VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: #7 — "The Help functions as 'feel-good…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: Systemic racism endures not only through overt hostility but through the stories a culture tells itself about…
Systemic racism endures not only through overt hostility but through the stories a culture tells itself about its own moral progress. Tate Taylor's The Help (2011), set in 1960s Jackson, Mississippi, presents racial injustice as a problem solved by individual courage and personal goodwill, framing white guilt as the catalyst for Black liberation. It is a contention more comforting than it is true. While the film gestures toward the lived terror of Jim Crow through its Black maids' testimonies, it consistently positions white discomfort and white redemption at the centre of its moral universe, rendering them as supporting players in their own story. Furthermore, its tonal reliance on humour and warmth around moments of serious racial violence defuses the very outrage it briefly provokes, producing satisfaction rather than reckoning. Yet to dismiss The Help entirely is to ignore the moments where performance and honesty crack its comfortable surface and expose something more truthful underneath. Ultimately, The Help earns its "feel-good" label far more than it earns the moral authority it reaches for, because it privileges the emotional comfort of its assumed white audience over the complexity and danger of the Black women's experience it claims to centre.
When a narrative of oppression is told primarily through the perspective of the privileged, the oppressed are inevitably reduced to instruments of another's growth. The Help constructs its moral architecture almost entirely around Skeeter Phelan, a young white woman whose ambition to become a writer provides both the film's inciting action and its resolution: the published book is her achievement, her manuscript, her escape route to New York. Skeeter's growth from naive Southern belle to crusading journalist is tracked with the full apparatus of classical character development, including close-ups of her doubt, wide shots of her courage, and a swelling score at her vindication. Aibileen Clark, by contrast, is introduced cleaning a toilet, her face unseen for the first several seconds of her appearance, her interior life accessible only through voiceover, a formal choice that grants the appearance of interiority while confining her voice to narration rather than action. When Aibileen tells Mae Mobley "you is kind, you is smart, you is important," the film frames this as a gift to a white child rather than as evidence of Aibileen's own thwarted intelligence and dignity, moving the audience toward tenderness rather than outrage at the system that makes the scene necessary. Minny Jackson is similarly subordinated, her narrative function reduced to comic relief and the delivery of the "Terrible Awful," a revenge fantasy that generates laughter rather than gravity. Taylor's framing of Minny's confrontations with Hilly pitches toward audience satisfaction rather than toward the structural reality that Hilly's cruelty was not exceptional but entirely normal, legally protected, and socially celebrated. The film, in centring Skeeter's gaze, tells us that racism is something a sufficiently enlightened white person can fix, which is precisely the kind of story that soothes rather than challenges.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: #7 — "The Help functions as 'feel-good…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: PROMPT: #7 — "The Help functions as 'feel-good racism' — a narrative that soothes rather than challenges its…
PROMPT: #7 — "The Help functions as 'feel-good racism' — a narrative that soothes rather than challenges its audience. Discuss."
INTRODUCTION
Systemic racism endures not only through overt hostility but through the stories a culture tells itself about its own moral progress. Tate Taylor's The Help (2011), set in 1960s Jackson, Mississippi, presents racial injustice as a problem solved by individual courage and personal goodwill, framing white guilt as the catalyst for Black liberation. It is a contention more comforting than it is true. While the film gestures toward the lived terror of Jim Crow through its Black maids' testimonies, it consistently positions white discomfort and white redemption at the centre of its moral universe, rendering them as supporting players in their own story. Furthermore, the film's tonal reliance on humour and warmth around moments of serious racial violence works to defuse the very outrage it briefly provokes, producing an emotional experience of satisfaction rather than reckoning. Yet to dismiss The Help entirely is to ignore the moments where performance and honesty crack the film's comfortable surface and expose something more truthful underneath. Ultimately, The Help is a film that earns its "feel-good" label far more than it earns the moral authority it reaches for, because it privileges the emotional comfort of its assumed white audience over the complexity and danger of the Black women's experience it claims to centre.
BODY PARAGRAPH 1
When a narrative of oppression is told primarily through the perspective of the privileged, the oppressed are inevitably reduced to instruments of another's growth. The Help constructs its moral architecture almost entirely around Skeeter Phelan, a young white woman whose ambition to become a writer provides both the film's inciting action and its resolution: the published book is her achievement, her manuscript, her escape route to New York. Skeeter's growth from naive Southern belle to crusading journalist is tracked with the full apparatus of classical character development, including close-ups of her doubt, wide shots of her courage, and a swelling score at her vindication. Aibileen Clark, by contrast, is introduced cleaning a toilet, her face unseen for the first several seconds of her appearance. Her interior life is accessed almost entirely in voiceover, a formal choice that grants her the appearance of interiority while confining her voice to narration rather than action. When Aibileen tells Mae Mobley "you is kind, you is smart, you is important," the film frames this as a gift to a white child, not as evidence of Aibileen's own thwarted intelligence and dignity. The scene is genuinely moving, but it moves us toward tenderness for the relationship rather than outrage at the system that makes such a scene necessary. Minny Jackson is similarly subordinated: her central narrative function is comic relief and the delivery of the "Terrible Awful," a revenge fantasy that generates laughter rather than gravity. Taylor's framing of Minny's confrontations with Hilly consistently pitches toward audience satisfaction, the bad woman humiliated, the good woman vindicated, rather than toward the structural reality that Hilly's cruelty was not exceptional but entirely normal, legally protected, and socially celebrated. The film, in centring Skeeter's gaze, tells us that racism is something a sufficiently enlightened white person can fix, which is precisely the kind of story that soothes rather than challenges.
BODY PARAGRAPH 2
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: #7 — "The Help functions as 'feel-good…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: PROMPT: #7 — "The Help functions as 'feel-good racism' — a narrative that soothes rather than challenges its…
PROMPT: #7 — "The Help functions as 'feel-good racism' — a narrative that soothes rather than challenges its audience. Discuss."
INTRODUCTION
Systemic racism endures not only through overt hostility but through the stories a culture tells itself about its own moral progress. Tate Taylor's The Help (2011), set in 1960s Jackson, Mississippi, presents racial injustice as a problem solved by individual courage and personal goodwill, framing white guilt as the catalyst for Black liberation. It is a contention more comforting than it is true. While the film gestures toward the lived terror of Jim Crow through its Black maids' testimonies, it consistently positions white discomfort and white redemption at the centre of its moral universe, rendering them as supporting players in their own story. Furthermore, the film's tonal reliance on humour and warmth around moments of serious racial violence works to defuse the very outrage it briefly provokes, producing an emotional experience of satisfaction rather than reckoning. Yet to dismiss The Help entirely is to ignore the moments where performance and honesty crack the film's comfortable surface and expose something more truthful underneath. Ultimately, The Help is a film that earns its "feel-good" label far more than it earns the moral authority it reaches for, because it privileges the emotional comfort of its assumed white audience over the complexity and danger of the Black women's experience it claims to centre.
BODY PARAGRAPH 1
When a narrative of oppression is told primarily through the perspective of the privileged, the oppressed are inevitably reduced to instruments of another's growth. The Help constructs its moral architecture almost entirely around Skeeter Phelan, a young white woman whose ambition to become a writer provides both the film's inciting action and its resolution: the published book is her achievement, her manuscript, her escape route to New York. Skeeter's growth from naive Southern belle to crusading journalist is tracked with the full apparatus of classical character development, including close-ups of her doubt, wide shots of her courage, and a swelling score at her vindication. Aibileen Clark, by contrast, is introduced cleaning a toilet, her face unseen for the first several seconds of her appearance. Her interior life is accessed almost entirely in voiceover, a formal choice that grants her the appearance of interiority while confining her voice to narration rather than action. When Aibileen tells Mae Mobley "you is kind, you is smart, you is important," the film frames this as a gift to a white child, not as evidence of Aibileen's own thwarted intelligence and dignity. The scene is genuinely moving, but it moves us toward tenderness for the relationship rather than outrage at the system that makes such a scene necessary. Minny Jackson is similarly subordinated: her central narrative function is comic relief and the delivery of the "Terrible Awful," a revenge fantasy that generates laughter rather than gravity. Taylor's framing of Minny's confrontations with Hilly consistently pitches toward audience satisfaction, the bad woman humiliated, the good woman vindicated, rather than toward the structural reality that Hilly's cruelty was not exceptional but entirely normal, legally protected, and socially celebrated. The film, in centring Skeeter's gaze, tells us that racism is something a sufficiently enlightened white person can fix, which is precisely the kind of story that soothes rather than challenges.
BODY PARAGRAPH 2
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: #7 — "The Help functions as 'feel-good…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: PROMPT: #7 — "The Help functions as 'feel-good racism' — a narrative that soothes rather than challenges its…
PROMPT: #7 — "The Help functions as 'feel-good racism' — a narrative that soothes rather than challenges its audience. Discuss."
INTRODUCTION
Systemic racism endures not only through overt hostility but through the stories a culture tells itself about its own moral progress. Tate Taylor's The Help (2011), set in 1960s Jackson, Mississippi, presents racial injustice as a problem solved by individual courage and personal goodwill, framing white guilt as the catalyst for Black liberation. It is a contention more comforting than it is true. While the film gestures toward the lived terror of Jim Crow through its Black maids' testimonies, it consistently positions white discomfort and white redemption at the centre of its moral universe, rendering them as supporting players in their own story. Furthermore, the film's tonal reliance on humour and warmth around moments of serious racial violence works to defuse the very outrage it briefly provokes, producing an emotional experience of satisfaction rather than reckoning. Yet to dismiss The Help entirely is to ignore the moments where performance and honesty crack the film's comfortable surface and expose something more truthful underneath. Ultimately, The Help is a film that earns its "feel-good" label far more than it earns the moral authority it reaches for, because it privileges the emotional comfort of its assumed white audience over the complexity and danger of the Black women's experience it claims to centre.
BODY PARAGRAPH 1
When a narrative of oppression is told primarily through the perspective of the privileged, the oppressed are inevitably reduced to instruments of another's growth. The Help constructs its moral architecture almost entirely around a young white woman whose ambition to become a writer provides both the film's inciting action and its resolution: the published book is her achievement, her manuscript, her escape route to New York. Her growth from naive Southern belle to crusading journalist is tracked with the full apparatus of classical character development, including close-ups of her doubt, wide shots of her courage, and a swelling score at her vindication. The film's central Black narrator, by contrast, is introduced cleaning a toilet. Her interior life is accessed almost entirely in voiceover, a formal choice that grants her the appearance of interiority while confining her voice to narration rather than action. When she tells the child in her care "you is kind, you is smart, you is important," the film frames this as a gift to a white child, not as evidence of her own thwarted intelligence and dignity. The scene is genuinely moving, but it moves us toward tenderness for the relationship rather than outrage at the system that makes such a scene necessary. The film's secondary Black protagonist is similarly subordinated: her central narrative function is comic relief and the delivery of a revenge fantasy that generates laughter rather than gravity. Taylor's framing of her confrontations with the film's villain consistently pitches toward audience satisfaction, the bad woman humiliated, the good woman vindicated, rather than toward the structural reality that such cruelty was not exceptional but entirely normal, legally protected, and socially celebrated. The film, in centring a white gaze, tells us that racism is something a sufficiently enlightened white person can fix, which is precisely the kind of story that soothes rather than challenges.
BODY PARAGRAPH 2
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: #7 — "The Help functions as 'feel-good…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: INTRODUCTION Systemic racism endures not only through overt hostility but through the stories a culture tells…
INTRODUCTION
Systemic racism endures not only through overt hostility but through the stories a culture tells itself about its own moral progress. Tate Taylor's The Help (2011), set in 1960s Jackson, Mississippi, presents racial injustice as a problem solved by individual courage and personal goodwill, ultimately framing white guilt as the catalyst for Black liberation, which is a contention that is more comforting than it is true. While the film gestures toward the lived terror of Jim Crow through its Black maids' testimonies, it consistently positions white discomfort and white redemption at the centre of its moral universe, rendering Aibileen and Minny as supporting players in their own story. Furthermore, the film's tonal reliance on humour and warmth around moments of serious racial violence works to defuse the very outrage it briefly provokes, producing an emotional experience of satisfaction rather than reckoning. Yet to dismiss The Help entirely is to ignore the genuine weight Viola Davis brings to Aibileen's interior life, in moments that crack the film's comfortable surface and expose something more honest underneath. Ultimately, The Help is a film that earns its "feel-good" label far more than it earns the moral authority it reaches for, because it privileges the emotional comfort of its assumed white audience over the complexity and danger of the Black women's experience it claims to centre.
BODY PARAGRAPH 1
When a narrative of oppression is told primarily through the perspective of the privileged, the oppressed are inevitably reduced to instruments of another's growth. The Help constructs its moral architecture almost entirely around Skeeter Phelan, a young white woman whose ambition to become a writer provides both the film's inciting action and its resolution: the published book is her achievement, her manuscript, her escape route to New York. Skeeter's growth from naive Southern belle to crusading journalist is tracked with the full apparatus of classical character development, including close-ups of her doubt, wide shots of her courage, and a swelling score at her vindication. Aibileen, by contrast, is introduced cleaning a toilet. Her interior life is accessed almost entirely in voiceover, a formal choice that grants her the appearance of interiority while confining her voice to narration rather than action. When she tells Mae Mobley "you is kind, you is smart, you is important," the film frames this as Aibileen's gift to a white child, not as evidence of Aibileen's own thwarted intelligence and dignity. The scene is genuinely moving, but it moves us toward tenderness for the relationship rather than outrage at the system that makes such a scene necessary.
Minny's arc is similarly subordinated: her central narrative function is comic relief and the delivery of the "Terrible Awful," a revenge fantasy that generates laughter rather than gravity. Taylor's framing of her confrontations with Hilly consistently pitches toward audience satisfaction, the bad woman humiliated, the good woman vindicated, rather than toward the structural reality that Hilly's cruelty was not exceptional but entirely normal, legally protected, and socially celebrated. The film, in centering Skeeter's gaze, tells us that racism is something a sufficiently enlightened white person can fix, which is precisely the kind of story that soothes rather than challenges.
BODY PARAGRAPH 2
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framwork of Ideas - Childhood
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Before I Knew Better For the first twelve years of my life, I lived in a kingdom where Appa was the chief…
Before I Knew Better
For the first twelve years of my life, I lived in a kingdom where Appa was the chief knight, the architect, the ruler and everything in between.
He was the joy of my house. He was a person of great jokes… or at least, that’s what he would say. To me, he was the man from the comic books. A superhero some would say. My superhero. The person who could fix anything with a roll of duct tape and a smile stretching across his face. He was immune to the gravity of sadness.
I lived in that ‘kingdom’ he built for me. I always knew that nothing could go wrong because he was at the gates. But that was before I knew better…
The shift didn’t happen gradually. It happened in the time it took to open a living room door.
When Paati, my grandmother passed, the light in our house didn’t just dim. It went out… fully. I saw a side of Appa that I never knew existed. The person who once filled the room with lame dad jokes and his captivating laughter, now filled it with such overwhelming silence that I could feel it in my chest.
VCE · Text Response
Text Response: “To what extent does Robert Frost explore…
VCE Text Response essay scoring 77.5%: Isolation is the actual or perceived state of separation from others — a complex phenomenon that extends far…
Isolation is the actual or perceived state of separation from others — a complex phenomenon that extends far beyond simple physical distance. The well-known twentieth-century American poet Robert Frost examines, across a body of work, how individuals react to being alone. In doing so, Frost reveals that isolation is not a uniform experience; rather, it manifests in emotional, physical, and psychological dimensions. Through "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," "Desert Places," "The Road Not Taken," and "Mending Wall," Frost persistently demonstrates that isolation is an inevitable and multifaceted feature of the human condition — one that can simultaneously offer stillness and inflict suffering, shaped as much by the choices people make as by the world they inhabit.
In "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," Robert Frost portrays isolation as a calm and introspective experience, suggesting that withdrawal from society can offer a rare space for reflection. The speaker pauses to watch as "the woods fill up with snow," drawing attention to the silence created within the snowy landscape. This silence is not merely descriptive; it functions as a symbolic clearing — a momentary reprieve from the demands of ordinary life. The stillness emphasises both calmness and a sense of solitude that the speaker appears to welcome rather than fear. However, Frost complicates this tranquillity by revealing that the speaker has "promises to keep," exposing the tensions of his "urban" life and the responsibilities that weigh upon him even in this secluded moment. The speaker's lingering awe — reflected in the observation that "the woods are lovely, dark and deep" — creates a comforting yet subtly melancholic atmosphere: the darkness and depth of the woods are seductive precisely because they represent an escape the speaker cannot fully take. Ultimately, the closing lines — "miles to go before I sleep" — affirm that even as isolation provides serenity and an opportunity for self-reflection, human beings remain tethered to their obligations. Frost thus implies that the appeal of isolation is inseparable from its impossibility: the deeper the longing for escape, the more powerfully society's claims reassert themselves.
VCE · Language Analysis
Language Analysis: analysis on Jordan Chens's comment on…
VCE Language Analysis essay scoring 70%: In his online comment on the 19th of July 2023, Jordan Chen adopts a foreboding tone in reply to the ongoing…
In his online comment on the 19th of July 2023, Jordan Chen adopts a foreboding tone in reply to the ongoing use of petrol cars. Contending there is a deleterious impact of gas-powered cars, labelling them to be more of an environmental and financial burden than being beneficial. He strives to position the Australian motorists to view gas cars as counterproductive and transition to Ev cars.
VCE · Text Response
Text Response: Christopher Nolan’s film, ‘The Dark…
VCE Text Response essay scoring 85%: In Christopher Nolan’s film, ‘The Dark Knight’, he often suggests that the line between good and evil is often…
In Christopher Nolan’s film, ‘The Dark Knight’, he often suggests that the line between good and evil is often blurry. He discusses how the way Gotham is portrayed depicts a world where both good and evil are present. Furthermore, he demonstrates how the challenge characters face lead them to become ‘evil’. Ultimately, Nolan depicts how characters actions in ‘The Dark Knight’ lead them to bluring the line between good and evil.
Nolan initially depicts Gotham as a cruel and evil place. He does this through opening the film with the bank heist scene. The bank heist scene portrays how Gotham is an inherently evil place. Furthermore, it reveals to the audience how there is ‘no honour in criminals’. This tells us that in Gotham, some may view criminals as good; with the emergence of the Joker, criminals start to blur the line between what is good and what is evil. The portrayal of vigilantism in Gotham is another technique employed by Nolan. Nolan uses the Batman in ‘hockey pads’ as a way to showcase the negatives and positives of Vigilantism in society. Although what they were doing might be seen as helping the broader society, is hunting people down with a gun good or evil? It attempts to demonstrate to us how vigilantism blurs the line between good and evil. Vigilantes, like Batman, are considered heroes to society by some characters, like Harvey Dent; however, others, Bruce’s russian girlfriend, see them as evil and actively harming the broader society. This demonstrates to us how the vigilantism in Gotham can often blur the line between good and evil. Nolan’s use of film techniques further enhances this. During the interrogation scene, Nolan constantly shifts the power dynamic between the 2 characters through the composition of the shot, trying to confuse the audience. It attempts to establish how there is no clear ‘good’ and ‘evil’ in that scene. Nolan’s use of film techniques and individual scenes presents to the audience how the world of Gotham does not present a clear picture of what is good and what is evil.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The struggle for self in the shadow of…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: Throughout the entirety of my almost 16 years of life, all I’ve ever cared about is what my father thought of…
Throughout the entirety of my almost 16 years of life, all I’ve ever cared about is what my father thought of me. Every perfect grade and measly plastic award I’d ever received was to impress him. I am a performer who forgot the show had ended, trapped in a costume of success that wasn’t even for the crowd, but the ringmaster himself. I have mistaken his pride for my own purpose. I don’t know why I adore his validation so much. Is it because I am so afraid of his disappointment? Or is it because without my shackles of perfection, I wouldn’t even have a purpose?
Nobody really knows why they’re wired the way they are. I was never enough for him, or for the meticulous things he wanted me to achieve. The silent pressure was so loud. Even though he stopped telling me what he expected, I still remembered it being ingrained in my brain. Perfection. That’s what I needed to be. But how is that even remotely possible? That costume I had been stuck in would get tighter and itchier each time. I always compared my father to the fathers of my friends. The way they’d talk about them, the way they would congratulate them over the smallest victories. Was that even possible for me?
I know he wants the absolute best for me. He fulfils the fatherly role in many ways, but falls short in others. He’s taught me to never be scared to ask for what you want and to always be hard working. He shows affection from time to time, but that love transforms into hateful, heated arguments in the blink of an eye. So it never really feels like it’s there.
Why is he wired the way he is? Maybe he is the performer alongside me trying to impress his own ringmaster? My mother had told me how hard his youth was. He was left by his parents at the age of 13 and had to solely depend on himself while living with his cruel aunt. I know it’s my father’s first time on this earth too. And I know he had it worse when he was little. But I was little too.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The struggle for self in the shadow of…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 92.5%: Throughout the entirety of my almost 16 years of life, all I’ve ever cared about is what my father thought of…
Throughout the entirety of my almost 16 years of life, all I’ve ever cared about is what my father thought of me. Every single perfect grade and measly plastic award I’d ever received was to impress him. I am performer who forgot the show had ended, trapped in a costume of success that wasn’t even for the crowd, but the ringmaster himself. I have mistaken his pride for my own purpose. I don’t know why I adore his validation so much. Is it because I am so afraid of his disappointment? Or is it because without my shackles of perfection, I wouldn’t even have a purpose?
Nobody really knows why they’re wired the way they are. I was never enough for him, or for the meticulous things he wanted me to achieve. The silent pressure was so loud. Even though he stopped telling me what he expected, I still remembered it being ingrained in my brain. Perfection. That’s what I needed to be. But how is that even remotely possible? That costume I had been stuck in would get tighter, and itchier each time. I always compared my father to the fathers of my friends. The way they’d talk about them, the way they would congratulate them over the smallest victories. Was that even possible for me?
I know he wants the absolute best for me. He fulfils the fatherly role in many ways, but falls short in others. He’s taught me to never be scared to ask for what you want and to always be hard working. He shows affection from time to time, but that love transforms into hateful, heated arguments in the blink of an eye. So it never really feels like it’s there.
Why is he wired the way he is? Maybe he is the performer alongside me trying to impress his own ringmaster? My mother had told me how hard his youth was. He was left by his parents at the age of 13 and had to solely depend on himself while living with his cruel aunt. I know it’s my father’s first time on this earth too. And I know he had it worse when he was little. But I was little too.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The struggle for self in the shadow of…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Throughout the entirety of my almost 16 years of life, all I’ve ever cared about is what my father thought of…
Throughout the entirety of my almost 16 years of life, all I’ve ever cared about is what my father thought of me. Every single perfect grade and measly plastic award I’d ever received was to impress him. I am performer who forgot the show had ended, trapped in a costume of success that wasn’t even for the crowd, but the ringmaster himself. I have mistaken his pride for my own purpose. I don’t know why I adore his validation so much. Is it because I am so afraid of his disappointment? Or is it because without my shackles of perfection, I wouldn’t even have a purpose?
Nobody really knows why they’re wired the way they are. I was never enough for him, or for the meticulous things he wanted me to achieve. The silent pressure was so loud. Even though he stopped telling me what he expected, I still remembered it being ingrained in my brain. Perfection. That’s what I needed to be. But how is that even remotely possible? That costume I had been stuck in would get tighter, and itchier each time. I always compared my father to the fathers of my friends. The way they’d talk about them, the way they would congratulate them over the smallest victories. Was that even possible for me?
I know he wants the absolute best for me. He’s my father in many ways but some. He’s taught me to never be scared to ask for what you want and to always be hard working. He shows affection from time to time, but that love transforms into hateful, heated arguments in the blink of an eye. So it never really feels like it’s there.
Why is he wired the way he is? Maybe he is the performer alongside me trying to impress his own ringmaster? My mother had told me how hard his youth was. He was left by his parents at the age of 13 and had to solely depend on himself while living with his cruel aunt. I know it’s my father’s first time on this earth too. And I know he had it worse when he was little. But I was little too.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: Silence Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you…
Silence
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
I still miss those times when you picked me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both of us a giggling mess as you cooked. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
That day I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that were embedded in the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything I knew about you later.
Distance
I had the courage to ask you once about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, retreating to your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
The longer you left me, the longer I had to inspect the mere object keeping us separated. The wooden door to your bedroom had the kind of tired dignity that decades of living could give it. Its once‑smooth varnish had dulled to a soft, uneven sheen, worn down by years of hands pushing it open and pulling it shut. The grain ran in long, wavering lines, like the rings of an old tree still trying to remember its shape. Near the handle, the wood was slightly discoloured, a pale oval where your palm had rested countless times, leaving behind the faint polish of touch and habit.
A space between us began to take root, widening each day in ways I couldn’t articulate. We didn’t fight, mum, but eventually, slowly, gently, we drifted. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived in the darkening circles under your eyes, or the slumped shoulders and constant slouching. I was busy with my part-time fast-food job or hanging out with my friends and enjoying being surrounded by people who seemed like they wanted me around.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: Silence Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you…
Silence
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
I still miss those times when you picked me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both of us a giggling mess as you cooked. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
That day I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that were embedded in the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything I knew about you later.
Distance
I had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, retreating to your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
The longer you left me, the longer I had to inspect the mere object keeping us separated. The wooden door to your bedroom had the kind of tired dignity that decades of living could give it. Its once‑smooth varnish had dulled to a soft, uneven sheen, worn down by years of hands pushing it open and pulling it shut. The grain ran in long, wavering lines, like the rings of an old tree still trying to remember its shape. Near the handle, the wood was slightly discoloured, a pale oval where your palm had rested countless times, leaving behind the faint polish of touch and habit.
A space between us began to take root, widening each day in ways I couldn’t articulate. We didn’t fight, mum, but eventually, slowly, gently, we drifted. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived in the darkening circles under your eyes, or the slumped shoulders and constant slouching. I was busy with my part-time fast-food job or hanging out with my friends and enjoying being surrounded by people who seemed like they wanted me around.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: ‘My Truth’
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: February fifth. The day the world changed shape. And I didn’t even know it. You finish school in a daze and…
February fifth. The day the world changed shape. And I didn’t even know it.
You finish school in a daze and head straight to the train station, moving through the blur of grey school blazers and static announcements like a ghost. My mind is stuck in her kitchen. I am not waiting for the train. Instead, I am five again begging to help roll her highly acclaimed ‘choccy balls’, or help tenderise the chicken for her famous lemon scaloppine
Usually, I dread the trip to Melbourne and look for any excuse to avoid the long, exhausting commute. But today was different. Feelings of dread were overcome with urgency. Rather than looking for a way out, I am desperate for the way in. The only thing at the end of the tunnel was her: that scent of clean spring air and Chanel perfume, followed by the intense and rich smell of caramelised onions. I needed to reach her before her smell became eroded by the sterile, white-tiled silence of the hospital.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Protest. Half-blog, half-creative.
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: How to avoid execution? First of all, do not raise both fists to society and bathe in controversy in the midst…
How to avoid execution? First of all, do not raise both fists to society and bathe in controversy in the midst of a national revolution. Or do. Just be prepared to face the fate of Olympe de Gouges.
***
Paris roared for blood, and for the first time it was mine they were after. Cold air bit the skin as the crowd grew unruly, volcanic cries erupting through the town center. They wanted me dead. And their wish would be granted. In a matter of minutes, if I was lucky.
I once wrote that if a woman has the right to ascend to the scaffold, she must also have the right to ascend to the political rostrum. Those words suddenly rang too close to home.
I was a performer, my legs trembling with every small step on the tightrope. Ten metres in the air, this was my parting act. But it didn’t belong to me. My gaze scanned the crowd; their eyes illuminated with desire. They saw straight through me, as if I was merely a beacon of misguided rebellion, wilfully blind to the struggles that brought me down this path.
Abhorrent words they shouted! They punctured my arms like pikes, wounding my frail body. I could’ve given them what they wanted. I could’ve dropped to my knees, my head solemnly glued to the cobblestones. I could’ve wept every tear my forlorn body could muster, professing my wrongdoings. And maybe then, I could’ve lived.
But no. I was not about to become a spectacle in the circus.
***
Hands up if you knew she was a playwright? Unfortunately, Gouges is not a major historical figure for that reason. She is one because ignorant men were not able to accept her condemnation of male-centered political choices. Sound familiar?
This is a theme that has reverberated across centuries of women’s progress and unfortunately is unlikely to fade out.
Enter 1789, and France is seen as revolutionary for creating the Declaration of the Rights of Man. While the male politicians gave themselves a pat on the back, Olympe de Gouges got to work on updating the declaration to cater for women that were mysteriously left out of the seemingly ‘universal rights’ (what a shocker). Two years later, her head was in a basket.
***
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Our Future
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Our Future How many versions of yourself have you been today? There’s the version sitting at assembly right…
Our Future
How many versions of yourself have you been today?
There’s the version sitting at assembly right now. The version you become when a teacher walks past your laptop screen. The version of you in a hallway, suddenly louder around certain people and quieter around others. The version of you that says “I didn’t even study” before a SAC, even after staying up past midnight to cram.
The strangest part is that most of us don’t notice it anymore.
We don’t notice the way our posture changes when someone watches us. Or the way we glance around after making the joke, checking whether the right people reacted. We’ve repeated these behaviours for so long they no longer feel like performances; they feel natural.
But maybe that should concern us the most. Because at what point does a performance stop being an act and start becoming an entirely new person?
As senior students, we spend years constructing versions of ourselves designed for other people’s approval. We build our resumes before our identities. We learn how to sound passionate in interviews before we even know what we genuinely care about. We say “we enjoy the subject” when it’s truly just for a few ATAR points. Even our stress becomes performative. And somewhere along the way, our exhaustion stopped being a warning sign and became evidence we were finally trying hard enough.
We don’t want success anymore. We want to look successful while it’s happening.
Think about the library after school. Rows of students sitting silently beneath sterile lights, Airpods in, highlights and notes scattered across the desk like a meticulously planned scene. Most of the time, nobody is even concentrating. Someone spends ten minutes rewriting a heading and a subtitle. Another refreshes their phone every twenty seconds whilst pretending to annotate a notebook. Yet the moment footsteps approach, backs straighten and eyes narrow as if hard work is defined by our body language alone.
We aren’t studying. We are auditioning.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: the road less travelled the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 92.5%: THE ROAD LESS TRAVELLED "If you live a life wearing rubber gloves, you will believe the world is made of…
THE ROAD LESS TRAVELLED
"If you live a life wearing rubber gloves, you will believe the world is made of plastic."
The alarm calls to me at six. It trembles atop the table beside me as my eyes adjust to the light. Click. It stops. I step out of bed after thirty seconds, counting as my eyes bore into the painting in front of me. I take the corners of my quilt and square them with my sheets. The bed is made. I pour out a glass of coffee, fingers twitching as I bring it to my lips. I see myself across the kitchen in a mirror, hospital gown floating over my shoulders. On a day like this, I’d expect to see something — in the eyes that look back at me in that mirror. But I do not. I stretch my rubber gloves, as I always do, over the tips of my fingers.
The alarm calls to me at six. It wakes me from a dream I cannot quite recall — only the feeling. Like scalding black coffee running down your throat. My hands are moist, as if I’ve been sweating. Click. It stops. The painting in front of me seems to form a face that almost looks disappointed, and in that moment, I remember. The grip of my cold metal instruments, and the life of a man in my hands. The faint, slow repetition of a heart monitor, of a life. Click. It stops.
I make my bed, and I drink my coffee. Across the kitchen, I see it. Beneath that sick hospital gown is a failure. I look into his eyes — the ones I know all too well. I walk across the room in search of my gloves. I reach the box and take out a pair, but as I look at my hands, I do not see skin. They are already on.
The alarm calls to me at six. I do not answer it. I do not sit up. I do not open my eyes. For to acknowledge the alarm is to acknowledge that — yes, I am awake. Today there will be no hospital gown. No rubber gloves. The week has ended, and I must rest. So I let the alarm ring. It shivers, but its sound is almost a sort of comfort. Perhaps if it never stops, I will never have to wake up. So it rings as I make my bed. It rings as I drink my coffee. It rings, even now, as I look across the kitchen at him. I look, as I always do, into his eyes, and I search for something. I search for a feeling I cannot name. The kind of feeling that comes between one heartbeat and the next. Click. I do not find it.
I find myself moving towards that box of rubber gloves. Almost as if they will protect me from the world. From the sick, dropping feeling I cannot stop reliving. But as I look at my hands, I do not see skin. I see the familiar matte of blue that is supposed to tell me I am safe. I am still wearing my gloves.
—
The alarm calls to me at six. I do not hear it. Instead, I am dreaming. This one, I do recall.
Cold metal instruments against my rubber fingers. A person — no, a body beneath me who does not know my name. I hear the slow repetition of his heartbeat, turned machine. Click. It stops.
I wake up to the sound of rapid breathing. It’s a sound I know far too well; it’s the sound patients make when they enter my room. I can feel the moisture of sweat on the back of my pillow, and I can see my arm. It stretches across the table beside my bed and lies on the alarm. I do not know how it got there.
I make my bed and drink my coffee. But across the kitchen, I do not see him. I step closer. As I press my hand on the glass, the man in front of me does not press back. His hand waits by his side, a sickly shade of blue. It is made of rubber.
The alarm calls to me at six. Its ringing bleeds into my dream.
I sit on a chair at a table far too big for one, and I am crying. I am smaller — my feet do not yet touch the floor. In front of me sits the source of my tears. Numbers and words scrambled into something that is supposed to make sense. It is covered by a shadow I know all too well. The air around me is tense with disappointment.
“How can this do? You need to be more. You will never be great.”
My small fingers clasp around a pen that feels all too big for me to hold. I cross out words and numbers soaked with tears. The scratching sound is almost rhythmic — so repetitive it almost feels endless. Click.
The alarm calls to me at six. It trembles atop the table beside me as my eyes adjust to the light.
I step out of bed.
I square quilt and sheet, laying them flat.
I clasp the cold handle of the coffee pot as I pour.
There is no one across the kitchen.
VCE · Text Response
Text Response: ‘Chronicle of a Death Foretold’ explores…
VCE Text Response essay scoring 90%: Shrouded in the ubiquitous guilt of a town clouded by their own moral dereliction, the allegorical novella…
Shrouded in the ubiquitous guilt of a town clouded by their own moral dereliction, the allegorical novella ‘Chronicle of a Death Foretold’ examines psychological decomposition against the backdrop of archaic social systems, forged in the insular confines that kept the community of the novella. Indeed, the text expounds the fragmentation of memory when entwined with an amalgamation of guilt, time and blind complicity. Further building upon this, Marquez scrutinises the instability of truth when overshadowed by ‘honour’ and prioritisation of rigid expectations emanating from the milieu of 1950’s Columbia, and hence the unreliability of morality when met with the reliability of truth. Rudimentarily it is through a cacophony of voices both phallocentric and gynocentric that the trompe l’oeil narrative constructs a web of truth as the pseudo-journalistic narrative underscores that the truth may be malleable to memory.
At its core, the novella interrogates the subjective nature of truth and the fallibility of memory. This is evident as the text takes form in a pseudo-journalistic structure which in itself deconstructs the very notion of objective truth, revealing it as endlessly fractured by the self-serving nature of human memory. This is pertinent even within the inaugural moments of the novella through the discrepancies in the descriptions of weather as “many people coincided in recalling that it was a radiant morning” whilst “most agreed the weather was funereal”. This symbolic juxtaposition acts as microcosm of the fragmented truth of the entire novella; as if the townspeople cannot agree on the weather then how can they be entrusted with the recollection of the day of Santiago’s murder. Ergo, this discrepancy becomes a conduit for pathetic fallacy wherein those who absolve themselves of guilt, and those who accept their culpability reflect the dichotomy of weather. This characterises the entirety of the novella as it epitomises the psychological fragmentation that occurs in response to the trauma of Santiago’s death as the town attempts to come to terms with “its own crime”. As such, the moral abdication which obstructs the recollection of the truth it further synthesised within the text’s oxymoronic name ‘Chronicle of a Death Foretold’ as the novella largely rejects the standard teleological account allowing Santiago’s murder to unravel from a polyphony of voices . The story described to be pieced back together from “so many scattered shards” in tandem with the non-linear plot expounds fallibility of memory through the connotation of ‘shards’ which suggests many of the stories were rough around the edges, largely incoherent and unable to be pieced together like that of a chronicle. Through this, Marquez renders his readership as detectives ultimately attempting to piece the story back together to place blame; however as the town’s memory was like a “broken mirror” they are unable to accept their flawed systems of ‘honour’ and continue to control the narrative in a way which absolves themselves of guilt meaning blame cannot be placed as the collective becomes responsible. Moreover, this acts as an allusion to Maquez’s own cultural experiences through the lens of ‘La Violencia’ – a ten year civil unrest in which neither party was willing to accept blame, through this understanding it is ultimately not the unreliability of the truth that Marquez criticises, but the entrenched systems of honour and androcentric control that lead individuals to believe that they are above the truth.
VCE · Text Response
Text Response: ‘Chronicle of a Death Foretold’ explores…
VCE Text Response essay scoring 87.5%: Shrouded in the ubiquitous guilt of a town clouded by their own moral dereliction, the allegorical novella…
Shrouded in the ubiquitous guilt of a town clouded by their own moral dereliction, the allegorical novella ‘Chronicle of a Death Foretold’ examines psychological decomposition against the backdrop of archaic social systems, forged in the insular confines that kept the community of the novella. Indeed, the text expounds the fragmentation of memory when entwined with an amalgamation of guilt, time and blind complicity. Further building upon this, Marquez scrutinises the instability of truth when overshadowed by ‘honour’ and prioritisation of rigid expectations emanating from the milieu of 1950’s Columbia, and hence the unreliability of morality when met with the reliability of truth. Rudimentarily it is through a cacophony of voices both phallocentric and gynocentric that the trompe l’oeil narrative constructs a web of truth as the pseudo-journalistic narrative underscores that the truth may be malleable to memory.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: yesterday shapes tomorrow
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Yesterday Shapes tomorrow: But what happens when our yesterday is edited? Hey everyone, and welcome back to the…
Yesterday Shapes tomorrow: But what happens when our yesterday is edited?
Hey everyone, and welcome back to the blog. Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about the things we inherit: not just the heirlooms or the DNA, but the stories. Or, more accurately, the gaps where the stories should be. Most of the time my blog has been a collection of exploring Melbourne as a second generation Australia, a curated gallery of the lanes I wander, the brunch spots I love and the slow predictable rhythm of my life in a city I’ve always called home.
However, recently lots of you have been asking questions about my heritage and it’s made me realise how much of our identity as ‘hyphenated Australians’ is built on the loose stories from our over-tired immigrant parents. So I decided to change things up a little today and instead of talking about where I’m going, I’m going to talk about where it all started.
For 19 years I believed my roots were shallow and singularly Indian. I would stare at my uneven eyes in the mirror and the cafe au lait blemish on my left cheek and always wonder what was missing. Until recently, when I realized that the "missing piece" wasn't a physical flaw, but a historical one.
We often hear the cliche that yesterday shapes tomorrow but the truth is when your yesterday is incomplete, your tomorrow feels uncomfortably hollow. This is the story of how I found the buried roots of my life, and why I’m finally letting the "treacherous" yesterday nourish my growth.
Autumn: The Great Falling Away
There is a specific kind of violence in finding a truth you weren’t supposed to learn. It all began on my 19th birthday week which happens to clash with my dad’s 50th birthday. Up I was in the attic, sifting through decades of junk and grime in search for old photos of him for the scrapbook I planned on crafting. As I pulled back the heavy, moth eaten rug, I found a shoebox taped shut with frantic permanence. Expecting to find the rehearsed nostalgia of Jaipur and its magnificent architecture, I reached to unclasp the box. To my dismay, I found a tangled mess of brittle, yellowed documents which spread like tree roots-gnarled and buried. I pulled out a birth certificate and it didn’t say Rajhastan like it was supposed to, it said Lahore. I continued scrambling through it hoping it was some kind of mistake but underneath it I found Newspaper clippings. Titled 1947, the clippings were grasping for air after decades of being smothered. The Headlines screamed “treacherous crossing” and “partition splits more than just nations”. In that moment, it was autumn. It felt as though my identity was shedding away, like autumn leaves falling from their branches. Was this true? If it was, why hadn’t anyone told me?
The weight of the box in my lap felt like lead. Staring at the word Lahore, a strange, cold clarity washed over me. Whenever I’d bring up our history at the dinner table—asking why Grandma’s recipes tasted a bit different from the other Indian families in the suburbs, or why our dialect had those sharp, unfamiliar edges—the room would go silent. Not a dramatic silence, just a subtle shift in the air.
,Looking at these clippings, I realised I was back at my “root stage.” My seed hadn’t just grown; it had been forced to sprout in soil I was never shown. Have you ever felt your entire foundation shift beneath you?
Winter: The hardening of the bark
The amber wash of dixon street fell across the kitchen floor but wasn’t bringing it’s usual warmth. The generally warm aroma of turmeric and cumin which surrounded our kitchen felt rather cold and distant. My dad loomed over the stove mixing the daal in a mechanical manner. Clockwise. Pause. Anticlockwise. Pause.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: discovering joy
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: The impact of the blue sedan smashed the windows in. I managed to snap my eyes shut just in time before the…
The impact of the blue sedan smashed the windows in. I managed to snap my eyes shut just in time before the raining crystalline shards bit into my face like an unstoppable swarm of ice, and etched a permanent, bloody reminder of this day onto my cheeks.
The incessant click of the indicator continued despite the damage. The panicked screams of the other driver forcibly permeated through my throbbing skull, and my closed eyes seemed to develop their own erratic heartbeats. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” she repeated, more like a frantic lullaby for herself, rather than an actual admission of her fault.
Moments before, I had seen her taking a huge lug out of a flask she seemed to pull out of nowhere, and even laughed about it to my best friend Isla, who I was speaking through the stereo of my car.
Now, Isla’s voice seemed to shrill my name in despair. “Are you okay?”
I wondered if her normally raucous voice had lost its playful timbre because she knew what had just happened, or because the unreliable Bluetooth connection had suffered the final, fatal blow to its fickle system.
She sounded tinny and thin, and I imagined her as the frail and mischievous five year old she had once been when we first met in the battered playground of our local, underfunded primary school. Isla had reached out to me that day – noticed that I wasn’t as energetic as my classmates, or as playful with my teasing words. Her omnipresent companionship saved my life – it lent me a saving hand, and pulled me up from the yawning abyss of my depression.
Not that it matters anymore.
I tried my hardest to answer her question, tried to force in as much air as I could into my battered and bruised lungs, even though in my heart of hearts, I knew it was futile. I wanted to reassure her that everything was fine. I wanted to comfort her, to thank her for always being by my side.
But I couldn’t. And for that, I’ll never forgive myself.
If I died tonight, perhaps not all of me would. Maybe the sense of life in my bruised lungs, heart, kidneys or even my liver would linger, continuing quietly in another body, another life. Maybe, I would be able to fulfil the duty I had sworn to satisfy as soon as I was 16 and eligible.
The thought of my imminent death should have shaken me to my bones, but instead a small, fragile joy unfurled in my chest – the blemished case for the heart I hoped would live on in someone else. The possibility that I could be the reason for someone to keep living, even at the cost of my own physical existence was comforting, contentful.
Maybe, somewhere months from now, a stranger would be able to laugh as hard as they wished with a pleasant burn in their lungs, rather than the stinging, tell-tale sign of a doctor’s visit. Maybe, they would run from their chasing children while playing tag without having to stop and fervidly clutch at their ribs. Perhaps, they would be able to stand and dance with all their heart in the pouring rain, without the fear of a fatal cold, or stand beside the people they loved more than anything without fear that it could be the last time.
As soon as those thoughts began to spiral in my still overactive mind, my body began to feel more transparent, and I wondered if I was finally losing it – although I knew what was really happening.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Steps Toward Change Stimulus 1:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: Steps Toward Change Psychiatric Report: 10/12/2028 Dr.Bell, General Practice The patient presents with an…
Steps Toward Change
Psychiatric Report: 10/12/2028
Dr.Bell, General Practice
The patient presents with an unusual, and his clinician would suggest, distressed nature. The patient claims he is undergoing a “Metamorphasis” - his words. The patient claims he is “Trapped within the cocoon in which I weaved myself” - his words. The patient feels like “An itchy cotton blanket of darkness coils itself around my body like a python” -His words. This “Cocoon” is mentioned regularly in weekly therapy sessions. The patient feels he has been “Trapped within the cocoon my whole life” - His words. This case is intriguing, when asking what the cocoon is he mentions how “It is the mould of flesh and blood in which my soul seeks refuge” - His words. The patient seems to lack a sense of control or choice over his own body, however it seems that the patient is taking steps towards Recovery.
Continue pescribed Anti depressants and weekly therapy meetings.
Signed Dr.Bell, General Practice
Psychiatric Report 11/12/2028
Dr.Bell, General Practice
VCE · Text Response
Text Response: Hadley suggests everyday experiences lead…
VCE Text Response essay scoring 75%: Restrictive social norms can often determine an individual’s daily routine, sometimes preventing them from living…
Restrictive social norms can often determine an individual’s daily routine, sometimes preventing them from living an authentic life. In her collection of short stories including ‘Bad Dreams’ and ‘Experience’ the author Tessa Hadley illuminates how simple everyday events, he often overlooked and quiet experiences act as catalysts for shifts in personal growth and discovery. Hadley encourages her audience to push against the gender norms of society to allow lessons from daily life to prompt positive transformations.