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.

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.

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

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.

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?

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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)

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.

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

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.

I felt like a real girl.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

My parents have always blanketed me with conversation.

We’ve got to think positive thoughts.

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

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

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

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.

Everybody thinks they know me,

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?

Ashes don't necessarily signify an end

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

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.

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!

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

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

Nobody rides trains anymore!

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.

What’s Mr. Dimming’s first name?” “Wallace!” We all cracked up at that.

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

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

Earthquake report: This is the big one.

Earthquake report: Walls are tumbling everywhere!

Never in my life have I had a teacher tell me to be quiet because I was talking to somebody in class! It was the best feeling in the world! I felt like the rest of the kids.

Stella wondered how silence could be so loud.

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.

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.

I figured the teacher offered me the candy to shut up Claire and Molly and to make me feel good that I accidentally got all the questions right. But it was no accident. I knew them all. Every single one.

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?

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.

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

Down to the 23rd page of double dutch!

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.

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

3

Yesterday your heart was broken because they left you

churches

she’ll freak when she sees you!

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

Talk. I pointed to my board. I hit the word again and again. Talk. Talk. Talk.

Our team hasn’t done anything special. They don’t need to. They have me.

At school Rose whispered with me about the trip, just like I’d seen other kids do when they have secrets. I felt like a real girl.

You know how athletes get ready for the Olympics? They swim early in the morning and late at night. They run around the track for hours and hours without a crowd to cheer them on.

Deleted the memory—need room for facts,” I took the time to type.

I don’t think they get paid very much, because they never stay very long. But they should get a million dollars. What they do is really hard, and I don’t think most folks get that. It

And all of a sudden I felt like crying. Because… well, that was me—so much on the inside that still could not get to the outside. Energy trapped. Not all of it—I’m glad I have my board to let burps of it out. But, yeah, I’m tangled inside myself. And there’s no magical key to unravel the coils. What the heck? I get on a boat, and boom, I got feelings!

I wondered if I were blown to Oz with my dog, what would we ask the wizard for? Hmmm. Brains? I’ve got plenty. Courage? Butterscotch is scared of nothing! A heart? We’ve got lots of heart, me and my pup. So what would I ask for? I’d like to sing like the Cowardly Lion and dance like the Tin Man. Neither one of them did those things very well, but that would be good enough for me.

I think for only a minute. S-T-E-P-H-E-N H-A-W-K-I-N-G, I spell out. I want to know how he does ordinary stuff, like eating and drinking. After all, he’s a grown man. Does his wife put him on the toilet? He has kids. How does he manage to be a dad? And I want to know about his talking devices, the supercool computers that help him talk and do really hard math problems, like finding black holes in space.

-¿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.

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.

Dad is partial to jazz, and every chance he gets, he winks at me, takes out Mom’s Mozart disc, then pops in a CD of Miles Davis or Woody Herman. Jazz to me sounds brown and tan, and it smells like wet dirt. Jazz music drives Mom crazy, which is probably why Dad puts it on. “Jazz makes me itch,” she says with a frown as Dad’s music explodes into the kitchen. Dad goes to her, gently scratches her arms and back, then engulfs her in a hug. She stops frowning. But she changes it back to classical again as soon as Dad leaves the room.

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. Mom loves classical. Big, booming Beethoven symphonies blast from her CD player all day long. Those pieces always seem to be bright blue as I listen, and they smell like fresh paint. Dad is partial to jazz, and every chance he gets, he winks at me, takes out Mom’s Mozart disc, then pops in a CD of Miles Davis or Woody Herman. Jazz to me sounds brown and tan, and it smells like wet dirt.

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. . . .