Raquel Cepeda Quotes

I have never bought into the idea that blood is thicker than water. Love and respect are meant to be earned from our children, our spouses, our families, and our friends.

When we illuminate the road back to our ancestors, they have a way of reaching out, of manifesting themselves...sometimes even physically.

Shakespeare had it right all along: Love will kill you in the end.

Individually, every grain of sand brushing against my hands represents a story, an experience, and a block for me to build upon for the next generation.

I guess it all depends on whom you ask and when you ask. Race, I've learned, is in the eye of the beholder.

I remember feeling that pieces of me were scattered around the world; I belonged to her, Mother Earth.

A mother isn’t the person who births you; it’s the person who rears you and shows you love.

Support and encouragement are found in the most unlikely places.

The things that come to us easily, our propensities, are carried on a deep subconscious level into our next life. There are no coincidences.

For some, excavating the past isn’t an adventure, it’s more akin to tearing a Band-Aid off an open wound.

I wish she’d said something different, but patriarchy is as prevalent around the world as racism and xenophobia are. We can’t hide from it, not even here.

While America will always, I think, feel foreign to me, New York City is my home. This is where I can construct my own identity freely and reject labels imposed on me.

...being Latino means being from everywhere, and that is exactly what America is supposed to be about.

In reality, Eduardo hoped the mask would make him appear vulnerable and self conscious, like a wounded animal these stupid women would fight each other over to mend.

The hospital room was as cold as dead skin, the hallway crowded with lost souls and reeking of illness.

Women destroy me. I allow them to.

This thing I am feeling, I’m almost certain, is the closest I’ll ever come to standing somewhere in between truth and reconciliation.

We aren’t encouraged to think for ourselves and ask questions. We are expected to accept what they teach us as infallible truths.

We travel with the same clan over and over again, from one life to the next, until some ultimate purpose is fulfilled and we no longer need to return.

Our identities are as fluid as our personal experiences are diverse.

If it weren’t for her setting me free, I may still be a caged bird today, holding my own daughter captive on a shit-laden perch.

Nobody, she felt, understood her--not her mother, not her father, not her sister or brother, none of the girls or boys at school, nadie--except her man.

Are Latino-Americans white? Black? Other? Illegal aliens from Mars? Or are we the very face of America?

Foisting an identity on people rather than allowing them the freedom and space to create their own is shady.

Paradise is a state of being, more than just the name of a suburb or a home.

Even the juncture in history and the zeitgeist we live in is something we choose, setting the scene for the spiritual fodder we need to grow and achieve deeper elevation of our souls.

Listen kid, it’s just you and me now, so let’s help each other out. Always be honest with me, and show me how to be the mother and father I never had. I’ll make a mess of things sometimes, and I’m sorry in advance, but I’ll try. My word is bond.

More than anything, this place feels familiar. I bury my hands in the hot sand and think about the embodiment of memory or, more specifically, our natural ability to carry the past in our bodies and minds. Individually, every grain of sand brushing against my hands represents a story, an experience, and a block for me to build upon for the next generation. I quietly thank this ancestor of mine for surviving the trip so that I could one day return.

Lately, Mami’s eyes have been so dark, I don’t like looking into them because I’m afraid I’ll fall in.

You are meant to be, despite how you got here; you’ll see someday.

Come to think of it, maybe God is a He after all, because only a cruel force would create something this beautiful and make it inaccessible to most people.

Hip-hop is storytelling.

This is what I know about my parents. They spent the next several years trying to forget each other, and me.

The truth is usually left for us to hunt and gather independently, if we are so inclined.

Globalization by the way of McDonald’s and KFC has captured the hearts, the minds, and from what I can see through the window, the growing bellies of the folks here.

There are things in our blood that are just naturally passed down to us, whether we want to recognize them or not.

Sometimes opposites attract, or so they say, but Paloma and Rocío were like arroz and mangú: they didn’t really mix well.

I think Dad wanted to feel the pain, to feel his body cry, an urgent reminder that he was still alive. I pretended not to notice.

Hip-hop...has been the proverbial key that’s opened the door for me to roam this breathtaking planet.

To me, travel is more valuable than any stupid piece of bling money can buy.

Perhaps finding out that we carry New World history in our genes will transcend racial checkboxes altogether and enable Latino-Americans to rethink what America is supposed to look like.

I fall in love with Paraíso. It’s like a giant playground where I’m never scolded for running around recklessly, where I’m almost overwhelmed with the amount of attention and love I receive from Mami’s family. In New York, I’m invisible.

The tension between people is palpable, and the ideal of what it means to be and look American becomes a preoccupation to folks around the country, including me.

The gaping hole in her heart is amplified when she catches a glimpse of the strands of silver hair framing her once young face in the mirror.

If Aphrodite chills at home in Cyprus for most of the year, then Fez must be the goddess’s playground.

Hip-hop, this thing we love that loves us back, is our lingua franca.

Alice’s razor-thin blond hair is what people in Santo Domingo call bueno, but I don’t understand how that kind of hair can be good. It doesn’t move at all, or ripple like the water in Boca Chica when I throw shells at it.

She looks like an empty shell of a woman with her soul hovering above her. We believe in spiritual guías in Santo Domingo. Hers is her own self. I can see Mami’s soul desperately trying to find its way back into her small body.

The Dominican Republic is my holy land, my Mecca.

Traveling further ingrained my desire to connect to a place other than an island that is slightly older, in a New World way, than the United States, especially after I found characteristics of my face in the faces of the people in my global community.

The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.

The past is buried deep within the ground in Rabat, although the ancient walls in the old city are still standing, painted in electrifying variations of royal blue that make the winding roads look like streamlets or shallow ocean water.