VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Choosing Sides
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: “The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39 Imagine you’re walking down the…
“The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39
Imagine you’re walking down the streets of Melbourne, headphones in, phone in hand. Just a normal Saturday, right? You pass by those ‘annoying protestors’ with repetitive chants and the constant banging of drums. Suddenly, the chants have turned into piercing screams, and the drums fade into the beating of batons. You don’t even turn your head, rushing to turn up your music to drown out all the commotion. The government violently suppressed yet another protest, and you didn’t even care to look at the lives being taken from innocent, peaceful protesters engaging with their democratic rights. How much longer can we let this happen? Indifference is the softest baton of all, and right now we must fight back against our oppressors instead of supporting them through inaction. It sounds jarring and gruesome, but it’s what happened in Melbourne on Saturday.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Choosing Sides
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: “The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39 Imagine you’re walking down the…
“The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39
Imagine you’re walking down the streets of Melbourne, headphones in, phone in hand. Just a normal Saturday, right? You pass by those ‘annoying protestors’ with repetitive chants and the constant banging of drums. Suddenly, the chants have turned into piercing screams, and the drums fade into the beating of batons. You don’t even turn your head, rushing to turn up your music to drown out all the commotion. The government violently suppressed yet another protest, and you didn’t even care to look at the lives being taken from innocent, peaceful protesters engaging with their democratic rights. How much longer can we let this happen? Indifference is the softest baton of all, and right now we must fight back against our oppressors instead of supporting them through inaction. It sounds jarring and gruesome, but it’s what happened in Melbourne on Saturday.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Choosing Sides
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: “The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39 Imagine you’re walking down the…
“The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39
Imagine you’re walking down the streets of Melbourne, headphones in, phone in hand. Just a normal Saturday, right? You pass by those ‘annoying protestors’ with repetitive chants and the constant banging of drums. Suddenly, the chants have turned into piercing screams, and the drums fade into the beating of batons. You don’t even turn your head, rushing to turn up your music to drown out all the commotion. The government violently suppressed yet another protest, and you didn’t even care to look at the lives being taken from innocent, peaceful protesters engaging with their democratic rights. How much longer can we let this happen? Indifference is the softest baton of all, and right now we must fight back against our oppressors instead of supporting them through inaction.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Choosing Sides
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: “The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39 Imagine you’re walking down the…
“The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39
Imagine you’re walking down the streets of Melbourne, headphones in, phone in hand. Just a normal Saturday, right? You pass by those ‘annoying protestors’ with repetitive chants and the constant banging of drums. Suddenly, the chants have turned into piercing screams, and the drums fade into the beating of batons. You don’t even turn your head, rushing to turn up your music to drown out all the commotion. The government violently suppressed yet another protest, and you didn’t even care to look at the lives being taken from innocent, peaceful protesters engaging with their democratic rights. How much longer can we let this happen? Silence is compliance, and right now we must fight back against our oppressors instead of supporting them through inaction.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Choosing Sides
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: “The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39 Imagine you’re walking down the…
“The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39
Imagine you’re walking down the streets of Melbourne, headphones in, phone in hand. Just a normal Saturday, right? You pass by those ‘annoying protestors’ with repetitive chants and the constant banging of drums. Suddenly, the chants have turned into piercing screams, and the drums fade into the beating of batons. You don’t even turn your head, rushing to turn up your music to drown out all the commotion. The government violently suppressed yet another protest, and you didn’t even care to look at the lives being taken from innocent, peaceful protesters engaging with their democratic rights. How much longer can we let this happen? Silence is compliance, and right now we must fight back against our oppressors instead of supporting them through inaction.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Choosing Sides
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: “The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39 Imagine you’re walking down the…
“The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39
Imagine you’re walking down the streets of Melbourne, headphones in, phone in hand. Just a normal Saturday, right? You pass by those ‘annoying protestors’ with repetitive chants and the constant banging of drums. Suddenly, the chants have turned into piercing screams, and the drums fade into the beating of batons. You don’t even turn your head, rushing to turn up your music to drown out all the commotion. The government violently suppressed yet another protest, and you didn’t even care to look at the lives being taken from innocent, peaceful protesters engaging with their democratic rights. How much longer can we let this happen? Silence is compliance, and right now we must fight back against our oppressors instead of supporting them through inaction.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Choosing Sides
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: “The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39 Imagine you’re walking down the…
“The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39
Imagine you’re walking down the streets of Melbourne, headphones in, phone in hand. Just a normal Saturday, right? You pass by those ‘annoying protestors’ with repetitive chants and the constant banging of drums. Suddenly, the chants have turned into piercing screams, and the drums fade into the beating of batons. You don’t even turn your head, rushing to turn up your music to drown out all the commotion. The government violently suppressed yet another protest, and you didn’t even care to look at the lives being taken from innocent, peaceful protesters engaging with their democratic rights. How much longer can we let this happen? Silence is compliance, and right now we must fight back against our oppressors instead of supporting them through inaction.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Choosing Sides
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 62.5%: “The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39 Imagine you’re walking down the…
“The March Manifesto (How to start a revolution)” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39
Imagine you’re walking down the streets of Melbourne, headphones in, phone in hand. Just a normal Saturday, right? You pass by those ‘annoying protestors’ with their childish, soccer parent chants and the constant banging of drums. Suddenly, the chants have turned into piercing screams, and the drums fade into the beating of batons. You don’t even turn your head, rushing to turn up your music to drown out all the commotion. The government violently suppressed yet another protest, and you didn’t even care to look at the lives being taken from innocent, peaceful protesters engaging with their democratic rights. How much longer can we let this happen? Silence is compliance, and right now we must fight back against our oppressors instead of supporting them through inaction.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Choosing Sides
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: An article from “The March Manifesto” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39 In medias res, you’re walking down the streets of…
An article from “The March Manifesto” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39
In medias res, you’re walking down the streets of Melbourne, headphones in, phone in hand. Just a normal Saturday, right? You pass by those ‘annoying protestors’ with their childish, soccer parent chants and the constant banging of drums. Suddenly, the chants have turned into piercing screams, and the drums fade into the beating of batons. You don’t even turn your head, rushing to turn up your music to drown out all the commotion. The government violently suppressed yet another protest, and you didn’t even care to look at the lives being taken from innocent, peaceful protesters engaging with their democratic rights. How much longer can we let this happen? Silence is compliance, and right now we must fight back against our oppressors instead of supporting them through inaction.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Choosing Sides
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 60%: An article from “The March Manifesto” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39 Picture this, you’re walking down the streets of…
An article from “The March Manifesto” by Jake Plugo - 23/3/39
Picture this, you’re walking down the streets of Melbourne, headphones in, phone in hand. Just a normal Saturday, right? You pass by those ‘annoying protestors’ with their childish, soccer parent chants and the constant banging of drums. Suddenly, the chants have turned into piercing screams, and the drums fade into the beating of batons. You don’t even turn your head, rushing to turn up your music to drown out all the commotion. The government violently suppressed yet another protest, and you didn’t even care to look at the lives being taken from innocent, peaceful protesters engaging with their democratic rights. How much longer can we let this happen? Silence is compliance, and right now we must fight back against our oppressors instead of supporting them through inaction.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Choosing Sides
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: An article from “The Guardian” - 23/3/39 Picture this, you’re walking down the streets of Melbourne, headphones…
An article from “The Guardian” - 23/3/39
Picture this, you’re walking down the streets of Melbourne, headphones in, phone in hand. Just a normal Saturday, right? You pass by those ‘annoying protestors’ with their childish, soccer parent chants and the constant banging of drums. Suddenly, the chants have turned into piercing screams, and the drums fade into the beating of batons. You don’t even turn your head, rushing to turn up your music to drown out all the commotion. The government violently suppressed yet another protest, and you didn’t even care to look at the lives being taken from innocent, peaceful protesters engaging with their democratic rights. How much longer can we let this happen? Silence is compliance, and right now we must fight back against our oppressors instead of supporting them through inaction.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Crafting text, Monologue draft on the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: Stand up We were born into hunger, into fear. Into silence. Whilst our supposed ‘leaders’ dined in grand halls,…
Stand up
We were born into hunger, into fear. Into silence.
Whilst our supposed ‘leaders’ dined in grand halls, mouths filled and overflowing with lobsters, wines, gazing upon an array of foreign masterpieces; yet their people, we ‘Campesinos’ strayed along, licking our lips with the hope to soothe the deep cracks and satisfy the constant emptiness lingering within our stomachs.
Hidden behind the towering steel gates of the National Palace, they sit comfortably within the air-conditioned halls of El Salvador; greedy hands rush towards their cutlery, the same thick hands which work to erase the lives of their people; hands and wrists lavished in jewellery yet our hands lay raw.
Worn thin, bony and fragile, my Mother’s hands made to break and tremble, heavy with the weight of our Azadón .
“It’s not fair, why do they get to live so well if we are the same as them?...Don't we deserve some happiness too, I want to be happy”.
As a child, I used to believe happiness was given, that as kids we were born to play and have fun, that our government was a stronghold that worked to help others, to provide for their people, to serve their nation and to be the best example.
I was wrong.
There comes a time when we youth are no longer protected by innocence, a virtue which stands in the way of power, but are instead summoned by the evils of corruption to pay for it.
And that lesson did not come gently.
Ten days.
Ten days of running, of torture; my brothers cries weaving through the pine trees scattered across the fields. His belly swollen, patched clothes tearing with every hour, every beg for food and water met with the same cruel reality; there was none.
Our Tecomate left dry and worn, our stomachs raw and desperate yet there was no other choice but to keep walking.
When the army came, you didn’t pack bags, you ran.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Crafting text, Monologue draft on the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: Stand up We were born into hunger, into fear. Into silence. Whilst our supposed ‘leaders’ dined in grand halls,…
Stand up
We were born into hunger, into fear. Into silence.
Whilst our supposed ‘leaders’ dined in grand halls, mouths filled and overflowing with lobsters, wines; gazing upon an array of foreign masterpieces coming within their view. Yet their people, us ‘Campesinos’ stray along, licking our lips with the hope to renew the deep cracks and satisfy the constant emptiness lingering within our stomachs.
Hidden, behind the towering steel gates of the National Palace, they sit comfortably within the air-conditioned halls of El Salvador; greedy hands rush towards their cutlery, the same thick hands which work to erase the lives of their people; hands and wrists lavished in jewellery yet our hands lay raw.
Worn thin, bony and fragile, my Mother’s hands made to break and tremble, heavy with the weight of our Azadón.
“It’s not fair, why do they get to live so well if we are the same as them?...Don't we deserve some happiness too, I want to be happy”.
As a child, I used to believe happiness was given, that as kids we were born to play and have fun, that our government was a stronghold that worked to help others, to provide for their people, to serve their nation and to be the best example.
I was wrong.
There comes a time when we youth, are no longer protected by innocence, a virtue which stands in the way of power, instead summoned by the evils of corruption to pay for it
And that lesson did not come gently.
Ten days.
Ten days of running, of torture; my brothers cries weaving through the pine trees scattered across the fields. His belly swollen, patched clothes tearing with every hour, every beg for food and water met with the same cruel reality; there was none.
Our Tecomate left dry and worn, our stomachs raw and desperate yet there was no other choice but to keep walking.
When the army came, you didn’t pack bags, you ran.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Crafting text, Monologue draft on the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: Stand up We were born into hunger, into fear. Into silence. Whilst our supposed ‘leaders’ dined in grand…
Stand up
We were born into hunger, into fear. Into silence.
Whilst our supposed ‘leaders’ dined in grand halls, mouths filled and overflowing with lobsters, wines and array of foreign masterpieces come into their view, their people, us ‘Campesinos’ stray along, licking our lips with the hope to renew the deep cracks and satisfy the constant emptiness lingering within our stomachs.
Hidden, behind the towering steel gates of the National Palace, they sit comfortably within the air-conditioned halls of El Salvador, greedy hands rush towards their cutlery, the same thick hands which work to erase the lives of their people; hands and wrists lavished in jewellery yet our hands lay raw.
Bony and fragile, my mothers hands made to break and tremble, heavy with the weight of our Azadón.
“It’s not fair, why do they get to live so well if we are the same as them?...Don't we deserve some happiness too, I want to be happy”.
As a child, I used to believe happiness was given, that as kids we were born to play and have fun, that our government was a stronghold that worked to help others, to provide for their people, to serve their nation and to be the best example.
I was wrong.
Because there comes a time when we youth, are no longer protected innocence, that which stands in the way of power, are summoned by the evils of corruption to pay for it
And that lesson did not come gently.
Ten days.
Ten days of running, of torture; my brothers cries weaving through the pine trees scattered across the fields. His belly swollen, patched clothes tearing with every hour, every beg for food and water met with the same cruel reality; there was none.
Our Tecomate left dry and worn, our stomachs raw and desperate yet there was no other choice but to keep walking. When the army came, you didn’t pack bags, you ran.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: A written piece exploring the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: Title: The Scent of Cardamom I’ve never liked the smell of cardamom. It reminds me of my grandmother’s…
Title: The Scent of Cardamom
I’ve never liked the smell of cardamom.
It reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen in Kochi—the way it clung to her saree, the way it seeped into the wooden cabinets, the way it marked time in our family like a stubborn, fragrant ghost. For years, I ran from it. I packed my bags for Melbourne and left that scent behind like a forgotten prayer.
But then I met you.
And you smelled like rain.
*
The first time I saw you, you were standing under the awning outside the State Library, trying to shield yourself from a downpour you hadn’t anticipated. I was holding a takeaway cup of chai, the cardamom brewing inside it like a memory I couldn’t shake. You looked at me, then at the cup, and smiled.
“Smells like home,” you said.
You were from Brisbane. You’d never even been to India.
*
Amma used to say that love is not something you find, but something that finds you—like a monsoon after a long drought.
I didn’t believe her until you.
You, who asked me to teach you Malayalam words over bad coffee.
You, who listened to stories about Onam festivals and snake boat races as if they were fairy tales.
You, who held my hand the first time I made appam from memory and burned half of them.
“It still tastes like home,” you said, chewing carefully.
And for the first time, home didn’t feel like something I’d left behind.
*
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: A written piece exploring the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: Title: The Story-Keeper Vignette 1: The First Draft Kalamata, 2005 We landed on stories before we landed on…
Title: The Story-Keeper
Vignette 1: The First Draft
Kalamata, 2005
We landed on stories before we landed on soil. My grandfather, Yia-yia’s voice, a low hum from the passenger seat as we drove from the airport: “This hill, your great-uncle fought here… This olive grove, the Germans burned it… This village square, we danced here, even with empty stomachs.” Greece was not a country to me then, but a palimpsest—a text written over and over with triumph and ash. He pointed to a crumbling stone house. “My first home.” I saw only ruin. He saw a cradle. I wrote it all down in a blue notebook, my ten-year-old hand cramping. I was the family scribe, the keeper of the single, heroic story he offered: We are survivors. We are resilient. We are Greek. I didn’t ask what was erased to make that story fit.
Vignette 2: The Redacted Pages
Melbourne, 2012
The notebook gathered dust. At school, I was an Australian with a funny name, Sophia Stavrou. “Stavrou… like stavros, cross?” Mr. Davies asked in History, his smile a beacon of inclusion. I nodded, burning with a pride that felt borrowed. In the library, I searched for myself. I found ancient Greeks: philosophers and warriors. I found migrants: struggling, noble, assimilating. A neat, sorrowful arc. But the messy, in-between years—the Civil War, the political exiles, the silence that stretched from my grandparents’ mouths like a grey road—were absent. They were the redacted pages of our epic. At home, Yia-yia would sometimes start a sentence, “During the emfylios…” then wave her hand, as if swatting a fly. “*Telos*,” she’d say. End. The story I was keeping had borders, and they were guarded by pain.
Vignette 3: The Marginalia
Melbourne, 2019
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: A written piece exploring the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Title: The Unstitched Seams Vignette 1: The Wool My grandmother’s hands were a map of crossed rivers and…
Title: The Unstitched Seams
Vignette 1: The Wool
My grandmother’s hands were a map of crossed rivers and pulled threads. Every Sunday, they would dance—a steady, silent choreography of steel knitting needles. Click-clack. Click-clack. The sound was the metronome of my childhood, a rhythm that measured out afternoons in the suburban stillness of Glen Waverley. The wool she used was always the same: a practical, muted beige, bought on sale from Spotlight. “Warm,” she’d say, her English a careful, hesitant construction. “No fuss.” She knitted scarves for Melbourne’s winters, beanies for my cousins, but never, I noticed, anything for herself. The garments were functional, love rendered in plain stitch. I saw only the monotony, the beige blur against the floral couch. I did not see the thread as a lifeline, spun from the raw fleece of a homeland she never mentioned—a place called Punjab, which existed only in the faded colours of a single photo album, tucked under her bed.
Vignette 2: The Pattern
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: creative piece protest (framework…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: I was born in the shadow of the Wall, in a town called Hearthstone, a place arranged so neatly it felt curated…
I was born in the shadow of the Wall, in a town called Hearthstone, a place arranged so neatly it felt curated rather than lived in. Every house is identical. Every shop window filled with the same polished goods. Every citizen repeating the same approved phrases about safety and gratitude. We didn’t just follow rules; we consumed them, displayed them, worshipped them.
The elders said the Wall kept us safe.
The teachers said it kept us orderly.
My parents said it kept us alive.
But even as a child, I sensed the contradiction. If we were so protected, why did everyone walk as if the ground might collapse beneath them? If we were so free, why did every choice feel pre-selected, like items in a catalogue? If life had meaning, why did it feel like we were performing someone else’s script?
Every morning, the Wall greeted us with its cold silence. It swallowed the wind. It muted the sun. It taught us to bow our heads, as if the sky were something we hadn’t earned. People learned to love it or at least to fear the consequences of not loving it.
And there were consequences.
When I was twelve, I asked my teacher what lay beyond the Wall. She froze. The class froze. By the end of the day, my parents received a “Civic Compliance Notice” warning them that curiosity was a “destabilising impulse.” That night, my father whispered, “Don’t ask questions like that again. They’re watching.” His voice trembled in a way that told me he wasn’t warning me he was begging me.
That was the first time I understood:
The Wall didn’t just surround us.
It defined us.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Writing a creative test based on…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: Together we rise In the midst of running trams and Australians hurrying to work, a woman steps onto a podium…
Together we rise
In the midst of running trams and Australians hurrying to work, a woman steps onto a podium in the heart of Melbourne. Palestinian flags ripple above the crowd, their red, green, black, and white cutting through the grey of the city. Some are draped over shoulders, others clenched tightly in raised hands. She pauses—steady, composed— her keffiyeh resting against her collarbones; her fingers brush its edge, as if grounding herself. Then she lifts her gaze to the crowd and begins.
On the streets of this city today, I am standing here because distance has placed me in safety, but it has not absolved me of responsibility. Thank you - because your presence here gives me the courage to carry the voices of those who cannot stand here themselves today. And I know many of you feel that same pull — that ache of being far, yet unable to look away. That feeling is not passive; it asks something of us.
And maybe that’s why I need to share something with you - something personal. You know the feeling when you receive calls from family back home - excitement and longing. But for me - it’s quite the opposite. The call usually rings late, when the house is quiet and the world here feels distant. I always hesitate before answering, as if the silence itself is a warning. When my family speaks, they speak carefully, as though the air around them is listening. “I’m still alive,” is always the first thing they say. Maybe as a reassurance, or maybe as a reminder that they’re still fighting this battle. Then they begin to describe what the night has taken: a street I once knew by heart has vanished; a neighbour wasn’t able to return home that night; children and elders have stopped their daily laughter and conversations, now hiding deep inside their homes. Our neighbourhood, once filled with laughter and peace, has become a street of despair and terror. They tell me the sky no longer means rain or sun, only whether to run or to wait. They speak through exhaustion and grief, through voices worn thin by nights that offer no safety. Walls collapse into dust; streets forget the sound of ordinary footsteps, replaced by the traces of survival. Time there does not move forward - it waits, forcing the innocent to live inside the echo of what has already been taken.
And I listen to these stories from here—restless, desperate. And now, all of you have listened too — not as spectators, but as witnesses.
The woman pauses. Then continues.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Do I Dare Disturb the universe
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Muted, suffocating stillness filled the air. I looked up at the dirt brown sky, my head the only one still…
Muted, suffocating stillness filled the air. I looked up at the dirt brown sky, my head the only one still moving. A hard cylinder pressed on my back.Do i
“Stay still.”
I didn’t mean to move, but when I did, when my spine straightened, the universe shifted, just slightly, as though it had been waiting for me to breathe. My eyes flew back down to my knees. Around me stunk of unwashed bodies and dirty rags. The quiet rhythm of obedience hummed as I swore I could hear the weight of everyone’s silence pressing against me, a silence that said, “This is safer.”
On the platform ahead, the Commander spoke in the same hollow voice we had all learned to imitate. His words slid through the soil like air like oil - smooth, heavy and without substance.
“Order. Unity. Sacrifice.”
The crowd murmured back the same three words, our voices bleeding into one another until they were indistinguishable. A shiver raced up my spine, as I reminisced of how the world felt smaller when we spoke like that. As though the air shrank to fit the sound.
A scrap of blue lodged in the corner of my eye. A flicker of motion. A bird, impossibly alive, weaving through the smog, darting across the square before vanishing into the clouds.
No one else looked up. For a moment, my chest ached with something nameless, for I couldn’t recall the last time I had seen something of such colour. A blue that didn’t belong to government banners, but the kind that belonged to the now muddied sky. My urge to see it again rose.
The soldier behind me shifted, the barrel nudging harder between my scapula.
“Do not move.”
My gaze lowered itself again. I told myself that it was all just my imagination, that the colour, the sudden spring of life, it was all fake. Yet, the thought still stayed, sharp and insistent. What if I hadn’t imagined it?
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Stimulus 1 ‘Our lives begin to end the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: Life for people like me has been filled with jeers to "dig a hole" back to where I came from, accusations of…
Life for people like me has been filled with jeers to "dig a hole" back to where I came from, accusations of being an inside spy, and having people mimic the shape of my eyes when see me. Only now, however, have I realised that perhaps this prejudice doesn’t stem solely from the perpetrators.
At a soccer training session on a random Wednesday afternoon, a few fellow teammates compared me to a true legend of the sport. You would normally think this was a compliment. This man scored hundreds of goals, won several accolades, and was even regarded as one of the greatest to ever play. Certainly the greatest Asian to play. Then it dawned on me that I wasn't being compared to him for his skill, no — I was being compared to his looks. We shared the same foreign accent and the same width of eyes, and apparently it was enough to turn the soccer pitch into a comedy festival.
I stood laughing nervously with the crowd, even my fellow Asian teammates laughed. None of us wanted to ruin the vibe. Well, not me anyway, even if it was at my expense – I mean, everyone's having a laugh; what else could I do? Even if I found it offensive, the trouble of being seen as sensitive would only isolate me further from the crowd. It was a greater problem I was too scared to fight against.
This same silence carried on when I found myself sitting restlessly in the assembly hall while the same middle-aged men took to the lectern. Of all the topics, the principal chose to celebrate International Women’s Day, an event recognising the progression of feminism. Yet, on the packed tram ride home, I watched a group of boys jeer at female students. I could see the visible anxiety and nervousness in the girls’ eyes, pleading for help yet met with complete silence. It was certainly a stark contrast to the uproar of applause after the speech. So much for celebration.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Stimulus 1 ‘Our lives begin to end the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: Life for people like me has been filled with jeers to "dig a hole" back to where I came from, accusations of…
Life for people like me has been filled with jeers to "dig a hole" back to where I came from, accusations of being an inside spy, and having people make lines with their eyes when they see me. Only now, however, have I realised that perhaps this prejudice doesn’t stem solely from the perpetrators.
At a soccer training session on a random Wednesday afternoon, a few fellow teammates compared me to a true legend of the sport. You would normally think this was a compliment. This man scored hundreds of goals, won several accolades, and was even regarded as one of the greatest to ever play. Certainly the greatest Asian to play. Then it dawned on me that I wasn't being compared to him for his skill, no — I was being compared to his looks. We shared the same foreign accent and the same width of eyes, and apparently it was enough to turn the soccer pitch into a comedy festival.
I stood laughing nervously with the crowd, even my fellow Asian teammates laughed. None of us wanted to ruin the vibe. Well, not me anyway, even if it was at my expense – I mean, everyone's having a laugh; what else could I do? Even if I found it offensive, the trouble of being seen as sensitive would only isolate me further from the crowd. It was a greater problem I was too scared to fight against.
This same silence carried on when I found myself sitting restlessly in the assembly hall while the same middle-aged men took to the lectern. Of all the topics, the principal chose to celebrate International Women’s Day, an event recognising the progression of feminism. Yet, on the packed tram ride home, I watched a group of boys jeer at female students. I could see the visible anxiety and nervousness in the girls’ eyes, pleading for help yet met with complete silence. It was certainly a stark contrast to the uproar of applause after the speech. So much for celebration.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Together we rise Stimulus 3
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Good afternoon everyone, For far too long, the backbone of our nation, our Pakistani wheat farmers, have been…
Good afternoon everyone,
For far too long, the backbone of our nation, our Pakistani wheat farmers, have been forced to bear the burden of policies that push them to the brink. I do not seek pity because that will get me nowhere; however, I am here to advocate for the voiceless, because I know that my one individual voice will be silenced by government bodies, and so I hope to unify us around their cause. To remind us that not only are they farmers, but the sole providers of food on everyone’s plates. For only when we stand together with a voice so loud it reverberates across the plains to the governing bodies will we be able to challenge the unfair imports and coercive prices that crush the very people who feed our nation.
A profound sense of shame should accompany our collective inaction. It is indeed shameful to passively observe our farmers, who tirelessly toil to produce our sustenance – yet struggle to secure their own livelihoods.
It’s cruel irony that a country so deeply reliant on agriculture is marginalising the producers and impoverishing them.
Such is the gravity of this situation that emotion can easily surface. However, the path to change requires a clear understanding of the facts.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: creative play essay
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: I opened the car boot to take out my duffel and hoist it onto my back. It felt unusually heavy, a possible…
I opened the car boot to take out my duffel and hoist it onto my back. It felt unusually heavy, a possible manifestation of the mental burden of performing an enthusiasm I simply didn't possess. My upper body slumped as I slowly walked towards the multitude of joyous staff and the bus displaying an aggressively cheerful welcome banner. Its bright primary colours promised unforgettable memories, though I suspected they'd involve forced awkwardness. I checked in, and while doing so, Liam, my partner, and I exchanged multiple glances and half-smiles, waiting for our buddy to arrive. This setup didn’t feel like play; it felt like a duty, cloaked in brightly coloured name tags and forced cheer. A distant echo of a whistle, sharp and demanding, grated on my nerves – a jarring precursor to the inevitable barrage of planned ‘fun’ awaiting us.
As we boarded the bus, a whirlwind of motion swept past the check-in desk. One by one, spots along the bus filled up, with buddies from other schools taking their seats next to ours. The anticipation of waiting for our buddy overtook me. I imagined all the different people and personalities that could sit next to me, hoping for one that wasn’t too loud and didn’t want to dominate during activities. Just my luck, I heard someone screaming my name. His name was Finn; he walked down the crowded aisle, navigating it with an ease that suggested he’d known everyone for years. He towered over my chair, standing with his chest pointed towards the sky. His overall upright, confident posture preceded a deep breath as he prepared to ask a simple question. “Are you my buddies, Liam and Leo?”
I could feel everyone’s daunting expressions as they stared down our throats, awaiting my answer. “Yes,” Liam said confidently. I, meanwhile, sat looking down at my shoes in embarrassment. “Yes,” I echoed quietly, pulling him down to the seat beside me. He dragged a presence along with him, one that felt like a leader commanding attention from others – a presence which Liam and I did not need.