Best 27 quotes in «hispanic quotes» category

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero. Es tan corto el amor y es tan largo el olvido. Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos, mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido. Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa, y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

Today, it is predicted that nationwide one in three black males and one in six Hispanic males will be incarcerated in their lifetime. We have come to accept this as natural. But why doesn’t our discipleship inspire us to interrogate this belief?

With my white friends, I’m always half Mexican. They never say I’m half Irish. Never say I’m half white. Like I’m tainted halfway from the standard. It’s like when I was a kid and I thought vanilla ice cream meant no flavor, like it was the base of all of the flavors. But vanilla is a bean. Like chocolate is a bean. Like cinnamon is a root. All roots and beans. All flavors. There is no base. No ice cream without a flavor.

Unless US citizens acknowledge and understand their country's imperial past, they will not be able to understand its present or future. Much of the recent and current Hispanic resettlement of parts of the United States is a consequence of empire.... Countercolonization follows colonization, and the waves of migrants always flow back like returning tides.

Don't let anyone call you a minority if you're black or Hispanic or belong to some other ethnic group. You're not less than anybody else.

I don't know how anyone of Hispanic heritage could be a Republican.

I did the bible as told through Hispanic people and they laughed and applauded. I thought, "Oh my god, this is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

I got a label because I was Hispanic and a woman and [therefore] I had to be liberal.

I may not be Hispanic, but I'm close. I'm Catholic with a mustache[]

I like to consider myself an actor who just happens to be Hispanic

Just stop at one of these construction sites and look and see who those workers are. They're all Hispanic ... And I bet you they're illegal.

A good writer should be able to communicate to the reader, 'I know your life. I know what you have truly experienced. It’s not right or wrong. It’s survival. It’s making mistakes, and trying to redeem yourself. It’s imperfections, and trying to make yourself better. It’s outrages, and crimes, and insults, which often are not righted, which you have to fix yourself, in your own mind, in your own heart, so that you are not poisoned'.

No community values entrepreneurship and small business more than the Hispanic community.

Again, this week as I walked on Broadway, in front of giant photographs of voluptuous supermodels at a Victoria Secret mega-store, who was rebuilding the sidewalks? With sweaty headbands, ripped-up jeans, and dust on their brown faces? Their muscled hands quivered as they worked the jack-hammers and lugged the concrete chunks into dump trucks. Two men from Guanajuato. Undocumented workers. They both shook my hand vigorously, as if they were relieved I wasn’t an INS officer. I imagined how much money Victoria Secret was making off these poor bastards. I wondered why passersby didn’t see what was in front of their faces. We use these workers. We profit from them. In the shadows, they work to the bone, for pennies. And it’s so easy to blame them for everything and nothing simply because they are powerless, and dark-skinned,and speak with funny accents. Illegal is illegal. It is a phrase, shallow and cruel, that should prompt any decent American to burn with anger.

My children don't look Hispanic.

We will help the Hispanic-American people, who have been treated so badly and so unfairly in our nation, we will help them.

A group of ten prisoners from Dachau, I was with them, we hid in the forest to wait for the Americans. The Germans had already left everything behind. We had food but no weapons. For days we could hear bombs exploding around us. We just wanted to survive long enough for the Americans to control the territory. We didn’t want to die. At that point, our prison uniforms were the only things to keep us from being shot on the spot by the Americans. That was all we had. Who would the Americans believe? Real prisoners or guards dressed as prisoners? Those devils might even say we were the Germans. This was our nightmare.

But Anja. I hear Anja's voice. Maybe I am insane. I hear her crying. I see her alone in the trees. I remember being alone and humiliated. I remember, too, the fat little boy hiding in the bathroom. And I see this man, Ariane. I see this evil man, Ariane. He laughs everyday still. He has had years of laughter. He has triumphed over the screams of others, he has triumphed with blood on his hands. And he laughs still. God has cursed us! He has either cursed us or He was never here to begin with. We've pretended God was here for our own sanity! That's the truth! We've pretended evil is punished and good is rewarded. A perfect scheme!

Each of the three cultures in New Mexico during the mid-1800s (Caucasian, Hispanic, and Native American) were actively involved in kidnapping each other. As competition and fighting occurred between the three races, cruelty and violence were rampant on all sides. Yet, some captives found kindness among their captors.

…esa América que tiembla de huracanes y que vive de amor, hombres de ojos sajones y alma bárbara, vive. Y sueña. Y ama, y vibra, y es la hija del Sol.

I held Angie Luna in that room for hours, and I remember the different times we made love like epochs in a civilization, each movement and every touch, apex upon abyss. In the luxury of our bed, we tried every position and every angle. I explored the curves on her body and delighted in seeing the freedom of her ecstasy. Her desperate whispers and pleas. I told her I loved her, and she said she loved me too. We lay in bed with our limbs entangled, in a pacific silence that reminded me of existing on a beach just for the sake of such an existence. I couldn't imagine the world ever becoming better, and for some strange reason the thought slipped into my head that I had suddenly grown to be an old man because I could only hope to repeat, but never improve on, a night like this. I finally took her home sometime when the interstate was empty, and the bridges seemed to lead to nowhere, for they were desolate too.

It doesn't matter who you are or where you come from or what you look like or who you love. It doesn't matter whether you're black or white or Hispanic or Asian or Native American or young or old or rich or poor, able, disabled, gay or straight, you can make it here in America if you're willing to try.

Papi, I don't know what to do anymore." Lourdes begins to cry. "No matter what I do, Pilar hates me." "Pilar doesn't hate you, hija. She just hasn't learned to love you yet.

It’s a great honor, m’ijo. We know that. I’m sure everyone in Ysleta is proud of you. But this is who you are," she said, for a moment scanning the dark night air and the empty street. A cricket chirped in the darkness. "God help you when you go to this ‘Havid.’ You will be so far away from us, from everything you know. You will be alone. What if something happens to you? Who’s going to help you? But you always wanted to be alone; you were always so independent, so stubborn." "Like you.

Sometimes opposites attract, or so they say, but Paloma and Rocío were like arroz and mangú: they didn’t really mix well.

Hey, mamacitas! How about you ditch those losers and come with us. We'll show you a real good time," one of them shouts through the window. "Fuck off," Doug shouts. One of the guys stumbles out of the car and advances on Doug. Sierra yells something but I'm not paying attention. Instead, I'm watching Alex tear off his jacket and block the guy's path. "Get out of my way," the guy orders. "Don't lower yourself by protecting this white dick." Alex stands toe to toe with the guy, the tire iron gripped tightly in his hand. "You fuck with the white dick, you fuck with me. It's that simple. Comprendes, amigo?" Another guy steps out of the car. We are in some serious trouble. "Girls, take the keys and get in the car," Alex orders, his tone precise. "But . . ." There's a lethal calmness in his eyes. Oh, boy. He's dead serious. Doug tosses Sierra his car keys. Now what? Are we supposed to sit in the car and watch them fight? "I'm not going anywhere," I tell him. "Me, either," Sierra says. A guy in the other car sticks his head out of the window. "Alejo, that you?" Alex's stance relaxes. "Tiny? What the hell you doin' with these pendejos?" The guy named Tiny says something in Spanish to his buddies and they jump back into the car. They almost seem relieved they won't have to fight Alex and Doug. "I'll tell you as soon as you tell me what you're doin' with a bunch of gringos," Tiny says. Alex chuckles. "Get out of here." When we're all back in the car, I hear Doug say, "Thanks for having my back." Alex mumbles, "Don't sweat it.

One time, a 16-year-old member of Vicente’s group risked his safety trying to save a captive Texas girl, who had been seized by Comanches while taking clothes to wash at a stream near her house.