Best 2380 quotes in «identity quotes» category

When you know who you are, you know what to do.

When you know who you are, there is no fault-finder, peace and joy-stealer, mocker and no judgemental attitude can take you down because you are the daughter of the Most High God. Keep being you, you are loved by God and one else's opinion matters.

When you make the effort to speak someone else’s language, even if it’s just basic phrases here and there, you are saying to them, “I understand that you have a culture and identity that exists beyond me. I see you as a human being.

When you're traumatized, your sense of self, your individuality, is beaten up. Your skin color, your background, your pain, your hope, your gender, your faith, it's all defiled. Those essential pieces of yourself are stolen. You, as a person, are emptied and flattened, and that violence, that theft, keeps you from embodying a life that feels like your own. To continue to exist, as a whole person, you need to re-create, for yourself, an identity untouched by everything that's been used against you. You need to imagine and build a self out of elements that are not tainted. You need to remake yourself on your own terms.

When you see a believer chanting the name of a politician more than they have ever publicly identified with Christ. You know we have a generation that is confused and deserve nothing but pity.

When you understand that your significance, security, and identity are all locked in Christ, you don't have to win - you're free to lose. And nothing in this broken world can beat a person who isn't afraid to lose!

Whether he knew of this deficiency himself I can't say. I think the knowledge came to him at last--only at the very last. But the wilderness found him out early, and had taken vengeance for the fantastic invasion. I think it had whispered to him things about himself which he did not know, things of which he had no conception till he took counsel with this great solitude--and the whisper had proved irresistibly fascinating. It echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core

Whether we do it consciously or subconsciously, we tend to organize our lives to display our identity as accurately as possible. Our lifestyle choices often reveal our values, or at least what we’d like people to perceive as our values…as we make our everyday choices, we continuously calculate not just which choices best match who we are and what we want but also how those choices will be interpreted by others. We look for cues in our social environment to figure out what others think of this or that, which can require being sensitive to the most localized and up-to-date details of what a particular choice means.

Whether you are married or have lived with someone for a time, look upon that person and know that, as much as you may love that individual, he or she is not your "better half." Yes, this popular term of this endearment can be a warm, comforting notion that speaks to intimacy and trust. but these people you care about so deeply aren't "half" of you at all. They do not fill in your blanks. You have no blanks. You are whole within yourself.

While we maintain the unity of the human species, we at the same time repel the depressing assumption of superior and inferior races of men. There are nations more susceptible of cultivation, more highly civilized, more ennobled by mental cultivation than others—but none in themselves nobler than others.

While we cannot live without history, we need not live within it either.

Who am I, in French? I really don't know -- a bit of everything, perhaps.

Who are we but the stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves, and believe?

Who are theologians? What kind of self-identity could or should a theologian claim? Should a theologian be a defender or transmitter of Christian _tradition_? What if the _tradition_ itself carries a dark side, implicitly or explicitly, bounded by religious or cultural superiorism, ethnocentrism, homophobism, exclusive nationalism, sexism, racism, and so forth? What kind of _identity_ would then justify my rule as theologian? This question has been lingering in my mind throughout the time I have been working on cosmopolitan theology. it may sound simple, but for me the identity issue has been fundamental.

Who are you? All I see of you is the shape you leave behind. The world is an engine for logging your desires. In these days you don't have identity; you have a browser history. People who liked cheap illusion also liked advanced consumer capitalism. Recommended for you: willing subjugation.

Who am I, really?” The search for an answer produces feelings of alienation and anxiety and can only be relieved when one accepts that inner self and receives public recognition for it.

Who defined me? My culture, a culture of mercy, a living codex. I am a unique culture of one, from everywhere. I am her map and her self. I am everyone in the story; I am the story.

Who do I write for? I thought about this again and again over the next few days until the answer crystalized in my consciousness. I write for all readers. But my primary interest is in representing the complex but universal experience of Somalis. I do this because the media representation of the global Somali community is one that is carved out of derivative clichés crammed with pirates, warlords, terrorists, passive women and girls whose entire existence seems to be nothing more than a footnote on the primitive dangers of female genital mutilation. I write because I want to give a long-overdue voice to a community that has experienced a tremendous array of challenges but who constantly face these challenges with the most wicked sense of humour, humility and dignity. My father always used to tell me that in our culture, the done thing when you’re facing hardship and your belly is empty is to moisturize your face, comb your hair, press your clothes and step out into the sun with your sense of humanity intact. It’s a lesson I’ve carried with me to this day.

Who can give a man this, his own name?

Who cares? If you people want to call me Zainichi, go ahead! You Japanese are scared of me. Can't feel safe unless you categorize and label it, right? But you're wrong. You know what-- I'm a lion. A lion has no idea he's a lion. It's just a random name that you people gave him so you can feel like you know all about him. See what happens when you try to get closer, calling my name. I'll pounce on your carotid artery and tear you to shreds. You understand? As long as you call me Zainichi, you're always going to be my victim. I'm not Zainichi or South Korean or North Korean or Mongoloid. Quit forcing me into those narrow categories. I'm me! Wait, I don't even want to be me anymore. I want to be free from having to be me. I'll go anywhere to find whatever thing will let me forget who I am. And if that thing isn't here. I'll get out of this country, which is what you wanted anyway. You can't do that, can you? No, you'll all die, tied down by your ideas about country, land, titles, customs, traditions, and culture. Well, that's too bad. I never had any of that stuff, so I'm free to go anywhere! Jealous? Say you're jealous! Damn it, what am I saying? Damn it, damn it....

Who I am is intrinsically linked to where I am and whom I'm with.

Whose truth do you want to know, Dr. Amin Jaafari? The truth of a Bedouin who thinks he’s free and clear because he’s got an Israeli passport? The truth of a serviceable Arab per excellence who’s honored wherever he goes, who gets invited to fancy parties by people who want to show how tolerant and considerate they are? The truth of someone who thinks he can change sides like changing a shirt, with no trace left behind? Is that the truth you’re looking for, or is it the one you’re running away from? What planet do you live on, sir? … Our cities are being buried by machines on caterpillar tracks, our patron saints don’t know which way to turn, and you, simply because you’re nice and warm in your golden cage, refuse to see the inferno consuming us.

Who you are; that is, who you choose to be — your identity, works in your life like an invisible hand.

Who you are and what you believe in is your real home, the only home no one can take from you, the only home that will last.

Who thought up the dumb idea to arrange the memoir section in the bookstore by subject?

Who was really the cop-out, Jack who went and got what he needed to make his dream real, molding a Jack Barron reality to the shape of his dreams, or me, shaping dreams to the size of mundane reality

Who were these people, these specially selected tenants? They were mothers and fathers and children. A dressmaker, a secretary, an inventor, a doctor, a judge. And, oh yes, one was a bookie, one was a burglar, one was a bomber, and one was a mistake.

Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet--for me, anyway--all that's worth living for lies in that charm?

Why am I trying to be somebody? I am somebody.

Why do I have to choose between being me and being somebody's wife?

Why not? It's true. My best hope is to not disgrace myself and..." He hesitates. And what?" I say. I don't know how to say it exactly. Only... I want to die as myself. Does that make any sense?" he asks. I shake my head. How could he die as anyone but himself? "I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not." I bite my lip feeling inferior. While I've been ruminating on the availability of trees, Peeta has been struggling with how to maintain his identity. His purity of self. "Do you mean you won't kill anyone?" I ask. No, when the time comes, I'm sure I'll kill just like everybody else. I can't go down without a fight. Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to... to show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games," says Peeta. But you're not," I say. "None of us are. That's how the Games work." Okay, but within that frame work, there's still you, there's still me," he insists. "Don't you see?" A little, Only... no offense, but who cares, Peeta?" I say. I do. I mean what else am I allowed to care about at this point?" he asks angrily. He's locked those blue eyes on mine now, demanding an answer.

Why some people feel more comfortable in the “margin” of society, may simply be that it imparts them more breathing space, shores up their identity, embodies a gateway to self-determination, and confers them a sense of sovereignty, allowing more time for stressless apprehension and thoughtful reflection. (“If he doesn't play ball » )

Why should anyone be so grateful for acceptance unless he doubts that he is acceptable, and why should a young, educated and successful couple have such doubts, if not due to the fact that they cannot accept themselves because they are not themselves.

Why, when we regain consciousness, is it not an identity other than the one we had previously that is embodied in us? It is not clear what dictates the choice nor why, among the millions of human beings we might be, it is the being we were the day before that we unerringly grasp.

Why wait to forgive and let go only after you have sufficiently wallowed in your despair? Why not forgive and let go now?

Wind is on fire" - beautiful words. What causes the fire, what enhances it, and what finally extinguishes it by itself or by bringing in rainclouds, gets identified with it. Do breath and life have the same relationship with each other!

Wir werden als abhängige Bürger geboren. Vom Moment unserer Geburt an sind wie Abhängige. Ein Zeichen dieser Abhängigkeit ist die Geburtsurkunde. [...] Entweder erhälst du die staatliche Urkunde [...], was dir zu einer Identität verhilft, die dem Staat während deines Lebens ermöglicht, dich zu identifizieren und im auge zu behalten (dich aufzuspüren); oder du kommst ohne eine Identität aus und verdammst dich selbst, wie ein Tier außerhalb des Staats zu leben (Tiere haben keine Personalausweise).

With the evolution of Us came the evolution of Them. The original Them was anyone who wasn’t blood related — Them was pretty much everyone. Over time, as the number of people in Us got bigger, Them got smaller. Them now might mean anyone in any other country. This is a common Them in America, and a Them that only (light use of this word) consists of 95% of the world. Another common Them in America is anyone who isn’t Christian, which is a measly 68% of the world, or roughly 4.8 Billion Thems. In a relatively short amount of time, Us went from being a fraction of a percent of humanity and Them the rest, to some people experiencing an Us of more than two billion other people, far more than were ever alive at the onset of Us and Them.

With false names, on the right nets, they could be anybody. Old men, middle-aged women, anybody, as long as they were careful about the way they wrote. All that anyone would see were the words, their ideas. Every citizen started equal, on the nets.

With some gratitude, I realized that my awareness was now stronger than my neurosis. This did not mean that things would never go to pieces, only that I did not have to fall apart when they did. In fact, my own ability to go to pieces was protecting me in this situation. I did not have to let my identity as an efficient and together person imprison me.

Without asking her permission, someone is trying to intrude her life, draw her attention, in short, to bother her.

Without somebody to watch me, laugh at my jokes, tell me what to do, ask me questions, race me to the river, make me guess the names of birds, or challenge me to count the silvery fish in a school, there was nothing for me to do. Without somebody to be somebody to, it was as though I wasn't somebody myself.

With the sensation that he was passing through the Looking-Glass, Max stared at his father as if he had never seen him before—simultaneously impressed and unnerved at the thought that, after all these years, he still knew so little about him.

With Writing, You Lose Yourself, Find Yourself, and Become Someone Else. Writing Changes The Writer and The Reader. It Goes to The Core of Your Being, Challenges Your Pre-Suppositions. It Leaves You Satisfied, and Unsatisfied.

Word has traveled quickly that just because you're on island doesn't mean you have to be stranded---as long as you have cash.

Yearn for the opposite, to buck the trend, to be different.

Words change depending on who speaks them; there is no cure. The answer isn't just to introduce new words (boi, cis-gendered, andro-fag) and then set out to reify their meanings (though obviously there is power and pragmatism here). One must also become alert to the multitude of possible uses, possible contexts, the wings with which each word can fly. Like when you whisper, You're just a hold, letting me fill you up. Like when I say husband.

Work on making yourself a complete being. Though you were born with the physical traits of one sex, you possess the characteristics of both - including those of plants and animals. You were created as a nearly complete universal being, but with flaws. True perfection can only be achieved when one recognizes that they need to combine their oneness with others and nature. Only then is one considered complete.

Yeah, I'm a drug addict. And a prostitute. The whole world knows. Not because I robbed my own family. Not because I ended up behind bars. Not because I've been hassled by the cops when soliciting customers from a local street corner. Not because I'm shooting up in the public bathrooms at your city park. Everyone knows because I told them all. I never tried to hide any of it. I never felt the need to.

Working out that I am not Mizuko has been an important step towards feeling better. If I have hit on a moral, it is this: the body is our natural barrier. There were lines I should not have crossed, and I did so without permission. I was looking always for correspondences, but meaning is found through difference.