Recognition Day In School Quotes

Patriotism is a thing difficult to put into words. It is neither precisely an emotion nor an opinion, nor a mandate, but a state of mind -- a reflection of our own personal sense of worth, and respect for our roots. Love of country plays a part, but it's not merely love. Neither is it pride, although pride too is one of the ingredients. Patriotism is a commitment to what is best inside us all. And it's a recognition of that wondrous common essence in our greater surroundings -- our school, team, city, state, our immediate society -- often ultimately delineated by our ethnic roots and borders... but not always. Indeed, these border lines are so fluid... And we do not pay allegiance as much as we resonate with a shared spirit. We all feel an undeniable bond with the land where we were born. And yet, if we leave it for another, we grow to feel a similar bond, often of a more complex nature. Both are forms of patriotism -- the first, involuntary, by birth, the second by choice. Neither is less worthy than the other. But one is earned.

Every type of political power presupposes some particular form of human slavery, for the maintenance of which it is called into being. Just as outwardly, that is, in relation to other states the state has to create certain artificial antagonisms in order to justify its existence, so also internally the cleavage of society into castes, ranks and classes is an essential condition of its continuance. The development of the Bolshevist bureaucracy in Russia under the alleged dictatorship of the proletariat (which has never been anything but the dictatorship of a small clique over the proletariat and the whole Russian people) is merely a new instance of an old historical experience which has repeated itself countless times. This new ruling class, which to-day is rapidly growing into a new aristocracy, is set apart from the great masses of the Russian peasants and workers just as clearly as are the privileged castes and classes in other countries from the mass of the people. And this situation becomes still more unbearable when a despotic state denies to the lower classes the right to complain of existing conditions, so that any protest is made at the risk of their lives. But even a far greater degree of economic equality than that which exists in Russia would be no guarantee against political and social oppression. Economic equality alone is not social liberation. It is precisely this which all the schools of authoritarian Socialism have never understood. In the prison, in the cloister, or in the barracks one finds a fairly high degree of economic equality, as all the inmates are provided with the same dwelling, the same food, the same uniform, and the same tasks. The ancient Inca state in Peru and the Jesuit state in Paraguay had brought equal economic provision for every inhabitant to a fixed system, but in spite of this the vilest despotism prevailed there, and the human being was merely the automaton of a higher will on whose decisions he had not the slightest influence. It was not without reason that Proudhon saw in a "Socialism" without freedom the worst form of slavery. The urge for social justice can only develop properly and be effective when it grows out of man's sense of freedom and responsibility, and is based upon it. In other words, Socialism will be free or it will not be at all. In its recognition of this fact lies the genuine and profound justification of Anarchism.

Impatiently I waited for evening, when I might summon you to my presence. An unusual– to me– a perfectly new character, I suspected was yours; I desired to search it deeper, and know it better. You entered the room with a look and air at once shy and independent; you were quaintly dress– much as you are now. I made you talk; ere long I found you full of strange contrasts. Your garb and manner were restricted by rule; your air was often diffident, and altogether that of one refined by nature, but absolutely unused to society, and a good deal afraid of making herself disadvantageously conspicuous by some solecism or blunder; yet, when addressed, you lifted a keen, a daring, and a glowing eye to your interlocutor’s face; there was penetration and power in each glance you gave; when plied by close questions, you found ready and round answers. Very soon you seemed to get used to me – I believe you felt the existence of sympathy between you and your grim and cross master, Jane; for it was astonishing to see how quickly a certain pleasant ease tranquilized your manner; snarl as I would, you showed no surprise, fear, annoyance, or displeasure, at my moroseness; you watched me, and now and then smiled at me with a simple yet sagacious grace I cannot describe. I was at once content and stimulated with what I saw; I liked what I had seen, and wished to see more. Yet, for a long time, I treated you distantly, and sought your company rarely, I was an intellectual epicure, and wished to prolong the gratification of making this novel and piquant acquaintance; besides, I was for a while troubled with a haunting fear that if I handled the flower freely its bloom would fade – the sweet charm of freshness would leave it. I did not then know that it was no transitory blossom, but rather the radiant resemblance of one, cut in an indestructible gem. Moreover, I wished to see whether you would seek me if I shunned you – but you did not; you kept in the school-room as still as your own desk and easel; if by chance I met you, you passed me as soon, and with as little token of recognition, as was consistent with respect. Your habitual expression in those days, Jane, was a thoughtful look; not despondent, fro you were not sickly; but not buoyant, for you had little hope, and no actual pleasure. I wondered what you thought of me– or if you ever thought of me; to find this out, I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in your glance, and genial in your manner, when you conversed; I saw you had a social heart; it was the silent school-room– it was the tedium of your life that made you mournful. I permitted myself the delight of being kind to you; kindness stirred emotion soon; your face became soft in expression, your tones gentle; I liked my name pronounced by your lips in a grateful, happy accent. I used to enjoy a chance meeting with you, Jane, at this time; there was a curious hesitation in your manner; you glanced at me with a slight trouble– a hovering doubt; you did not know what my caprice might be– whether I was going to play the master, and be stern– or the friend, and be benignant. I was now too fond of you often to stimulate the first whim; and, when I stretched my hand out cordially, such bloom, and light, and bliss, rose to your young, wistful features, I had much ado often to avoid straining you then and there to my heart.

My belated recognition of his desire actually served the purpose of provoking me to consider him, if only for a moment. It was like high school when just to hear that a boy liked you was sufficient encouragement to agree to go steady with him by the end of the day. Now that I think of it, it is just like life. Not high school.

In the early nineteenth century, a young man in London aspired to be a writer. But everything seemed to be against him. He had never been able to attend school more than four years. His father had been flung in jail because he couldn’t pay his debts, and this young man often knew the pangs of hunger. Finally, he got a job pasting labels on bottles of blacking in a rat-infested warehouse, and he slept at night in a dismal attic room with two other boys—guttersnipes from the slums of London. He had so little confidence in his ability to write that he sneaked out and mailed his first manuscript in the dead of night so nobody would laugh at him. Story after story was refused. Finally the great day came when one was accepted. True, he wasn’t paid a shilling for it, but one editor had praised him. One editor had given him recognition. He was so thrilled that he wandered aimlessly around the streets with tears rolling down his cheeks. The praise, the recognition that he received through getting one story in print, changed his whole life, for if it hadn’t been for that encouragement, he might have spent his entire life working in rat-infested factories. You may have heard of that boy. His name was Charles Dickens.

There is no foreseeable scenario under which Beijing will back away, either rhetorically or in practice, from its territorial claims in Taiwan and in the South and East China Seas. As Xi Jinping told the then US Defence Secretary Jim Mattis in June 2018, China will not give up 'even an inch' of its territory, which includes its expansive maritime claims and a large land area disputed with India. Within the Chinese system, any leader who stepped back from these claims would be committing political suicide. The internal sensitivity of the territorial issue helps explain the bellicose way Beijing handles these disputes outside of its borders. China constantly schools its Asian neighbours on its red lines in territorial disputes, all the while rapidly building up its military capability and regional diplomatic sway to entrench them. With the possible exception of Vietnam, smaller countries have taken to either submitting or swerving in the face of Beijing's pressure. Yet it is far from game over, if history is any guide. Total capitulation in international relations is rare. Behind the scenes in Beijing, there has always been recognition that it was dangerous for China to bully its way to regional domination. 'The history of contemporary relations does not provide any precedent of a large country successfully bringing to its knees another country,' wrote Wang Jisi, formerly of Peking University, and for many years an informal government adviser. Wang pointed to America's experience in Vietnam and more recently Afghanistan, where its vastly superior military firepower couldn't drag it out of a military and then political quagmire. Wang was writing in 2014. Such strategic humility is rare in Beijing these days, either because the Chinese themselves have become cockier or because the country's diplomats fear being caught out of step with the temper of Xi's times. Nonetheless, the point stands. Beijing cannot bully its way to superpower status without engendering a strong pushback from other countries, which is exactly what is happening.

How Long Will It Take? You can’t blame people for wanting instant results. Time is money, and quickness, especially quick OODA loops, is good. But when it comes to adopting maneuver conflict / Boyd’s principles to your business, there is a lot to be learned and a lot to be done. Consider that: •   According to its principle creator, Taiichi Ohno, it took 28 years (1945-1973) to create and install the Toyota Production System, which is maneuver conflict applied to manufacturing. •   It takes roughly 15 years of experience—and recognition as a leader in one’s technical field—to qualify as a susha (development manager) for a new Toyota vehicle.150 •   Studies of people regarded as the top experts in a number of fields suggest that they practice about four hours a day, virtually every day, for 10 years before they achieve a recognized level of mastery.151 •   It takes a minimum of 8 years beyond a bachelor’s degree to train a surgeon (4 years medical school and 4 or more years of residency.) •   It takes four to six years on the average beyond a bachelor’s degree to complete a Ph.D. •   It takes three years or so to earn a black belt (first degree) in the martial arts and four to six years beyond that to earn third degree, assuming you are in good physical condition to begin with. •   It takes a bare minimum of five years military service to qualify for the Special Forces “Green Beret” (minimum rank of corporal / captain with airborne qualification, then a 1-2 year highly rigorous and selective training program.) •   It takes three years to achieve proficiency as a first level leader in an infantry unit—a squad leader.152 It is no less difficult to learn to fashion an elite, highly competitive company. Yet for some reason, otherwise intelligent people sometimes feel they should be able to attend a three-day seminar and return home experts in maneuver conflict as applied to business. An intensive orientation session may get you started, but successful leaders study their art for years—Patton, Rommel, and Grant were all known for the intensity with which they studied military history and current campaigns. Then-LTC David Hackworth had commanded 10 other units before taking over the 4th Battalion, 39th Infantry in Vietnam in 1969, as he described in Steel My Soldiers’ Hearts. You may also recall the scene in We Were Soldiers where LTC Hal Moore unloaded armfuls of strategy and history books as he was moving into his quarters at Ft. Benning. At that point, he had been in the Army 20 years and had commanded at every level from platoon to battalion.

There is one final step we must take. Our walls, they have to go. We have revised our textbooks and renamed our holidays to acknowledge the harms of colonization. We have begun the work of removing marble statues and changing street signs in recognition of the horrors of slavery. But do we not act as modern-day segregationists when we mobilize to block an affordable housing complex in our neighborhood? Do we not colonize the future when we reserve spaces there for our children while denying other children a fair shot? By deconcentrating poverty in schools and communities, integration blunts its sting. Simply moving poor families to high-opportunity neighborhoods, without doing anything to increase their incomes, improves their lives tremendously. Even if they remain below the poverty line, they become less “poor” in the sense that their exposure to crime drops, and their mental health improves, and their children flourish in school. Studies have found that each year that poor children spend in a high-opportunity neighborhood increases their income in adulthood—so much so that younger siblings experience bigger gains than their older brothers and sisters because of the additional years spent in a safer and more prosperous place.[1]

A couple of weeks after Mia’s bone graft surgery in January 2014, she received a letter from Congressman Trent Franks of Arizona on official United States congressional letterhead. Mia was so excited about the letter that she stood on the fireplace hearth (the living room stage) and proceeded to read it to the entire family. In the letter, Congressman Franks told Mia that he, too, was born with a cleft lip and palate and underwent many surgeries as a child. He told her he understood how she felt and told her not to get discouraged because he recognized how she is helping so many people. He invited her to Washington, DC, to receive an award from Congress for service to her community. As soon as she had finished reading it to us, she exclaimed, “Can we go?” Knowing how Jase puts little value on earthly awards and how he likes to travel even less, I responded with a phrase that most parents can understand and appreciate: “We’ll see.” Mia immediately ran upstairs and tacked the letter to her bulletin board, full of hope and optimism. How could Jase say no to this? Oh, she knew her daddy well. He couldn’t, and he didn’t. That summer, Mia, Jase, Reed, Cole, and I spent a few days together visiting monuments and historical sites in Washington before meeting Congressman Franks on July 8 in his office on Capitol Hill. Mia’s favorite monument was the Lincoln Memorial because she had learned about it in school, so it was cool to see it “for real.” It was really crowded there, and people were taking pictures of us while we were trying to read about the monument and take photographs ourselves. Getting Jase out of there took a while because of so many fans wanting pictures--he’s very accommodating. That’s why it surprised me that this was Mia’s favorite site. I’m glad she remembers the impact of the monument and didn’t allow the circus of activity from the fans to put a damper on her experience. Congressman Franks presented Mia with a Certificate of Special Congressional Recognition for “outstanding and invaluable service to the community” at a press conference held at the foot of the Capitol steps. Both he and Mia made speeches that day to numerous cameras and reporters. Hearing my ten-year-old daughter speak about her condition and how she hopes people will look to God to help them get through their own problems was an unbelievably proud moment for me, Jase, and her brothers. After the press conference, Congressman Franks took us into the House chamber where Congress was voting on a new bill. He took Mia down to the floor, introduced her to some of his colleagues, and let her push his voting button for him. When some of the other members of Congress saw this, they also asked her to push their voting buttons for them. Of course, Mia wasn’t going to push any buttons without quizzing these representatives about what exactly she was voting for. She needed to know what was in the bill before she pushed the buttons. Once she realized she agreed with the bill and saw that some members were voting “no,” she commented, “That’s just rude.” Mia was thrilled with the experience and told us all how she helped make history. Little does she know just how much history she has made and continues to make.

January 31: Norma Jeane is awarded a certificate “in recognition of the personal service rendered by her as a member of the [Sawtelle Boulevard] School Safety Committee.

I made it to the checkout line before taking in the people around me. The cashier, about my age, was familiar in the way most people in a town this size were. We’d probably gone to school together, but I couldn’t be sure. She was taking her time ringing up the man in front of me, and my attention diverted to the other customers in line, stopping on the woman behind me. Her, I recognized. There was no mistaking the tall, icy blonde for anyone other than Mrs. Elena Kelly, my childhood best friend’s mom. I’d spent a lot of my days out on the Kelly ranch with Caleb, getting dirty and making trouble. His parents had been firm but not strict, and they had welcomed me into their home for countless dinners and sleepovers. Elena Kelly’s gaze swept over me, pausing for a moment. I nodded at her, my mouth curving into a half smile. “Good evening, Mrs. Kelly.” She cocked her head, taking me in. There was no flare of recognition, but it’d been more than a decade since she’d seen me. I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head, giving her a better view.

【V信83113305】：Founded in 1854, Cooley Law School is a private institution with a distinct approach to American legal education. While its primary campus is in Lansing, Michigan, it operates multiple locations across the state. The school is notable for its practical, skills-based curriculum designed to prepare students for the actual practice of law from the first day. It has historically maintained an accessible admissions policy, providing opportunities to a diverse range of students aspiring to enter the legal profession. A significant point of recognition is that it is named after the distinguished jurist Thomas McIntyre Cooley. Like many law schools, it has navigated debates surrounding legal education trends, including bar passage rates and employment outcomes. Ultimately, Cooley Law School carves its niche by focusing on equipping its graduates with the practical tools necessary for a career in the legal world.，【V信83113305】做今年新版CC库利学院毕业证,制作美国文凭CC库利学院毕业证,高端定制CC库利学院毕业证留信认证,高端原版CC库利学院毕业证办理流程,在线办理CC库利学院毕业证offer外壳皮,在线办理CC库利学院毕业证本科硕士成绩单方法,如何办理CC库利学院毕业证一比一定制,快速办理CC库利学院毕业证如何放心,硕士博士学历CC毕业证-库利学院毕业证书-真实copy原件,办理美国-CC毕业证书库利学院毕业证

【V信83113305】：Haileybury College, founded in 1862, is a prestigious independent boarding and day school located in Hertfordshire, England. Modeled after the British public school system, it has gained international recognition for its academic excellence and holistic education. The school offers a rigorous curriculum, including A-Levels and the International Baccalaureate, preparing students for top universities worldwide. With a strong emphasis on extracurricular activities, Haileybury fosters leadership, sports, and arts, nurturing well-rounded individuals. Its historic campus blends tradition with modern facilities, creating an inspiring learning environment. Alumni include notable figures in politics, science, and the arts. Haileybury’s global outlook is reflected in its diverse student body and partnerships with schools abroad, making it a beacon of elite education.，出售HC证书-哪里能购买HC毕业证, 办海莱恩学院毕业证 Diploma, HC文凭制作流程确保学历真实性, 定制HC毕业证, 海莱恩学院挂科了怎么办？Highline College毕业证成绩单专业服务, 办理Highline College海莱恩学院成绩单高质量保密的个性化服务, offer海莱恩学院在读证明, 办理真实Highline College毕业证成绩单留信网认证, 一比一原版海莱恩学院毕业证-HC毕业证书-如何办理

Shadows of Hope In the quiet neighborhood of Saint-Michel, nestled within the vibrant city of Montreal, lived Maria, a single mother of two. Maria was a woman of color, navigating the complexities of life as a Black woman in a society that often left her feeling invisible. Every morning, she would rise before dawn, the faint light of the sunrise just beginning to pierce through the heavy curtain of her small apartment. She made coffee while her children, Aisha and Malik, still clung to their dreams in the soft embrace of sleep. The weight of the world pressed down on her shoulders—the bills piling up on the kitchen table, the constant struggle to find stable work, and the fears of raising her children in a society that still bore the scars of racism. Quebec, with its rich culture and beautiful landscapes, often felt hostile. Maria had encountered discrimination at every turn: during job interviews, at the grocery store, and even at her children’s school. The subtle glances and dismissive comments gnawed at her confidence, but she refused to allow despair to set in. One day, Maria stumbled upon a local writing workshop at the community center. It was an escape, a chance to express her thoughts and experiences. At first, she hesitated, worried that her words would not resonate with others. But one evening, as the instructor encouraged them to write about their truth, Maria felt a spark ignite within her. She wrote about her daily struggles, the sacrifices she made, and the joy and laughter her children brought into her life. With each workshop, Maria poured her heart onto the pages—stories of resilience, strength, and the unbreakable bond between a mother and her children. The tales of systemic injustices, the late-night arguments about the fairness of the world, and the moments of triumph—like Aisha’s first dance recital and Malik’s science fair project—all painted a tapestry of her life. Months went by, and her stories began to take shape into a manuscript. Each chapter spoke to the experience of Black women who often felt unheard and unseen. Maria crafted her words with care, articulating the nuances of racism and motherhood, hope and hardship, transforming her painful experiences into powerful narratives. With the encouragement of her workshop peers, she sought out an agent, and to her surprise, her manuscript was accepted by a local publisher. Soon, her book, titled "Shadows of Hope," was scheduled for release. The day of the launch was filled with anxiety and excitement. Friends from the community, fellow single parents, and advocates for racial equality filled the small bookstore. As Maria took the microphone, she saw familiar faces—people who understood her journey. Her voice trembled slightly as she began to read passages from her book, allowing her audience a glimpse into her world. As she recounted the injustices she faced and the love she held for her children, the room filled with a palpable energy. The laughter of the audience mingled with tears of recognition and understanding. Maria realized that she wasn’t alone; her struggles mirrored those of many others, and her words had the power to inspire change. "Shadows of Hope" became a bestseller, resonating not just in Quebec but across Canada. Readers from all walks of life connected with her experiences, leading to conversations about race, motherhood, and resilience. Maria was invited to panels and discussions, her voice becoming a beacon for those seeking to address the inequities that existed in society. Through her newfound platform, Maria dedicated herself to advocating for other women of color. She started mentoring young girls in her community, empowering them to share their own stories and helping them navigate the oppressive spaces they encountered. In her heart, Maria knew that the road ahead would still have its challenges, but she had transformed her pain into purpose. Her journey showed that darkness could give birth to light, that voices mattered.

How high can you fly before you crash? How long can you stay intoxicated beyond all recognition? How long can you sustain a buzz, a bender, a peak experience, a magic carpet ride, a hot-burning flame of mania, a trip to Venus on a pink cloud? How many days can you cut Earth School before you get called to the principal’s office? These are all very good questions that addicts do not generally like to answer. When pushed, however, an addict’s short response to all these questions is usually something along the lines of: As long as I can. We will keep this ride going for as long as we can. And we will not put it down until there is nothing left to smoke, drink, fuck, eat, spend, hoard, shoot into our veins, disappear into, or lick off the carpet in crumbs.

I called it Unknown Masterpiece. For the duration of the show I stayed inside a sort of cell, a ten-by-ten cube containing a bed, food and water, basic sanitary facilities and painting materials. The cell was secure. The only way out was through a heavy door. When I went in, there was a certification procedure. I roped in the most authoritative figures I could find, including my tutor and a critic who wrote for one of the monthly art magazines. The certifiers sealed the door with an impressive-looking wax seal. Then I set to work. A camera was mounted inside the cell connected to a monitor in the gallery. It showed a view of me painting at an easel, positioned in such a way that the front of the canvas wasn’t visible. Everyone could confirm that I was working, but they couldn’t see what I was working on. Three days later, there was another ceremony. I took a Polaroid of my painting and passed the image out to the certifiers through a little hatch. No one but me had seen the painting, and only the certifiers saw the Polaroid. Once they had ascertained that a painting did in fact exist, signing their names to an absurdly formal document, they passed the Polaroid back to me. The feed to the monitor was disconnected and I set to work again, this time with knives and scissors, destroying both the painting and the Polaroid. I had planned on dissolving the shreds and fragments in acid, but the art school’s health and safety regulations made that impossible, so I settled for submerging them in a bucket of plaster of Paris. A painting had been made, but now it only existed in my memory, and in the testimony of people who had never seen the original, just a poor-quality reproduction. It was a refusal, a way to separate myself from all the other artists who were jostling at the money trough for a chance to dip their snouts. Instead of accumulation—of money, recognition, a “body of work,” it was deliberate wastefulness, a way to expend my creativity without hope of recompense.