Looking back on my final years of high school, I have to admit I must have been a nightmare for my English teacher. In Year 11 and 12, I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a “model student.” I wasn’t rebellious in the typical sense; I simply refused to invest time in studying texts that didn’t resonate with me. And in our English syllabus, there were plenty that didn’t.
Take The Tree of Man by Patrick White, for example. While some found it profound, I found it dreadfully depressing, like trudging through emotional quicksand. And Tess of the d’Urbervilles? Equally exasperating. Despite the supposed literary merit of these novels, I couldn’t bring myself to see the world through their bleak lens. For me, these texts represented an obligation, not an inspiration. So, I did what any self-respecting, strong-willed teenager would do—I avoided them as much as possible.
But then there was Anne Frank. Her story moved me profoundly, and I couldn’t get enough of her writing. Here was a young girl, in the most horrifying of circumstances, expressing hope, resilience, and a love for life that defied her situation. Anne Frank’s words spoke to me in a way no other text on the syllabus could, and I absorbed every word, willingly and eagerly. If my teacher had allowed me to focus on texts like The Diary of Anne Frank, I probably would have been an easier student to manage.
Then there was Shakespeare. Although we didn’t have a choice in studying him, I tackled King Lear as a practical means to an end rather than a journey of literary discovery. I never grew to love it, but I became skilled at wielding its verses in exams. I memorised the key quotes, crafted answers that hit all the right notes, and delivered what was needed to secure a top 1% pass in English. To me, it felt like a bit of a joke—proof that academic success sometimes depends more on strategy than genuine engagement.
Reflecting on it now, I see that my teenage self was driven by a desire to find meaning in what I was learning. I wasn’t willing to fake enthusiasm for texts that felt hollow or irrelevant to my world. My teacher might have been infuriated by my selective engagement, but it was my way of honouring the power of words and stories. Only those that truly connected with me earned my dedication.
In the end, I think my journey through the HSC taught me more than a formal curriculum ever could. It showed me the importance of authenticity and the power of storytelling to capture our attention, inspire us, and help us make sense of the world. And if my teacher (Mr Howell) ever reads this—thank you for putting up with me. I may not have been the easiest student, but I left those years with a fierce appreciation for stories that resonate, and a strong resolve to find and share them in my own way.
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