Posts Tagged ‘houses’

Raising money for education in Timor

October 12, 2012

Timor Leste is a young country having gained independence in 2002. As a young country it has many challenges, specifically how to finance the education of a growing population.

Mount St. Benedict is a Good Samaritan Girls College with a strong association with Sister Rita and the Our Lady of Lourdes High School in Railaco.

In June two teachers from MSB, Donna Dempsey and Anita Howard travelled to Railaco one hour south of Dili, to run an Art Program with students. What they found was a classroom of 51 students, crowded into a room with blank concrete walls and no resources. It was also soon evident that most of the students had never experienced any form of painting with brushes. They were overwhelmed and excited with the opportunity to express themselves with a range of art materials.

Mount St. Benedict is honoured to exhibit works from this community at Railaco, Timor Leste, together with artworks created by students and members of the College Community.

The exhibition will be held on Monday the 22nd October 2012 at the College, starting at 7 pm. All artworks will be available for sale on the evening with proceeds going to buy resources for the Our Lady of Lourdes Community at Railaco. Entry is by donation. Please RSVP your attendance via the College Website: www.msb.nsw.edu.au/ArtExhibition

In January Anita Howard travelled with two other teachers to Same in Timor Leste sponsored by Broken Bay and Parramatta diocese.  Through the East Timor Teacher Placement Program, teachers from the surrounding area attended an eight day English language workshop.

“I returned in February from Timor Leste with memories of teachers desperate for professional development and resources for their students. After my experience with Donna in June at Our Lady of Lourdes Community at Railaco my awareness of the educational needs in Timor Leste has intensified. I hope that with the sale of artworks at this exhibition, some much needed resources can be purchased.” Anita

Art Exhibition invitation

reflection of my past

September 20, 2012

When I think back to my days of school, I shudder with horror at how I and others were treated. We were different and our difficulties were not understood. We were often labelled as lazy, stupid and daydreamers.

We could articulate clearly with the spoken word (I was in the debating team for most of my high school years), however, when we were faced with the written word the text before us became a visual landmine. It took immense time and energy to decipher, comprehend and respond to the text.

I am in the process of writing a series of fiction for upper primary/lower high school children. One of the children will be based on me.

I would like some feedback on the following opening to one of my stories. Does it create the feelings of a child with Dyslexia.

I sit staring ahead, my chest is tight and I feel sick to the very pit of my stomach. I hear others around as if through a fog and they move around me in slow motion.

Ms Wright comes towards me with the papers in her hand.

My heart is bounding and body is trembling.

I would give anything for the next moment not to happen, never to happen again and again and again.

Ms Wright drops the papers on my desk and as they float down symbolically reflecting their lack of substance.

Ms Wright says “Ah, such a disappointment, Ann you could try and make an effort, instead of daydreaming and doodling.”

I feel every pair of eyes are looking at me and from behind hands pretending to cover mouths voices are spilling out “Ann’ so dumb”, “she even had extra time” and “how embarrassing to fail all the time”

I look down at the papers covered in red and feel my checks matching.

 I hear the bell ring and feel bodies moving past me, but I feel trapped, imprisoned in a mind that will not function as it should, as I want it to, no matter how I try.

Ms Wright packs up her books, looks at me and slowly shakes her head, then walks out the door following her students.

I look again at the papers and try and make my eyes understand the shapes they see. I look up at the doorway where the others went and wonder how they can so easily read and understand what is written.

I look again at the pages which are now becoming damp from tears that fall.

I shudder as I think of Mum and Dad’s faces when they see these papers. The money they have spent on special classes, which I hate and are just like the lessons at school, so they don’t really help.

“Stupid, the bells gone, you can go home now” says some giggling girls as they pass the doorway and see me still sitting there.

Maybe they are right and I am stupid, but there is some part of me that feels angry and knows that I am not.

 

52c

September 18, 2012

Many people are uncomfortable around people or things that are different. I have started to write a story about a house on a block, 52c. Visitors will have different experiences with this block depending on their openness. I would love some feedback on my description of this block, as this will be the prologue for each story.

52c was a place where life thrived, in its own unique way. A place so unusual that even Google maps, didn’t recognize its existence, where number 52c should have been marked there was just an absolutely empty lot.

But 52c was a block in a street like any other.

A street, where lawns were mowed, gardens clipped, paths swept and households knew what was expected; nothing would dare to be out of place and nothing was.

Except 52c, whose presence sprawls beyond the council marked boundary.

 Kids riding bikes increased their speed as they approached 52c, the raised roots of its trees sending their bikes at irregular angles. Mothers with babies crying in prams would roll the prams back and forwards over the roots, knowing but not understanding why, their babies soon fell asleep.  Even from a distance, the overhanging plants appeared alive, with their branches reaching out to touch those who dared to pause too close.

The trees of 52c provided shelter for birds, where constant treetop chatter, would drown out the noise of surrounding suburban taming machines, of lawn mowers and whipper snippers.

It was unsettling, neighbors said, things lived at 52c without boundaries of concrete and weed killer.


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