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Home Change If we don’t change, we don’t grow. If we don’t grow, we aren’t really living.

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If we don’t change, we don’t grow. If we don’t grow, we aren’t really living.

Polly, January 21, 2013

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Tags : Gail Sheehy

Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope or confidence.

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Being defeated is often a temporary condition. Giving up is what makes it permanent.

Polly

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Inner city education must change. Our responsibility is not merely to provide access to knowledge; we must produce educated people.

Inner city education must change. Our responsibility is not merely to provide access to knowledge; we must produce educated people.

Love is the most difficult and dangerous form of courage. Courage is the most desperate, admirable and noble kind of love.

Love is the most difficult and dangerous form of courage. Courage is the most desperate, admirable and noble kind of love.

Maybe I couldn’t make it. Maybe I don’t have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don’t know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I’m sick of the masquerade. I’m sick of pretending eternal youth. I’m sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I’m sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I’m sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I’m sick of the Powder Room. I’m sick of pretending that some fatuous male’s self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I’m sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I’m sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.

Maybe I couldn’t make it. Maybe I don’t have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don’t know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I’m sick of the masquerade. I’m sick of pretending eternal youth. I’m sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I’m sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I’m sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I’m sick of the Powder Room. I’m sick of pretending that some fatuous male’s self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I’m sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I’m sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.

Sir, I look upon every day to be lost, in which I do not make a new acquaintance.

Sir, I look upon every day to be lost, in which I do not make a new acquaintance.

The worst tragedy for a poet is to be admired through being misunderstood.

The worst tragedy for a poet is to be admired through being misunderstood.

Don’t let yesterday use up too much of today

Don’t let yesterday use up too much of today

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