Pregnant Sister Quotes

The judge's massive eyebrows crept up. "Kaldar. Are you the one speaking for the plaintiff today?" "Yes, Your Honor." "Well, shit," Dobe said. "I guess you're familiar with the law. You hit it over the head, set its house on fire, and got its sister pregnant.

Connor pinches her chin between his fingers, and he says, “Vous êtes enceinte.” You’re pregnant. I spit out my water. Just like that. One word. Enceinte. And my cover is blown. Fucking fuck

To be a woman is like becoming a prey, her every move watched by hungry predators. Every glance of man is a violation. No one is spared. No one. Not mother, not sister, not daughter. It is only fear of Dharma that keeps men in check.

For Jenn At 12 years old I started bleeding with the moon and beating up boys who dreamed of becoming astronauts. I fought with my knuckles white as stars, and left bruises the shape of Salem. There are things we know by heart, and things we don't. At 13 my friend Jen tried to teach me how to blow rings of smoke. I'd watch the nicotine rising from her lips like halos, but I could never make dying beautiful. The sky didn't fill with colors the night I convinced myself veins are kite strings you can only cut free. I suppose I love this life, in spite of my clenched fist. I open my palm and my lifelines look like branches from an Aspen tree, and there are songbirds perched on the tips of my fingers, and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath the first time his fingers touched the keys the same way a soldier holds his breath the first time his finger clicks the trigger. We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe. But my lungs remember the day my mother took my hand and placed it on her belly and told me the symphony beneath was my baby sister's heartbeat. And I knew life would tremble like the first tear on a prison guard's hardened cheek, like a prayer on a dying man's lips, like a vet holding a full bottle of whisky like an empty gun in a war zone… just take me just take me Sometimes the scales themselves weigh far too much, the heaviness of forever balancing blue sky with red blood. We were all born on days when too many people died in terrible ways, but you still have to call it a birthday. You still have to fall for the prettiest girl on the playground at recess and hope she knows you can hit a baseball further than any boy in the whole third grade and I've been running for home through the windpipe of a man who sings while his hands playing washboard with a spoon on a street corner in New Orleans where every boarded up window is still painted with the words We're Coming Back like a promise to the ocean that we will always keep moving towards the music, the way Basquait slept in a cardboard box to be closer to the rain. Beauty, catch me on your tongue. Thunder, clap us open. The pupils in our eyes were not born to hide beneath their desks. Tonight lay us down to rest in the Arizona desert, then wake us washing the feet of pregnant women who climbed across the border with their bellies aimed towards the sun. I know a thousand things louder than a soldier's gun. I know the heartbeat of his mother. Don't cover your ears, Love. Don't cover your ears, Life. There is a boy writing poems in Central Park and as he writes he moves and his bones become the bars of Mandela's jail cell stretching apart, and there are men playing chess in the December cold who can't tell if the breath rising from the board is their opponents or their own, and there's a woman on the stairwell of the subway swearing she can hear Niagara Falls from her rooftop in Brooklyn, and I'm remembering how Niagara Falls is a city overrun with strip malls and traffic and vendors and one incredibly brave river that makes it all worth it. Ya'll, I know this world is far from perfect. I am not the type to mistake a streetlight for the moon. I know our wounds are deep as the Atlantic. But every ocean has a shoreline and every shoreline has a tide that is constantly returning to wake the songbirds in our hands, to wake the music in our bones, to place one fearless kiss on the mouth of that brave river that has to run through the center of our hearts to find its way home.

Well, shit," Dobe said. "I guess you're familiar with the law. You hit it over the head, set its house on fire, and got its sister pregnant.

And she didn't once say anything about this being a sin. It used to be I got the word sin slapped in my face every time I did something wrong, but come on, when you live in a sin-free family with sin-free parents and a sin-free sister, well, you can't help but sin a little extra on their behalf.

Although I am nine months pregnant, although I have had plenty of time to dream, I have not really considered the specifics of this child. I have thought of this daughter only in terms of what she will be able to do for the daughter I already have.

There was no etiquette guide in the universe that told you how to handle waking up in a house you'd fled from as a teenager with your estranged sister in one room accross the hall and your husband's pregnant teenage mistress in the other.

Holy shit, my sister was right. The hormones make you pregnant females wild for cock. I might die from so much sex.

But a foreign army would actually have to occupy my country, build a Wall through my land, destroy my father’s livelihood, jeopardize my education, imprison my cousins, build a checkpoint between my pregnant sister and the hospital, bulldoze my neighbor’s house, and kill thousands of my countrymen in order for me to be able to really stand in their shoes.

The following quote is from a Ted talk my sister sent to me that blew my mind.... We talk about how many women were raped last year, not about how many MEN raped women... We talk about how many girls in a school district were harassed last year, not about how many BOYS harassed girls... We talk about how many teenage girls got pregnant in the state of VA last year, rather than how many men and teenage boys got girls pregnant... So you can see how the use of this passive voice has a political affect. It shifts the focus (and blame) off men and boys, and onto girls and women.

Hey," Marshall said, leaning beside me. "You okay? You look supremely pissed." I smiled. "I'm absolutely fine." "Is your boyfriend here on a date with someone else? Did you guys break up or something?" He seemed to be mocking me. "Yep. We broke up," I said sarcastically. "I caught him sleeping with my sister and then she found out she was pregnant. It didn't work out between them, though, and he left her for that girl." I gestured at Sarah. "My sister's gonna take him on Jerry Springer." Marshall raised an eyebrow. "You don't have a sister." "And you don't have any brain cells.

They were all there (at the airport) - the deaf ammoomas, the cantankerous, arthritic appoopas, the pining wives, scheming uncles, children with the runs. The fiancées to be reassessed. The teacher's husband still waiting for his Saudi visa. The teacher's husband's sisters waiting for their dowries. The wire-bender's pregnant wife. "Mostly sweeper class," Baby Kochamma said grimly, and looked away while a mother, no wanting to give up her good place near the railing, aimed her distracted baby's penis into an empty bottle while he smiled and waved at the people around him...

Since both Eliza and Angelica were pregnant, sister Peggy crept downstairs to retrieve the endangered child. The leader of the raiding party barred her way with a musket. “Wench, wench! Where is your master?” he demanded. “Gone to alarm the town,” the coolheaded Peggy said. The intruder, fearing that Schuyler would return with troops, fled in alarm.

It strikes me that I don’t. Although I am nine months pregnant, although I have had plenty of time to dream, I have not really considered the specifics of this child. I have thought of this daughter only in terms of what she will be able to do for the daughter I already have.

When she was pregnant with her second child, a midwife asked if Catherine had any unspoken fears about anything that could go wrong with the baby - such as genetic defects or complications during the birth. My sister said, 'My only fear is that he might grow up to become a Republican.

Look, back in the old days, ravens used to be gentle and white, like doves, okay? But they were terrible gossips. One time I was dating this girl, Koronis. The ravens found out she was cheating on me, and they told me about it. I was so angry, I got Artemis to kill Koronis for me. Then I punished the ravens for being tattletales by turning them black.” Reyna stared at me like she was contemplating another kick to my nose. “That story is messed up on so many levels.” “Just wrong,” Meg agreed. “You had your sister kill a girl who was cheating on you?” “Well, I—” “Then you punished the birds that told you about it,” Reyna added, “by turning them black, as if black was bad and white was good?” “When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound right,” I protested. “It’s just what happened when my curse scorched them. It also made them nasty-tempered flesh-eaters.” “Oh, that’s much better,” Reyna snarled. “If we let the birds eat you,” Meg asked, “will they leave Reyna and me alone?” “I—What?” I worried that Meg might not be kidding. Her facial expression did not say kidding. It said serious about the birds eating you. “Listen, I was angry! Yes, I took it out on the birds, but after a few centuries I cooled down. I apologized. By then, they kind of liked being nasty-tempered flesh-eaters. As for Koronis—I mean, at least I saved the child she was pregnant with when Artemis killed her. He became Asclepius, god of medicine!” “Your girlfriend was pregnant when you had her killed?” Reyna launched another kick at my face. I managed to dodge it, since I’d had a lot of practice cowering, but it hurt to know that this time she hadn’t been aiming at an incoming raven. Oh, no. She wanted to knock my teeth in. “You suck,” Meg agreed.

My first strike was marrying a guy without a college degree. My second and third were getting pregnant. I suppose that when I didn't go on to become the next Gloria Allred, she was justified in counting me a failure. And I suppose that until now, I was justified in thinking that I wasn't one.

She’d transferred for him, left her first station where she’d had friends. She’d hauled her sister along so she could keep the vow she’d made to Constance, too. She’d married him, lost her British citizenship for it, then had to pull family strings once again to be reposted when he was so she could follow him. When she’d fallen pregnant, she’d given up the work she loved—the work she’d based her worth on—and after she’d delivered, they’d been reposted again, and she’d lost daily contact with Constance…with anyone outside this house, really. She’d given everything, and he hadn’t protested because he loved her too much to let her go.

you see, my whole life is tied up to unhappiness it's father cooking breakfast and me getting fat as a hog or having no food at all and father proving his incompetence again i wish i knew how it would feel to be free it's having a job they won't let you work or no work at all castrating me (yes it happens to women too) it's a sex object if you're pretty and no love or love and no sex if you're fat get back fat black woman be a mother grandmother strong thing but not woman gameswoman romantic woman love needer man seeker dick eater sweat getter fuck needing love seeking woman it's a hole in your shoe and buying lil sis a dress and her saying you shouldn't when you know all too well that you shouldn't but smiles are only something we give to properly dressed social workers not each other only smiles of i know your game sister which isn't really a smile joy is finding a pregnant roach and squashing it not finding someone to hold let go get off get back don't turn me on you black dog how dare you care about me you ain't go no good sense cause i ain't shit you must be lower than that to care it's a filthy house with yesterday's watermelon and monday's tears cause true ladies don't know how to clean it's intellectual devastation of everybody to avoid emotional commitment "yeah honey i would've married him but he didn't have no degree" it's knock-kneed mini skirted wig wearing died blond mamma's scar born dead my scorn your whore rough heeeled broken nailed powdered face me whose whole life is tied up to unhappiness cause it's the only for real thing i know

The next customer in line was a white woman who had purchased a set of baby’s pajamas for her pregnant sister. “Men,” the customer said. “Who can understand the way their minds work?” Mother knew what the lady was talking about, but she couldn’t laugh at a black man with her, even though she was only laughing at him for being a man.

The girl looked too frightened to speak. Then she said: “I know you have to give my mother the flag—at the funeral. I know what my mother’s gonna do—when you give her the flag. She said she’s gonna spit on you,” the pregnant sister told Owen. “And I know her—she will!” the girl said. “She’ll spit in your face!” “IT HAPPENS, SOMETIMES,” Owen said.

Please tell me Lily isn’t fucking pregnant,” Ryke immediately jumps to conclusions.

And then my sister stared ahead and muttered two little words that would change both of our lives forever. “I’m pregnant.

This had been how Sidney’s last three hours had gone—trapped in a leather-interior hellhole with the crazy pregnant lady. She hoped the menfolk were having a nice, relaxing road trip in that souped-up man car they were riding in because as soon as they got to the Robertses’ house, she was pawning the woman formerly known as her sister onto the dude whose sperm had apparently turned her into a she-devil.

I heard Dominic practice Bronagh’s breathing tactics, and I wondered if I’d be taking care of him in the delivery ward as well as her. “I feel like I’m about to pass out.” Yep, I’m definitely going to be looking after him. “Keep breathing, you’ll be fine,” I assured him. “Where’s me sister?” “Why’re you telling Dominic to breathe?’ Ryder murmured. “He’s freakin’ out,” I whispered in response making him snicker.

A girl who became accidentally pregnant might be forced to stand up before the congregation on a Sunday morning and beg forgiveness for her sins, while the equally sexually curious boy who helped get her pregnant sat, with his brothers and sisters in Christ, in judgment of her.

The following quote is from a Ted talk my sister sent to me that blew my mind.... We talk about how many women were raped last year, not about how many MEN raped women... We talk about how many girls in a school district were harassed last year, not about how many BOYS harassed girls... We talk about how many teenage girls got pregnant in the state of VA last year, rather than how many men and teenage boys got girls pregnant... So you can see how the use of this passive voice has a political affect. It shifts the focus off men and boys, and onto girls and women.

Sixteen, I reflected, biting into a stolen pie. By this time in her life, my sister Mary had been pregnant. Ovid had dedicated his life to poetry. Queen Elizabeth had seen a suitor beheaded. Romeo and Juliet were dead. Whereas I, Margaret Lucas, was nothing if not in health, no single true adventure to my name.

Doomed and knew it, accepted the doom without either seeking or fleeing it. Loved her brother despite him, loved not only him but loved in him that bitter prophet and inflexible corruptless judge of what he considered the family's honor and its doom, as he thought he loved but really hated in her what he considered the frail doomed vessel of its pride and the foul instrument of its disgrace, not only this, she loved him not only in spite of but because of the fact that he himself was incapable of love, accepting the fact that he must value above all not her but the virginity of which she was custodian and on which she placed no value whatever: the frail physical stricture which to her was no more than a hangnail would have been. Knew the brother loved death best of all and was not jealous, would (and perhaps in the calculation and deliberation of her marriage did) have handed him the hypothetical hemlock. Was two months pregnant with another man's child which regardless of what its sex would be she had already named Quentin after the brother whom they both (she and her brother) knew was already the same as dead...

Bronagh stood up and turned to face him. “I was goin’ to tell you, but you’ve been goin’ on about your stupid fight all week and I didn’t want to distract you.” Branna was leaning against the door. “Tell him what?” Bronagh looked at her sister and said, “I’m pregnant.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Alec shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “Is everyone going to have kids before me?

What my sister needed was not people urging her, as so many did, to get pregnant again as soon as possible, but acknowledgment of her loss and the violence that she experienced in that loss. She needed to know that this was not a failure or that she was a bad mother. She needed to be allowed to be not only sad but also, in her grief, to be angry. But as Gunther explained, "Society does not like to hear from us castaway mothers.

Sibby, did you know her?” She turns to me, a frown tugging down her lips. “What did she look like?” “Blonde hair, brown eyes. Two front teeth were crooked. She had a beauty mark on the corner of her mouth, too.” She works to swallow, but eventually nods her head. “Yeah, I knew her. She was my sister. I mean, all the children were my siblings. Daddy was the only one allowed to get anyone pregnant…” she trails off, seemingly dumbfounded.

She sat and watched the dockhand when it was sunny and she sat and watched him when it rained. Or when it was foggy, which is what it was nearly every morning at eight o’clock. This morning was none of the above. This morning was cold. The pier smelled of fresh water and of fish. The seagulls screeched overhead, a man’s voice shouted. Where is my brother to help me, my sister, my mother? Pasha, help me, hide in the woods where I know I can find you. Dasha, look what’s happened. Do you even see? Mama, Mama. I want my mother. Where is my family to ask things of me, to weigh on me, to intrude on me, to never let me be silent or alone, where are they to help me through this? Deda, what do I do? I don’t know what to do. This morning the dockhand did not go over to see his friend at the next pier for a smoke and a coffee. Instead, he walked across the road and sat next to her on the bench. This surprised her. But she said nothing, she just wrapped her white nurse’s coat tighter around herself, and fixed the kerchief covering her hair. In Swedish he said to her, “My name is Sven. What’s your name?” After a longish pause, she replied. “Tatiana. I don’t speak Swedish.” In English he said to her, “Do you want a cigarette?” “No,” she replied, also in English. She thought of telling him she spoke little English. She was sure he didn’t speak Russian. He asked her if he could get her a coffee, or something warm to throw over her shoulders. No and no. She did not look at him. Sven was silent a moment. “You want to get on my barge, don’t you?” he asked. “Come. I will take you.” He took her by her arm. Tatiana didn’t move. “I can see you have left something behind,” he said, pulling on her gently. “Go and retrieve it.” Tatiana did not move. “Take my cigarette, take my coffee, or get on my barge. I won’t even turn away. You don’t have to sneak past me. I would have let you on the first time you came. All you had to do was ask. You want to go to Helsinki? Fine. I know you’re not Finnish.” Sven paused. “But you are very pregnant. Two months ago it would have been easier for you. But you need to go back or go forward. How long do you plan to sit here and watch my back?” Tatiana stared into the Baltic Sea. “If I knew, would I be sitting here?” “Don’t sit here anymore. Come,” said the longshoreman. She shook her head. “Where is your husband? Where is the father of your baby?” “Dead in the Soviet Union,” Tatiana breathed out. “Ah, you’re from the Soviet Union.” He nodded. “You’ve escaped somehow? Well, you’re here, so stay. Stay in Sweden. Go to the consulate, get yourself refugee protection. We have hundreds of people getting through from Denmark. Go to the consulate.” Tatiana shook her head. “You’re going to have that baby soon,” Sven said. “Go back, or move forward.” Tatiana’s hands went around her belly. Her eyes glazed over. The dockhand patted her gently and stood up. “What will it be? You want to go back to the Soviet Union? Why?” Tatiana did not reply. How to tell him her soul had been left there? “If you go back, what happens to you?” “I die most likely,” she barely whispered. “If you go forward, what happens to you?” “I live most likely.” He clapped his hands. “What kind of a choice is that? You must go forward.” “Yes,” said Tatiana, “but how do I live like this? Look at me. You think, if I could, I wouldn’t?” “So you’re here in the Stockholm purgatory, watching me move my paper day in and day out, watching me smoke, watching me. What are you going to do? Sit with your baby on the bench? Is that what you want?” Tatiana was silent. The first time she laid eyes on him she was sitting on a bench, eating ice cream. “Go forward.” “I don’t have it in me.” He nodded. “You have it. It’s just covered up. For you it’s winter.” He smiled. “Don’t worry. Summer’s here. The ice will melt.” Tatiana struggled up from the bench. Walking away, she said in Russian, “It’s not the ice anymore, my seagoing philosopher. It’s the pyre.

I covered all topics—everything and everyone whom I could possibly have wronged, including God, of course—and I asked for forgiveness. But in another part of my brain, I was screaming, “FORGIVENESS FOR WHAT?” I had no idea, but the strength of that absurdity couldn’t pierce the armor of my compulsion. When I finished praying, I got up and walked home. My mother, my father, and my pregnant sister, Corinne, were all waiting in the living room, dressed in their robes. From the expression on their faces, I thought that someone had died. My mother started crying. My father spoke first: “We called the police—they just left here. Do you know what time it is? It’s three o’clock in the morning! Where were you? What in God’s name were you doing?” I couldn’t bring myself to say, “I was praying, Daddy—I was lying in a field, praying to God to forgive me.” And if he had said, “Forgive you for WHAT?” I would have said, “I don’t know!” and he would have say, “For eight hours? Are you nuts?” . . . and he would have been right.

In the middle of this endless, moon-drenched night, I had stepped into the Second South and seen that my South was a luxury I did not know I had. I could pass through this second one on and off all day and rarely feel the difference. For the first time, I understood that I was pregnant with a boy who would always know. Right now, secreted inside me, my son was protected by the lining of my own white hide. I could drift along, seeing only the South’s best version of itself if I so chose. But once my son was out, brown-skinned and himself? He wouldn’t have that choice.

Through all these times and formative young years, Lara, my sister, was a rock to me. My mother had suffered three miscarriages after having Lara, and eight years on she was convinced that she wasn’t going to be able to have more children. But Mum got pregnant, and she tells me she spent nine months in bed to make sure she didn’t miscarry. It worked. Mum saved me. The end result, though, was that she was probably pleased to get me out, and that Lara finally got herself a precious baby brother; or in effect, her own baby. So Lara ended up doing everything for me, and I adored her for it. While Mum was a busy working mother, helping my father in his constituency duties and beyond, Lara became my surrogate mum. She fed me almost every supper I ate--from when I was a baby up to about five years old. She changed my nappies, she taught me to speak, then to walk (which, with so much attention from her, of course happened ridiculously early). She taught me how to get dressed and to brush my teeth. In essence, she got me to do all the things that either she had been too scared to do herself or that just simply intrigued her, such as eating raw bacon or riding a tricycle down a steep hill with no brakes. I was the best rag doll of a baby brother that she could have ever dreamt of.

If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him?” It was like a punch, all at once, in my spiritual gut. The Scripture came alive and it spoke to me. For the Samaritan, the person in need was a fallen traveler. For me, it was a pregnant woman. The earth spun, and with it, this question turned on its head. It became not: Is it right for me, as a Christian, to perform abortions? But rather: Is it right for me, as a Christian, to refuse to do them? And in that instant, I understood that I, like the Levite and the priest, had been afraid—afraid of what my Christian brothers and sisters might think of me, of what my pastors and relatives in Birmingham might say, of what the social or political consequences of fully embracing the cause of abortion might be.

I’m having a baby.” Cue the pregnant pause––pun intended. On the other side of the pond, my brother’s confused expression says it all. “With who?” “I don’t know.” “Jesus, you don’t know who the father is? How many people are you dating?” “Shut up. I’m not pregnant yet. I’m searching for a man to share parental responsibility.” “What?” “Co-parenting. We legally share a child.” “Like a sperm donor?” He looks unhappy with this turn of events. As much as I love my brother, and I do, he’s a total caveman when it suits him. “I’ll volunteer my sperm,” a deep voice shouts in the background. Alex turns in the direction of the voice. “Not if I stuff your nuts down your throat first, Hayes. That’s my baby sister you’re talking about.” “By a minute,” I feel the need to clarify. “You’re still my baby sister.” 

Every night, I sit in the rocking chair in the nursery when I give Willow her bedtime bottle. Tonight, I burped her halfway through her feeding like always. Then I sat her on my knees facing me and made funny faces. She looked right into my eyes. And she smiled. She’s ten weeks old and she just gave me her very first smile. I wish I’d taken a picture. I’m probably supposed to be documenting everything better for her baby book or whatever. She’s going to have a terrible baby book. But at least she’ll have a father who loves her. Because when she smiled at me tonight, I finally felt it. Love. A rush of love. I was so blown away by it I laughed, which made her smile at me even more. Then I hugged her small body and breathed in the smell of her Johnson’s baby shampoo. I could feel her heartbeat. Up until tonight, I was pretty sure Willow didn’t like me, and I understood why she didn’t. I didn’t blame her for resenting the idiot, bumbling guy who started doing for her all the things her gorgeous, familiar mother had done before. But tonight . . . tonight my little girl smiled at me. She gave her very first smile to me because I’m her person now. I’m her daddy and, in her way, I think she might love me, too. When I laid her against the inside of my elbow to feed her the rest of her bottle, her hand made a fist in the fabric of my shirt. She watched me as she drank down her formula. I’m tired and lonely. Parenting is far more difficult than I understood when I was a son and not yet a father. I miss my freedom and my friends and the life I had before Sylvie told me she was pregnant. I miss who I used to be. But tonight my daughter, a tiny girl in pink pajamas, smiled at me. Because I’m her person. Letter

I have salt and sugar at home, but I'm paying eighty bucks to have ya'll rub it on my feet. If I want to yell at my sister-in-law about that fact that I just found out I am pregnant, and how my boyfriend, the recovering alcoholic, is still fragile and I don't know if he'll make it, whether I'm going to miscarry like I did before, and a whole other list of shit, like, hell, I don't know, what I'm going to be when I grow up, then I will! And maybe, just maybe, for the eighty bucks you're charging me, I can yell a bit." The woman only blinked as Lacey snickered beside her. "Keep it down and congratulations." "Thanks, and I'll try," Kacey said as the woman walked away. She then turned to Lacey, who was fully laughing at this point. "Really> This is not funny." "Oh, I'm cracking up because if you're already this emotional and bitchy, God help us all once you reach the third Trimester.

said that’s enough, Kevin,” Mam shouted, coming to stand between us. “I don’t care how surprised or upset you are, don’t you ever speak to your sister—or any woman, for that matter—like that again. You were raised, not dragged up.” “Yeah, and so was she,” he countered defensively. “But apparently only one of us got the memo.” “That’s not fair,” Mam replied, tone thick with emotion. “You don’t understand what your sister is going through.” “No, because I actually happen to possess a brain between my ears,” he agreed, furious. “Unlike this idiot.” “Kevin!” “Jesus, I always knew you weren’t the brightest crayon in the box, but this?” my brother accused, eyes narrowed in challenge. “Getting pregnant while you’re still in school? Off a fucking scumbag like Joey Lynch? Wow, talk about scraping the barrel by mixing your genes with his. That poor fucking kid’s going to come out with a cocaine habit and the IQ of a gummy bear!

Six million women were abused in 1991. One in every six was pregnant." --- Sally Jessy Raphael Abuse against women is more than a crime of violence. It is a statement about society's view of women and itself. Women have been viewed as property, tools of pleasure, and underlings. The people who support these views forget that women are the mothers, daughters, aunts, sisters, and nieces who raise the fathers, sons, uncles, brothers, and nephews. Women are the creative force of the world. The world's treatment of women will be reflected in the things men create. Every man of color has an ancestral obligation to get clear regarding his views about women. Childhood pains, adolescent disappointments, adult misconceptions must be mended and forgiven. Every woman of color has a responsibility to all women of color to reveal the violence against her, to heal her wounds, and do everything in her power to make sure another woman is healed." Mantra: I Am every woman; Reflection: Consider the women in your life who have been victims of physical or sexual abuse. What can you do today to help one woman heal or to end the painful cycle for future generations? ----Iyanla Vanzant, from Acts of Faith: Daily Meditations for People of Color

They entered the summer parlor, where the Ravenels chatted amiably with his sisters, Phoebe and Seraphina. Phoebe, the oldest of the Challon siblings, had inherited their mother's warm and deeply loving nature, and their father's acerbic wit. Five years ago she had married her childhood sweetheart, Henry, Lord Clare, who had suffered from a chronic illness for most of his life. The worsening symptoms had gradually reduced him to a shadow of the man he'd once been, and he'd finally succumbed while Phoebe was pregnant with their second child. Although the first year of mourning was over, Phoebe hadn't yet returned to her former self. She went outdoors so seldom that her freckles had vanished, and she looked wan and thin. The ghost of grief still lingered in her gaze. Their younger sister, Seraphina, an effervescent eighteen-year-old with strawberry-blonde hair, was talking to Cassandra. Although Seraphina was old enough to have come out in society by now, the duke and duchess had persuaded her to wait another year. A girl with her sweet nature, her beauty, and her mammoth dowry would be targeted by every eligible man in Europe and beyond. For Seraphina, the London Season would be a gauntlet, and the more prepared she was, the better.

She met her father in the living room. “I'm begging you not to kill him.” Her father scowled at her. “This man is our sworn enemy. He has-” “I know who he is and I know what he's done. I also know he is Gianni's father, and in our hearts, he is Will's father. Will loves him.” “And you,” Jack snorted. She glared at her uncle. “This is not about me.” He was silent, but his disbelief was there in his eyes. Bree turned back to her father. “He did what he did on the order of his father. Even though I despise Bernardo, we all know that family is everything. It doesn't make it forgivable, but it does make it understandable. I'm begging you for Will's sake. Don't make him lose another father.” “She could be pregnant with his child,” Beth said softly, coming out of the kitchen. Bree gave a start. They hadn't been trying to conceive but it wasn't outside of the realm of possibility. She grabbed on to the lie. “I am.” Her father's mouth fell open and her uncle swore. She met her sister's gaze in gratitude. “That's right. I found out in Ireland that, yes, I'm pregnant again.” Beth gave her a tiny nod, acknowledging the lie. “Son of a…” Her father clenched his fists. “Don't leave this baby without a father, Daddy. Please.” John looked from her to her sister. “Untie the son of bitch and toss him on the street.

She could envision Shakespeare's sister. But she imagined a violent, an apocalyptic end for Shakespeare's sister, whereas I know that isn't what happened. You see, it isn't necessary. I know that lots of Chinese women, given in marriage to men they abhorred and lives they despised, killed themselves by throwing themselves down the family well. I'm not saying it doesn't happen. I'm only saying that isn't what usually happens. It it were, we wouldn't be having a population problem. And there are so much easier ways to destroy a woman. You don't have to rape or kill her; you don't even have to beat her. You can just marry her. You don't even have to do that. You can just let her work in your office for thirty-five dollars a week. Shakespeare's sister did...follow her brother to London, but she never got there. She was raped the first night out, and bleeding and inwardly wounded, she stumbled for shelter into the next village she found. Realizing before too long that she was pregnant, she sought a way to keep herself and her child safe. She found some guy with the hots for her, realized he was credulous, and screwed him. When she announced her pregnancy to him, a couple months later, he dutifully married her. The child, born a bit early, makes him suspicious: they fight, he beats her, but in the end he submits. Because there is something in the situation that pleases him: he has all the comforts of home including something Mother didn't provide, and if he has to put up with a screaming kid he isn't sure is his, he feels now like one of the boys down at the village pub, none of whom is sure they are the children of the fathers or the fathers of their children. But Shakespeare's sister has learned the lesson all women learn: men are the ultimate enemy. At the same time she knows she cannot get along in the world without one. So she uses her genius, the genius she might have used to make plays and poems with, in speaking, not writing. She handles the man with language: she carps, cajoles, teases, seduces, calculates, and controls this creature to whom God saw fit to give power over her, this hulking idiot whom she despises because he is dense and fears because he can do her harm. So much for the natural relation between the sexes. But you see, he doesn't have to beat her much, he surely doesn't have to kill her: if he did, he'd lose his maidservant. The pounds and pence by themselves are a great weapon. They matter to men, of course, but they matter more to women, although their labor is generally unpaid. Because women, even unmarried ones, are required to do the same kind of labor regardless of their training or inclinations, and they can't get away from it without those glittering pounds and pence. Years spent scraping shit out of diapers with a kitchen knife, finding places where string beans are two cents less a pound, intelligence in figuring the most efficient, least time-consuming way to iron men's white shirts or to wash and wax the kitchen floor or take care of the house and kids and work at the same time and save money, hiding it from the boozer so the kid can go to college -- these not only take energy and courage and mind, but they may constitute the very essence of a life. They may, you say wearily, but who's interested?...Truthfully, I hate these grimy details as much as you do....They are always there in the back ground, like Time's winged chariot. But grimy details are not in the background of the lives of most women; they are the entire surface.

People who love are different from everybody else. People who feel are more fortunate than all. Rich men who buy and grab up things are just moving them around. They have bought these things with money, which they can never own. A mother with life in her womb is the one who is truly wealthy. A newborn in the arms is beyond oil in one palm and pure gold in the other. Father says that there is no God, so that I might worship him. But something is moving in the atmosphere… Not for viewing, but for sensing and being changed by. That I can feel. I am certain. My first love was the sky. Who created that? My second love was my mother’s eyes that revealed a reflection of me. My father had a house of great beauty built for us all. But who created the mind, the memory, and the imagination? I’d sit in the soil surrounded with no walls just to talk to that ONE, even without words… Diamonds are lovely, but sound is lovelier. Roller coasters are thrilling. My clitoris clothed in my vagina is more, more, more. Why turn on the lights when we can lie under the glare of the moon? Why listen to the call for war when we can make love? He wants revolution, but I want passion revolving in my soul. A man invented the fan, but who created the wind and caressed it into a breeze Then converted it into a storm? A cloud holds the water, yet both clouds and water were created. Impress me not with castles, cars, or clothes. I’d rather meet the Maker of rain— But would be content with simply being showered while lying in the grass Facing a darkened sky pregnant with thunder and leaking lightning. My husband asks me, Do you love me? So gently, I answer him. “I love the Creator of life. This is why I can love you.” Yet everywhere that I see and feel a trace of the Creator, the Light of life, There is so much love in it for me.

Except then a local high school journalism class decided to investigate the story. Not having attended Columbia Journalism School, the young scribes were unaware of the prohibition on committing journalism that reflects poorly on Third World immigrants. Thanks to the teenagers’ reporting, it was discovered that Reddy had become a multimillionaire by using H-1B visas to bring in slave labor from his native India. Dozens of Indian slaves were working in his buildings and at his restaurant. Apparently, some of those “brainy” high-tech workers America so desperately needs include busboys and janitors. And concubines. The pubescent girls Reddy brought in on H-1B visas were not his nieces: They were his concubines, purchased from their parents in India when they were twelve years old. The sixty-four-year-old Reddy flew the girls to America so he could have sex with them—often several of them at once. (We can only hope this is not why Mark Zuckerberg is so keen on H-1B visas.) The third roommate—the crying girl—had escaped the carbon monoxide poisoning only because she had been at Reddy’s house having sex with him, which, judging by the looks of him, might be worse than death. As soon as a translator other than Reddy was found, she admitted that “the primary purpose for her to enter the U.S. was to continue to have sex with Reddy.” The day her roommates arrived from India, she was forced to watch as the old, balding immigrant had sex with both underage girls at once.3 She also said her dead roommate had been pregnant with Reddy’s child. That could not be confirmed by the court because Reddy had already cremated the girl, in the Hindu tradition—even though her parents were Christian. In all, Reddy had brought seven underage girls to the United States for sex—smuggled in by his brother and sister-in-law, who lied to immigration authorities by posing as the girls’ parents.4 Reddy’s “high-tech” workers were just doing the slavery Americans won’t do. No really—we’ve tried getting American slaves! We’ve advertised for slaves at all the local high schools and didn’t get a single taker. We even posted flyers at the grade schools, asking for prepubescent girls to have sex with Reddy. Nothing. Not even on Craigslist. Reddy’s slaves and concubines were considered “untouchables” in India, treated as “subhuman”—“so low that they are not even considered part of Hinduism’s caste system,” as the Los Angeles Times explained. To put it in layman’s terms, in India they’re considered lower than a Kardashian. According to the Indian American magazine India Currents: “Modern slavery is on display every day in India: children forced to beg, young girls recruited into brothels, and men in debt bondage toiling away in agricultural fields.” More than half of the estimated 20.9 million slaves worldwide live in Asia.5 Thanks to American immigration policies, slavery is making a comeback in the United States! A San Francisco couple “active in the Indian community” bought a slave from a New Delhi recruiter to clean house for them, took away her passport when she arrived, and refused to let her call her family or leave their home.6 In New York, Indian immigrants Varsha and Mahender Sabhnani were convicted in 2006 of bringing in two Indonesian illegal aliens as slaves to be domestics in their Long Island, New York, home.7 In addition to helping reintroduce slavery to America, Reddy sends millions of dollars out of the country in order to build monuments to himself in India. “The more money Reddy made in the States,” the Los Angeles Times chirped, “the more good he seemed to do in his hometown.” That’s great for India, but what is America getting out of this model immigrant? Slavery: Check. Sickening caste system: Check. Purchasing twelve-year-old girls for sex: Check. Draining millions of dollars from the American economy: Check. Smuggling half-dead sex slaves out of his slums in rolled-up carpets right under the nose of the Berkeley police: Priceless.

War and ceasefire There was a war followed by a ceasefire, Swaths of land lay covered in ashes and dead men and women, Beside them lay still unfilled dreams and many a desire, Wherever one looked there appeared no end to them then, Because a country defeated in war, Enters into the state of passive spirit, Where to the victor, spirited men and women of the defeated country appear too few and too far, And they rush to assume this is it, their end, and the end of it! Followed by two immediate actions, Repatriation by the winning side, And reparation by the losing side while dealing with endless sanctions, And behind them their lost spirits hide, But as years pass by and time grows older, The defeated side realises the losses it suffered, The men it lost, and the women who fought in ways bolder, And the living ones, the paying ones, look at their spirits battered, And they hear echoes from the past, Few calling a mother, few a father, many a brother, a sister and a lost lover, And then the ship of agony and pain hoists its broad mast, And the left one, the still and forever paying one, is forced to become an avenger, Because he/she misses the person to whom these echoes belong, He/she struggles to deal with the past that haunts him/her in the present, And to deal with this belligerent self, he/she hums the firebird’s song, And finally with hatred and lament he/she is pregnant, And when the feeling is born, The defeated spirit rises from the ashes, And begins to sew together the feelings that lie scattered on the ground, mutilated and torn, With these feelings of hatred and vengeance now his/her spirit gushes, The silent ground that had been the graveyard of dreams and desires, Suddenly turns into a war zone once again, So those who say peace can be brokered are cynical liars, Because one who is dead can never be brought back again, And thus the battle between revenge and avenging deaths enters a new phase, Where the defeated side now fearlessly marches forth, Because it has nothing to lose now it has no more ghosts to chase, And thus is born the one who loves romancing the sun, the killer moth, And it stings all alike, and it flies freely everywhere, Until both sides accept defeat, Then they begin to dig graves to bury a hope here, a wish there, and someone’s desire somewhere, And somewhere lies the lover who his/her beloved could not meet, And then is born the curse of unfulfilled wishes, desires, hopes and life’s darling affairs, Now both sides lie in ruin because there is no ground left to bury the dead, And the sound of echoes keeps growing and the ground turns wet with tears, It is then the spirit forsakes them all, because genuine valour does not reside in places where courage on death is fed, And as time grows older there are no more bold men and women left, Because it is a diabolic ground where only echoes from the past haunt all, Where all are victims of a different kind of theft, That of humanity’s actual fall!

War and ceasefire There was a war followed by a ceasefire, Land covered in ash, dead men and women, Beside the dead were unfulfilled dreams and many a desire, This is how it is now and this is how it was then, Because a country defeated in war, Enters into the state of passive spirit, To the victor, spirited men and women of the defeated country appear too few and too far, So, they rush to assume this is it, the end of it! To be followed by two immediate actions, Repatriation by the winning side, And reparation by the losing side while dealing with endless sanctions, Behind which their broken spirits hide, But as years pass by and time grows older, The defeated side realises the losses it suffered, The men it lost, and the women who fought in ways bolder, And the living ones, the paying ones, look at their spirits battered, And they hear echoes from the past, Few calling a mother, few a father, many a brother, a sister and someone a lost lover, And then the ship of agony and pain hoists its broad mast, And the left one, the still and forever paying one, is forced to become an avenger, Because he/she misses the person to whom these echoes belong, He/she struggles to deal with the past that haunts him/her in the present, And to deal with this belligerent self, he/she hums the firebird’s song, And finally with hatred and lament he/she is pregnant, Finally when the feeling is born, The defeated spirit rises from the ashes, And begins to sew together the feelings that lie scattered on the ground, mutilated and torn, With these feelings of hatred and vengeance now his/her spirit gushes, The silent ground that had been the graveyard of dreams and desires, Suddenly turns into a war zone once again, So, those who say peace can be brokered are cynical liars, Because one who is dead can never be brought back again, And thus the battle between revenge and avenging deaths enters a new phase, Where the defeated side now fearlessly marches forth, Because it has nothing to lose and it has no more ghosts to chase, And thus is born the one who loves romancing the sun, the killer moth, It stings all, and it flies freely everywhere, Until both sides accept defeat, Then they begin to dig graves to bury a hope here, a wish there, and someone’s desire somewhere, And somewhere lies the lover who his/her beloved could not meet, And then is born the curse of unfulfilled wishes, desires, hopes and life’s darling affairs, Now both sides lie in ruin because there is no ground left to bury the dead, And the sound of echoes keeps getting louder and the ground turns wet with tears, It is then the spirit forsakes them all, because genuine valour does not reside in places where courage on death is fed, And as time grows older there are no more bold men and women left, Because it is a diabolic ground where only echoes from the past haunt all, Where all are victims of a different kind of theft, That of humanity’s innocence that actually was the cause of great fall!

Oh my god. Harley is pregnant. And by the silence in the room, I think it’s pretty clear who is the father.

Dr. Sarah Jackson says that Black women’s sexuality and motherhood have been part of public discourse since slavery, when our reproduction was an integral part of the economy, like the livestock that kept the agricultural engine going.12 People were as inclined to talk about Black women birthing babies as they were cows bearing calves. And, like those cows, Black women were viewed as uncivilized and unintentional breeders. The institution of slavery required a voluntary blindness to the idea of Black family. No doubt this history influences the medical care (or lack thereof) Black women receive when pregnant, as well as how they are viewed as mothers. “If you’re treating a group of people like animals, you have to believe that they’re not capable of making the same emotional bonds with their children that you are. Otherwise, you might feel bad about selling their children off down the river,” Jackson says.

It didn’t take us long to see how it all worked out. Any man who tried to play straight, had to refuse himself everything. He lost his taste for any pleasure, he hated to smoke a nickel’s worth of tobacco or chew a stick of gum, worrying whether somebody had more need for that nickel. He felt ashamed of every mouthful of food he swallowed, wondering whose weary night of overtime had paid for it, knowing that his food was not his by right, miserably wishing to be cheated rather than to cheat, to be a sucker, but not a blood-sucker. He wouldn’t marry, he wouldn’t help his folks back home, he wouldn’t put an extra burden on ‘the family.’ Besides, if he still had some sort of sense of responsibility, he couldn’t marry or bring children into the world, when he could plan nothing, promise nothing, count on nothing. But the shiftless and the irresponsible had a field day of it. They bred babies, they got girls into trouble, they dragged in every worthless relative they had from all over the country, every unmarried pregnant sister, for an extra ‘disability allowance, ’ they got more sicknesses than any doctor could disprove, they ruined their clothing, their furniture, their homes—what the hell, ‘the family’ was paying for it! They found more ways of getting in ‘need’ than the rest of us could ever imagine—they developed a special skill for it, which was the only ability they showed.

On November 22nd, 2018, my mother Vernita Lee passed away. I was conflicted about our relationship up until the very end. The truth is, it wasn't until I became successful that my mother started to show more interest in me. I wrestled with the question of how to take care of her - what did I owe the woman who gave me life, The bible says 'honor thy father and mother', but what did that actually mean? I decided one of the ways I could honor her would be to help care for her financially ... but there was never any real connection. I would say that the audience who watched me on television knew me better than my mother did. When her health began to decline a few years ago, I knew I needed to prepare myself for her transition. Just a few days before Thanksgiving my sister Patricia called to tell me she thought it was time. I flew to Milwaukee ... I tried to think of something to say, at one point I even picked up the manual left by the hospice care people. I read their advice thinking the whole time, how sad it was that I, Oprah Winfrey, who had spoken to thousands of people one on one should have to read a hospice manual to figure out what to say to my mother. When it was finally time to leave, something told me it would be the last time I'd ever see her but as I turned to go, the words I needed to say still wouldn't come. All I could muster was 'bye, I'll be seeing you' and I left for, ironically, a speaking engagement. On the flight home the next morning a little voice in my head whispered what I knew in my heart to be true: "you are going to regret this, you haven't finished the work". ... I turned around and went back to Milwaukee. I spent another day in that hot room and still no words came. That night I prayed for help. In the morning I meditated, and as I prepared to leave the bedroom I picked up my phone and noticed the song that was playing - Mahalia Jackson's 'Precious Lord'. If ever there was a sign, this was it. I had no idea how Mahalia Jackson appeared on my playlist. As I listened to the words, Precious Lord, take my hand Lead me on, let me stand. I am tired, I'm weak, I am worn Lead me on to the light, Take my hand, precious Lord And lead me home. I suddenly knew what to do. When I walked into my mothers room I asked if she wanted to hear the song. She nodded, and then I had another idea. I called my friend Wintley Phipps, a preacher and gospel artist, and asked him to sing Precious Lord to my dying mother. Over FaceTime from his kitchen table he sang the song a cappella and then prayed that our family would have no fear, just peace. I could see that my mother was moved. The song and the prayer had created a sort of opening for both of us. I began to talk to her about her life, her dreams, and me. Finally the words were there. I said, "It must have been hard for you, not having an education, not having a skill, not knowing what the future held. When you became pregnant, I'm sure a lot of people told you to get rid of that baby." She nodded. "But you didn't", I said. "And I want to thank you for keeping this baby". I paused, "I know that many times you didn't know what to do. You did the best you knew how to do and that's okay with me. That is okay with me. So you can leave now, knowing that it is well. It is well with my soul. It's been well for a long time." It was a sacred, beautiful moment, one of the proudest of my life. As an adult I'd learned to see my mother through a different lens; not as the mother who didn't care for me, protect me, love me or understand anything about me, but as a young girl still just a child herself; scared, alone, and unequipped to be a loving parent. I had forgiven my mother years earlier for not being the mother I needed, but she didn't know that. And in our last moments together I believe I was able to release her from the shame and the guilt of our past. I came back and I finished the work that needed to be done.

can visibly see the flash of relief enter her eyes. “My name is Camille Salone. I’m looking for my brother.” “Your brother?” My brows furrow, not comprehending why she would be here looking for him. “Yes. His name is Phenix. He’s been missing since he was five years old.” “Why would—” My words trail off, and I swear my world tips upside down. I grab the door jam when I feel like I might list over sideways. A hand grabs my waist, helping to support me. “Oh Jesus,” I mumble. The woman steps forward and my eyes dart back to her. Her expression is filled with concern when she asks. “Are you okay?” I can’t answer. My brain is overflowing, trying to fathom the impossibility. Fey. Could it mean Phenix? Wild Man never mentioned he had a sister. Only that his mother was pregnant when they went to stay in the wilderness for one last foray. I look at the woman in front of me. Really look at her. Hair dark enough that it looks like there’s a hint of blue.

as Thomas and Fanny were not using it for the nonce. They would only leave once both babes were born. Georgi and Lydia became pregnant in the same month, they were both to give birth in October. Once again everyone gathered together for the births of the last of the Bennett sisters babes, well for the nonce

Then one day, we didn’t. My dad picked up the bottle and my mother picked up a bottle of pills. There was no turning back once that started. There had been a happy break when my mom found out she was pregnant with our little sister, Hayden Marie. I had been fifteen and thrilled. Patrick had been less thrilled. He was already out of the house at that point but came back because he didn’t trust our parents to take care of a baby. They did. They pulled their shit together and things had been great for a few years. I pulled my little Nissan into the driveway of my family home. It looked like every other home on the street,

The judge’s massive eyebrows crept up. “Kaldar. Are you the one speaking for the plaintiff today?” “Yes, Your Honor.” “Well, shit,” Dobe said. “I guess you’re familiar with the law. You hit it over the head, set its house on fire, and got its sister pregnant.” A huge grin sparked on Kaldar’s face. “Thank you, Your Honor.

This story, well . . . it exposes me as the man that I am. The man I feel to my very core. This is the story of how I wear the title “Ultimate Fuckup,” because not only did I accidentally get the girl in the hot pink dress pregnant . . . But I broke bro code. Because the girl in the hot pink dress is the sister of my teammate . . . and best friend.

No, you don’t understand what I’m saying, Mrs. Lowe. Arthur was unable to get me or any woman pregnant. He contracted testicular cancer when he was in his early twenties. The radiation and chemotherapy stopped the cancer but led to infertility. He tested and tested and finally gave up. That’s when we decided to adopt. My husband couldn’t possibly be the father of your sister’s child.” She stood again.