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English 20-2Conflict and Identity

Conflict and IdentityThematic Unit

How do the conflicts that we face help shape who we are?

Name: ____________________Text Study Booklet

English 20-2


“The Sea Devil” by Arthur Gordon

The man came out of the house and stood quite still, listening. Behind him, the lights glowed in the cheerful room, the books were neat and orderly in their cases, the radio talked importantly to itself. In front of him, the bay stretched dark and silent, one of the countless lagoons that border the coast where Florida thrusts its great green thumb into the tropics.

It was late in September. The night was breathless; summer's dead hand still lay heavy on the land. The man moved forward six paces and stood on the sea wall. The tide was beginning to ebb.

Somewhere out in the blackness a mullet jumped and fell back with a sullen splash. Heavy with roe, they were jumping less often, now. They would not take a hook, but a practiced eye could see the swirls they made in the


glassy water. In the dark of the moon, a skilled man with a cast net might take half a dozen in an hour's work. And a big mullet makes a meal for a family.

The man turned abruptly and went into the garage, where his cast net hung. He was in his late 20s, wide-shouldered, and strong. He did not have to fish for a living, or even for food. He was a man who worked with his head, not with his hands. But he liked to go casting alone at night.

He liked the loneliness and the labor of it. He liked the clean taste of salt when he gripped the edge of the net with his teeth as a cast netter must. He liked the arching flight of sixteen pounds of lead and linen against the starlight, and the weltering crash of the net into the unsuspecting water. He liked the harsh tug of the retrieving rope around his wrist, and the way the net came alive when the cast was true, and the thud of captured fish on the floorboards of the skiff.

He liked all that because he found in it a reality that seemed to be missing from his 20th century job and from his daily life. He liked being the hunter, skilled and solitary and elemental. There was no conscious cruelty in the way he felt. It was the way things had been in the beginning.

The man lifted the net down carefully and lowered it into a bucket. He put a paddle beside the bucket. Then he went into the house. When he came out, he was wearing swimming trunks and a pair of old tennis shoes. Nothing else.

The skiff, flat-bottomed, was moored off the sea wall. He would not go far, he told himself. Just to the tumbledown dock half a mile away. Mullet had a way of feeding around old pilings after dark. If he moved quietly, he might pick up two or three in one cast close to the dock. And maybe a couple of others on the way down or back.

He shoved off and stood motionless for a moment, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. Somewhere out in the channel a porpoise blew with a sound like steam escaping. The man smiled a little; porpoises were his friends. Once, fishing in the Gulf, he had seen the charter-boat captain reach overside and gaff a baby porpoise through the sinewy part of the tail. He had hoisted it aboard, had dropped it into the bait well, where it thrashed around, puzzled and unhappy. And the mother had swum alongside the boat and under the boat and around the boat, nudging the stout planking with her back, slapping it with her tail, until the man felt sorry for her and made the captain let the baby porpoise go.

He took the net from the bucket, slipped the noose in the retrieving rope over his wrist, pulled the slipknot tight. It was an old net, but still serviceable; he had rewoven the rents made by underwater snags. He coiled the 30-foot rope carefully, making sure there were no kinks. A tangled rope, he knew, would spoil any cast.

The basic design of the net had not changed in 3,000 years. It was a mesh circle with a diameter of fourteen feet. It measured close to fifteen yards around the circumference and could, if thrown perfectly, blanket 150 square feet of sea water. In the center of this radial trap was a small iron collar where the retrieving rope met the twenty-three separate drawstrings leading to the outer rim of the net. Along this rim, spaced an inch and a half apart, were the heavy lead sinkers.

The man raised the iron collar until it was a foot above his head. The net hung soft and pliant and deadly. He shook it gently, making sure that the drawstrings were not tangled, that the sinkers were hanging true. He eased it down and picked up the paddle.

The night was black as a witch's cat; the stars looked fuzzy and dim. Down to the southward, the lights of a causeway made a yellow necklace across the sky. To the man's left were the tangled roots of a mangrove swamp; to his right, the open waters of the bay. Most of it was fairly shallow, but there were channels eight feet deep. The man could not see the old dock, but he knew where it was. He pulled the paddle quietly through the water, and the phosphorescence glowed and died.


For five minutes he paddled. Then, twenty feet ahead of the skiff, a mullet jumped. A big fish, close to three pounds. For a moment it hung in the still air, gleaming dully. Then it vanished. But the ripples marked the spot, and where there was one there were often others.

The man stood up quickly. He picked up the coiled rope, and with the same hand grasped the net at a point four feet below the iron collar. He raised the skirt to his mouth and gripped it strongly with his teeth. He slid his free hand as far as it would go down the circumference of the net so that he had three points of contact with the mass of cordage and metal. He made sure his feet were planted solidly. Then he waited, feeling the tension that is older than the human race, the fierce exhilaration of the hunter at the moment of ambush, the atavistic desire to capture and kill and ultimately consume.

A mullet swirled, ahead and to the left. The man swung the heavy net back, twisting his body and bending his knees so as to get more upward thrust. He shot it forward, letting go simultaneously with rope hand and with teeth, holding a fraction of a second longer with the other hand so as to give the net the necessary spin, impart the centrifugal force that would make it flare into a circle. The skiff ducked sideways, but he kept his balance. The net fell with a splash.

The man waited for five seconds. Then he began to retrieve it, pulling in a series of sharp jerks so that the drawstrings would gather the net inward, like a giant fist closing on this segment of the teeming sea. He felt the net quiver, and knew it was not empty. He swung it, dripping, over the gunwale, saw the broad silver side of the mullet quivering, saw too the gleam of a smaller fish. He looked closely to make sure no stingray was hidden in the mesh, then raised the iron collar and shook the net out. The mullet fell with a thud and flapped wildly. The other victim was an angel fish, beautifully marked, but too small to keep. The man picked it up gently and dropped it overboard. He coiled the rope, took up the paddle. He would cast no more until he came to the dock.

The skiff moved on. At last, ten feet apart a pair of stakes rose up gauntly out of the night. Barnacle-encrusted, they once had marked the approach from the main channel. The man guided the skiff between them, then put the paddle down softly. He stood up, reached for the net, tightened the noose around his wrist. From here he could drift down upon the dock. He could see it now, a ruined skeleton in the starshine. Beyond it a mullet jumped and fell back with a flat, liquid sound. The man raised the edge of the net, put it between his teeth. He would not cast ata single swirl, he decided; he would wait until he saw two or three close together. The skiff was barely moving. He felt his muscles tense themselves, awaiting the signal from the brain.

Behind him in the channel he heard the porpoise blow again, nearer now. He frowned in the darkness. If the porpoise chose to fish this area, the mullet would scatter and vanish. There was no time to lose.

A school of sardines surfaced suddenly, skittering along like drops of mercury. Something, perhaps the shadow of the skiff, had frightened them. The old dock loomed very close. A mullet broke water just too far away; then another, nearer. The man marked the spreading ripples and decided to wait no longer.

He swung back the net, heavier now that it was wet. He had to turn his head, but out of the corner of his eye he saw two swirls in the black water just off the starboard bow. They were about eight feet apart, and they had the sluggish oily look that marks the presence of something big just below the surface. His conscious mind had no time to function, but instinct told him that the net was wide enough to cover both swirls if he could alter the direction of his cast. He could not halt the swing, but he shifted his feet slightly and made the cast off balance. He saw the net shoot forward, flare into an oval, and drop just where he wanted it.

Then the sea exploded in his face. In a frenzy of spray, a great horned thing shot like a huge bat out of the water. The man saw the mesh of his net etched against the mottled blackness of its body and he knew, in the split second in which thought was still possible, that those twin swirls had been made not by two mullet, but by the wing tips of the giant ray of the Gulf Coast, Manta birostris, also known as clam cracker, devil ray, sea devil.


The man gave a hoarse cry. He tried to claw the slipknot off his wrist, but there was no time. The quarter-inch line snapped taut. He shot over the side of the skiff as if he had roped a runaway locomotive. He hit the water headfirst and seemed to bounce once. He plowed a blinding furrow for perhaps ten yards. Then the line went slack as the sea devil jumped again. It was not the full-grown manta of the deep Gulf, but it was close to nine feet from tip to tip and it weighed over a thousand pounds. Up into the air it went, its pearl-colored underbelly gleaming as it twisted in a frantic effort to dislodge the clinging thing that had fallen upon it. Up into the starlight, a monstrous survival from the dawn of time.

The water was less than four feet deep. Sobbing and choking, the man struggled for a foothold on the slimy bottom. Sucking in great gulps of air, he fought to free himself from the rope. But the slipknot was jammed deep into his wrist; he might as well have tried to loosen a circle of steel.

The ray came down with a thunderous splash and drove forward again. The flexible net followed every movement, impeding it hardly at all. The man weighed 175 pounds, and he was braced for the shock, and he had the desperate strength that comes from looking into the blank eyes of death. It was useless. His arm straightened out with a jerk that seemed to dislocate his shoulder; his feet shot out from under him; his head went under again. Now at last he knew how the fish must feel when the line tightens and drags him toward the alien element that is his doom. Now he knew.

Desperately he dug the fingers of his free hand into the ooze, felt them dredge a futile channel through broken shells and the ribbon-like sea grasses. He tried to raise his head, but could not get it clear. Torrents of spray choked him as the ray plunged toward deep water.

His eyes were of no use to him in the foam-streaked blackness. He closed them tight, and at once an insane sequence of pictures flashed through his mind. He saw his wife sitting in their living room, reading, waiting calmly for his return. He saw the mullet he had just caught, gasping its life away on the floorboards of the skiff. He saw all these things and many others simultaneously in his mind as his body fought silently and tenaciously for its existence. His hand touched something hard and closed on it in a death grip, but it was only the sharpedged helmet of a horseshoe crab, and after an instant he let it go.

He had been underwater perhaps fifteen seconds now, and something in his brain told him quite calmly that he could last another forty or fifty and then the red flashes behind his eyes would merge into darkness, and the water would pour into his lungs in one sharp painful shock, and he would be finished.

This thought spurred him to a desperate effort. He reached up and caught his pinioned wrist with his free hand. He doubled up his knees to create more drag. He thrashed his body madly, like a fighting fish, from side to side. This did not disturb the ray, but now one of the great wings tore through the mesh, and the net slipped lower over the fins projecting like horns from below the nightmare head, and the sea devil jumped again.

And once more the man was able to get his feet on the bottom and his head above water, and he saw ahead of him the pair of ancient stakes that marked the approach to the channel. He knew that if he was dragged much beyond those stakes he would be in eight feet of water, and the ray would go down to hug the bottom as rays always do, and then no power on earth could save him. So in the moment of respite that was granted him, he flung himself toward them.

For a moment he thought his captor yielded a bit. Then the ray moved off again, but more slowly now, and for a few yards the man was able to keep his feet on the bottom. Twice he hurled himself back against the rope with all his strength, hoping that something would break. But nothing broke. The mesh of the net was ripped and torn, but the draw lines were strong, and the stout perimeter cord threaded through the sinkers was even stronger.


The man could feel nothing now in his trapped hand; it was numb. But the ray could feel the powerful lunges of the unknown thing that was trying to restrain it. It drove its great wings against the unyielding water and forged ahead, dragging the man and pushing a sullen wave in front of it.

The man had swung as far as he could toward the stakes. He plunged toward one and missed it by inches. His feet slipped and he went down on his knees. Then the ray swerved sharply and the second stake came right at him. He reached out with his free hand and caught it.

He caught it just above the surface, six or eight inches below high-water mark. He felt the razor-sharp barnacles bite into his hand, collapse under the pressure, drive their tiny slime-covered shell splinters deep into his flesh. He felt the pain, and he welcomed it, and he made his fingers into an iron claw that would hold until the tendons were severed or the skin was shredded from the bone. The ray felt the pressure increase with a jerk that stopped it dead in the water. For a moment all was still as the tremendous forces came into equilibrium.

Then the net slipped again, and the perimeter cord came down over the sea devil's eyes, blinding it momentarily. The great ray settled to the bottom and braced its wings against the mud and hurled itself forward and upward.

The stake was only a four-by-four of creosoted pine, and it was old. Ten thousand tides had swirled around it. Worms had bored; parasites had clung. Under the crust of barnacles it still had some heart left, but not enough. The man's grip was five feet above the floor of the bay; the leverage was too great. The stake snapped off at its base.

The ray lunged upward, dragging the man and the useless timber. The man had his lungs full of air, but when the stake snapped he thought of expelling the air and inhaling the water so as to have it finished quickly. He thought of this, but he did not do it. Then, just at the channel's edge, the ray met the porpoise, coming in.

The porpoise had fed well this night and was in no hurry, but it was a methodical creature and it intended to make a sweep around the old dock before the tide dropped too low. It had no quarrel with any ray, but it feared no fish in the sea, and when the great black shadow came rushing blindly and unavoidably, it rolled fast and struck once with its massive horizontal tail.

The blow descended on the ray's flat body with a sound like a pistol shot. It would have broken a buffalo's back, and even the sea devil was half stunned. It veered wildly and turned back toward shallow water. It passed within ten feet of the man, face down in the water. It slowed and almost stopped, wing tips moving faintly, gathering strength for another rush.

The man had heard the tremendous slap of the great mammal's tail and the snorting gasp as it plunged away. He felt the line go slack again, and he raised his dripping face, and he reached for the bottom with his feet. He found it, but now the water was up to his neck. He plucked at the noose once more with his lacerated hand, but there was no strength in his fingers. He felt the tension come back into the line as the ray began to move again, and for half a second he was tempted to throw himself backward and fight as he had been doing, pitting his strength against the vastly superior strength of the brute.

But the acceptance of imminent death had done something to his brain. It had driven out the fear, and with the fear had gone the panic. He could think now, and he knew with absolute certainty that if he was to make any use of this last chance that had been given him, it would have to be based on the one faculty that had carried man to his pre-eminence above all beasts, the faculty of reason. Only by using his brain could he possibly survive, and he called on his brain for a solution, and his brain responded. It offered him one.

He did not know whether his body still had the strength to carry out the brain's commands, but he began to swim forward, toward the ray that was still moving hesitantly away from the channel. He swam forward, feeling the rope go slack as he gained on the creature.


Ahead of him he saw the one remaining stake, and he made himself swim faster until he was parallel with the ray and the rope trailed behind both of them in a deep U. He swam with a surge of desperate energy that came from nowhere so that he was slightly in the lead as they came to the stake. He passed on one side of it; the ray was on the other.

Then the man took one last deep breath, and he went down under the black water until he was sitting on the bottom of the bay. He put one foot over the line so that it passed under his bent knee. He drove both his heels into the mud, and he clutched the slimy grass with his bleeding hand, and he waited for the tension to come again.

The ray passed on the other side of the stake, moving faster now. The rope grew taut again, and it began to drag the man back toward the stake. He held his prisoned wrist close to the bottom, under his knee, and he prayed that the stake would not break. He felt the rope vibrate as the barnacles bit into it. He did not know whether the rope would crush the barnacles, or whether the barnacles would cut the rope. All he knew was that in five seconds or less he would be dragged into the stake and cut to ribbons if he tried to hold on, or drowned if he didn't.

He felt himself sliding slowly, and then faster, and suddenly the ray made a great leap forward, and the rope burned around the base of the stake, and the man's foot hit it hard. He kicked himself backward with his remaining strength, and the rope parted, and he was free.

He came slowly to the surface. Thirty feet away the sea devil made one tremendous leap and disappeared into the darkness. The man raised his wrist and looked at the frayed length of rope dangling from it. Twenty inches, perhaps. He lifted his other hand and felt the hot blood start instantly, but he didn't care. He put this hand on the stake above the barnacles and held on to the good rough, honest wood. He heard a strange noise, and realized that it was himself, sobbing.

High above, there was a droning sound, and looking up he saw the nightly plane from New Orleans inbound for Tampa. Calm and serene, it sailed, a symbol of man's proud mastery over nature. Its lights winked red and green for a moment; then it was gone.

Slowly, painfully, the man began to move through the placid water. He came to the skiff at last and climbed into it. The mullet, still alive, slapped convulsively with its tail. The man reached down with his torn hand, picked up the mullet, let it go.

He began to work on the slipknot doggedly with his teeth. His mind was almost a blank, but not quite. He knew one thing. He knew he would do no more casting alone at night. Not in the dark of the moon. No, not he.

COPYRIGHT 1988 Saturday Evening Post Society COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group

Name: ________________

“The Sea Devil”by Arthur Gordon

Before Reading: Making Predictions

Make a prediction. What do you think this story will be about?


During ReadingWrite down 5 key words or ideas that come to mind as you read through “The Sea Devil”

After Reading Provide a 10 Word Sentence Summary of “The Sea Devil” that captures the BIG IDEA of the story (This is NOT just a plot summary. Think of the meaning or lesson of the story).

Student-Created Inquiry QuestionsWhat do you still want to know? What did the story make you think about?

Create 2 questions that you have after reading “The Sea Devil”These questions must be open-ended so that they can result in good discussions with your group.

Question #1


Response After Discussion with Group

Question #2

Response After Discussion with Group

Name: ___________

War Poetry

“Aftermath”

by Private Frank WalkerParaphrased Version

Write, in your own words, what the poem on the left is saying.


With Desolation and the StarsI lonely vigil keep,Over the garner'd fields of Mars,Watching the dead men sleep —Huddled together, so silent there.With bloodless faces and clotted hair, Wrapped in their long, long sleep!

By uptorn trees and crater rimsAlong the Ridge they lie,Sprawled in the mud, with out-spread limbs,Wide staring at the sky.Why to the sky do they always stare,Questioning heaven in dumb despair?Why don't they moan, or sigh?

Why do I rave, ‘neath the callous stars,At their upturned faces white?I, surely I, with my crimson scarsSlumber with them this night!Death, with shadowy finger bare,Beckons me on to — I know not where;But, huddled together, and freed from careWe'll watch till the dawn of Light.

From the Somme,1916

Describe the mood of this poem:

Provide 2 lines from the poem that give the poem this mood, and describe why the lines help create the mood.

Choose ONE of the following:

Option #1: Letter

a) Write a letter from the perspective of a soldier during battle.b) Write a letter from the perspective of a family member whose relative is away at war.

Option #2: Poem

Paraphrased VersionWrite, in your own words, what the poem on the left is saying.


a) Write a poem from the perspective of a soldier during battle.b) Write a poem from the perspective of a family member whose relative is away at war.

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Name: ____________________Date: _____________________

POETRY

Read through the following poems, and complete the questions for each poem.


#1

“Complainers” by Rudy Francisco

The following are true stories.

May 26th 2003 Aron Ralston was hiking, a boulder fell on his right hand. He waited four days, then amputated his arm with a pocket knife.

On New Year’s Eve, a woman was bungee jumping in Zimbabwe. The cord broke, she then fell into a river and had to swim back to land in crocodile infested waters with a broken collarbone.

Claire Champlin was smashed in the face by a five pound watermelon being propelled by a slingshot.

Matthew Brobst was hit by a javelin.

David Striegl was punched in the mouth. By a kangaroo.

The most amazing part about these stories is when asked about the experience they all smiled, shrugged, and said “I guess things could have been worse.”

So go ahead.

Tell me that you’re having a bad day.

Tell me about the traffic. Tell me about your boss. Tell me about the job you’ve been trying to quit for the past four years. Tell me the morning is just a town house burning to the ground and the snooze button is a fire extinguisher. Tell me the alarm clock stole the keys to your smile, drove it into 7:00 AM, and the crash totaled your happiness.

Tell me! Tell me!

Tell me, how blessed are we to have tragedies so small it can fit on the tips of our tongues?

You see, when Evan lost his legs he was speechless. When my cousin was assaulted, she didn’t speak for forty eight hours. When my uncle was murdered, we had to send out a search party to find my father’s voice.

Most people have no idea that tragedy and silence have the exact same address.


When your day is a museum of disappointments hanging from events that were outside of your control, when you find yourself flailing in an ocean of “Why is this happening to me?”, when it feels like your guardian angel put in his two week notice two months ago and just decided not to tell you, when it feels like God is just a babysitter that’s always on the phone, when you get punched in the esophagus by a fistful of life, remember that every year two million people die of dehydration so it doesn’t matter if the glass is half full or half empty, there’s water in the cup.

Drink it, and stop complaining.

Muscle is created by repeatedly lifting things that have been designed to weigh us down. So when your shoulders feel heavy, stand up straight and lift your chin – call it exercise. When the world crumbles around you, you have to look at the wreckage and then build a new one out of the pieces that are still here.

Remember, you are still here.

The human heart beats approximately four thousand times per hour.

Each pulse, each throb, each palpitation is a trophy engraved with the words “You are still alive”.

You are still alive.

Act like it.

Questions about “Complainers”1) Describe the tone at the beginning of the poem

2) Identify the line(s) where the tone changes. What is the new tone?

3) Describe the tone at the end of the poem


4) Select 2 lines from the poem that stand out to you. Describe why you selected these lines, and provide your interpretation of what you think the lines mean.

a)

b)

5) a) What do you think is the message of this poem?

b) Do you agree or disagree with the message? Why or why not?

#2

“Ulysses” by Alfred Lord Tennyson


It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour’d of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’ Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use! As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail


In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’ We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Questions about “Ulysses”1. What type of conflict is present in this poem? (There may be more than one). Provide line(s) from the poem as evidence to support your response.

2. What is the speaker’s attitude about exploration? Provide specific lines from the poem as evidence to support your response. Explain the meaning of the lines that you select.


3. “I am a part of all that I have met”

a) Explain what the speaker of the poem means in this line from the poem.

b) What experiences does the speaker describe? How have the speaker’s experiences contributed to this statement? Include specific lines from the poem to help explain your response.

Name: ______________

Malala Yousafzai’s Speech at the United Nations Youth Takeover Day – July 12, 2013


“Today, it is an honour for me to be speaking again after a long time. Being here with such honourable people is a great moment in my life.

I don't know where to begin my speech. I don't know what people would be expecting me to say. But first of all, thank you to God for whom we all are equal and thank you to every person who has prayed for my fast recovery and a new life. I cannot believe how much love people have shown me. I have received thousands of good wish cards and gifts from all over the world. Thank you to all of them. Thank you to the children whose innocent words encouraged me. Thank you to my elders whose prayers strengthened me.

I would like to thank my nurses, doctors and all of the staff of the hospitals in Pakistan and the UK and the UAE government who have helped me get better and recover my strength. I fully support Mr Ban Ki-moon the Secretary-General in his Global Education First Initiative and the work of the UN Special Envoy Mr Gordon Brown. And I thank them both for the leadership they continue to give. They continue to inspire all of us to action.

Dear brothers and sisters, do remember one thing. Malala day is not my day. Today is the day of every woman, every boy and every girl who have raised their voice for their rights. There are hundreds of Human rights activists and social workers who are not only speaking for human rights, but who are struggling to achieve their goals of education, peace and equality. Thousands of people have been killed by the terrorists and millions have been injured. I am just one of them.

So here I stand... one girl among many.

I speak – not for myself, but for all girls and boys.

I raise up my voice – not so that I can shout, but so that those without a voice can be heard.

Those who have fought for their rights:

Their right to live in peace.

Their right to be treated with dignity.

Their right to equality of opportunity.

Their right to be educated.

Dear Friends, on the 9th of October 2012, the Taliban shot me on the left side of my forehead. They shot my friends too. They thought that the bullets would silence us. But they failed. And then, out of that silence came, thousands of voices. The terrorists thought that they would change our aims and stop our ambitions but nothing changed in my life except this: Weakness, fear and hopelessness died. Strength, power and courage was born. I am the same Malala. My ambitions are the same. My hopes are the same. My dreams are the same.

Dear sisters and brothers, I am not against anyone. Neither am I here to speak in terms of personal revenge against the Taliban or any other terrorists group. I am here to speak up for the right of


education of every child. I want education for the sons and the daughters of all the extremists especially the Taliban.

I do not even hate the Talib who shot me. Even if there is a gun in my hand and he stands in front of me. I would not shoot him. This is the compassion that I have learnt from Muhammad-the prophet of mercy, Jesus christ and Lord Buddha. This is the legacy of change that I have inherited from Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela and Muhammad Ali Jinnah. This is the philosophy of non-violence that I have learnt from Gandhi Jee, Bacha Khan and Mother Teresa. And this is the forgiveness that I have learnt from my mother and father. This is what my soul is telling me, be peaceful and love everyone.

Dear sisters and brothers, we realise the importance of light when we see darkness. We realise the importance of our voice when we are silenced. In the same way, when we were in Swat, the north of Pakistan, we realised the importance of pens and books when we saw the guns.

The wise saying, “The pen is mightier than sword” was true. The extremists are afraid of books and pens. The power of education frightens them. They are afraid of women. The power of the voice of women frightens them. And that is why they killed 14 innocent medical students in the recent attack in Quetta. And that is why they killed many female teachers and polio workers in Khyber Pukhtoon Khwa and FATA. That is why they are blasting schools every day. Because they were and they are afraid of change, afraid of the equality that we will bring into our society.

I remember that there was a boy in our school who was asked by a journalist, “Why are the Taliban against education?” He answered very simply. By pointing to his book he said, “A Talib doesn't know what is written inside this book.” They think that God is a tiny, little conservative being who would send girls to the hell just because of going to school. The terrorists are misusing the name of Islam and Pashtun society for their own personal benefits. Pakistan is a peace-loving democratic country. Pashtuns want education for their daughters and sons. And Islam is a religion of peace, humanity and brotherhood. Islam says that it is not only each child's right to get education, rather it is their duty and responsibility.

Honourable Secretary General, peace is necessary for education. In many parts of the world especially Pakistan and Afghanistan; terrorism, wars and conflicts stop children to go to their schools. We are really tired of these wars. Women and children are suffering in many parts of the world in many ways. In India, innocent and poor children are victims of child labour. Many schools have been destroyed in Nigeria. People in Afghanistan have been affected by the hurdles of extremism for decades. Young girls have to do domestic child labour and are forced to get married at early age. Poverty, ignorance, injustice, racism and the deprivation of basic rights are the main problems faced by both men and women.

Dear fellows, today I am focusing on women's rights and girls' education because they are suffering the most. There was a time when women social activists asked men to stand up for their rights. But, this time, we will do it by ourselves. I am not telling men to step away from speaking for women's rights rather I am focusing on women to be independent to fight for themselves.

Dear sisters and brothers, now it's time to speak up.


So today, we call upon the world leaders to change their strategic policies in favour of peace and prosperity.

We call upon the world leaders that all the peace deals must protect women and children's rights. A deal that goes against the dignity of women and their rights is unacceptable.

We call upon all governments to ensure free compulsory education for every child all over the world.

We call upon all governments to fight against terrorism and violence, to protect children from brutality and harm.

We call upon the developed nations to support the expansion of educational opportunities for girls in the developing world.

We call upon all communities to be tolerant – to reject prejudice based on cast, creed, sect, religion or gender. To ensure freedom and equality for women so that they can flourish. We cannot all succeed when half of us are held back.

We call upon our sisters around the world to be brave – to embrace the strength within themselves and realise their full potential.

Dear brothers and sisters, we want schools and education for every child's bright future. We will continue our journey to our destination of peace and education for everyone. No one can stop us. We will speak for our rights and we will bring change through our voice. We must believe in the power and the strength of our words. Our words can change the world.

Because we are all together, united for the cause of education. And if we want to achieve our goal, then let us empower ourselves with the weapon of knowledge and let us shield ourselves with unity and togetherness.

Dear brothers and sisters, we must not forget that millions of people are suffering from poverty, injustice and ignorance. We must not forget that millions of children are out of schools. We must not forget that our sisters and brothers are waiting for a bright peaceful future.

So let us wage a global struggle against illiteracy, poverty and terrorism and let us pick up our books and pens. They are our most powerful weapons.

One child, one teacher, one pen and one book can change the world.

Education is the only solution. Education First.”

1) Based on Malala Yousafzai’s speech, write a paragraph describing how Malala has responded to the challenges that she has faced in her life. Has her attitude changed after being shot by the Taliban? What does she believe in? Include references to specific challenges that she has faced as you develop your response. (5 marks)


To This Day by Shane Koyczan

When I was a kidI used to think that pork chops and karate chopswere the same thing


I thought they were both pork chopsand because my grandmother thought it was cuteand because they were my favouriteshe let me keep doing itnot really a big dealone daybefore I realized fat kids are not designed to climb treesI fell out of a treeand bruised the right side of my bodyI didn’t want to tell my grandmother about itbecause I was afraid I’d get in troublefor playing somewhere that I shouldn’t have beena few days later the gym teacher noticed the bruiseand I got sent to the principal’s officefrom there I was sent to another small roomwith a really nice ladywho asked me all kinds of questionsabout my life at homeI saw no reason to lieas far as I was concernedlife was pretty goodI told her “whenever I’m sadmy grandmother gives me karate chops”this led to a full scale investigationand I was removed from the house for three daysuntil they finally decided to ask how I got the bruisesnews of this silly little story quickly spread through the schooland I earned my first nicknamepork chopto this dayI hate pork chops

I’m not the only kidwho grew up this waysurrounded by people who used to saythat rhyme about sticks and stonesas if broken boneshurt more than the names we got calledand we got called them allso we grew up believing no onewould ever fall in love with usthat we’d be lonely foreverthat we’d never meet someoneto make us feel like the sunwas something they built for usin their tool shedso broken heart strings bled the bluesas we tried to empty ourselves


so we would feel nothingdon’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bonethat an ingrown lifeis something surgeons can cut awaythat there’s no way for it to metastasizeit does

she was eight years oldour first day of grade threewhen she got called uglywe both got moved to the back of the classso we would stop getting bombarded by spit ballsbut the school halls were a battlegroundwhere we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched daywe used to stay inside for recessbecause outside was worseoutside we’d have to rehearse running awayor learn to stay still like statues giving no clues that we were therein grade five they taped a sign to her deskthat read beware of dogto this daydespite a loving husbandshe doesn’t think she’s beautifulbecause of a birthmarkthat takes up a little less than half of her facekids used to say she looks like a wrong answerthat someone tried to erasebut couldn’t quite get the job doneand they’ll never understandthat she’s raising two kidswhose definition of beautybegins with the word mombecause they see her heartbefore they see her skinthat she’s only ever always been amazinghewas a broken branchgrafted onto a different family treeadoptedbut not because his parents opted for a different destinyhe was three when he became a mixed drinkof one part left aloneand two parts tragedystarted therapy in 8th gradehad a personality made up of tests and pillslived like the uphills were mountainsand the downhills were cliffsfour fifths suicidal


a tidal wave of anti depressantsand an adolescence of being called popperone part because of the pillsand ninety nine parts because of the crueltyhe tried to kill himself in grade tenwhen a kid who still had his mom and dadhad the audacity to tell him “get over it” as if depressionis something that can be remediedby any of the contents found in a first aid kitto this dayhe is a stick on TNT lit from both endscould describe to you in detail the way the sky bendsin the moments before it’s about to falland despite an army of friendswho all call him an inspirationhe remains a conversation piece between peoplewho can’t understandsometimes becoming drug freehas less to do with addictionand more to do with sanitywe weren’t the only kids who grew up this wayto this daykids are still being called namesthe classics werehey stupidhey spazseems like each school has an arsenal of namesgetting updated every yearand if a kid breaks in a schooland no one around chooses to heardo they make a sound?are they just the background noiseof a soundtrack stuck on repeatwhen people say things likekids can be cruel?every school was a big top circus tentand the pecking order wentfrom acrobats to lion tamersfrom clowns to carniesall of these were miles ahead of who we werewe were freakslobster claw boys and bearded ladiesodditiesjuggling depression and loneliness playing solitaire spin the bottletrying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and healbut at nightwhile the others sleptwe kept walking the tightrope


it was practiceand yeahsome of us fellbut I want to tell themthat all of thisis just debrisleftover when we finally decide to smash all the things we thoughtwe used to beand if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourselfget a better mirrorlook a little closerstare a little longerbecause there’s something inside youthat made you keep tryingdespite everyone who told you to quityou built a cast around your broken heartand signed it yourselfyou signed it“they were wrong”because maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a clickmaybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everythingmaybe you used to bring bruises and broken teethto show and tell but never toldbecause how can you hold your groundif everyone around you wants to bury you beneath ityou have to believe that they were wrongthey have to be wrongwhy else would we still be here?we grew up learning to cheer on the underdogbecause we see ourselves in themwe stem from a root planted in the beliefthat we are not what we were called we are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on a highwayand if in some way we aredon’t worrywe only got out to walk and get gaswe are graduating members from the class of we made itnot the faded echoes of voices crying outnames will never hurt meof coursethey didbut our lives will only ever alwayscontinue to bea balancing actthat has less to do with painand more to do with beauty.Name: ________________


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Christopher Nolan’s 2005 film, Batman Begins, depicts the origin of the legendary superhero, Batman. It tells the story of how events in Bruce Wayne’s life led to his development as a crime-fighting vigilante in Gotham City. As we view this film, pay close attention to the conflicts that Bruce Wayne has faced in his life, and be able to explain how Bruce Wayne’s conflicts have helped create the person that he is today.

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Questions about the film:

1) What happens to Bruce Wayne’s parents on the night of the opera?

2) Why does Bruce Wayne feel responsible for what happens to his parents?

3) How does Bruce Wayne respond to what happens to his parents? (i.e. What does he vow to do? What actions does he take?)

4) At Joe Chill's parole hearing, the judge asked if a member of the Wayne family was prepared to speak. Bruce Wayne got up and left without speaking. Why do you think he did that?


5) Explain how Bruce Wayne’s ideas about revenge and justice change from the beginning of the film to the end of the film. Why do they change?

6) In what ways does Bruce draw from his past experiences and challenges to change the present and the future?

7) How much do you think you should let your past control your future? Explain your answer.

ELA -2 Text Study Evaluation RubricThought & understanding (x2) Supporting evidence (x2)


Through marginalia and written responses, to what degree do the student’s ideas construct meaning from text and context and reflect understanding of the text and prompts?

Through marginalia and written responses, to what degree does the support provided by the student reflect understanding and appreciation of textual forms, elements and techniques; ability to connect self, text, culture and milieu; and evaluate the verisimilitude, appropriateness and significance of text?

5

…insightful and/or perceptive awareness and analysis of context

…carefully considered understanding and interpretation of content

…thorough exploration of text …comprehensive discussion of all prompts

…include purposefully chosen details (such as narrative elements, connotations, or literary techniques)

…employ precise details to make connections between elements, techniques, and connotations and self, text, and context

…engage prior knowledge to develop ideas perceptively

4

…thoughtful and/or considered awareness and analysis of context

…competent understanding and interpretation of content

…thorough exploration of text …relevant discussion of all prompts

…include relevant details (such as narrative elements, connotations, or literary techniques)

…employ specific details to make connections between elements, techniques, and connotations and self, text and context

…engage prior knowledge to develop ideas fully

3

…sufficient and/or appropriate awareness and analysis of context

…defensible but generalized understanding and interpretation of content

…reasonable exploration of text …straightforward discussion of all prompts

…include generic references to details (such as narrative elements, connotations, or literary techniques)

…employ relevant details to make connections between elements, techniques, and connotations and self, text and context

…engage prior knowledge to convey ideas

2

…incomplete and/or inconsistent awareness and analysis of context

…confused understanding and interpretation of content

…oversimplified or superficial exploration of text …vague or cursory discussion of all prompts

…include few references to the text (such as narrative elements, connotations, or literary techniques)

…may or may not reference the text or make connections between elements, techniques, and connotations and self, text and context

…does not engage prior knowledge to convey ideas

1

…trivial and/or unexplored awareness and analysis of context

…inaccurate or incomplete understanding and interpretation of content

…incomplete or absent exploration of text …minimal discussion of all prompts

…does not reference the text (narrative elements, connotations, or literary techniques) are unrelated

…references to text do not make connections between elements, techniques, and connotations and self, text and context

…does not show prior knowledge to convey ideas

Total: /20 marks

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