilvarry nails the couture scene, but Boy’s rough journey from Manolo to Gitmo is no joke.

I ventured to believe that the function of the border wasn’t only to keep people out, at least that was not its long-term function. Its other purpose was to be visible, to be seen, to be carried in the imaginations of migrants deep into the interior of the country, in the interior of their minds. It was a spectacle meant to be witnessed by the world, and all of its death and violence was and continues to be a form of social control, the way that kings of the past needed to behead only one petty thief in the public square to quell thousands more.

Gabi, I was noticing, was a very forgiving person. I've noticed that sometimes smart people aren't. They're more interested in being right, being on top, and they think that means crushing the competition with their huge brains. But Gabi didn't need to put others down to raise herself up. Interesting.

[...] the "explosion" of Mexicans crossing the border without permission was entirely predictable. It was the inevitable consequence of of policies that slashed opportunities to migrate legally without addressing the forces pushing and pulling people across the line. People who had lived their lives across two countries legally and peacefully for decades were suddenly redefined as invaders and threats. The "Illegal immigrant" was thus invented in Washington, D.C., conjured out of contradiction.

I look at the white woman’s cards and listen to her bold English words—dog, cat, house—and there is all the evidence of what is to come in my life. I am not to go the way of the two people I long for in the thick terror of the night. The first man I love and the first woman I adore, my father and my mother with their Spanish words, are not in these cards. The road before me is English and the next part too awful to ask aloud or even silently: What is so wrong with my parents that I am not to mimic their hands, their needs, not even their words?

It's like the difference between looking at a person and looking through their eyes." "That's how I feel about eating," Sirine interjects, and some of them laugh. Aziz lifts his chin and lowers his eyes silkily. "Please tell us more." "Well, I mean..." She fumbles for words and tears apart a slice of bread, trying to think what she means. "Something like... tasting a piece of bread that someone bought is like looking at that person, but tasting a piece of bread that they baked is like looking out of their eyes." "Fabulous metaphor," Aziz says. Nathan lifts his head. "That's giving other people power over you." "No more than usual," Aziz says. "Somebody's always going to have the power, and somebody's always got to bake the bread." He turns and smiles suavely at Sirine. "You've got the soul of a poet! Cooking and tasting is a metaphor for seeing. Your cooking reveals America to us non-Americans. And vice versa." "Chef isn't an American cook," Victor Hernandez says. "Not like the way Americans do food- just dumping salt into the pot. All the flavors go in the same direction. Chef cooks like we do. In Mexico, we put cinnamon in with the chocolate and pepper in the sweetcakes, so things pull apart, you know, make it bigger?

A Conspiracy Theory that took hold was introduced by Anthony “Tony” Summers, the respected author of The Kennedy Conspiracy, published in 1980 and again in 1998 as “Not in Your Lifetime.” He believes that anti-Castro activists, funded by Mafia mobsters who had been ousted from Cuba, killed Kennedy. Summers believes that members of the CIA took part in this conspiracy and named the people he suspected. Summers also stated in an article published in the National Enquirer magazine, on October 25, 2013, that Lee Harvey Oswald didn’t act alone. The National Enquirer stated that Herminio Diaz, born in Cuba in 1923, had, in 1948, shot Pipi Hernandez, who was a Dominican exile employed at the naval base at Guantanamo. This killing took place at the Cuban Consulate in Mexico. In 1957, he was involved with an assassination attempt against President José Figueres of Costa Rica, who incidentally was a trained Army Ranger and a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point. According to JFKFacts published on May 27, 2014, General Fabián Escalante, the historian of Cuban State Security and Castro’s former bodyguard, said that the assassin Herminio Diaz, along with Eladio del Valle and three American mobsters: Richard Gaines, Lenny Patrick, and Dave Yara, were the shooters at Dealey Plaza.

Hurry up!” everyone in the room seemed to shriek at the same time. It didn’t matter to us that all over Pittsburgh, in every house and in every bar, thousands of others were undoubtedly carrying out their own rituals, performing their own superstitions. Hats were turned backward and inside out, incantations spoken and sung, talismans rubbed and chewed and prayed to. People who had the bad fortune of arriving at their gathering shortly before the Orioles’ first run were treated like kryptonite and banished willingly to the silence of media-less dining rooms and bathrooms, forced to follow the game through the reactions of their friends and family. And every one of those people believed what we believed: that ours was the only one that mattered, the only one that worked. Ruthie fumbled through the pages. Johnson fouled one off. “Got it!” Ruthie called. She stood and held Dock Ellis’s picture high over her head, Shangelesa’s scribbled hearts like hundreds of clear bubbles through which her father could watch the fate of his teammates. “He’s no batter, he’s no batter!” Ruthie sang. Johnson grounded the next pitch to shortstop Jackie Hernandez, who threw to Bob Robertson at first, and the threat was over. We yelled until we were hoarse. We were raucous and ridiculous and unashamed, and I have no better childhood memory than the rest of that afternoon. Blass came back out for the ninth, heroically shrugging off his wobbly eighth and, with Ruthie still standing behind us, holding the program shakily aloft for the entirety of the inning, he induced a weak grounder from Boog Powell, an infield pop-up from Frank Robinson, and a Series-ending grounder to short from Rettenmund. For the second inning in a row, Hernandez threw to Robertson for the final out, and all of us (or those who were able) jumped from our seats just as Blass leaped into Robertson’s arms, straddling his teammate’s chest like a frightened acrobat. Any other year, Blass would have been named the Most Valuable Player, and his performance remains one of the most dominant by a pitcher in Series history: eighteen innings, two earned runs, thirteen strikeouts, just four walks, and two complete game victories. But this Series belonged to Clemente. To put what he did in perspective, no Oriole player had more than seven hits. Clemente had twelve, including two doubles, a triple and two homeruns. He was relentless and graceful and indomitable. He had, in fact, made everyone else look like minor leaguers. The rush

At conventions I could go a full hour and never see another female. At the first “Females in Comics” panel I attended, there were nine women on the panel and four people in the audience, one of whom was my husband. Powerful talents like Lea Hernandez and Devin were routinely accused of having their work actually written by their husbands or boyfriends.

I followed them out. The street at the end of the walk was jammed with media people and broadcast vans and uniformed cops trying to clear a path. Hernandez and Flutey flanked Jonathan and we crossed under the tape, and the media people surged around us, pushing their cameras and microphones at Jonathan and shouting their questions. There were so many broadcast vans that it looked as if we were in a forest of transmitters, each spindly stack pointing at the same invisible satellite 22,500 miles above in geosynchronous orbit, like so many coyotes crying at the moon. I said, “This is nuts.

And it is hard, I imagine, for people who have not experienced this to understand the weight of that silence and how the absence of language can feel like a death. Often

The Holy Spirit is compared with wine, not because He brings foolishness and chaos, but because He brings boldness and joy. Just as people receive wine in celebration, so are we to receive the Holy Spirit with gladness. His presence, like wine, marks the occasion.

In the world there are two kinds of people: Lost, and Found. You can choose with you want to be but being lost is More than hurt.

Raising her gaze and watching the smoke, Alara couldn’t help but think that the people of the city deserved to lose their culture in the same way her ancestors had centuries ago. The library fire wasn’t the punishment they deserved, because no fire would ever be enough—all the books that would burn in the library fire could, and would, be replaced. There was no one to replace the tomes her ancestors wrote, nobody to print another edition; they were lost to time, erased from human history by a priest who’d decided the power for his judgment had been bestowed upon him by God.

Forest where the Maya had lived, and prospered, before the Spaniards arrived. There was so much more wild forest than inhabited land, but the cleared spaces held all the power—drops of poison in otherwise clean water.

You know why people call you’re a piece of art? You’re not perfect but you’re beautiful

My SOUTH sign stopped working on an entrance ramp in a sleepy farm town called Kittitas in the state of Washington. A man who introduced himself as Juan Hernandez—a Mexican immigrant with a contracting business in Yakima—saw me and decided to pull over, even though he wasn’t heading in my direction. He took me to a Wendy’s and, despite my objections, bought me a hamburger and fries, which he watched me eat. He spoke in broken, hard-to-understand English, but his passion for his god and his America was palpable. He spoke with no hint of cynicism, of sarcasm, of guile. He only spoke of how happy he was to raise his baby girl, Genesis, here in America and to be able to buy nice clothes for his family. When he dropped me off, I sat down on my pack and covered my eyes with my hands to hide the tears streaming down my cheeks. This was neither the first nor the last time I had difficulty bearing other people’s generosity. Even though I had liked to think I was a solo adventurer, I realized that I was never really alone. I walked a tightwire above a net of compassion, stretched out by the hands of strangers

If I could sum up the lives of people like me—people whose parents don’t write books, whose aunties and cousins don’t step onto college campuses except for the time we graduate—I would write our lives with that one phrase: and then, I turn the page. I

Sitting in that class, with other women who expounded on their opposition of housework, I dared once to ask, “Who will do the housework then?” Seventeen pairs of eyes turned to me, and I continued: “If men don’t do it and women don’t do it, who will? It has to be done. Do you propose that we hire other women to come and do it? Other women who clean people’s homes because they have the opportunity to do nothing else?” Silence greeted my question, as I had expected. I realized then that most of the women in the class were upper-middle and middle-class white women—and I felt like a complete outsider. -Susan Muaddi Darraj

For people in Aida's position, "empowerment is not contingent on taking power or security small victories. Empowerment comes from deciding that the outcome of struggle doesn't matter as much as the decision to struggle.

Puerto Rico is a direct violation of the United Nations Charter and other UN resolutions that have asked the United States to immediately return Puerto Rico’s sovereignty back to the Puerto Rican people.

United States refusal to decolonize Puerto Rico is a direct violation of the United Nations Charter and other UN resolutions that have asked the United States to immediately return Puerto Rico’s sovereignty back to the Puerto Rican people.

It’s like trying to sink a beach ball in the water. It pops up every now and then, whether we want it to or not.” “And when it pops up, we either pretend it’s not there or we ask oppressed people to help us keep it down, or we ask them to praise us for sinking it.

On the thirty-first, Richard listened, over a loudspeaker in the court holding cell he despised so much, as the hearing to poll the jury took place. Clark reiterated the defense’s position. Yochelson stood for the people, saying Ms. Singletary’s murder had happened two weeks earlier. It made no sense to rehash the tragedy and stir things up—after they apparently had been able to put it behind them. Tynan said he thought letting the defense question the jury about Singletary’s death would be a fatal mistake, and he denied the motion. In his cell, pacing back and forth, Richard cursed the judge and told his jailers the trial was a joke; he spit and he cursed and kicked the bars. Daniel told the court, Richard refused also to attend a second motion to be heard on September 5. The judge said it would be all right, but he would have to sign another waiver. Deputy Warden asked to speak to the judge at a sidebar and told Tynan that Richard was cursing and yelling and had stated he’d fight before he allowed deputies to bring him into court. Tynan announced that for security reasons, the defendant would sign the waiver on September 5. The jury’s deliberations moved on. On September 5, when Ramirez was led into court, he was subdued. Doreen was in her usual place, her eyes riveted to him. There was not an empty seat in the house. Ramirez signed the waiver form and was taken to the holding pen. The defense had decided to seek a mistrial based on several points: one, the death of Singletary, the other, that the juror who had replaced her, Mary Herrera, had two brothers in law enforcement who’d been shot to death, which she had failed to mention on her initial questionnaire. The judge refused to grant a new trial, court was recessed, and the jury continued its deliberations. On September 14, court was convened because of Arturo Hernandez. He had been ordered to call the court daily but had failed to do so on the sixth through the fourteenth. Judge Tynan found him in contempt and issued a body attachment with $5000 bail. On the eighteenth, Arturo showed up in court. Tynan bawled him out for not calling in as he had agreed to. He didn’t want to hear any excuses, he just wanted to know how Arturo pled. The lawyer said he was guilty. Tynan fined him $2400 or twenty-four days in jail. He gave him until September 24 to come up with the money. The judge then had Arturo remanded to do a day in jail for a September 1 contempt charge.

In the morning, after Clark and Daniel Hernandez had had a chance to discuss the matter, Clark told Judge Tynan he thought that, because the people had clear, accurate information that Solano had dealt with other thieves and knew he was lying on the stand, his testimony should be stricken altogether. Clark told the court a woman named Sandra Hotchkiss had a wire on when she went to Solano’s house and he talked on tape about buying items from people other than Richard Ramirez. Hernandez said the people having information that Solano was lying could be seen as “subornation of perjury.” He had spoken to Ms. Hotchkiss and she’d claimed Solano was wrestled to the ground by task force detectives and dragged into the house, where he was beaten and coerced into signing a form giving the police the right to search his home.

Then, as now, he adamantly claimed that he never sexually abused any young people and that the police and the prosecutor had conspired to hang abduction and sexual abuse charges on him so they could pollute the L.A. jury pool further—hopefully, beyond repair. The Hernandezes planned to ask for a change of venue, to Oakland, perhaps.

Do you know what happens if you cut grass? You’re not going to get rid of it; you’re going to make it grow. That’s why John the Baptist, preaching on repentance in Luke 3:9 and Matthew 3:10, said you need to lay the “axe to the ROOT.” It’s kind of like chopping off a branch: all you’ve done is, you’ve pruned it! You haven’t chopped the tree down–you’ve made it stronger. That’s why people who try to get rid of their habits by only dealing with the habit instead of the root, end up having worse problems.  They’re just cutting the grass. They come every Sunday, they come once a week, and they’re just “cutting the grass.

I’ll make this quick,” the boss began. “Today was your last day working here.

After lifting the rose petals and locating the largest thorn, he stuck it through his thumb until it hit the nail on the other side. He was smiling the entire time.

He had never before tasted anything as good as that drink, and never did again, because in each sip was the certainty that he had come in contact with one of God’s angels.

the encomenderos made it clear during the harvest that the friars were still the lesser of two evils.

Alara’s seed of revenge had lasted for generations.

Alara’s seed of revenge had lasted for generations. Her ancestors, the Maya from the Yucatán Peninsula, had been victims of overeager missionaries, the leader of which was Cortez’s ancestor.

You have loud footsteps for someone who doesn’t know where they’re going,

Financial matters gave her a headache, and going to the bank made her constipated

Encomenderos and friars aren’t so different: one aims to control our bodies, the other aims to control our souls.

Hello! My name is Patricia Herdoiza Hernandez and I am a professor of psychology and published author. Teaching is my passion and I believe everyone is a lifelong learner. As human beings, it is always important as well as fascinating to learn more about ourselves and each other. I'm also a very spiritual person, being raised Catholic and being baptized a Christadelphian at the age of twenty-seven. A few years after my baptism, I discovered another specific passion of mine, writing fan fiction accounts of the Bible stories as seen through my eyes. As a child, my Nonna (grandmother) taught me these stories and I always loved them. As an adult, they have taken on even more meaning for me as I have learned and grown in life and in faith. I am blessed to have a wonderful, loving husband and our beautiful daughter. We speak Spanish in our household and I am thankful for our rich heritage. Anything I have and anything I am I wish to share with the world to help others while also teaching about God, His son Jesus, and the soon coming Kingdom of God on earth. I've written many fan fiction accounts of various Bible stories including the entire life of Jesus Christ as recorded in the New Testament. My published book, "Esther; Queen of Persia" brings together all my loves: my faith, the study of psychology, and a beautiful love story which reflects the story of God and His people. May you be blessed as you read my book. Thanks for reading! <3

It took me only a few seconds to come up with three possible scenarios regarding the [lie detector.] [...] Whichever of the three was right, the audience couldn’t know for sure. [...] But all of them would be watching me, and judging me based on how I reacted. In other words, the only real lie detector onstage, the only one people would really trust, was me.

Gabi, I was noticing, was a very forgiving person. I’ve noticed that sometimes smart people aren’t. They’re more interested in being right, being on top, and they think that means crushing the competition with their huge brains. But Gabi didn’t need to put others down to raise herself up.

[T]he bathroom was gender-neutral. It depicted a variety of people icons with these words underneath: WE DON'T CARE. JUST PEE NEATLY.

The chicken, Mr. Milagros. Did you clean it up?” The walkie-talkie crackled as Mr. Milagros put his thoughts in order. “¿Bueno? I was going to. I was all ready to. But when I got to the lockers, no chicken.” The other three people in the office looked at me, a little stunned, a little scared, and yeah, I think, a little impressed.

My first impulse was to talk smack about Mr. Lynott, be funny, make Octavio laugh and therefore like me. But half a second’s pause and I knew that’s not how you treat people, especially not people who are trying to do better.

After going through an NDE, people reported a loss of fear of death as well as a greater appreciation of life. They also reported stronger feelings of self-acceptance and a greater concern and sense of caring for other people. They had less interest in material things for their own sake. Many tended to become more spiritual - though not necessarily more involved in organized religion.60 Almost all subjects who experienced an NDE found their lives transformed and a change in their attitudes and values, and in their inclination to love and to help others. Dr. Ring was convinced that these were absolutely authentic experiences and noted that since returning, many of them had occasion to think about ‘what might have been.' And their subsequent lives were powerful testimony to our common ability to live more deeply, more appreciatively, more lovingly, and more spiritually.

Perhaps, in an ironic turn, he saw blackness as quintessentially American at the same time that America distanced itself from black life and people while co-opting their culture.

And in return, for the duration of the interview at least, I was supposed to speak and look patriotic. I was supposed to show or prove an attempt at assimilation; that I aligned myself with undeniable American values--"values" that ensured the continuation of a system historically aligned against me. I had to align myself with a history of denial toward the violence committed on entire generations of people.

I am always seeking to grow in emotional intelligence. I want to keep becoming a better writer, I want to use my words to touch people in a positive way.

My name is . . . The people around here call me Sangama. But, and keep this in mind, in the jungle a name is worth nothing.

People have been leaving behind huge chucks of themselves after death for eons, Consuela – in their diaries and paintings and the notes in their cookbooks and the stories they tell their children. The eneural is the latest in a long line of media that help us capture some bit who we were when we were alive, and give it to the future. It’s the birth of a new artform. One I already love.” She frowns skeptically. “That’s it? My husband is art to you?” I don’t back down. “Art makes life make sense.” “Art is a dead thing trying to tell the living how to live.