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.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: 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. So, 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, spending time in 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, busy spending time with my friends, enjoying spending time with people that seemed like they wanted me around.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: title: Constellations stimulus: "the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Constellations On an unknown island, a gigantic tree existed. It was a home for many magical creatures,…
Constellations
On an unknown island, a gigantic tree existed. It was a home for many magical creatures, fairies, who took care of this tree like their own mother. When the sun sets, the beautiful, shiny golden rays of light shine through every branch, making it's way to every leaf that it has. Lily, a blonde haired fairy who was treasured and loved by the tree. Whenever Lily was sad, the tree would wilt and leaves would fall when she cried.
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. So, 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, spending time in 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, busy spending time with my friends, enjoying spending time with people that seemed like they wanted me around.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: 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. So, 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, spending time in 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, busy spending time with my friends, enjoying spending time with people that seemed like they wanted me around.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: 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. So, 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, spending time in 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, busy spending time with my friends, enjoying spending time with people that seemed like they wanted me around.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: 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. So, 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, spending time in 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, busy spending time with my friends, enjoying spending time with people that seemed like they wanted me around.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: 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. So, 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, spending time in 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 begun 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, busy spending time with my friends, enjoying spending time with people that seemed like they wanted me around.
VCE · Text Response
Text Response: How does Shakespeare explore the theme of…
VCE Text Response essay scoring 85%: In Shakespeare’s Macbeth, appearances are used as a central tool to mask one’s dark intentions, by concealing…
In Shakespeare’s Macbeth, appearances are used as a central tool to mask one’s dark intentions, by concealing oneself in a facade. In Macbeth, he attempts to step up to the throne through treason, all while utilising deceptive tactics to manipulate others. Deceptive appearances are shown to be a dominant tool in society, however this hidden ambition leads to the corruption of power and betrayal, which ultimately leads one to their downfall.
Shakespeare demonstrates that appearances are deceptive and not all things are as they seem. When Macbeth seeks out the three witches' prophecies, they leave a final message saying, “Fair is foul and foul is fair.” This gives Macbeth an ambiguous and delusive message of whether the witch's prophecies are true or not, leaving him with a vague, unclear answer. The meaning of fair being foul depicts how outward appearances can hide dark, hidden intentions, a paradox of how not all things are as they appear. This quote reveals that deceptive appearances can be dangerous, while the use of foreshadowing intends to reveal the tragedy of Macbeth in the foreseeable future. The malicious intent of misleading appearance is further seen when Lady Macbeth states “Look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under’t”. Innocent flower portrays pleasant, outward appearances, while ‘serpent under’t’ symbolises to hide false intentions. The juxtaposition of the quote explains how Lady Macbeth tries convincing Macbeth to mask his malicious intentions under a fake facade in order to feign his loyalty toward King Duncan, in order to not appear guilty for murdering him. Shakespeare employs the use of counterfeit facades in society to advocate that in a world built on ambition and hidden intentions masked by fake emotions, no one can be trusted.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The end justifies
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: In this society we are obsessed with the scoreboard. We measure success through change, and clinical language…
In this society we are obsessed with the scoreboard. We measure success through change, and clinical language such as “bills passed”, “legislation enacted”, “second reading”. By this criteria, the events of June 5th 1989 were a immense failure. The tanks didn’t turn back, the government stayed the same and the silence that followed shaped protest today. But this was a shallow highlight of the end goal. A protest is never truly unsuccessful if it disrupts the complicity of silence for the act of defiance itself serves as permanent moral record that power can ignore but never erase.
VCE · Text Response
Text Response: In We Have Always Lived in the Castle, the…
VCE Text Response essay scoring 80%: Paradoxically, while the Blackwood sisters perceive the alternative social conformity as a threat, they ultimately…
Paradoxically, while the Blackwood sisters perceive the alternative social conformity as a threat, they ultimately embrace significant transformation though the fire in order to maintain their secluded utopia. Utilised by Merricat to rid of the patriarchal 'ghost' of Charles, the cathartic fire completely renews the house, eradicating the old social order. The stairs which were 'burnt and led to black rooms' exemplify the destruction of grandiose structures within the manor. Being 'carved from Italy', the stairs were described to be 'one of the wonders' of the village, and were thus utilised by John Blackwood to boast his exorbitant wealth. Hence, its destruction by the fire represents Merricat's immense disdain for material and proprietary obsession, in which she embraces the significant transformation of the fire in order to create a world of her own. Indeed, this purgative transformation is explored through the fantastical setting which illustrates the house as an unconventional utopia rather than a ruined wreck. The '[en]tombed' mother's drawing room
VCE · Language Analysis
Language Analysis: this is my oral that i have to present…
VCE Language Analysis essay scoring 82.5%: Every time a violent youth crime makes headlines in Australia, public outrage follows close behind. Teenagers…
Every time a violent youth crime makes headlines in Australia, public outrage follows close behind.
Teenagers carrying machetes through shopping centres. Violent assaults filmed and uploaded online. Car thefts, home invasions, gang violence. In January this year, ABC News reported on a machete attack in Caroline Springs involving teenagers in Melbourne. Incidents like these dominate media headlines and understandably leave communities frightened and angry.
And in response, governments continue promising tougher laws, harsher sentencing, and stricter punishment.
But while politicians debate how to punish young offenders, far less attention is being given to the conditions that lead many young people toward offending in the first place.
Because youth crime does not simply appear out of nowhere.
It develops.
It develops through trauma, instability, violence, neglect, educational disengagement, and environments where children are failed long before they ever enter a courtroom.
Today, I will argue that the government must prioritise education and early intervention in disadvantaged communities to reduce youth crime, rather than relying on harsher punishment. Because youth offending is often shaped by trauma and disengagement long before offences occur, punishment alone fails to reduce reoffending, while education and intervention provide young people with support, stability, and pathways away from crime.
Firstly, governments must prioritise early intervention because youth crime is often shaped by trauma, neglect, and educational disengagement long before offences occur.
A government youth justice submission found that 53 percent of young offenders had experienced domestic or family violence, 45 percent were disengaged from education, employment or training, and 30 percent had unstable housing. These statistics are not excuses for criminal behaviour. Violent crime should never be excused. But they do reveal something important: many young offenders are themselves products of deeply unstable environments.
And if society creates the conditions for youth crime, why do we only punish the outcome?
One of my former teachers now works at a disadvantaged school in Cairns. She told me about students who steal food from classrooms because they do not have enough food at home. Students who arrive at school angry, exhausted, or completely disengaged from learning. Some come from homes shaped by violence, addiction, or neglect.
Another teacher described a young girl who violently assaulted another student at school. When the girl’s father was called into the office, he responded by saying, “I don’t know why she acts like this. Every time she acts out, I belt her.”
And suddenly, the behaviour becomes easier to understand.
Because children learn behaviour from the environments around them. Psychology research into observational learning shows repeated exposure to violence can normalise aggression and desensitise children to harmful behaviour. When violence becomes routine at home, it is far more likely to become routine elsewhere.
Even neurologically, young people are more vulnerable to impulsive behaviour. Doctor Martin Novik explains that adolescent brains are not yet fully developed, making young people more susceptible to peer pressure and less capable of rational decision-making.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Oppression
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?
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Oppression
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?
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The title is "This is me", and the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: As we stand here today, on the very edge of everything that we have worked towards, it’s rather tempting to ask…
As we stand here today, on the very edge of everything that we have worked towards, it’s rather tempting to ask ourselves a familiar question: “Who am I?” For years, we’ve been told that somewhere along our journey, we’re supposed to “find ourselves” as if our own identity is hidden away, patiently waiting to be discovered. But what if that idea was wrong all along? Instead, what if our identity is not something we discover but something we build during our journey? The truth is, our identity is not defined by who we believe we are in our minds but is instead the result of the choices we make, the habits we form and the experiences that shape us over time. As we leave our sheltered high school life and step into an uncertain future, we aren’t searching for a fixed version of ourselves; we are actively crafting one. It’s possible that “this is me” is not a final declaration, but a statement we continue to earn.
We are, by nature, fascinated by the possibility of uncovering a pre-existing self that reflects our perceived authentic selves and, in turn, inspires others. There is rampant admiration in society for those who pursue an innate interest and then polish it and distil it until it becomes highly noteworthy. Additionally, those who succeed in pursuing their innate interests serve as examples of self-actualisation and authenticity. Whether it be the late Steve Jobs or the current titan that is Elon Musk, we admire their embodiment of the self-actualisation concept: the notion that one can uncover their “true” self and transform it into greatness. Viewing their personal success from rags to riches, it draws us to attempt to copy the same formula. Thus, in our lifelong search for an identity, we often look up to seemingly untouchable role models and wish to simply declare, “This is me”. Yet society frequently romanticises the end product while neglecting the arduous refinement process that precedes it. Crafting an identity worthy of pride is rarely immediate; rather, it is shaped through continual decisions, setbacks and moments of uncertainty. This reality is often obscured by social media, where sensationalised highlights conceal the struggles and failures underpinning personal growth. Fantastical stories such as those from Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka or Matilda continue to enrapture modern audiences decades after release because they reflect humanity’s enduring desire to overcome adversity and realise an authentic self. At the same time, it is crucial to recognise that crafting a version of ourselves worthy of pride is often a long and arduous process of refinement, a personal journey marked by both progress and regression. Nonetheless, whether it be through fictional escapism or modern entrepreneurial success stories, society remains captivated by the pursuit of authenticity while overlooking the long and imperfect journey required to attain it.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The title is "This is me", and the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: There is a prevailing misconception that a belief or intention in one’s own self defines one's identity;…
There is a prevailing misconception that a belief or intention in one’s own self defines one's identity; however, in reality, it is only the consistent habits and experiences that shape us over time. In a world most commonly associated with self-actualisation, it is easy to claim values and aspirations without inserting them into daily life. People often define themselves by what they hope to achieve rather than by the actions they repeatedly undertake. However, identity is not shaped by what we want to do but by what we repeatedly do on a daily basis in our lives. Each action, no matter how minor or seemingly insignificant, leads to a gradual accumulation of behaviours that solidify into character. Even atomic habits, though small in isolation, possess the power to create profound long-term change when practised continuously. Reinforcing how an identity is proactively crafted through a progression of habits, rather than being passively discovered. One example is the American author and activist Helen Keller, who, despite being born blind and deaf, developed a
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: title: speak up stimulus: “In the end,…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Speak UP Fellow delegates, we gather here today, beneath bright lights and polished marble, where every voice…
Speak UP
Fellow delegates, we gather here today, beneath bright lights and polished marble, where every voice is heard: amplified through microphones and broadcast across nations. Meanwhile, Afghan women write their resistance in disappearing ink, because mere visibility is now a life threatening act. Women are being legislated into silence with terrifying precision, yet we, who are not silenced, are choosing not to speak.
In Afghanistan, to be voiceless is not simply to remain unheard, it is to exist in a society designed to silence your thoughts. To have your most powerful weapon of resistance and expression denied, being unable to speak up for your own human rights.
Afghan women once possessed freedoms, that now, seem unfathomable. Classrooms are filled with debate, now collect dust. Voices once celebrated, have been stolen and degraded: ripped from the throats of Afghan women. The Taliban's uncodified interpretation of Islamic law and rigid restrictions, following their regained authority in August of 2021, is not merely religion, but seeks to impose something far more dangerous: to persecute and erase female autonomy. And they're already there. If we do not speak up now, this catastrophe will only worsen. Inaction is the allower of injustice.
VCE · Text Response
Text Response: “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty suggests…
VCE Text Response essay scoring 87.5%: Through characters' experiences, the film suggests that genuine identity is found through exploration and…
Through characters' experiences, the film suggests that genuine identity is found through exploration and discomfort within the journey. In “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”, Ben Stiller illustrates that the ability to take risks and explore is crucial to achieving the dream reality. Overall, this idea is developed through characters' shift from dullness into an ambitious reality, with their willingness to risk and step outside of their comfort zone.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The title "It is a maze", and the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Good Morning Everyone, Life is ultimately complex, no matter the worldviews, in fact 'it is a maze', in which…
Good Morning Everyone, Life is ultimately complex, no matter the worldviews, in fact 'it is a maze', in which individuals take a path which makes them who they are. This is what makes us so special as independent beings, we are not only a thing but a sum of the choices we chosen in the maze of life. How an individual goes through the path is crucial as it requires patience in order to not be lost. Additionally, we must be aware of other opportunities and pathways in life to further deepen our understanding of our own self. But ultimately, the path an individual takes on the maze of life, crafts their identity.
Often, our very human nature in the present is determined by what worldview or pathway we have taken in the maze of life. As this pathway contains specific challenges that are experienced by an individual which continuously moulds their identity, long after the journey ends. One pivotal example is the novel A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens in which its main character Scrooge is depicted as a grumpy old man full of avarice and fixated on business and making money. He chose to focus on his business instead of being genuine and showing generosity, leading to the his present self in the novel. Dickens shows how when an individual takes a path in life, it's nearly impossible to see in the opposite as they become ingrained in their identity has been moulded by their singular pathway. Thus, Dickens character of Scrooge shows how choosing a path in the maze of life makes an individual in the crafting of their identity.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The title "It is a maze", and the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Life rarely unfolds in a straight line. Instead, it resembles a maze: filled with wrong turns, uncertain…
Life rarely unfolds in a straight line. Instead, it resembles a maze: filled with wrong turns, uncertain crossroads and pathways that force individuals to constantly reconsider who they are becoming. Yet society continues to promote the comforting illusion that somewhere within this maze exists a fixed and authentic self simply waiting to be discovered. From a young age, we are encouraged to “find ourselves”, as though identity is hidden at the centre of life’s labyrinth, patiently awaiting revelation. However, perhaps this belief is flawed. Identity is not discovered but constructed through the choices individuals make as they navigate the maze before them. The paths we follow, the habits we cultivate and the obstacles we overcome gradually shape our sense of self over time. As we stand on the threshold of adulthood, we are not searching for a final version of ourselves, but learning how to move through uncertainty with greater understanding. Ultimately, knowing both the paths we have travelled and the countless ones still left to take allows us to recognise that identity is never fixed, but continuously evolving.
Humanity has always been fascinated by the belief that somewhere within life’s maze lies a singular “true self” waiting to be uncovered. Society admires those who appear to have discovered the “correct” path and transformed it into greatness. Figures such as Steve Jobs and Elon Musk are frequently celebrated as embodiments of self-actualisation, individuals who seemingly uncovered their authentic passions and followed a direct route towards success. Observing their rise from obscurity to immense influence encourages others to believe that identity is simply a matter of discovering one destined pathway through the maze. Yet society romanticises the destination while ignoring the countless dead ends, uncertainties and setbacks that shaped their journeys. Rarely is identity crafted instantly; rather, it emerges gradually through continual decisions, failures and moments of self-doubt. This reality is often obscured by social media, where polished highlights conceal the confusion and hardship underpinning personal growth. Fantastical stories such as Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Matilda continue to captivate audiences because they reflect humanity’s enduring desire to escape adversity and discover a place where one truly belongs. However, these stories also reveal that personal fulfilment is never reached without struggle. Like travellers attempting to navigate an intricate labyrinth, individuals are inevitably confronted by wrong turns and uncertainty before finding clarity. Thus, society remains captivated by the pursuit of authenticity while overlooking the long and imperfect maze individuals must traverse to shape themselves into someone they are proud to become.
VCE · Language Analysis
Language Analysis: this is actually an oral point of view…
VCE Language Analysis essay scoring 80%: At 6:59am, thousands of Victorian students sit in silence refreshing the same webpage. Bedrooms become waiting…
At 6:59am, thousands of Victorian students sit in silence refreshing the same webpage. Bedrooms become waiting rooms. Phones become verdicts. And somewhere between the countdown and the loading screen, a generation prepares to reduce itself to a number.
Today, standing before the Minister for Education and members of the Victorian Curriculum and Assessment Authority board as a representative of Victoria’s student body, I do not intend to argue that achievement is unimportant. Achievement matters. Education matters. Ambition matters.
What concerns students across this state, however, is the culture that has developed around the ATAR — a culture in which achievement increasingly determines identity, inequality disguises itself as merit, and student pressure becomes profitable for the institutions surrounding it.
The ATAR was designed as an educational tool. Yet for many students, it no longer functions merely as a ranking system; it functions as a measure of self-worth.
Within Victorian schools, academic performance has become inseparable from comparison. Students are ranked through SAC averages, predicted study scores, percentile data, and cohort performance. Classrooms increasingly resemble scoreboards rather than spaces of learning.
A survey by Jun Eric Fu, Youth Research Collective from The University of Melbourne was handed out to 40,000 graduates of 2023 and were asked to comment on their school experience. The language surrounding Year 12 reflects this transformation. Students are constantly told to “stay ahead,” “remain competitive,” and avoid “falling behind.” Education is no longer framed as intellectual growth, but as a race with winners and losers.
Crown prosecutor Meredith Hunt, reflected on her own experience with the ATAR, in an article for ‘The Age’, stating “I don’t think you should ever rank people, and especially young, impressionable teenagers, in a way that [ATAR] does.” She further explained that students are often burdened by the belief that the ATAR will determine “what you’re going to do for the rest of your life,” despite still “trying to grow up and figure it out.”
However, the issue extends beyond stress itself. Pressure has become normalised to the point where burnout is interpreted as discipline and exhaustion is mistaken for ambition.
In many classrooms, achievement is no longer relative to personal growth, but relative to everyone else. A student receiving an 85 may feel inadequate sitting beside someone who achieved a 95. Success becomes conditional. Satisfaction becomes temporary. And students begin chasing validation through numbers that never seem high enough. To us rest becomes associated with laziness, while overworking becomes associated with worth. In this environment, we no longer simply pursue achievement; we begin performing it.
And perhaps that is the most damaging consequence of ATAR culture: students are not simply afraid of failing academically — they are afraid of being perceived as failures themselves. I experience this too, not the drive to work hard for myself, but for other people, for the watchful eyes of teachers, as if your year 12 performance is a cyclic story unfolding right before them, and for family, who frequently predict and debate your future atar and study scores during dinner, urging you to never lack and to never fall back.
The ATAR was designed to rank academic performance, yet students increasingly believe it ranks them as people.
Yet even this pressure rests upon a larger illusion: the belief that every student competes under equal conditions. Dear Minister and VCAA board- picture this: one student enters Year 12 supported by private tutoring, specialist teachers, and extensive exam preparation programs. Another balances part-time work alongside school, studies in overcrowded classrooms, and lacks access to external support. Yet both students are ultimately reduced to the same ranking system, as though their educational experiences existed under equal conditions.