Pin Badges Quotes

The identity badge pinned to Sandrine's white tunic says, "Speech Therapist," but it should read "Guardian Angel.

You wear your shame like a badge, because you don't have the balls to actually pin one on.

The identity badge pinned to Sandrine's white tunic says "Speech Therapist," but it should read "Guardian Angel.

I didn't know I was about to be left with her idea of me; with her idea of my goodness pinned onto me like a badge and no chance to throw it back at her (as would have been the normal course of affairs with a mother and a daughter—if she'd lived, as I'd grown older).

He sipped again, more deeply. “Is this an interrogation, Lieutenant?” It was the smile in his voice that rubbed her wrong. “It can be,” she said shortly. “As you like.” He rose, set his glass aside, and began to unbutton his shirt. “What are you doing?” “Getting into the swim, so to speak.” He tossed the shirt aside, unhooked his trousers. “If I’m going to be questioned by a naked cop, in my own tub, the least I can do is join her.” “Damn it, Roarke, this is murder.” He winced as the hot water all but scalded him. “You’re telling me.” He faced her across the sea of froth. “What is it in me that is so perverse it thrives on ruffling you? And,” he continued before she could give him her short, pithy opinion, “what is it about you that pulls at me, even when you’re sitting there with an invisible badge pinned to your lovely breast?

After all, we humans are not just one thing, we are multiple things, all at once, and any man wearing a badge on his chest boasting one particular quality or value is a man who is hiding ten other qualities and values he didn't see fit to pin to his lapel.

Ma'am," he said, reaching for the door. He held it open, his posture as erect and sturdy as a pole. I eyed the man's uniform, the pins and badges that signified his military rank and position. At that moment I felt opposing forces wash over me, clashing internally like a cold and warm front meeting in the air. At first I was hit by a burning sense of respect and gratitude. How privileged a person I was to have this soldier unbar the way for me, maintaining a clear path that I might advance unhindered. The symbolism marked by his actions did strike me with remarkable intensity. How many virtual doors would be shut in my face if not for dutiful soldiers like him? As I went to step forward, my feet nearly faltered as if they felt unworthy. It was I who ought to be holding open the door for this gentleman—this representative of great heroes present and past who did fight and sacrifice and continue to do so to keep doors open, paths free and clear for all of humanity. I moved through the entrance and thanked him. "Yes, ma'am," he said. How strange that I should feel such pride while passing through his open door.

One might say that, until now, the social, cultural, and political framework for knowledge of the Gulag has not been in place. I first became aware of this problem several years ago, when walking across the Charles Bridge, a major tourist attraction in what was then newly democratic Prague. There were buskers and hustlers along the bridge, and, every fifteen feet or so someone was selling precisely what one would expect to find for sale in such a postcard-perfect spot. Paintings of appropriately pretty streets were on display, along with bargain jewelry and 'Prague' key chains. Among the bric-a-brac, one could buy Soviet military paraphernalia: caps, badges, belt buckles, and little pins, the tin Lenin and Brezhnev images that Soviet schoolchildren once pinned to their uniforms. The sight struck me as odd. Most of the people buying the Soviet paraphernalia were Americans and West Europeans. All would be sickened by the thought of wearing a swastika. None objected, however, to wearing the hammer and sickle on a T-shirt or a hat. It was a minor observation, but sometimes, it is through just such minor observations that a cultural mood is best observed. For here, the lesson could not have been clearer: while the symbol of one mass murder fills us with horror, the symbol of another mass murder makes us laugh.

returned to his seat. ‘Did it hurt?’ Percy whispered. Frank looked at his forearm, which was still steaming. ‘Yeah. A lot.’ He seemed mystified by the badges in his hand – the centurion’s mark and the Mural Crown – like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. ‘Here.’ Hazel’s eyes shone with pride. ‘Let me.’ She pinned the medals to Frank’s shirt. Percy smiled. He’d only known Frank for a day, but he felt proud of him, too. ‘You deserve it, man,’ he said. ‘What you did last night? Natural leadership.’ Frank scowled. ‘But centurion –’ ‘Centurion Zhang,’ called Octavian. ‘Did you hear the question?’ Frank blinked. ‘Um … sorry. What?’ Octavian turned to the senate and smirked, like, What did I tell you? ‘I was asking,’ Octavian said like he was talking to a three-year-old, ‘if you have a plan for the quest.

During the 2016 US presidential campaign, the hatred shown toward Hillary Clinton far outstripped even the most virulent criticisms that could legitimately be pinned on her. She was linked with “evil” and widely compared to a witch, which is to say that she was attacked as a woman, not as a political leader. After her defeat, some of those critics dug out the song “Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead,” sung in The Wizard of Oz to celebrate the Witch of the East’s death—a jingle already revived in the UK at the time of Margaret Thatcher’s death in 2013. This reference was brandished not only by Donald Trump’s electors, but also by supporters of Bernie Sanders, Clinton’s main rival in the primaries. On Sanders’ official site, a fundraising initiative was announced under the punning title “Bern the Witch”—an announcement that the Vermont senator’s campaign team took down as soon as it was brought to his attention. Continuing this series of limp quips, the conservative commentator Rush Limbaugh quipped, “She’s a witch with a capital B”—he can’t have known that, at the Salem witch trials in the seventeenth century, a key figure had already exploited this consonance by calling his servant, Sarah Churchill, who was one of his accusers, “bitch witch.” In reaction, female Democrat voters started sporting badges calling themselves “Witches for Hillary” or “Hags for Hillary.”48

Sorry,’ he said with a cautious dip of the head. The stranger’s eyes flicked down to the badge pinned on his vest, came back up to his face almost at once. He muttered an apology of his own in a low, stuttery kind of voice, then turned and hurried off up the boardwalk, the tails of his greatcoat flapping about his legs, his longish black hair fanning out beneath his sweaty gray hat. Cord watched him go, suddenly feeling curious and uneasy, though he couldn’t really say why. There had just been something about the man and his manner ... He had seemed edgy, agitated by something. What? Cord followed his progress through troubled eyes. The stranger had an odd, long-stepping gait, he noticed, as if he found it hard to coordinate his movements. He hurried on up the street, glanced back over his shoulder twice. What had he been up to in that black-as-pitch dogtrot? On impulse, Cord decided to find out. The dark air stank of garbage and cat-pee. Tufted grass whispered underfoot as he headed for the far end. To his

The cowboy suit hung behind the bedroom door in its plastic covering. With great care Neville lifted it down and laid it upon the bed. Carefully parting the plastic, he pressed his nose to the fabric of the suit, savouring the bittersweet smell of the dry cleaner’s craft. Gently he put his thumbs to the pearl buttons and removed the jacket from the hanger. He sighed deeply, and with the reverence a priest accords to his ornamentum, he slipped into the jacket. The material was crisp and pure, the sleeves crackled slightly as he eased his arms into them, and the starched cuffs clamped about his wrists like loving manacles. Without further hesitation the part—time barman climbed into the trousers, clipped on the gunbelt, and tilted the hat on to his head at a rakish angle. Pinning the glittering badge of office carefully to his breast he stepped to the pitted glass of the wardrobe mirror to view the total effect. It was, to say the least, stunning. The dazzling white of the suit made the naturally anaemic Neville appear almost suntanned. The stetson, covering his bald patch and accentuating his dark sideburns, made his face seem ruggedly handsome, the bulge of the gunbelt gave an added contour to his narrow hips, and the cut of the trousers brought certain parts of his anatomy into an unexpected and quite astonishing prominence. ‘Mighty fine,’ said Neville, easing his thumbs beneath the belt buckle and adopting a stance not unknown to the late and legendary ‘Duke’ himself. But there was something missing, some final touch. He looked down, and caught sight of his carpet-slippers; of course, the cowboy boots. A sudden sick feeling began to take hold of his stomach. He did not remember having seen any boots when the suit arrived. In fact, there were none. Neville let out a despairing groan and slumped on to his bed, a broken man. The image in the mirror crumpled away and with it Neville’s dreams; a cowboy in carpet-slippers? A tear entered Neville’s good eye and crept down his cheek. ==========

Being an ally is not like writing a CV, you cannot just build up a list of things you’ve done and wave it around in class like Hermione Granger on steroids. You don’t get a badge that you can pin onto your jacket and shine up so people notice it. It shouldn’t be performative. Once you become an ally, you’ve got to know the person or people you want to align with, and they’ve got to know you too. You have to build trust, and with that comes patience.

the last rays of the sun touched the hills at night," now, on his next to last day on earth, he had changed his mind and wanted to be buried on Lookout Mountain. "It's pretty up there.... You can look down into four states," he said. At any rate, Denver won the old plainsman's remains, and Lookout Mountain in nearby Golden, Colorado, would receive them-but not immediately. The funeral services were scheduled for Sunday, January 14, but the body would be kept in a mortuary vault in Olinger's Funeral Home until Memorial Day, when it would be finally buried on Lookout Mountain. Cody's funeral, like his life, was carried out on a grand scale. Described as "the most impressive and most largely-attended ever seen in the West," it was a service of such pomp and ceremony as only a head of state would have been granted. At ten o'clock on the morning of January 14, Cody's body was taken from the Decker home to the state capitol, where it lay in state in the rotunda, beneath the huge dome and its flagpole, on which the Stars and Stripes floated at half mast. The body was dressed in a frock coat on which were pinned the badges of the Legion of Honor and of the Grand Army of the Republic. The coffin bore the inscription: "Colonel William F. Cody, `Buffalo Bill."' Troopers from Fort Logan formed lines in the rotunda, through which passed the governors of Colorado and Wyoming, delegations from the legislatures from those states, officers of the United States Army, members of the fraternal organizations of which Cody was a member, veterans of the Grand Army of the Republic, thousands of men, women, and children. Among the mourners were a handful of old Indians and former scouts-those who had been performers in Buffalo Bill's Wild West. The rotunda was open for three hours. During that time, some eighteen thousand people according to the Denver Post's estimates-twenty-five thousand was the New York Times's guess-filed past the casket. At noon the crowd was kept back while the family, including his foster son, Johnny Baker, bade the Colonel farewell. A delegation of Knights Templar from North Platte followed.

Other people collected friends like badges but Lana chose only one—and that friendship was pinned so close to her heart that removing it had left behind a jagged tear.

Mao badges are pinned on West German student lapels, Little Red Book quotations are daubed on walls of Italian lecture halls.

I’m also deeply conscious that I can’t live up to the badge I’ve pinned to my lapel. I’m a follower of Christ who can’t keep up.

The edelweiss was more than a plant, it was a fashion. Everyone wore some kind of talisman: badges and pins with edelweiss and gentian, or airplanes and tanks, or various types of weapons.

out the pins. “All detectives wear badges. These

Activity pouch on airplanes Buttons and pins Crayons and coloring place mats from restaurants Disposable sample cup from the grocery store Erasers and pencils with eraser tops Fireman hat from a visit to the fire station Goodie bags from county fairs and festivals Hair comb from picture day at school Infant goods from the maternity ward Junior ranger badge from the ranger station and Smokey the Bear Kids’ meal toys Lollipops and candy from various locations, such as the bank Medals and trophies for simply participating in (versus winning) a sporting activity Noisemakers to celebrate New Year’s Eve OTC samples from the doctor’s office Party favors and balloons from birthday parties Queen’s Jubilee freebies (for overseas travelers) Reusable plastic “souvenir” cup and straw from a diner Stickers from the doctor’s office Toothbrushes and floss from the dentist’s office United States flags on national holidays Viewing glasses for a 3-D movie (why not keep one pair and reuse them instead?) Water bottles at sporting events XYZ, etc.: The big foam hand at a football or baseball game or Band-Aids after a vaccination or various newspapers, prospectuses, and booklets from school, museums, national parks . . .

Here's the worst thing about death: the inherent racism of human language. While the living gorge themselves on the present indicative, all we can hope for are moldy leftovers of the past tense. If you even want the tiniest helping of a verb in the present tense, you must necessarily have the obscene badge of a beating heart pinned to your chest.

He couldn’t keep it hidden for long, he knew. Once order was restored and research began anew, it would definitely be possible to figure out the sequence of events of the humans important laboratory losing something. He had to leave-the earlier, the better. But he couldn’t keep himself from taking a sharp, cool object out of his shirt pocket. It was the badge that Lu Feng had pinned to his coat, which An Zhe had taken off. He held it in his hand, thinking that once the aurora lit up and he heard the news of the PL1109 returning, he’d leave then — if such a day came. There wasn’t anything good in this city. Only potato soup was quite nice. If it weren’t — if it weren’t for his spore always wanting to get close to Lu Feng, he would have left long ago.

There is one thing you need to know about the badge before pinning it on.” ​Danny looked up, and Barrett nodded at Banner, who stepped forward, his earlier smile replaced with a look of reverence. ​“The badge has a star with seven points, each representing one of the Seven Sacred Virtues,” he said.  “You will need to study them, practice them, and honor our ways.”  Barrett added from behind, “The virtues are prayer, honesty, humility, compassion, respect, generosity, and wisdom.