Perry White Quotes

You can't go on like you're going to start really living one day like all this is some preamble to some great life that's magically going to appear. I'm a firm believer that you have to create your own miracles, don't hold out that there's something waiting on the other side. It doesn't work that way. When you're gone, you're gone. There's no pearly white gates with an open bar and all the Midori you can drink. You get one go-around and you gotta make it count. I know that it sounds harsh, but it's true. Don’t wait.

Cam lifted the back of the U-Haul door to find Perry holding up a pair of Nana's enormous, silky white underpants. 'Whoops,' said Cam. 'You'll have to make do.' And she shut the door, ignoring Perry's continued pounding on the side of the trailer. 'I packed some cute stuff for her, too,' Asher said regretfully.

Essex has her bride’s gown on: there’s cow parsley frothing by the road and daisies on the common, and the hawthorn’s dressed in white; wheat and barley fatten in the fields, and bindweed decks the hedges.

The level of violence finally forced the local paper to do what the local police would not: Talk to the victims. Shaina Perry remembers the punch to her face, blood streaming from a cut over her eye, her backpack with her asthma inhaler, debit card, and cell phone stolen, and then the laughter. They just said “Oh, white girl bleeds a lot,” said Perry, 22, who was attacked at Kilbourn Reservoir Park over the Fourth of July weekend.2

You learn how they live their lives, and you speak their language well enough to blend in with them. But how many white people you know who go out of their way to see Tyler Perry movies so they can learn how to act around Black people?

My perspective on this is often condemned as ‘carceral feminism’ by those who favour the abolition of prisons and policing, typically on the grounds of racial justice. My response to this accusation is that the women and children who make up the vast majority of rape victims are disproportionately likely to be both poor and non-white.

This is the white man’s burden, the noblesse oblige of the missionary, colonist and development professional, who feel a duty to shepherd those unfortunate enough to be trapped in unenlightenment.

To be a person of relative power and privilege viewing a person of less power and privilege is a political act. The gaze of the powerful is neither neutral nor benign; misrecognition hinders the ability of black people to act as citizens. Indeed, hooks asserts, challenging white people’s assumptions about what they see when they view black people is a critical step toward liberation and equality.21

Except during outbreaks of vicious bigotry, it is difficult to persuade white America that the alienation of Black America is actual and ongoing, afflicting each generation through policy, custom, quack science, and if nothing else, the Look.

In the final episode, you’ll see that I’m wearing a white shirt, and tan slacks, and both look at least three sizes too big for me. (Compare this to the difference in how I look between the final episode of season six and the first of season seven—the Chandler-Monica proposal episodes. I’m wearing the same clothes in the final episode of six and the first of seven [it’s supposed to be the same night], but I must have lost fifty pounds in the off-season. My weight varied between 128 pounds and 225 pounds during the years of Friends.)

I believe White Folk persecute Black Folk are publicly, because in their hearts they build alters and sing praises and make sacrifices; they do it all to us. We are admired, and adored, we are coveted for our fleshy part from where our hair ends to where the earth beneath us starts they want everything about this blackness but the burden; that we can keep.

She's nowt spesh, didn't even have any ornaments. All her walls were painted white, no wallpaper, just black and white photos in black frames, big things they were. There was no carpet on the floor, bare floorboards and she could only afford to have one flower in a vase. Who buys just one flower Lil? Bit of a cheapskate if you ask me. All top show and no knickers, I reckon.

Feminists and civil rights campaigners made white men visible in ways they'd never been before. They started to give the default dominant group equal 'otherness', and white men didn't like it. This feeling of visibility prompted men to adopt a victim status befitting an oppressed group. The patriarchy felt itself wobble and fall a notch nearer equality, but screamed as if it had fallen way below the groups it still oppressed.

It struck her that everything under that white sky was made of the same substance - not quite animal, but not merely earth: where branches had sheared from their trunks they left bright wounds, and she would not have been surprised to see severed stumps of oak and elm pulse as she passed. Laughing, she imagined herself part of it, and leaning against a trunk in earshot of a chattering thrush held up her arm, and wondered if she might see vivid green lichen stippling the skin between her fingers.

Texas governor Rick Perry labeled Trump “a cancer on conservatism” and a threat to the nation’s future. “The White House has been occupied by giants,” Rick noted. “But from time to time it is sought by the small-minded—divisive figures propelled by anger, and appealing to the worst instincts in the human condition.” Perry said the businessman was peddling a “carnival act that can be best described as Trumpism: a toxic mix of demagoguery, mean-spiritedness, and nonsense” and that he was running on “division and resentment.

While the South lost the Civil War technically, White Southerners did not in fact lose the war substantively. After all, Jim Crow, convict labor, and lynching happened with near total impunity, and African Americans experienced decades of pernicious neglect from the federal courts and government. Exploitation ran amok. Inequality persists. And the nation turning a refusing eye, allowing the Southerners to work out their own business over the lives of Black people on the land of the Indigenous all across the region, gave the South their victory lap.

Women of the world, our time has come! Our leaders have taken us down a road of destruction. Aggressive, masculine reflexes have created more violence and rage, have left us with little hope for remedy in the Middle East or anywhere else. Our hope of survival lies in honoring the feminine, that which a patriarchal society has tried vehemently to squelch. Their legacy has left us living in a deluded universe, a world that worships a fixed and righteous view. In order to feel secure, we only welcome change that men in power determine for us. Our patriarchal religions are prime examples of this, creating a one-sided world gone from static, brittle believes. Let us remember that patriarchy is founded on division not unity. We concentrate on the differences instead of giving importance to the similarities. There is good and bad, there is black and white. We are constantly in a state of opposites. Where does unity come into the picture? It is no wonder women have been seen as evil, an abhorrent influence that must be destroyed. Intuition, psychic energy, spiritual force, the unknown, creation itself…merely feminine mockeries of sanity—or so it has been claimed by religious men in power. Women have died at the stake for challenging such beliefs, and to this day dogmatic religious views have persisted in undermining the feminine. Therefore it is up to us to develop a balance between the feminine and the masculine. That’s the formula for a stable democracy. Wisdom and compassion working together will swing the pendulum away from aggression and fear toward peace and conciliation. I’ll venture to say it’s already begun. We have reached a critical mass. Now the energy of woman is being powerfully unleashed. Negative powers have reached levels where enough of us are reacting against them to instigate change. The critical mass that we have reached cannot be turned back, and the force of it will literally shift the energy of our planet, creating a new paradigm.

Colin Perry, who had witnessed the raid from his bicycle, saw Churchill and wrote in his diary, “He looked invincible, which he is. Tough, bulldogged, piercing.” Tough, yes, but at times weeping openly, overcome by the devastation and the resilience of the crowd. In one hand he held a large white handkerchief, with which he mopped his eyes; in his other he grasped the handle of his walking stick. “You see,” an elderly woman called out, “he really cares; he’s crying.” When he came to a group of dispirited people looking over what remained of their homes, one woman shouted, “When are we going to bomb Berlin, Winnie?” Churchill whirled, shook his fist and walking stick, and snarled, “You leave that to me!

I dreamed about you sometimes. In my dreams we were walking down Tenth Avenue together in the dark. You hadn’t been shot after all, and we were both all right. I asked you if you were done, and you said yes, it was finished. In my dreams the streetlights all went off as we walked past them, but I could still see perfectly clearly to the corner. There was heat and light pouring out of you like a lantern, shining down the sidewalk in front of us, filling the intersection with amazing white light. When I reached for your hand you let me keep it there and smiled. You kissed me one more time. In my dreams I always knew that meant that I was about to wake up. The light spilling out of your face and eyes and skin blazed up higher, and you said you had to go. You said it had to be this way. You said you were a goddess of fire. Life went on. It always did, and that summer was no exception.

When the pandemic shut down global travel and the world’s business economy, and when the secular media, including social media giants, rejoiced with Joe Biden being in the White House, a new phrase was being written and reported publicly, “The New Global Reset.” In the past, the same concepts presented in the Great Global Reset Manifesto were called “The New World Order” or “The Globalist Agenda.” However, among knowledgeable conservatives, these older phrases were code words indicating the eventual loss of numerous freedoms that America has enjoyed, leading the nation like sheep to the slaughterhouse, causing Americans to submit to global rules and pay global taxes, allowing self-appointed rich elitists to rule over them. There is a movement to limit religious freedom by banning certain content in minister’s messages, opposing any opinions that are opposite to the manifest of this new system. Progressives have learned that confiscating guns will lead to a revolt. Their plan is to control the sale and distribution of ammo. Without ammunition, a gun is useless.

Poppy Pink is a unicorn, but not just any unicorn. She is a member of the Pinkerton Manor family of unicorns. She was indeed a vision as she stepped from her transport. Poppy Pink is pink all over, but her mane and tail are the purest white and so soft and silky. Her hooves are silver and look like dancing shoes, and they match her sparkling, silver, spiralled horn. 'Oh Poppy,' gasped Oona. 'You look beautiful.' 'I know I do Oona. I suppose you don't look too bad either… for a dragon.' Poppy Pink was a snob, and there wasn't anyone, unicorn or dragon, who was better than her. Well, she was a third generation Pinkerton Manor unicorn, and Pinkerton Manor was only the biggest Manor House in the county. How could anyone possibly be better? Poppy Pink looked down at her feet. They were very muddy. 'Ugh, look at my beautiful, shiny, hooves Oona,' whined Poppy Pink. 'We don't have mud at Pinkerton Manor, even when it rains.' Poor Oona Orange-Blackspot looked downhearted. 'So sorry Poppy. I wish it hadn't rained for your visit.' 'So do I,' sniffed Poppy Pink. 'I find this weather very tiresome. It never rains enough to cause mud at Pinkerton Manor.

We remembered the delicate fig-shaped island,stranded between the American Empire and peaceful Canada, as it had been years ago, with its welcoming red white-and-blue flag-shaped flower bed,splashing fountains, European casino, and horse paths leading through woods where Indians had bent trees into giant bows. Now grass grew inpatches down to the littered beach where children fished with pop topstied to string. Paint flaked from once-bright gazebos. Drinking fountains rose from mud puddles laid with broken brick stepping stones. Along the road the granite face of the Civil War Hero had been spray-painted black. Mrs. Huntington Perry had donated her prize orchids to the Botanical Garden in the time before the riots, when civic money still ran high, but since her death ion the eroding tax base had forced cutbacks that had laid off one skilled gardener a year, so that plants that had survived transplantation from equatorial regions to bloom again in that false paradise now withered, weeds sprang up amid scrupulous identification tags, and fake sunlight flowed for only a few hours per day. The only thing that remained was the steam vapor, beading the sloping greenhouse windows and filling our nostrils with the moisture and aroma of a rotting world

She chose a very pale teal, halfway between blue and green, with a white silk fichu at the neck.

The room was one of her favorites, decorated entirely in dark green and white, with white doors and window embrasures, directing one’s eye toward the light. The furniture was warm, dark rosewood, upholstered in cream brocade, and there was a bowl of white chrysanthemums on the table.

Judith Richards (1993), a teacher in Cambridge, Massachusetts, recounts her experience in a third/fourth grade classroom of children of white and African-American professionals and working-class Haitian immigrants. When she structured a traditional math problem-solving activity, the children of professionals invariably took the lead. However, when she embedded the same type of math problem-solving activity in a traditional Haitian folk tale, the Haitian children took the lead. It seems reasonable that culturally responsive pedagogy would positively affect learning. In both instances, the cognitive task facing children from cultures that were different from mainstream culture was simplified when they did not have to deal with both an unfamiliar speech event and instructional content. Further, one can imagine that using a familiar communication style could possibly reduce cultural dissonance, create a sense of membership, and symbolically affirm children who are members of racial minority groups (Erickson 1987).

The tooth emerged, like a great white whale,” he said. “We alerted the press.

Here, I'll take her," her husband said. He scooped the baby from Juliet's arms and cradled her to his chest. Immediately the whimpering stopped. Charlotte stared at him in wide-eyed fascination. Juliet watched a passing carriage, too ashamed of herself, and her conflicting feelings, to meet Gareth's blue, blue eyes. "She's wet," she warned. "Ah, well, we've got more important things to worry about than that, don't we, Charlotte?" he said lightly, adjusting the baby's frilly bonnet around her tiny face. Juliet caught the double meaning and the tension in his words, knowing well what he meant. She threw him a quick, guilty glance, but Gareth didn't see it. He was too busy ignoring her, playing with the baby, swinging her high over his head and laughing as she broke out in a smile as bright as the sunshine blazing down from above. Juliet looked on a little wistfully. What she wouldn't give to be so happy, so carefree; what she wouldn't give to be able to take back that terrible moment in the church when he'd discovered Charles's ring still on her finger. Why hadn't she removed it once and for all this morning? She had hurt him — deeply. And she felt sick about it. "Like that, do you?" Charlotte chortled in glee. "Here, let's do it again," he said cheerfully, and out of the corner of her eye, Juliet saw that Perry was watching him with those cool gray eyes of his that didn't miss a trick. Perry knew that all was not right here, and Juliet suspected he knew Lord Gareth's sudden silliness with the baby was just a cover for the pain he had to be feeling. And now her husband was swinging Charlotte up and over his head once more, making foolish faces and even more foolish noises at her until he had her shrieking in delight. "Watch this — wheeeeeee!" Perry, observing, just shook his head. "If anyone knows how to act like a juvenile, it's you, Gareth." "Yes, and the day one forgets how to be young is the day one gets old. Let's do it again, Charlie-girl. Ready, now? Here ... we ... go!" Again he swung the infant — high, high, higher. Once more, Charlotte shrieked with glee, and even Juliet felt a reluctant smile creep over her face. Forced or not, her husband's good humor was infectious. The Den members were also grinning, elbowing each other and eyeing him as though he had lost his mind along with his bachelorhood. "I don't believe I'm seeing this," murmured Chilcot. "Yes, what would they say down at White's, Gareth?" Perry was shaking his head. "Well, all I can say is that I'm exceedingly grateful I don't know anyone on this side of town," he drawled. "I daresay you are making a complete arse of yourself, Gareth." "Yes, and enjoying it immensely. I tell you, dear fellow, someday you, too, shall make an arse of yourself over a little one, if not a woman, and then we shall all have the last laugh!" A

Angry tears stung her eyes. Tension built and boiled inside her. Her cheeks grew hot with suppressed anger, her movements became jerky and abrupt. She shoved an errant strand of hair out of her face, stormed to the washstand — And collided with her husband. He had been coming toward her with a piece of wet linen and a bowl half-filled with water. As he and Juliet bounced off each other, some of the water spilled onto the carpet, the rest down the front of his waistcoat. Ignoring it, Gareth held out the damp rag like a truce offering. "Here." "What's that for?" "She needs washing, doesn't she?" "What do you know about babies?" "Come now, Juliet. I am not entirely lacking in common sense." "I wonder," she muttered, spitefully. He summoned a polite though confused smile — and that only stoked Juliet's temper all the more. She did not want him to be such a gentleman, damn it!  She wanted a good, out-and-out row with him. She wanted to tell him just what she thought of him, of his reckless spending, of his carefree attitude toward serious matters. Oh, why hadn't she married someone like Charles — someone capable, competent, and mature? "What is wrong, Juliet?" "Everything!" she fumed. She plunged the linen in the bowl of water and began swabbing Charlotte's bottom. "I think Perry was right. We should go straight back to your brother, the duke." "You should not listen to Perry." "Why not? He's got more sense than you and the rest of your friends combined. We haven't even been married a day, and already it's obvious that you're hopelessly out of your element. You have no idea what to do with a wife and daughter. You have no idea where to go, how to support us — nothing. Yet you had to come charging after us, the noble rescuer who just had to save the day. I'll bet you didn't give any thought at all to what to do with us afterward, did you? Oh!  Do you always act before thinking? Do you?" He looked at her for a moment, brows raised, stunned by the force of her attack. Then he said dryly, "My dear, if you'll recall, that particular character defect saved your life. Not to mention the lives of the other people on that stagecoach." "So it did, but it's not going to feed us or find us a place to live!"  She lifted Charlotte's bottom, pinned a clean napkin around the baby's hips, and soaped and rinsed her hands. "I still cannot believe how much money you tossed away on a marriage license, no, a bribe, this morning, nor how annoyed you still seem to be that we didn't waste God-knows-how-much on a hotel tonight. You seem to have no concept of money's value, and at the rate you're going, we're going to have to throw ourselves on the mercy of the local parish or go begging in the street just to put food in our bellies!" "Don't be ridiculous. That would never happen." "Why wouldn't it?" "Juliet, my brother is the Duke of Blackheath. My family is one of the oldest and richest in all of England. We are not going to starve, I can assure you." "What do you plan to do, then, work for a living? Get those pampered, lily-white hands of yours dirty and calloused?

I watched the scar starting to form on my knee. No matter how tan I got, it stayed white. Gradually, the dreams stopped. By late July, when I still hadn’t heard from Columbia, I assumed that I’d gone from the waitlist to the trash can. Didn’t bother me as much as I’d expected. I was in at Uconn and Trinity. I’d started to wonder if that was what I really wanted after all.

Listen to yourself,”Dad said. “You’re about to burst into tears. Stop this nonsense right now.” “Get your hands off me, I said!" When his hand reached for me again, I punched him in the mouth. Dad took a step back, blinking at me and touching his lip, staring at the blood that his only son had somehow drawn. He looked more startled than hurt or even angry. It was the expression of a man who’d just been informed that, effective immediately, up was down and black was white. Neither of us said a word. “Two things,”I said. “First, when I get back to school I’m joining the swim team again. Second, if you ever cheat on Mom again and I find out, I’m going to beat the living shit out of you.” Dad’s high forehead creased with the tiniest of frowns. “Are you still on that?” “You lied to us.” “You don’t know the details.” “I know I can’t trust you,”I said. “What else do I need to know?” “I don’t know, Perry. I don’t know who you are anymore.” “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.

It was immediately evident that Tickets had suffered a compound fracture. A bone — his fibula, I believe — was protruding so far out of his leg that its outline was visible through his whites. He would probably never play cricket again. Lucky bastard.

When right-wing rock star Ted Nugent drew national ire for calling President Obama a “subhuman mongrel,” some prominent conservatives like Rick Perry initially came to his defense, while others dodged media questions about the racially charged insult. But after months of “listening sessions” with African American civic leaders, students, and government officials, Rand had come to appreciate how hurtful comments like those could be, even when coming from unserious celebrity provocateurs. One night after Nugent made the comment, Rand emailed Stafford saying he wanted to denounce the remark. Stafford was sympathetic, but he cautioned that, politically, it could cause problems on the right. As a father, doesn’t it offend you? Rand wrote back. Stafford glanced up from his phone at his adopted daughter, who was black, and then at his wife, who had been fuming about Nugent’s comment ever since she heard it. “You’re right,” he told Rand. That night the senator tweeted, “Ted Nugent’s derogatory description of President Obama is offensive and has no place in politics. He should apologize.

The hedge beside him was full of orange hips where the wild roses had been, and darker red clusters of berries from the hawthorns, which had been covered with white blossoms, like snowdrifts in the spring. The perfume was almost too heavy. He

When it comes to Black women, sometimes Americans don’t recognize that sass is simply a more palatable form of rage. Americans adore sassy Black women. You know those caricatures of finger-waving, eye-rolling Black women at whom everyone loves to laugh—women like Tyler Perry’s Madea, Mammy in Gone with the Wind, or Nell from that old eighties sitcom Gimme a Break! These kinds of Black women put white folks at ease.

Ahhh! Privacy! Did the self-inscriber intend to write for future readership? Some diarists I include in my book appear to – one even writing an entry to the future. In "The Power of Diaries: Interview with Jane Perry, Author of White Snake Diary" from Paula Whitacre Blog, February 20, 2020: a palindrome!

Maps regarded Benji’s white and red striped shirt and said, “You look like one of those guys who steers a gondola.” “Uh,” Benji said, sitting up straighter and pointing to the parrot. “I’m a pirate. Yar.” “Pirate of the S. S. Gondola, maybe. Next stop, Baguette.” “Okay, stop.” “Plunder and pillage in the name of mi amore.” “Maps.” “Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of Tuscany’s finest red.” “Ugh!” Benji flopped back down on Maps bed, arms extended. “Why does Perry even like you? You’re awful.

Just one example of this is the proliferation of the U.S. Black maternal health crisis. According to the CDC, Black women in the United States are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than their white counterparts.21 When Black women are seen as stronger and less worthy than their white counterparts, it is no wonder that this translates into the medical field. As Harris-Perry writes in Sister Citizen, “Therapists are less likely to perceive a black woman as sad; instead they see her as angry or anxious.”22

I heard a woman has no place in politics.” Thomas grinned. “Politics is for everyone.” He tilted his head. “Who told you that? Certainly not your Father?” “Oh, no. Samuel did.” “Who’s Samuel?” Eliza released a heavy sigh, raising and lowering her shoulders. “He’s the one who proposed to me. I asked him once about all of this and he told me it wasn’t my place. He’s a Captain in the British Army and he feels very strongly about these things.” She pulled her braid over her shoulder and tightened the white ribbon at the end. “He is a very determined man, so I didn’t argue with him on that point. But, I knew I couldn’t accept him until I had more time to come to terms with all of this. And study it out, as Father told me to do.” Thomas’s face went white. “What was his last name?” Eliza raised her brows at his pointed question. The terrified look in his handsome face made her grip her braid. “Who? Samuel?” He stilled and stared at her, his voice a hoarse whisper. “What was his last name?” “Samuel’s just an old family friend. I’ve known him for years—” “Tell me, Eliza.” Thomas rose slowly, with a darkness behind his gaze that turned his eyes into a terrible stormy blue. His fingers curled when he asked again. “What was Samuel’s last name?” “Martin. His last name is Martin.

Thomas glanced back at the stairs, excited nerves leaping in his stomach. “Is Eliza coming?” After the words escaped his mouth he realized how comical he sounded. Of course she was coming. “I mean to say, is Eliza ready?” A wide grin washed over Kitty’s face, as if she were hiding something. “She’ll be down shortly.” Thomas nodded and rested his fidgety hands on the back of the embroidered chair. Nathaniel led Kitty to the other seat and helped her to sit. At that moment, the dainty tap of Eliza’s shoes on the stairs forced Thomas to whirl around. Nathaniel came up behind him. “Steady, boy.” Thomas clenched his jaw to keep it from gaping and dropped his hands to his sides. His eyes traced Eliza’s dainty form. She was even more radiant in that gown than he’d imagined and her face glittered with the most magnificent smile he’d ever seen. The fitted gown accentuated her perfect curves and impossibly tiny waist. The white lace around the neckline tickled her creamy skin, while the dusty-pink color drew out the rosy nature of her cheeks and lips. He tried, but he couldn’t stop staring. Her hair was curled like Kitty’s and wrapped with a delicate ribbon that matched the color of her gown. Her creamy complexion and the velvety look of her long neck were so enticing he had to fight the sudden urge to taste it. Eliza curtsied low and dipped her head. Upon rising she lifted her lashes and spoke to him in a tantalizing timbre. “Good evening, Thomas.” Thomas’s heart beat with such profound strength, it ripped every word from his mind. He wanted to say how beautiful she was. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for keeping his distance when she needed him. Even more than that, he wanted to move his face near hers, and inhale her graceful rose scent deep into his lungs before tasting her lips once again. Every appropriate response fled his mind as his blood raced around his body. He bowed. “Good evening, Eliza.” “Do my eyes deceive me?” Nathaniel, back to his charismatic self, pushed Thomas aside and kissed Eliza’s hand as he bowed with dramatic flare. “You are even more alluring than Aphrodite herself, my dear.” Eliza smiled again and giggled low in her throat. “You are too generous, Doctor.” “I am too enamored. You and your sister shine like the stars themselves.” A hearty grin flashed across his proud face. “Shall we go in to dinner?” He took his place beside Kitty and sent a flashing glance to Thomas, no doubt intended to instruct him to make the most of the moment. Thomas could kill himself. Good evening? That’s all he could say? Eliza’s body faced away from him, but she turned in his direction and the rest of her followed, her gown sweeping across the floor. Thomas closed the space between them, offering his arm. “Shall we go in?” Her slender hand grasped his arm. “You look very nice this evening, Thomas.” Thomas’s tongue dried up in his mouth, shriveling his ability to speak. He could never compete with Nathaniel’s theatrical praises. He’d have to just say what he thought. “You’re a vision, Eliza.” Her

How can I allow myself to get close to you when I know you are keeping something from me—from all of us.” Her eyes sparked with pain, turning her light eyes inky-blue. “Why are my affairs any concern of yours?” “Because I care about you, Kitty. How many times must I say it?” “Aye.” She straightened her posture and lifted her chin. “You care about me as much as you care about the other Tories in this town, which is frighteningly little. Because I haven’t yet embraced the idea of liberty, you choose to view me as less than worthy.”  Her words burned like a white-hot iron. He held his jaw rigid. “You know that isn’t true.” “Is it not? I’ve seen the affection in your eyes, but you evade the inconvenient declaration of love because it spoils your perfect future.” He yanked her forward. “Kitty, that is unfair. You know I care about you more than anyone. Ever since I met you I haven’t been able to think about anyone else.”  “Can you admit we are more than friends, Nathaniel? Can you say that you love me?” Kitty’s large eyes blinked. “I know you cannot.” Nathaniel’s

He pulled away and crouched down, plucking a white flower from the grass beside Kitty’s feet. Slowly he stood, rolling the delicate stem between his fingers. The tenderness in his Autumn-colored eyes seeped into her heart and cupped it as if he held her very soul. His gaze trailed her face as he brushed her hair back and gently tucked the flower behind her ear. Kitty sucked in a quiet breath as tingles flitted down her back. What had possessed him to do such a thing? Did he know what it meant to her?

She would not stand here and be punished like a schoolgirl. She whirled away from him and walked in the direction of the house. “Eliza!” He called after her, his quiet tone loaded with anger. “Eliza!” She quickened her pace. Instantly, he was behind her again and yanked her around to face him. Her fury ignited. “Unhand me, Thomas!” she snapped, in the loudest whisper she could produce and wrenched from his strong fingers. “I’m going home.” “Not yet. I’m not done giving you the tongue lashing you deserve.” She straightened and pursed her lips. “Mr. Watson, I am going home and if you’d like to lash me there you may, but I’ll not stand another minute in this cold, my toes are becoming icicles! “ Eliza tromped through the muddy snow, trying hard not to stumble. She pumped her arms in the long heavy sleeves and puffed white clouds of air as she mumbled under her breath. All the while Thomas marched behind her.

Eliza!” he said, pulling her to him with crushing strength. His voice was quiet and the words poured from him. “Eliza! What happened to you? You were gone. Then I thought you were dead. I nearly died myself with worry for you. Are you all right? Are you hurt?” He moved his hands along her back and kissed the top of her head. Overcome with his tenderness, Eliza hugged him back. Maybe there’s nothing to be afraid of. He was merely sick with worry. “I’m fine, Samuel. I’m fine,” she said, as he pressed her head against him. “There is much I need to say—” Before Eliza could stop him, he cut off her words as he pulled her chin upward and kissed her mouth, grunting and moving his arms around her back in a way that made her stomach sick. She squirmed, and tried to push away, but his mouth still covered hers and her words were mumbled. “Sa-uel—lease! Sto—!” He kissed her harder. Panic surged through her muscles as she fought against him, hitting her fists against his solid chest. Finally, he released her with an angry push. His clouded features hardened. “No, Eliza, I can’t stop!” His chest heaved and his knuckles turned white as he clenched his fingers. “I have done nothing but search for you all these many weeks. I’ve worried day and night over you. I love you. You’re to be my wife! Will you not kiss me back?” He shook her by the shoulders. “What’s happened to you? What has Thomas done to you?” His eyes searched her face then grew wide and flashed with venom. “Has he defiled you? I’ll kill him! Is that why you push me away? You think I won’t have you? It doesn’t make any difference to me, I’ll love you just the same—” “No! No, Samuel, please. It’s nothing like that.” Her fingers trembled as she held tight to his biceps hoping he could read the sincerity in her eyes. “He’s done nothing to me. He’s protected us from the beginning—” “He kidnapped you!” Samuel seized her arms with iron fingers. “He rescued us.

So, you don’t care for squirrels, I take it.” He flashed his straight white teeth when he laughed again. “Oh no, she doesn’t.” Kitty answered, standing and brushing off her skirts as well. Pursing her lips, Eliza sent her sister a look that said, “That’s enough.” Wisely, Kitty complied, but not before her face bloomed into another taunting grin.

We are alone.” His husky timbre tickled her heart. Kitty swallowed and turned, praying at least this once her emotions wouldn’t display on her face. “That we are.” She smiled despite how her breath came in quick, short bursts.  He stepped nearer, producing a white flower in his fingers. “Are you not pleased?” She could hardly speak for what his nearness did to her heart. “Aye, I am pleased.” His gaze narrowed on her mouth then skirted away and he studied her hair. Gently tugging against the pins that held her tresses in place, he all but whispered as he let her hair tumble around her shoulders. “I am glad to hear it.” Gently, he brushed her hair behind her ear and tucked the flower in place. “Now, Kitty, I will kiss you.” He leaned near and Kitty could not resist him. Tilting her head back, she welcomed his descent and wrapped her arms around his neck, lifting on her toes to more fully return his passion.

She don’t give a single fuck about you. She got a white man and she seems real caught up. So yo’ ass is done for. And I’m done too. Ain’t nobody got time for a whiny-ass man. The dick is good, but it ain’t worth my tears. Get dressed and get the fuck out.” “Alright,

In Isabel Wilkerson’s book Caste, she quotes a study from a criminal-justice reform organization called the Sentencing Project. They found that crimes involving a Black suspect and a white victim make up only 10 percent of all crimes—but they account for 42 percent of what’s reported on television. When you’re watching the news and almost half of what you see is Black people committing crimes against white people, that’s going to influence the way you think when you see a Black person.

His original negative experiences with whiteness, reinforced by many related experiences of overt and implicit racism at school and in the community, stayed with him. The earliest relational experiences are the most powerful and enduring.

Because of the sequential processing of experience, this boy will always process “whiteness” in the lower part of his brain first. When he encounters a new white man, his original—and therefore default—association of white men and threat will cause a stress activation that can influence how he feels, thinks, and behaves. It’s like an evocative cue. The boy’s brain has already activated his fear response by the time any other information about the new white man can get to his cortex. In his cortex, he does have some autobiographical memory from seeing me, some stored information that “Dr. Perry is white, but he was okay.” But in the moment, with an activated fear response, he cannot efficiently access that information. He will look at this new white man and feel, “But this isn’t Dr. Perry.” Our first experiences create the filters through which all new experiences must pass.

you’re a white child who spends no time with children of color, you don’t have any personal experiences to help build those important relational associations.

What the fuck just happened? As Bryce’s white Audi streaked off the lot, I shook my head and replayed the last five minutes. After a hot cup of coffee with Dad in the office, I’d come out to the garage, ready to get to work on the red ’68 Mustang GT I’d been restoring. My morning had been shaping up pretty damn great when a hot, leggy brunette with a nice rack came in for an oil change. Got even better when she flirted back and flashed me that showstopper smile. Then I hit the jackpot because she turned out to be witty too, and the heat between us was practically blue flame. I should have known something was up. Women too good to be true were always out for trouble. This one was only baiting me for a story. And damn, I’d taken that bait. Hook, line and sinker. How the hell had Bryce known Dad was going to be arrested for murder even before the cops had shown up? Better question. How the hell hadn’t I? Because I was out of touch. Not long ago, when the club was still going strong, I would have been the first to know if the cops were moving in my or my family’s direction. Sure, living on the right side of the law had its advantages. Mostly, it was nice to live a life without the gnawing, constant fear I’d wake up and be either killed or sent to prison for the rest of my life. I’d become content. Lazy. Ignorant. I’d let my guard down. And now Dad was headed for a jail cell. Fuck. “Dash.” Presley punched me in the arm, getting my attention. I shook myself and looked down at her, squinting as her white hair reflected the sunlight. “What?” “What?” she mimicked. “What are you going to do about your dad? Did you know about this?” “Yeah. I let him go about drinking his morning coffee, bullshitting with you, knowing he’d get arrested soon,” I barked. “No, I didn’t know about this.” Presley scowled but stayed quiet. “She said murder.” Emmett swept a long strand of hair out of his face. “Did I hear that right?” Yeah. “She said murder.” Murder, spoken in Bryce’s sultry voice I’d thought was so smooth when it had first hit my ears. Dad had been arrested and I’d been bested by a goddamn nosy reporter. My lip curled. I avoided the press nearly as much as I avoided cops and lawyers. Until we got this shit figured out, I’d be stuck dealing with all three.

The writers state that "Patriotism is inspired by love, nationalism by hate.

White Christian nationalism's" "deep story" goes something like this: America was created as a Christian country by (white) men who were "traditional" Christians.

As white Christians reach minority status, white Christian nationalists are beginning to turn against American democracy. After all, the essential basis of democratic democracy is majority rule. So

Confronted with the potential of minority status themselves, some members of the old white majority are adopting authoritarian politics as a method of defending their "freedom.

Most Americans were stunned by the carnage they observed in the nation's capital on January 6, 2021. And many were startled by the visuals shown by the insurrectionists: a wooden cross and wooden gallows; "Jesus saves" and "Don't Tread on Me;" Christian flags and Confederate flags; even a prayer in Jesus' name after storming the Senate chamber.

white Christian nationalism has animated the oppression, exclusion, and even extermination of minority groups while securing privilege for white Protestants. It permits white Christian Americans to demand "sacrifice" from others in the name of religion and country, while protecting their "rights" in the names of "liberty" and "property." White Christian nationalism inspires the anti-democratic, authoritarian, and violent instincts on display in our contemporary political situation.

We concentrate on three such features because of their ties to threat perception and boundary construction: perceived victimization; reinforcing racial and religious identity; and absorption in conspiratorial information sources.

And like many lies, this one revealed a wish. How lovely it would have been, I thought, to have had some time just to sink into misery. To not have to deal with family or school. To be surrounded by people whose job it was to keep you safe from your suicidal hand. And to have the circumstances of your life truly reflect what had happened to it. A mental hospital seemed to make a lot more sense than neat rows of chairs and desks, than football bleachers, than that white-lined running track.

Attempting to intimidate them, Perry sent them a white flag and a letter

Trained as a sociologist, I’ve always been more disposed toward structural, macro change targeting policies and institutions over more diffuse cultural transformation that directly engages individuals. I tend to wince at self-help-style books, trainings, and gurus. But in trying so hard to push back on individualistic approaches to empowerment, I went to the other extreme for a while, losing touch with the importance of everyday decisions and actions—what my colleague Imani Perry calls “practices of inequality”—as an essential part of social transformation. Commenting on the many forms of racism that resurfaced during the pandemic, Imani tweeted, “That white male doctor who strangled and assaulted a black girl child for ‘not social distancing’ is also a sign of what African Americans confront in the health care system. It’s not just ‘structural’ racism folks.” This was a needed punch to my disciplinary gut, as I had been trained to critique “the system” and “systemic inequality,” as if these were divorced from everyday human decisions and actions. After all, the doctor, not “the system,” made a choice to violently assault a Black girl child. Yet at the same time, we can uphold unjust systems without physically attacking another person; that, for me, is the risk in highlighting the most obvious cases of brutality: it can let us off the hook. Ultimately, then, this is not a book for those interested primarily in policy, however important policy remains. Rather, this is a call to action for individuals to reclaim power over how our thoughts, habits, and actions shape—as much as they are shaped by—the larger environment.

They found that crimes involving a Black suspect and a white victim make up only 10 percent of all crimes—but they account for 42 percent of what’s reported on television.

The driver's gentility, despite the fact that he could have, could still, string me up without the world flinching? That toothless smile that could easily accompany either mirth or murderousness, depending on the eyes? This is what Black folks mean when we say we prefer the Southern White person's honest racism to the Northern liberal's subterfuge. It is not physically more benign, or more dependable. But it is transparent in the way it terrorizes. You never forget to have your shoulders hitched up a little and taut, even (and especially) when they call you 'sweetheart.' Cold comfort.

I followed a link from Wikipedia to the Pabel Moewig Verlag website. They seem to publish popular magazines: gossip mags, astrology, crossword puzzle mags. The cover for Perry Rhodan displayed on the front of the publisher’s website, shows an attractive young woman in a metallic jacket staring up, perhaps to the stars. You can tell she is futuristic by the white lip gloss she has smeared on her lips.

God forgive us, but ours is a monstrous system. Like the patriarchs of old, our men live all in one house with their wives and their concubines; and the mulattos one sees in every family partly resemble the white children. Any lady is ready to tell you who is the father of all the mulatto children in everybody’s household but her own. Those, she seems to think, drop from the clouds.

And remember this, Frank: whenever you get to the trial of a case, never try to arouse one single emotion in the minds of a jury and bear down steadily on that emotion. “Pick some dominant emotion if you want, but touch on it only for a few moments. Then swing your argument to something else. Then come back to it. The human mind is like a pendulum: you can start it swinging a little at a time and gradually come back with added force, until finally you can close in a burst of dramatic oratory, with the jury inflamed to white rage against the other side. But if you try to talk to a jury for as much as fifteen minutes, and harp continually upon one line, you will find that the jurors have quit listening to you before you finish.

Oprah: We hear so many white people say, “Nobody ever used the N-word in my house.” But it’s not just a matter of language. It’s how you see your parents treat people who are not like you. It’s how you see them in their interactions with other people. It’s what is said about them. It’s the emotional tone that comes through in your household about people who are “other.” That is what you’re taking in from the time you’re born, so it shapes how you see people who aren’t like you. Whether somebody used the N-word or didn’t use the N-word isn’t the point. There are a lot more influences at work.

We live in a gray world and you’ve got to pick the shade closest to white. So do what your heart tells you.

When blue-collar, white workers in middle America look at Donald Trump in his fill-fitting suit and baseball cap, with a physical image that is perhaps more like their own, they see a possibility that they could be him. Aside from his skin colour, Barack Obama, with his lean physique, good looks and charisma, hanging out with rock stars and movie stars, his life and what he stands for seems at a far remove. Except the reality is that he was raised without his father, cared for by his grandparents and moved around a lot as a child, meaning he has potentially much more in common with the Appalachian voters than Donald Trump. He lived and achieved the American Dream in arguably a more fundamental way than Trump did.

A pair of plush white slippers greeted me from inside.

On the one hand, the White Northerner often seeks to find sympathy and common ground with the White Southerner by disappearing the Black Southerner. On the other, the White Northerner seeks to express solidarity with the Black Southerner by turning the White Southerner into a caricatured demon in comparison to his own virtue.

This was a beautiful spot. The meadow was hugged by towering evergreens, their bows dusted in white from last night’s storm. The snow was fluffy, blanketing the ground and sparkling beneath the sun. But the scenery paled in comparison to the man at my side.

He guides the photographers to his sawmill now, cutting between the backside of the shed that stores the cannon and the woven wire fence establishing the boundary of the interstate right-of-way. Across the highway, a white cross is visible. It is fourteen feet tall and stands on Tom’s property, just outside the state fence line. He points it out for the photographers. Yah, n’that cross over there, there was a woman state trooper killed over there. They wanted to put a memorial up for her but the state wouldn’t allow a crucifix on public land. So they come to me, asked me if they could put it on my land. I said sure, on one condition: You make it big as you can.

This isn’t black and white, Luke,” Dash said. “Never will be. There’s justice for Scarlett. She holds no blame here. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You can’t balance the scales. You’ll go crazy if you try because there’s no such thing. We live in a gray world and you’ve got to pick the shade closest to white. So do what your heart tells you.