“Words have always swirled around me like snowflakes-each one delicate and different, each one melting untouched in my hands.”
“[A] person is so much more than the name of a diagnosis on a chart.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Thoughts need words. Words need a voice.”
“I believe in me. And my family does. And Mrs. V.
It's the rest of the world I'm not so sure of.”
“We all have disabilities. What’s yours?”
“By the way, there is nothing cute about a pink wheelchair. Pink doesn't change a thing.”
“She talked to me like I was just like any other student, not a kid in a wheelchair.”
“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.”
“I have spastic bilateral quadriplegia, also known as cerebral palsy. It limits my body, but not my mind.”
“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.”
“What your body looks like has nothing to do with how well your brain works!”
“and the machine speaks the words I’ve never been able to say. “I love 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 need words. Words need a voice.”
“The morning started out like crystal, but the day has turned to broken glass.”
“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.”
“I can’t talk. I can’t walk. I can’t feed myself or take myself to the bathroom. Big bummer.”
“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 just sit there. The morning started out like crystal, but the day has turned to broken glass.”
“Dad also has the loudest, stinkiest farts in creation. I don’t know how he manages to control them at work, or even if he does, but when he’d get home, he’d let them loose. They’d start as he walked up the stairs. Step, fart. Step, fart. Step, fart.”
“Along with the assortment of teachers we’ve had in room H-5, there have been more classroom aides than I can count. These aides—usually one guy to help with the boys and one lady to help with the girls—do stuff like take us to the bathroom (or change diapers on kids like Ashley and Carl), feed us at lunch, wheel us where we need to go, wipe mouths, and give hugs. 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.”
“Look at that amazing display of sparkle! And feel that wind? It's trying to tickle your toes,”
“I hate that word, by the way. Retarded.”
“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.”
“Earthquake report: Call the paramedics. A girl in fifth grade is about to explode.”
“I tried so hard, I farted! Mrs.”
“song came on the radio that made me screech with joy.”
“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.”
“Wir sind imstande, Überschallflugzeuge und Raketen ins All zu schicken, einen Verbrecher anhand eines Haars oder eines winzigen Hautpartikels zu identifizieren, eine Tomate zu züchten, die im Kühlschrank drei Monate lang völlig faltenfrei bleibt, und Milliarden von Informationen auf einem Mikrochip zu speichern. Wir sind imstande, die Leute auf der Straße sterben zu lassen.”
“Heel sterk voelde ik opeens de loop van de tijd. Niet die van de wolken en de zon, de regen en de loop van de sterren die de nacht versieren, niet het verstrijken van de seizoenen, van de lente en de herfst, niet de tijd die de blaadjes aan de takken doet uitbotten en ze weer laat afrukken, die de bloemen open- en dichtvouwt en kleur geeft, maar de tijd in mijzelf, de tijd die onzichtbaar is en ons vormt. De tijd die binnen in ons hart verstrijkt en het laat kloppen en die ons verandert van binnen en van buiten en die ons geduldig maakt tot de mens die we op onze laatste dag zullen zijn.”
“So you're, like crazy, in love. You open your eyes in the morning and your first thought is her. You wonder how she is. What she's doing. When you can see her again. Those thoughts stay with you all day. You share them with whoever will listen — including your best friends, who of course respect you but, after a while, out of the kind of concern only real friends have, seriously question your sanity. And you make all sorts of plans — big plans, like, post-high school — when the rest of us can barely wrap our heads around the fact that we only two years left to get a clue.
You live and breath this girl. You talk about her all the time, you hang out with your friends less and less, you're blind to other girls, no matter how hot or into you they are — and some of them are extremely hot and into you — and eventually, you break and actually say you love her.
Not only that, you tell your friends you love her. Which, as you know, is about as major as you can get.
Your friends may think you're a little out there, but they know you wouldn't be for any other girl. It's just because it's her. She's different.
This girl is it for you. Food, water, oxygen, sleep — all details.”
“It’s rigid. It’s firm and unyielding. It never lies…It is always right, and all you have to do is take the most logical path to find the answer. It brings reality and truth to every scene on earth. Every business that has fudged its numbers gets flamed out in the end.”
“-çünkü eğer kadın gerçeği söylemeye başlarsa aynadaki görüntü büzülür; erkek hayata uyum sağlayamaz olur.”
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