Pretend to be brave if you have to.
Do you ever get tired of being strong?” “Oh, honey, of course.
The only way to fight a bully is to stand your ground. Be brave, Grandpa Walt would say. Pretend if you have to.
Elsa heard the message but didn’t care, and not caring felt good. Almost exhilarating, in fact. For once, she had not let someone else tell her where she belonged.
When times is tough and jobs is scarce, folks blame the outsider. It’s human nature. And raht now, that’s us. In California it used to be the Mexicans, and the Chinese before that, I think.
No matter how dark a place is, there are always moments of light.
Girls,” she whispered under her breath, wondering why it was that adolescent girls simply had to be mean to their mothers. Clearly it was normal behavior; she’d spent enough time with her friends and peers to know that. So normal it was probably part of evolution. Maybe the species needed girls who thought they were grown up at thirteen for some bizarre, hidden reason.
Survival took grit and courage and effort. It was too easy to give in. No matter how afraid she was, she had to teach her children every day how to survive.
I know you have stuff you need to say, but we’re kids so you stay quiet. I thought maybe writing it down would make you feel better.
Kid, the people who love you stay. You’ve already learned that. Go find your mom and tell her you’ve been as dumb as a box of marbles. And let her hold you tight.
Elsa felt tears rise up, overtake her. She cried as she hadn’t cried since Rafe left her, cried until there was no moisture left inside of her, until she was as dry as the land they’d left behind.
There’s no why to trust. It either is or isn’t. Will you trust me?
You understand. I know you do. Your people are starving, dying. Thousands are homeless. They can’t make enough money picking to survive. Help me convince them to strike for better wages. They’ll listen to you.
Folks who are from the wrong place, or have the wrong color skin, or speak the wrong language, or pray to the wrong God.
Beneath the shoes lay Loreda’s brand-new library card and The Hidden Staircase. Loreda looked up. “You went back? In the rain?” “Mrs. Quisdorf picked that book out for you. That card, though, that’s the real gift. It can take you anywhere, Loreda.
We don’t need to learn about what old rich men did more than one hundred years ago. The world is falling apart now.
Words and ideas can be deadly. You be careful what you say and to whom, especially in this town.
Only tough women lasted on Texas farmland.
When Elsa had lost her third child – a son who never drew breath – it was Rose who held Elsa and let her cry, and said, Some lives are not ours to hold on to; God makes His choices without us.
They’d sewn their lives together in the silent way of women unused to conversation.