Quotes Aboutdeborah Sampson

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happened a year ago. I still remember it well, too well.
It was my secretary, it was Friday and went to a meeting near the Hilton Hotel in Puerto Madero. I went in and asked for the Business Center. I made a copy. I went to the fifth and while waiting to make me a photocopy and Scanning, people started walking really special for this floor. All warmly greeted to the person I was seeing who was behind the counter. I listened to the greetings that came from my back, " Hello friend," How's your day? ". . Short sentences were spoken with American tune (I know well and to make out) along with an affection that sounded like music between syllables. I turned with curiosity because the person who took care of me smiling in a particular way to greet them with his hand raised. I looked in detail. They came in wheelchairs, some without arms, hands all, some walked with a shorter leg, others were tiny stage, most were "otherwise" (because it is not for the "deformed"). Hotel employee looked at my face and I wonder then said: " is a hands-free convention painters." I nodded slowly. I got nervous. I did not know whether to greet or meet the smile with which I looked. I got the file scan my pen drive and walked quickly toward the elevator with his head confused. I got to the hallway, opened the door and went up with me three people: a very pretty girl with a poncho that covered a very young boy with a roll holder and a large mulatto then showed me his white teeth when I held the well kept door to enter. The elevator went down instead. I became more nervous. What was happening if I had pressed the "ground floor"? They laughed heartily and the blond girl looked down on the floor of the elevator transparent and shouted with joy when he recognized a friend. Moved in all directions and shouted to his mulatto friend, "is Ricardo! Is Ricardo!". He pulled over and bit her shoulder. I do not understand. What she was trying was to greet his friend, Ricardo beckoning to looking down the elevator from whom there was no distinction. My travel companion, this pretty little blonde with her poncho on your back, I could not say hello. I had no arms under the blanket. The mulatto was his "seeing-eye", his companion, a "normal" the care and support. And if I had to move her hands, she did it gladly. He did, always showing his white teeth. He enjoyed his work. Ricardo, down, almost hypnotized staring, reacted and raised his hand in the expected. That was happy with both. The boy who was to my right and who is my partner in this elevator (still getting high ...) was something strange, like something was missing, but I did not want or could not understand. Until my view (or my head) Discip: the paper holder had it hooked on something like a finger that left shoulder. Only one finger ... They talked among themselves with great sympathy, laughing the rise instead of fall. Inside I felt uncomfortable, not knowing where to look and to puteaba because the elevator seemed to Everest would go ... Suddenly stopped and started down. I thought "to end this quickly," . I looked down and making me the distracted side looking at the horizon ... or the south ... a lobby of a hotel that was approaching. Until we were coming. The elevator slows down and look up. The blond girl looked at me with round eyes and full, with an overwhelming sweetness, I smiled and said, "how nice ride share "!. Suffered as well. I did not know that answer ... I managed to look only and I swear I tried to reflect a "thank you ... I learned from you." I smiled embarrassed but grateful. Ricardo was waiting for them ...
went down and walked slowly. I needed air. I took to walking. Not far from my office. I tried in this way to understand what had happened. Scanned a document had a place to go and that had never been a point of meeting with people who gave me a life lesson. I was embarrassed, angry with the situation and complained about the wrong time and the elevator did not respond. They interpreted it differently: as a nice ride that I did not see ... I kept walking. It was silent, looking at what it looked. Were ten twenty blocks where I made a pact with same: do not want to miss more rides. My colleagues of the elevator had improved my diopter. Ophthalmologists were the best life now looked better.

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If you do not write, is because all I can say would be too obvious. I feel to be discovering something new, but was new to me. I see that my life is like millions of other lives, which is nothing extraordinary. I am a tiny grain of sand on an endless beach. Is that maturity?

But, drawing, drawing not something new. I look at the world and drawing what I see. No need to invent anything more, I love what it is. I do not feel the need to show inside, if the outside world is so interesting. Instead, what I want is to internalize the external seize a moment of reality, her through my eyes and my brain, recreate with my hands. So I can approach the world and touch. I can not say that would help me understand, but accept and to love each other. That's the way of how I relate to the world.

long been drawing the Christ, Virgin and Saints and I can not explain very well, since I am not Christian and do not know if I believe in God. But now I see much clearer. Not because I identify with the Saints, his divine qualities, or that attracts me suffering. No. I like the image as such, I know where is the force that attracts so many people, the force that makes them and worship and dear. I wonder why it happens just with these images, and not with others. And if re-drawing the icons of Saints Peruvians, it is because I want to approach people I do feel the force they generate, and whether I am also able to feel and even create it.

may now think I'm stupid, that this force is nothing more than faith, and that is not in the pictures but in ourselves. We put ourselves which we force them to fulfill our desires. And yes, in fact has much to do. But I insisito that something must have the image. Something that makes people stare and think about things that do not see, behind ...

If you do not write, does not mean that drawing. But sometimes drawing, and I feel like a grain of sand ...

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Grain of sand Where we come ... I rough


Image: Petr Malina

During my trip to Sweden three times I took the boat. Two Swedish ships were sometimes back and took a German ship that was to Rostock. The difference was amazing.

In Sweden I found as a very pleasant, neat and clean, and the Swedes as very kind, happy and well educated. Despite the harsh climate and a very short summer the Swedes are among the happiest people in the world. For our young democracy Czech Scandinavia have always served as an example of how a small country can operate within a community as large as the European.
The first two trips in the Swedish ships were welcome. People enjoyed the board the sun and did not care, strong wind. In the cafeteria quietly waiting in the queue, and the staff treated everyone with kindness and all spoke English. It was really easy to get used to that.

Rostock on the boat did was different. Most passengers were Swedish, but people in Eastern Europe, Germans, the Ukraine, Russia, Bulgaria, Slovakia ... and Czech Republic. Many of them were drivers of trucks or workers. And suddenly, after seeing the Swedish acostubrarme well dressed, athletes, healthy and well nourished, I was shocked to see people from "other Europe", worn, fat, bald, with dark circles, smelly and old clothes ... But not only was appearance but also the behavior. People came running to the cafeteria, colliding with each other, personnel forward and shouted in Russian (or whatever), knowing that they were German, and eagerly taking a quantity of food that could not be eaten.
I said, welcome home! and I felt a mixture of shame and sadness at the thought that's how we see the Swedes (German, French, English ..) also for us. In other words, is the world that I belong. A world that still was not sure where to go or who can walk well.

But then, to ask that another country would be born if given the chance to choose, I realized I did not find a better alternative. I am happy to be born in the place and time where I was born. I like the point from which I can see the world, the point has shaped me for who I am today. It seems more than perfect to have been born under communism, live in it just enough to remember the sadness and emptiness in which people learned to live, and it has collapsed just as I started to become aware. I could study and in an era of greater justice and freedom, I've lived through the change, I've seen how democracy was born and how hard is learning not ever neglect it.