Sharon M Draper Quotes

Words have always swirled around me like snowflakes-each one delicate and different, each one melting untouched in my hands.

What's right isn't always popular, and whats popular isn't always right.

[A] person is so much more than the name of a diagnosis on a chart.

Thoughts need words. Words need a voice.

Do not let anyone stop you from succeding

I believe in me. And my family does. And Mrs. V. It's the rest of the world I'm not so sure of.

Do you know what courage is? I guess you don't. Do you know that the courage it took at that moment - to actually blow yourself away - was more than enough courage to keep on living?

Go ahead and cry, Andy. Don't be afraid of those tears. Sometimes they help to wash the soul clean.

What your body looks like has nothing to do with how well your brain works!

What would you do if you could fly?" Mrs. V asks as she glances from the bird to me. "Is that on the quiz?" I ask, grinning as I type. "I think we've studied just about everything else." Mrs. V chuckles. "I'd be scared to let go," I type. "Afraid you'd fall?" she asks. "No. Afraid it would feel so good, I'd just fly away.

Music is powerful, my young friends,” she said. “It can connect us to memories. It can influence our mood and our responses to problems we might face.

But I'll always love you, and I'll always miss you and I'll never forget that It's okay to put dragons in the jungle and tears on a tiger

By the way, there is nothing cute about a pink wheelchair. Pink doesn't change a thing.

Maybe I'm not so different from everyone else after all. It's like somebody gave me a puzzle, but I don't have the box with the picture on it. So I don't know what the final thing is supposed to look like. I'm not even sure if I have all the pieces.

She talked to me like I was just like any other student, not a kid in a wheelchair.

and the machine speaks the words I’ve never been able to say. “I love you.

It’s like I’ve always had a painted musical sound track playing background to my life. I can almost hear colors and smell images when music is played.

I just sit there. The morning started out like crystal, but the day has turned to broken glass.

Words fall out of the sky like leaves, girl. Grab a couple and write ’em down.

I can’t talk. I can’t walk. I can’t feed myself or take myself to the bathroom. Big bummer.

Delete, delete, delete. No way am I letting their negativity mess me up. I have enough to worry about.

One series of notes, high and delicate, sang of a sweet moonlight kiss gone sour; another line of music rippled with regret over opportunities forever lost.

Look at that amazing display of sparkle! And feel that wind? It's trying to tickle your toes,

Words. I'm surrounding by thousands of words. Maybe millions...Deep within me, words pile up in huge drifts. Mountains of phrases and sentences and connected ideas. Clever expressions. Jokes. Love songs...I have never spoken one single word. I am almost eleven years old.

I love the smell of my mother’s hair after she washes it. I love the feel of the scratchy stubble on my father’s face before he shaves. But I’ve never been able to tell them.

Words. I’m surrounded by thousands of words. Maybe millions. Cathedral. Mayonnaise. Pomegranate. Mississippi. Neapolitan. Hippopotamus. Silky. Terrifying. Iridescent. Tickle. Sneeze. Wish. Worry. Words have always swirled around me like snowflakes—each one delicate and different, each one melting untouched in my hands. Deep within me, words pile up in huge drifts. Mountains of phrases and sentences and connected ideas. Clever expressions. Jokes. Love songs. From the time I was really little—maybe just a few months old—words were like sweet, liquid gifts, and I drank them like lemonade. I could almost taste them. They made my jumbled thoughts and feelings have substance. My parents have always blanketed me with conversation. They chattered and babbled. They verbalized and vocalized. My father sang to me. My mother whispered her strength into my ear. Every word my parents spoke to me or about me I absorbed and kept and remembered. All of them. I have no idea how I untangled the complicated process of words and thought, but it happened quickly and naturally. By the time I was two, all my memories had words, and all my words had meanings. But only in my head. I have never spoken one single word. I am almost eleven years old.

Who Am I? I’m a creator, a visionary, a poet. I approach the world with the eyes of an artist, the ears of a musician, and the soul of a writer. I see rainbows where others see only rain, and possibilities when others see only problems. I love spring flowers, summer’s heat on my body, and the beauty of the dying leaves in the fall. Classical music, art museums, and ballet are sources of inspiration, as well as blues music and dim cafes. I love to write; words flow easily from my fingertips, and my heart beats rapidly with excitement as an idea becomes a reality on the paper in front of me. I smile often, laugh easily, and I weep at pain and cruelty. I'm a learner and a seeker of knowledge, and I try to take my readers along on my journey. I am passionate about what I do. I learned to dream through reading, learned to create dreams through writing, and learned to develop dreamers through teaching. I shall always be a dreamer. Come dream with me.

Earthquake report: Call the paramedics. A girl in fifth grade is about to explode.

I’m always amazed at how adults assume I can’t hear. They talk about me as if I’m invisible, figuring I’m too retarded to understand their conversation. I learn quite a bit this way.

I believe in the goodness of people, sir, and the power of young folks like us to overcome what grown-ups like you might not be able to. ―Sylvia Patterson

I tried so hard, I farted! Mrs.

Long as you remember, ain't nothin' really gone.

Chocolate family meets vanilla family in the artificial reality that is a mall. Caramel daughter caught helplessly between the two.

(Don't take life as a ADVANTAGE take it SERIOUSLY because it's not a game)

I know people will say that it's because of the accident that I came back to church-well, they're right. I'm not too proud to know when a problem is bigger than I am.

She's, like, really, really beautiful, but I don't think she sees that when she looks in the mirror.

We were no longer a whole, but three separate pieces. A mom. A dad. A kid sliced in half. Actually, that made us four pieces—’cause I have to be two people: Mom’s Izzy and Dad’s Isabella.

Fifth grade is probably pretty rocky for lots of kids. Homework. Never being quite sure if you’re cool enough. Clothes. Parents. Wanting to play with toys and wanting to be grown up all at the same time. Underarm odor. I guess I have all that, plus about a million different layers of other stuff to deal with. Making people understand what I want. Worrying about what I look like. Fitting in. Will a boy ever like me? Maybe I’m not so different from everyone else after all.

The class laughed. I can tell the difference between people making fun of us and people being nice to us.

I like how a book feels when I turn the pages, and how the ink smells—almost like something good to eat.

She read it over one last time, not really satisfied, but it was the truth. Even if it still had some scratch-outs.

Freedom is a delicate flower, like a pretty leaf in the air: It's hard to catch and may not be what you thought when you get it, she observed quietly.- Polly from Copper Sun

I can create any musical combination of sounds on my piano. That’s my superpower.

Mom "I can' read and the school might be open in three weaks

Thoughts need words. Words need a voice. I love the smell of my mother’s hair after she washes it. I love the feel of the scratchy stubble on my father’s face before he shaves. But I’ve never been able to tell them.

You know, children, quilts, like stories, are part of our heritage, part of our culture. Some quilts even tell stories. Our past is a patchwork of memories and tales. You all keep that forever tucked in your pockets, you hear?

each grabbing one silver-wrapped chocolate from Mrs. Cooper’s basket, it struck Stella that everyone got the same thing, no matter which school they went to.

A library filled with thousands of books waiting for a thirsty kid like me to gulp them down.

Trust me. The older you get, the scarier the world gets to be.

Bad writers don’t practice, Stella. It’s the good ones who care enough to try, who worry about getting the words just right.

Never be afraid to be honest and stand up for what is right, Stella,” he said pointedly. “Just remember to balance your courage with wisdom.

I felt like a real girl.

All the salve in the world can't cure what gets broken in somebody's soul" -Mama

Ashes don't necessarily signify an end

Stella's father hesitated. "Georgia supports me, but she was a mite trembly this morning. I brought Stella though."He squeezed her shoulders affectionately. "I don't want to just tell her about bravery--I want to show her what it looks like.

The doors of Target opened with a welcoming swoosh, and I was instantly distracted. Yeah. Target does that to me. I feel at home. They've got stuff I need. Stuff I don't need. Stuff I didn't even know I wanted. Neatly placed and waiting for me. I love that place.

The morning started out like crystal, but the day has turned to broken glass.

3

We’ve got to think positive thoughts.

Step, fart. Step, fart. Step, fart.

There is an unseen river of communication that forever flows -- dark and powerful.

What's the sense of living if you're ashamed of yourself? Stella's father said almost to himself.

I was just thinking about me having children. Or being a grandma!" She giggled. "Think I'll be fat and have gray hair?" "I sure hope so," her father said, laughing himself.

My parents have always blanketed me with conversation.

They make computers for the special eddies?” “It talks? Mine doesn’t do that.” “You don’t need yours to talk!” “It sounds weird.” “So do you.

she’ll freak when she sees you!

churches

I hate that word, by the way. Retarded. I

Let me tell you something, Doctor. There is no way in heaven or hell that we will be sending Melody away to a nursing home!

It’s like I live in a cage with no door and no key. And I have no way to tell someone how to get me out.

Yesterday your heart was broken because they left you

Down to the 23rd page of double dutch!

Stella wondered how silence could be so loud.

Don't aim for riches, child. Aim for happiness." -Mrs. Mills

But Penny was born perfect and copper-bright, just like her name. From the minute she came home from the hospital, she was a really happy baby. Mom truly did carry a little bundle of joy into the house. But

A couple of weeks later my dad and I were in the car and we passed by a McDonald’s. I screeched and kicked and pointed like Godzilla was coming down the street. Dad must have thought I was nuts. Finally, he said, “Would you like to stop and get a Big Mac and a shake for dinner tonight as a treat?

It’s hard to imagine you and Daddy as ever being young and foolish. I figured you just appeared one day, fully grown and knowing all the answers,” she teased.

I have learned to be patient with people. Once again I point to Rose’s computer and then to the words me too.

If Maria is our hugger, Gloria is our rocker. She rocks for hours in the corner under one of the dumb smiling flowers.

Earthquake report: Expect big aftershocks—nothing like this has ever been seen before.

Earthquake report: Walls are tumbling everywhere!

Earthquake report: This is the big one.

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor and The Giver by Lois Lowry. And

Everybody uses words to express themselves. Except me. And I bet most people don’t realize the real power of words. But I do. Thoughts

Mama once told Gary to put his anger in a pot and let it simmer.

En lo más profundo de mi ser, las palabras se amontonan en montañas enormes formando frases, ideas conectadas entre sí, expresiones inteligentes, bromas y canciones de amor.

Her mother gave her a piece of warm biscuit and a hug before they left. "Stones don't cry, child. Remember that," was all she said.

“Vorrei essere come gli altri ragazzi”. “Quindi vorresti essere meschina, falsa e ottusa?” [...] “No. Vorrei essere normale.” “Essere normali è uno schifo!” è sbottata.

Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me round, Turn me round, turn me round. Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me round. Gonna keep on walkin’, keep on talkin’ Marching up to freedom land.

Finally he said, "Bad writers don't practice, Stella. It's the good ones who care enough to try, who worry about getting the words just right. You are probably better than you think.

-¿Qué harías si pudieras volar? -preguntó la señora mientras desviaba la vista del pájaro y la posaba en mí. -¿Es una pregunta para el concurso? -escribí con una sonrisa. -Creo que ya estudiamos todo -respondió sonriendo entre dientes. -Tendría miedo de lanzarme -tecleé. -¿Por temor a caer? -preguntó. -No. Por temor a que la sensación de volar me resultara demasiado agradable -me llevó mucho tiempo escribir eso.

Dad also has the loudest, stinkiest farts in creation. I don’t know how he manages to control them at work, or even if he does, but when he’d get home, he’d let them loose. They’d start as he walked up the stairs.

Stella expected to see fire in Mr. Spencer's eyes, fire like the flames that had made tinder of his house. Instead his eyes were soft, gentle, and brown like the earth. "I have to show them they didn't destroy me," he said simply.

When I play, I don’t pay attention to the individual notes. The notes become the melody. The melody becomes the rhythm. The rhythm is the harmony. Whether I play the blues or boogies, concertos or cantatas, I forget about me. I’m Bach. I’m Beethoven. I’m B.B. King. And the music is me. I’m a three-year-old in Italy, running though a field of daisies. I’m a turquoise-backed African sunbird, soaring over the desert savanna. The music slips out and shines like gold. I’m a tiger running through the jungle, strong and powerful. I’m a panther, dark and mysterious. I am so strong. I am in complete control of this world. Chords. Arpeggios. Cadenzas. Sharps and flats. Major chords. Minor scales. Harmony.

Twenty minutes later, just as Stella thought she was going to collapse with worry and anticipation, her father, the pastor, and Mr. Spencer emerged from the polling station, smiles lighting their faces. And now she saw what she'd expected to see earlier in Mr. Spencer's eyes. They were on fire.

Then let us pray," Pastor Patton said firmly. Stella noticed a few townspeople slowing down as they passed by; none of the faces looked pleasant. She closed her eyes. "Dear Lord," said the pastor, we bow down before you as we stand up for dignity. Be with us and protect us both morning, noon and night. Amen.

So Hobart and Harriett get their house burned down? What's next--a lynching?" Mrs. Bates jerked the bucket from the woman next to her. "I've seen a body swingin'. Three times in my life," her husband said, his voice low. For a moment, except for the roaring of the smoky flames, everyone went quite. Stella wondered how silence could be so loud.

Words. I’m surrounded by thousands of words. Maybe millions. Cathedral. Mayonnaise. Pomegranate. Mississippi. Neapolitan. Hippopotamus. Silky. Terrifying. Iridescent. Tickle. Sneeze. Wish. Worry. Words have always swirled around me like snowflakes— each one delicate and different, each one melting untouched in my hands. Deep within me, words pile up in huge drifts. Mountains of phrases and sentences and connected ideas. Clever expressions. Jokes. Love songs. From the time I was really little—maybe just a few months old—words were like sweet, liquid gifts, and I drank them like lemonade. I could almost taste them. They made my jumbled thoughts and feelings have substance. My parents have always blanketed me with conversation. They chattered and babbled. They verbalized and vocalized. My father sang to me. My mother whispered her strength into my ear. Every word my parents spoke to me or about me I absorbed and kept and remembered. All of them. I have no idea how I untangled the complicated process of words and thought, but it happened quickly and naturally. By the time I was two, all my memories had words, and all my words had meanings. But only in my head. I have never spoken one single word. I am almost eleven years old. . . .

Franklin Delano Roosevelt is the new president. He won in a landslide. Landslide makes me think of rocks and dirt falling down a mountain. Not sure what that has to do with an election. But maybe it does. My papa voted. He is a pebble. Lots of pebbles make a landslide, right? His vote counted. Roosevelt will move into the White House and will have a fine supper to celebrate, I guess. Papa had cornbread and buttermilk and beans with his friends at my house. I bet papa enjoyed his celebration more.

-Mi pequeña Melody, tu vida no será fácil -decía en voz baja-. Si pudiéramos intercambiar nuestros lugares, yo lo haría sin dudarlo un segundo. Lo sabes, ¿verdad? Yo solo parpadeaba, pero captaba lo que decía. A veces, su cara estaba bañada de lágrimas. De noche, me llevaba afuera y me hablaba al oído acerca de las estrellas, la luna y el viento nocturno. -Las estrellas están montando un espectáculo solamente para ti, mi amor -comentaba-. ¡Observa ese increíble despliegue de brillo! ¿Sientes el viento? Está tratando de hacerte cosquillas en los pies. Y durante el día, a menudo me quitaba todas esas mantas con que mi madre insistía en envolverme y permitía que sintiera la tibieza del sol en el rostros y en las piernas.