The English department are proud to present our page as a platform on which to celebrate what ākonga are creating in English at Freyberg. We also use this page to share important information about our subject, courses, and events.
Please use the resources below to explore your options in senior English for 2023. NOTE: both the video titles and year mentioned in the videos are 2021. The course descriptions remain the same for 2023. This information is relevant to all ākonga considering Senior Literacy and Communocation or English at L2 or L3 in 2023.
Scroll past to explore outstanding examples of the writing developed by FHS English ākonga in past years.
A short video to introduce ākonga to one of the English courses on offer at Level 2 and 3 for 2023: Interpretive English. This video is designed as a companion to the Interpretive English course descriptions found in the Senior Option Booklet 2023. At both levels, this course combines internal and external NCEA assessment, so subject endorsement is possible. Deadline for selecting an English course for 2023 is early in Term 4 2022 via parent portal. Please contact English HOD if you have further questions that this video and course description can't answer.
NOTE: both the video title and year mentioned in the video are 2021. The course description remains the same for 2023. This information is relevant to all ākonga considering English at L2 or L3 in 2023.
A short video to introduce ākonga to one of the English courses on offer at Level 2 and 3 for 2023: Creative English. This video is designed as a companion to the Creative English course descriptions found in the Senior Option Booklet 2023. Deadline for selecting an English course for 2023 is early in Term 4 2022 via parent portal. Please contact English HOD if you have further questions that this video and course description can't answer.
A short video to introduce ākonga to a literacy development course on offer for 2023: Senior Literacy and Communication. This video is designed as a companion to the Senior Literacy and Communication course description found in the Senior Option Booklet 2022. This course can be selected by either Year 12 or Year 13 ākonga, but it is made up of Level 2 assessments only. Deadline for selecting an English course for 2023 is early in Term 4 2022 via parent portal. Please contact English HOD if you have further questions that this video and course description can't answer.
NOTE: both the video title and year mentioned in the video are 2021. The course description remains the same for 2023. This information is relevant to all ākonga considering Senior Literacy and Communication or English at L2 or L3 in 2023.
2020 was an exceptional year for English ākonga developing fiction writing skills - in particular, the development of the short story genre.
Two examples come from Year 13 English Through Written Texts courses via Scott Orange and Omar Hamouda.
Road Trip by Scott Orange, Year 13.
The smooth hum of the engine was felt under foot. It reverberated, creeping passively through the steering wheel into placid hands placed at 10 and 2. Distant across the vast desert plateau, Ruapehu, Tongariro, and Ngauruhoe stood watching the vehicle, their gaze obscured in transient moments when the highway plunged deep into the rolling terrain.
The early morning darkness clouded the path ahead as the sun sat hesitant behind the horizon. Its light brought a brooding hue to the overcast clouds above that was dimly projected across the scattered desert shrubbery below. Cat's eyes blinked into the beaming stare of the headlights, bringing them to life in an otherwise desolate landscape.
A sprinkling of raindrops fell from the sky as though they were foreshadowing an opening of the heavens that was never to come. Monogamous windshield wipers monotonously swayed back and forth, in and out of view. They collected only the smallest droplets of rain, smearing the larger ones in the process. The dashboard clock blinked in unison with the wipers, as it switched from 5:56 to 5:57.
The air inside the car was dense. Not only with the humid stench of bottled breath, but also with the sinking sullen feeling of dread. It was the kind of feeling that left your chest sore from incessant palpitations, and your mouth dry with a lingering taste of regret. It felt as though the hum of the engine thrived in this awkward atmosphere, climbing deep into the ear canal and reverberating from within the skull. Some music from the radio would surely help to break the unending silence if only it didn't mutter ramblings of interference from a distant radio tower. Complete isolation.
"How long has it been since Waiouru?" croaked a voice still waking. I glanced again at the clock on the dashboard. 6:02.
"About a half hour ago," I replied.
"And you didn't think to ask if I needed to use the bathroom?" The figure fumbled their hand down the side of the seat and tugged violently on the lever to sit upright.
"Do you want me to pull over then? You can piss off the side of the road."
He shrugged, "I don't really need to go, I just assumed that you'd ask, considering how sensitive you seem to be." I could feel his smug gaze on the side of my face. The car veered gradually off to the side of the road, the engine's hum reduced to a mocking, muted chortle as the car came to a stop.
"I won't be long," called the figure from the other side of the car door held ajar, already stood wide legged at the edge of the asphalt. Cool air crept from the gap in the door, lapping at sections of exposed skin, combatting the dense interior atmosphere with the crisp smell of morning dew.
The hum continued and placid hands returned to the wheel. Hints of golden rays projected onto the horizon announcing the arrival of the sun.
"Christ- you've strapped it in with a seatbelt?" The figure crooked their body around their seat, contorting themselves to view the urn carefully seated in the backseat on the driver's side.
"Well, where else would you suggest putting him?"
"Him? You know it's not a person right?" He exclaimed whilst wiping crusted sleep from his eyes
"He was a person though, it'd be rude to put him anywhere else."
"It's a glorified container of dust, and let's not forget how much you spent on that thing. You might as well have bought it a car seat too.” The figure scoffed, gesturing at nothing, falling defeatedly back into his seat.
"It's what he would've wanted," I replied with stern conviction. There was a pause in his reply to the point where I became hopeful that the figure had returned to his slumber. He hadn't.
"Did you just say what I thought you said? How on earth would you know what he wanted? He never even talked to you.”
"That's not entirely true." My eyes were determined on the road, refusing to entertain the figure with even the slightest glance to the left.
"He never wanted anything to do with you. You wouldn't have the slightest clue of what he wanted."
"Well you never wanted to talk to him either; you refused to let us. Now look where we are." The hum took back control in the deafening silence. A welcome passive medium.
Endlessly, the boring beige dessert plains continued. Warm colours flushed the sky as the sun triumphantly pulled itself above the horizon, permeating a flurry of orange and yellow. My gaze drifted from the horizon and focused hypnotically on the center line, watching it break, join, and split again like a stop motion animation; its frames disappeared under the car. The white paint glowed in the orange hue of morning.
"So what are we looking for anyway?" The sharp voice echoed in the thoughtless cavity of my head.
"What do you mean?"
"I know you know what I mean. At what point do you break this caring façade?"
"Well for a start it's not a façade, and I'm not looking for anything." He paused, the figure recoiled in confusion back into the depths of my peripheral vision.
"So when does this all end then? Where do we stop?"
"I'm not sure. I suppose I'm waiting for a sign." I could almost hear the muffled thump of his jaw hitting floor mat.
"And I'm not sure you understand how cliché that sounds. What even qualifies as a sign? That's so ridiculously ambiguous." I didn't bother to reply. The silence fueled his frustration.
He continued, "Why does it matter? You know just as well as I do that any ditch along the side of this god forsaken, barren, wasteland of a road is just as good as any other." I refused to entertain his ideals. I remained still. Focused solely on the road.
He continued, "In fact, if you scatter ashes in the middle of the desert and there's no one there to see it, does it even matter that they were scattered at all? Who do you expect to validate you? Why are we here?"
The car jolted to a sudden stop. The handbrake creaked, and the key retracted from the ignition with a frustrated tug. The whispering rustle of my jacket filled the hole that the hum left behind as I contorted myself around the back of my seat to fetch the urn. Its metallic cold seeped through my pant legs as it sat in my lap.
I did not look at the figure. Not even a glance. I did not want him to sway my convictions or convince me of a different opinion. I did not want him to taint this last remaining moment. I spoke only to tell him to remain in the car. He didn't reply.
The tan grass grazed at my ankles as I shuffled through the low-lying shrubbery, before finding myself centered in the gaze of the mountains. Their jagged inclines were blotched with patterns of melting snow and volcanic rock. Hesitantly, I drew my lightly clenched hand from within the urn and I stood stationary in the moment until I could no longer feel where the air met my skin. The thin, desolate, breeze flushed my skin with goosebumps. Flourishing in acceptance, I let my fingers release, and watched the grey particles dance through the air as the wind plucked the ashes from my hand. Deep breaths restored internal harmony. It was as if the stresses that had clung desperately to my soul were departing through long exhales, making room for peace to return within the inhales. My tired eyes rest shut, relishing in the dark behind my eyelids.
When they cracked open once again, and the world rushed in, a tapestry woven of dark clouds blanketed the bleak horizon; the sun shone through at the seams.
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Mother’s Home by Omar Hamouda, Year 13.
First visit in a while.
The glory of old age and recollection, the last of great days. The low fidelity and vinyl scratches of the record that is my mother's mind start to creep in, although not abruptly to interrupt her serenity, and calm.
I ring the doorbell of my mother's old home to hear that classic chime, and see her already awaiting me through the glass, with childishly fresh eyes. The last time I visited my mother here was to tell her about my progress through the internship. Life has been busy and stressful, but I know that I can't keep avoiding these visits. She's always had this particular grace in her movement, with a floating shuffle in her feet and effeminate hand gestures that are very idiosyncratic of her. Her presence is one that you can sense when she enters the room, a silhouette that you can tell is hers, and eyes which you can read. A woman that I am proud to call my mother.
The screaming whistle from the kitchen kettle obscures the droplets of leaky faucet water. It's been broken ever since I could remember, but nowadays I don’t bother to ask. You can't ask her anything when you're in her embrace; they're always so long and intoxicatingly comforting. I struggle to breathe.
The kitchen bench and the dining room are one and the same, reminiscent of cheesy 50s American diners with dusty coffee. "Take a seat, take a seat!" she exclaims, as she pulls a seat out for me.
"Mum, I can pull a seat out for myself. It's alright and the water will get cold and the tea has not been made."
Tea, lilting conversation, and Ella Fitzgerald’s “On the Sunny Side of The Street” repeating on her vintage, wood finish, retro turntable has never made my mum any happier; her four favourite things all in the same room. My mother gracefully moving to the sound of the music, almost trancelike, as if it was her first time listening to it. I have to hurry to make use of the water and make our tea, or no one was going to make it. “Can't you hear a pitter-pat? And that happy tune is your step. Life can be so sweet. On the sunny side of the street.” My mother sings to the music, still not acknowledging me or the cold tea, or the fact I've finished drinking my cup. I leave her dancing to the same tired tune with an irritated sigh.
Back here again.
The faint realisation that the last of great days are closer to expiration than you’d think, but her denial remains triumphant. The empiric glory of old age needs new clothes, and the vinyl scratches of my mother's mind are more peccant and present, like a quiet dusk coming early.
I ring the doorbell of my mother’s unkempt home, to hear that classic chime. My mother's curtains in the front lounge are wide open. She’s in her robe looking tired and low. Her gaze is locked onto mine, with burningly lonely eyes. From her gaze I know she is still expecting me, however unresponsive she is to the obvious door bell. I rang the doorbell to hear the nostalgic chime, but I let myself in anyway. Again, life has been busy, but I’ve been progressing through the internship and have really made some progress. The future I want is becoming tangible and more costly If I lose it, but I still always find the time to see her. I miss my mother. Just like her eyes, her movements are lonely. She manages to get up, but not with the same grace as she used to. Her hands aren’t as particular and idiosyncratic in motion. Instead of her fingers dancing to the beat of the moment, they lie idly wrapped around a cup that has a tea bag, but no water. You can still sense her presence. I could never forget my mother’s glowing aura, charming motion and personality, even if she’s dimming a bit. A silhouette you can tell is hers.
The leaky faucet water is ever present, because the kettle water is cold. She was capable of pulling out the cup and placing the tea bag. She was capable of filling up the kettle with faucet water. How long has she been trying to make tea? I stare at the stale water, tainted by the metallic tang of rusty kettle innards. My stare is diverted by my mother's blank expression and idle position by the door, which is horrifying and upsetting. I'm hoping my warm embrace can bring her back to our space. Her head is pressed against my chest and I see the faintest smile, even if her fingers remain wrapped around her cup. I don’t care, because this is at least reassurance that someone is still home. I await the kettle water to boil once more, and I guide her to the kitchen-dining room hybrid. “Where did the record player go? Where’d everything go?” I say in shock. The dining room has been trashed. The television, box of laundry, record player, and the fine china in the cupboards have vanished. “The nice men from the streets told me to. They told me the fine china was antique, that it needed to be in safe hands. They told me they’d do my laundry for me! They even told me that the record player was one of a kind, that they’d put it in a museum, that they’d give me 100s of dollars in return!” Her exclamations of horrible manipulations were followed by a gentle smile, and those same lonely eyes.
Slammed doors and rushed exits is what I'm accustomed to with these visits. Back in my car I see my mother place herself down in the lounge with her tea, and a blank expression. The thought of her still expecting me makes me leave in horror and sorrow.
Last of many.
Disturbed confusions and horror. The great days have been gone for a long time, and what has superseded is awareness of no awareness and recall of single memories. Only an abstraction of the record which is my mother's mind remains: the record player has been stolen.
The curtains are drawn. Even with drawn curtains I can see no light from the lounge, nor my mother's silhouette. My work has been stressful, but we’ve been yielding a lot of results. I haven’t been this fulfilled by my work in a while, and the pay is good too. I’ve recently needed to call in because my mother has been quiet; no phone call responses, no texts, no anything. The rushing sound of faucet water is what invites me into her home, and zero sight of her in the lounge or kitchen. The faucet water is all I can hear, and upon further inspection no water has been put in the kettle. No sight of tea, tea bags, cup, or sugar is in the kitchen. How long has the water been running for?
My heart is in my throat and my head is feverish. Creaking up wooden panels for stairs has never been so nerve racking. If she’s not in her room I don’t know where she could be and what I can do. I sense no presence behind the door, but I open it anyway. Broken lamp, rotting food. Spilt tea, stained floor. Messy sheets. A husk of my mother remains at the end of her bed, wearing the same robe, skinny and pale. Ghastly hunch and with her back turned to the door, there is zero acknowledgement of me. I am now just as pale as the ghost that’s a few centimetres away. My hand descends, placing itself onto her back, and I muster up a welcoming smile. “Hey Mum, it’s me, your son. I'm here to visit you and to make sure you’re okay. How are you?” She’s unreceptive. She is silent. Her head finally glances up into my direction, and she indifferently gazes at me with lamented eyes. Her pupils are lifeless, the lids of her eyes impassive and deadpan, the muscles of her face are stony. My mother is vacant, she does not recognize me, and is unable to even tell me otherwise. Her hands lie on her lap, and I know that all personality and motion has surrendered to memory rupture, and thick confusion. My mother does not exist anymore. Even the sound of my knees colliding against the wooden floor does not get her attention. Even the outcries and horrific shrieks of my sorrows and the pitter patter of my tears and my head burying itself into the bedroom floor does not faze her.
“Grab your coat and get your hat.” My mother gently hums, piercing the soundscape of my tears. “Leave your worry on the doorstep. Just direct your feet To the sunny side of the street.” I rush to clear the slobbery mess of my teary face and sit up next to my mum, wide eyed, seeing a glimpse of hope beyond this empty defeat. She’s singing her favourite song. Even when she cannot function. Even when she cannot recognize me. Even when she cannot respond, she is still singing her favourite song. I give her a hug, rest my head on her shoulder, and I don’t leave. I stay, not because of sorrow, but out of love and care. I’ll stay till the song ends.
She rests her head onto mine, and we stare off out the window, singing.
Journalists’ Ethical Obligations in Crisis: COVID-19
It was a gorgeous Wednesday morning. The sun was gleaming over the treetops, birds were chirping away, bracing themselves for a new day, and I? Well, I was leisurely strolling to school after weeks of being in lockdown. Much like my Year 13 peers, the biggest goal I had for 2020 was to make up for lost time while also living my last year of high to the fullest.
After being in isolation for weeks, many, including myself, have practised the habit of smiling at passing strangers. Thus, when crossing paths with a middle-aged white man en route to school, a gentle smile graced my lips to offer him a greeting. In contrast, he greeted me with a delightful, “Piss off, Asian!” yelled loudly into my ears. Then, the gentleman carried on his merry way like nothing happened.
Left astounded on the sidewalk, all kinds of emotions flooded through me, ranging from confusion to hurt and anger. Funnily enough, the only emotion missing from this encounter was surprise. What happened right there is, sadly, the reality for Asians around the world, especially in the age of COVID-19.
This nightmare all started in late December 2019 when initial reports of a dangerous new virus emerged from China. How the virus first made the jump from animal to human is still unconfirmed. Yet right off the bat, the blame was put on the Chinese – and all the other Asian – people for our ‘unhygienic’ lifestyle.
Everywhere you looked in the media, the story was the same: “It's 2020 and half of the world is locked away in their houses. A quarter of the world is dead. The remaining quarter is out on the streets fighting for their freedom against the lockdown.” All this chaos because, supposedly, a woman in China decided to eat a bat… or any other reason that puts China and Asia at fault.
By early January, the media was ready to pounce on any COVID-19-related story they could. These news articles were run with or without any scientific proof. First up was the immediate attack on wet markets in Asia due to the original COVID cluster stemming from a Wuhan wet market. Though it is true that the first reported cases were from Huanan Seafood Market, Wuhan. However, according to a reliable study published on The Lancet on January 24th, the first case of COVID was not exposed to the market and had no links to any of the latter cases. This study was conducted by a group of Chinese scientists with no conflicting interests. On top of that, being published on The Lancet means that the study had to be of high credibility and is ethical as the site is one of the world’s top medical journals. Therefore, how the first case of COVID-19 was infected remains unknown, despite what the media would have us to believe.
Next, the blame was shifted onto a young Chinese woman for eating bat soup as a video of her enjoying the dish started to circulate. News articles were headlining with disgusting accusations such as; "Revolting footage shows Chinese woman eating a whole bat at a fancy restaurant as scientists link the deadly coronavirus to the flying mammals" on Daily Mail, "Coronavirus: Woman eats a whole bat in disturbing footage after outbreak linked to soup" on Mirror, and "Horror video of woman in eating bat in China" on the Chronicle. Not only do these kinds of headlines exoticize bat soup – a natural part of another culture – they also villainise it.
Indeed, the coronavirus has been linked to bats, but it has also been said and peer-reviewed by scientists that there are intermediate carriers for coronavirus between bats and humans. Additionally, this video was filmed in Palau – nowhere near China – as part of a travel show. So, bat soup could not be more falsely blamed for the pandemic.
But no matter what the alleged reason is for COVID-19, China and Asia are always the target for this blame game. It is as if the pandemic is only an excuse for the racism.
President Donald Trump and many other people around the world have taken to calling COVID-19 the Chinese Virus instead. Their justification? They believe the pandemic is China’s fault. This came as a result of the long tradition to name diseases after their original place of breakout. However, this habit has proved to be toxic because it ostracises the people and culture of the place, while also perpetuating prejudice against them.
Hence, in 2015, the World Health Organisation (WHO) came out with a new practice for naming human infectious diseases. This meant putting a rest to our toxic tradition, instead making the naming of diseases more science-based and neutral. With COVID-19, WHO named the pandemic after the characteristics of the virus – COVID meaning coronavirus infectious disease – and when it started – 2019.
Despite this, the name Chinese Virus in referral to COVID-19 is still commonly used. A big factor as to why is due to the media’s persistent racist and targeting portrayal of the pandemic. The idea that the Chinese and Asians are at fault for the whole world falling flat on its face keeps being sold on the media time after time.
Through pointing fingers and directing anger at the Asian community, racial hate crimes are now more encouraged than ever. The accusing name for the disease is only where the racism starts.
Rates of hate crimes have increased exponentially just like the number of COVID-19 cases. The Stop AAPI Hate tool, created by Asian Pacific Policy & Council (A3PC), has received more than 2500 reports of anti-Asian discrimination in America since March. We also need to take into consideration that most of the incidents usually go non-reported, as pointed out by Professor of Criminology and Criminal Justice Angela Gover. Meaning the actual number of attacks against the community would be much higher not just in America but also the rest of the world.
Social media has definitely been an outlet for publicising the hate crimes committed against the community. It gave us the chance to peak at this ugly reality beyond the ambiguous figures. Every scroll of the finger reveals a story about Asians worldwide being discriminated against, may it be physically or verbally, directly or indirectly.
Reading these stories as a human empathising with another, it was indelibly heart-shattering to see so much undeserved hurt being inflicted. The pain I felt only increased by tenfold as I related to these hate-driven incidents. I knew first-hand what being shunned on the streets felt like. The hurt and shame traumatises you. To be targeted for something you had no control over puts you in such a helpless and vulnerable position.
It broke me even further as my Asian friends had to endure the same despicable experience. A 16-year-old fellow Vietnamese girl at school, M, was assaulted in February this year. It happened when she was standing the middle of town at in the afternoon, waiting for her taxi. A group of girls approached her with dishwashing liquid then began to squirt it at her. They called her a “dirty Asian” for supposedly bringing COVID to New Zealand, which was their reason for wanting to ‘clean’ her.
“I could have died on the spot,” shared the girl, “I didn’t know what to do next, or who to call, I was just frozen. I never expected this to happen in New Zealand.” Fortunately, when she got on her taxi, the driver was kind enough to talk to her, help her report the incident to the police, and tried his best to offer her his sympathy.
My other Vietnamese friend, T, who is based in Wellington – supposedly one of the world’s most liveable cities – was also assaulted earlier this year. On his way home from work late at night, T was approached by a middle-aged white man. This man started to cough at my friend, yet he was also conflictingly yelling at T, “Get away from me! You have coronavirus.”
Shocked by the event, T took to Instagram to share his story immediately. He was visibly shaken and kept looking behind to check if that man was following him. To see T, someone who is always bubbly even when dealing with hard customers at work, charged with so much anger and distress was disheartening.
Since then, T has been more guarded and cautious in public settings. He’s also grown to be more protective of our Asian community in New Zealand. The same could be said for M, many Asians around the world, and myself. The general advice for Asians from Asians is to avoid drawing attention to yourself, keep quiet and keep away. We have started to live in fear. But for what? Why are we forced to live in the dark for something that we had no control over?
First and foremost, the virus is not race exclusive. It can and has infected any race. It just happened to originate in China. Secondly, it is unfair to use the virus as an excuse to shame Chinese/Asian culture, like what happened with the bat soup.
Let’s cast our minds back to the 2009 H1N1 pandemic that originated in America. It was identified that the H1N1 virus most likely came from pigs. Similar to how the novel coronavirus has been found to most likely come from bats. The difference between H1N1 and COVID-19 is that experts confirmed H1N1 was a result of unethical intensive pig farming in the States after doing forensic studies on the virus. Whereas, there were only rumours about bat soup and wet markets being responsible for COVID-19.
Yet interestingly with the 2009 H1N1 pandemic, there was no move to call it the American Virus even though it originated in America and it was proven that certain Americans were responsible for the virus. There was no villainising of pork and American agriculture in the news or anywhere to the extent that it is for COVID-19. This just goes to show the prominent double standard between Western and non-Western culture, specifically in the media.
The reason for this distinction brings us back to the question posed above as it answers why Asians are being targeted and marginalised. At the end of the day, it all comes down to power.
Who currently holds the power in our society? White men.
Who currently holds the power in the media? White men.
What’s the connection between our society and the media? The media provides society with information to form opinions and judgements which will be used to make decisions. These decisions will affect the lives of others from small to large scales. This means anyone who controls the media has power over society. For all time, white males have been in this position of dominance and they have been doing anything in their power to remain that way. Their main way of achieving this is to bring down minorities so that they can remain dominant.
Through pushing narratives that tear down minorities in the media, society is led to believe that minorities should be treated that way. This would then reinforce the marginalisation of minorities and reaffirm the position of dominance for the majority – white men.
With H1N1, it happened in a white-dominant country. There were no racist narratives pushed for it because it would marginalise white people. Whereas with COVID-19, it was the perfect opportunity to further oppress Asians and perpetuate that white culture is superior.
This power comes at a highly expensive cost that everyone else has to pay. Because of the racist, divisive ideologies fed to us via the media by this exclusive group of people, we have turned on each other. Humans are slandering and hurting other humans for no substantial reasons. Asians are shunned away from general society based on false rumours run by the media.
The big question is what can we do about it? Well I propose for a challenge for you, my readers.
If you are a media producer, think critically about what you’re creating and putting out into the market. What ideas are you putting out there? Is it the truth? Who does it benefit and harm? Be honest with yourself, then think would you be able to live with yourself knowing your answers? If your answer to the last question is no, what can you do to change that? Then, you make that change, so that the world can be a better place for you, and for everyone else.
If you are a media consumer, think critically about what you’re taking in. What ideas is the product trying to sell? Is it the truth? Who does it benefit and who does it harm? Dare to challenge the credibility and bias of your information by evaluating its source. If the information you've received from the media is false and causing harm, for instance the media coverage of COVID-19, dare to expose it and its producers. From doing that, you can break the cycle of vicious media content and people causing harm on false news.
Come on, people. We can all do better!
2020 was also the year in which we processed our response to the COVID-19 pandemic in many ways - including in writing.
This non-fiction example comes from Mandy Tran who was enrolled in our Year 13 English Through Written Texts course.
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