I Love My Parents Parents are the closest people that we have in our lives, whether we realize it or not. They love us not because we are smart, beautiful, successful or we have a good sense of humour, but just because we are their children. My mother is a cheerful, chatty perfectionist who seems to always find something to get excited about and who can talk for hours about animals and flowers.
Five years ago, I was invited to participate in a global project on climate change. The aim was to engage year-old students with the challenges posed by climate change and the increase of extreme weather events.
The students would be asked to respond to the challenge through creativity, initially through an introduction to the science underpinning climate change.
The project would culminate in an environmental youth summit at the International Literature Festival Berlin. I consider myself an innovative and engaging teacher, and looked forward to the project.
It took me only the one class to realise the challenge would be a difficult one. It also took me little time to realise that, in general, the students felt badly let down by some adults: Teenagers living in the town of Hel, a decommissioned Cold War military base on the edge of the Baltic Sea, wrote and spoke of their anger about the deaths of seals along the beachfront near their homes due to contaminated sea water.
And in London, Narrative essay parents love met kids from across the Middle East, North Africa and Eastern Europe who took photographs of the sky above street corners and demanded it be freed from poisons. I talked about country in the sense that Indigenous communities in Australia understand and experience it.
We talked about a future, shared or not shared — the latter of which leads to our further disconnection from each other and place. Finally, I asked each student a question: My students had come to believe that if we fail to care for country, it cannot care for us.
The students agreed that we must listen to those who have lived with country for thousands of years without killing it, and in order to live with a healthy planet we need to tell stories of our experience with it, and our love for it.
Stories that speak of a love of place encourage us to act ethically towards it. We must share our stories, and we must grant equal voice to the stories of others. Denialism I turned 13 in My large family was living in a crumbling terrace in a lost triangle of Collingwood, an inner suburb of Melbourne.
We were hemmed in by the Collingwood Football Ground, a railway line and goods yards, and a row of derelict 19th-century textile mills. Behind the vacant factories lay a place of hidden treasures: This section of the river would occupy my teenage years, and would provide the source of my novel, Ghost River.
A dominant theme of both the novel and my teenage memory of that time is the terrible level of neglect and vandalism the river suffered. For more than a hundred years, the Birrarung had been treated as little more than an open sewer for the noxious industries built along its western bank.
The river was also the dumping ground for the unwanted: Inthe Victorian state government came up with the idea to build a new freeway, beginning outside my front gate, stretching into the leafy eastern suburbs.
It was a plan that would destroy country. Or so claimed the glossy brochures dropped in the letterboxes of homes that would be demolished to turn a dream into reality.
Over the following 40 years, many more freeways and extensions have been built, crisscrossing and extending the infamous Melbourne sprawl — a city that has undergone more than one quadruple bypass which is yet to save the patient.
The Eastern Freeway at Hoddle St. The Merri, as equally neglected as the Birrarung, faces a daily battle against urbanisation in the form of household rubbish, chemical waste and weed infestation.
To visit the confluence today is to engage in a fiction.Narrative Essay Sample: “My First Love” It was long time ago, at the village of my grandparents.
I was 7-year-old boy and parents brought me to grandma for the whole summer. She was a 7-year-old girl, a granddaughter of my grandmother’s friend.
We lived nearby and grandmothers often visited each other. A renowned modern library of fiction, poetry, essays, and visual art by celebrated and emerging artists, provided free to readers.
Big Stories How I Met My Dead Parents.
You think you know your mother and father, who they are, and what they mean. Then they're gone and the photos and letters they leave behind tell an entirely. I needed the stability they provided, but I resented the hole I was supposed to fill in their lives.
A comprehensive, coeducational Catholic High school Diocese of Wollongong - Albion Park Act Justly, love tenderly and walk humbly with your God Micah Nov 13, · Here are student opinion questions that invite narrative and personal writing, all together in one place.