Sold By Patricia Mccormick Quotes

Simply to endure is to triumph.

If you look hard enough, chaos turns into order the way letters turn into words.

This affliction--hope--is so cruel and stubborn, I believe it will kill me

Trying to remember, I have learned, is like trying to clutch a handful of fog. Trying to forget, like trying to hold back the monsoon.

Instead, we linger over a luxury that costs nothing: Imagining what may be.

Inside my head I carry: my baby goat, my baby brother, my ama's face, our family's future. My bundle is light. My burden is heavy.

Guard the portals of your mind.

My bundle is light. My burden is heavy.

When I have run out of words to copy, I look out the window at this strange place called India. Inside the train, the people around me are snoring. I don't understand how they can close their eyes when there is so much to see.

A man who doles out sweets, and slaps, with the same hand.

I have been beaten here, locked away, violated a hundred times and a hundred times more. I have been starved and cheated, tricked and disgraced. How odd it is that I am undone by the simple kindness of a small boy with a yellow pencil.

A KIND OF ILLNESS This ache in my chest is a relentless thing, worse than any fever. A fever is gone with a few of Mumtaz's white pills. But this illness has had me in its grip for a week now. This affliction--hope--is so cruel and stubborn, I believe it will kill me.

Ama wipes her hands on her apron, looks up at our old roof with new eyes, and lifts the baby from his basket. She twirls him in the air, her skirts flying around her ankles the way the clouds swirl around the mountain cap--her laughter fresh and strange and musical to my ears.

In the evening, the brilliant yellow pumpkin blossoms will close, drunk on sunshine, while the milky white jasmine will open their slender throats and sip the chill Himalayan air. At night, low hearths will send up wispy curls of smoke fragrant with a dozen dinners, and darkness will clothe the land. Except on nights when the moon is full. On those nights, the hillside and the valley below are bathed in a magical white light, the glow of the perpetual snows that blanket the mountaintops. On those nights I lie restless in the sleeping loft, wondering what the world is like beyond my mountain home.

i inhale deeply, drinking the warmth in the scent of mountain sunshine, a warmth that smells of freshly turned soil and clean laundry baking in the sun.

I have been beaten here, locked away, violated a hundred times, and a hundred times more. I have been starved, and cheated, tricked and disgraced. How odd is it that I am undone by the simple kindness of a small boy with a yellow pencil.

Auntie says that in the city, people gather and pay money to see beautiful women and handsome men put on a show. The people in the show are called movie stars.

In the evening, the brilliant yellow pumpkin blossoms will close, drunk on sunshine, while the milky white jasmine will open their slender throats and sip the chill Himalayan air.

At night, low hearths will send up wispy curls of smoke fragrant with a dozen dinners, and darkness will clothe the land.

A son will always be a son, they say. But a girl is like a goat. Good as long as she gives you milk and butter. But not worth crying over when it's time to make a stew.

Each year, nearly 12,000 Nepali girls are sold by their families, intentionally o r unwittingly, into a life of sexual slavery in the brothels of India. W orldwide , the U.S. State D epartmen t estimates that nearly half a millio n children are trafficked into the sex trade annually.

A son will always be a son, they say. But a girl is like a goat. Good as long as she gives you milk and butter. But not worth crying over when it’s time to make a stew.

This is also the season when the women drink the blue-black juice of the marking nut tree to do away with the babies in their wombs—the ones who would be born only to be buried next season.

Four other babies were born between me and my brother. There are no notches for them.

This has always been our fate,” she says. “Simply to endure,” she says, “is to triumph.

I nod yes-no-yes-no and run back to Ama, afraid to tell her about this new auntie who smells of amber and jasmine and possibility.

trying to clutch a handful of fog. Trying to forget, like trying to hold back the monsoon.

And so I consider a world so ugly that a child would be maimed for life to fetch an extra rupee or two. And another world full of brides and marigolds, rain machines and white horses.

Now that Gita is gone, to work as a maid for a wealthy woman in the city, her family has a tiny glass sun that hangs from a wire in the middle of their ceiling, a new set of pots for Gita's mother, a pair of spectacles for her father, a brocaded wedding dress for her older sister, and school fees for her little brother. Inside Gita's family hut, it is daytime at night. But for me, it feels like nighttime even in the brightest sun without my friend.