Engelsk B
Studentereksamen
1. delprøve, uden hjælpemidler
kl. 09.00 - 10.00
2stx121-ENG/B-01062012
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Nedenstående rubrikker udfyldes.
Efter prøven afleveres dette hæfte med din besvarelse til en ­tilsynsførende.
2stx121-ENG/B-01062012
Skolens/kursets navn:
Elevens/kursistens navn:
Klasse/hold:
Elevens/kursistens nummer:
Elevens/kursistens underskrift:
Tilsynsførendes signatur:
Denne delprøve besvares uden brug af hjælpemidler.
Besvarelsen afleveres kl. 10.00
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Besvar opgaverne i A-D
A
Ret fejlene i følgende sætninger og forklar på dansk dine rettelser. Der er kun én
fejl i hver sætning. Skriv den korrekte sætning på linjen nedenunder.
1.This destination really live up to its reputation of being both beautiful and
­affordable.
2.They were worried about that they had not seen the cat for four days.
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3.Howard has some mentally problems that he has never dealt with.
4.Luckily became he a good and caring father.
5.Since my father lost his job at the factory, everything have gone downhill.
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6.The salesman had falled ill from a tropical disease after his holiday in Barbados.
7.
Whether a postmodern story will end happy is always an open question.
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B
Forklar kort, hvorfor der er brugt do-omskrivning i hver af de nedenstående sætninger. Skriv dit svar på dansk.
1.What time do we finish here?
2.The teacher did not listen to Gilbert.
3.I do wish you would not laugh at me, Isabel.
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C
Teksterne nedenfor er engelske børnerim. Gør kort rede for, hvad der er karakteristisk for dem med hensyn til ordvalg, emnevalg og sproglige virkemidler. Underbyg din besvarelse med eksempler fra teksterne. Skriv dit svar på dansk.
Diddle Diddle Dumpling
Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John,
Went to bed with his trousers on;
One shoe off, and one shoe on,
Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John!
Ding Dong Bell
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Ding dong bell
Pussy’s in the well
Who put her in?
Little Johnny Flynn
Who pulled her out?
Little Tommy Stout
What a naughty boy was that
Try to drown poor Pussycat,
Who ne’er did any harm
But killed all the mice
In the Farmer’s barn!
Hey Diddle Diddle
Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon.
The little dog laughed to see such fun
And the dish ran away with the spoon!
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D
Oversæt følgende sætninger til engelsk.
1.
Livet har ofte vist, at sandheden kan være grusom.
2.Under jobsamtalen sad han og kiggede nervøst ud af vinduet, fordi han følte sig
utilpas.
3.
Hånd i hånd spadserede de langs floden og nød aftensolen.
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4.
Den store rockkoncert, der fandt sted i fredags, tiltrak utrolig mange mennesker.
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Opgaven er produceret med anvendelse af kvalitetsstyringssystemet ISO 9001 og miljøledelsessystemet ISO 14001
Engelsk B
Studentereksamen
2. delprøve
kl. 09.00 - 14.00
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Answer either A or B
A
The texts in section A focus on how children should be raised. Write a paper (700-1000
words) in which you answer the following questions. Answer the questions separately.
1.Give an account of childraising principles as presented in the three texts.
2.How does A.S. Neill engage the reader in text 3? Give examples from the text.
3.Taking your starting point in one of the texts, discuss how children should be
raised.
TextsPage
1.Sophia Chua-Rubenfeld, “Why I love my strict Chinese mom”, a newspaper
report by Mandy Stadtmiller from The New York Post website, 2011 . . . . . . . . . 2
2.Kate Loveys, “Let them eat pizza: Parenting guru’s recipe for bringing up
­children”, a newspaper article from The Daily Mail website, May 16, 2011 . . . . 5
3.“Summerhill’s General Policy Statement”, an extract from A.S. Neill’s book
Summerhill – a radical approach to child rearing, 1960 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
B
Write an essay (700-1000 words) in which you analyse and interpret Debi Alper’s short
story “How Lucky You Are”. Your essay must include the following points:
- the main theme
- a characterization of Max and Ishraqi
- the way the short story is structured
- Max’s relationship with his parents
- the setting
Text.Page
Debi Alper, “How Lucky You Are”, a short story, 2010 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
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A
TEXT 1
Sophia Chua-Rubenfeld
Why I love my strict Chinese mom
18-year-old Sophia Chua-Rubenfeld says her mother’s “tough love” parenting methods raised her to be
an independent thinker who makes the most of new opportunities.
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Writer Amy Chua shocked the world with her provocative essay, “Why Chinese Mothers
are Superior,” when it appeared in the The Wall Street Journal earlier this month.
The article, excerpted from her new book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, described
“how Chinese parents raise such stereotypically successful kids.” It led with a manifesto:
“Here are some things my daughters, Sophia and Louisa, were never allowed to do:
attend a sleepover; have a playdate; be in a school play; complain about not being in a
school play; watch TV or play computer games; choose their own extracurricular activities; get any grade less than an A; not be the No. 1 student in every subject except gym
and drama; play any instrument other than the piano or violin; not play the piano or
violin.”
While Chua says she has received death threats for her comments (one critic called her
the “worst mother ever”), the question remains: What do her own children think? Now
Chua’s eldest daughter, Sophia Chua-Rubenfeld, 18, tells her side of the story exclusively
to The Post . . .
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Dear Tiger Mom,
You’ve been criticized a lot since you published your memoir, Battle Hymn of the Tiger
Mother. One problem is that some people don’t get your humor. They think you’re serious
about all this, and they assume Lulu and I are oppressed by our evil mother. That is so not
true. Every other Thursday, you take off our chains and let us play math games in the
basement.
But for real, it’s not their fault. No outsider can know what our family is really like.
They don’t hear us cracking up over each other’s jokes. They don’t see us eating our hamburgers with fried rice. They don’t know how much fun we have when the six of us – dogs
included – squeeze into one bed and argue about what movies to download from Netflix1.
I admit it: Having you as a mother was no tea party. There were some play dates I wish
I’d gone to and some piano camps I wish I’d skipped. But now that I’m 18 and about to
leave the tiger den, I’m glad you and Daddy raised me the way you did. Here’s why.
A lot of people have accused you of producing robot kids who can’t think for themselves. Well, that’s funny, because I think those people are . . . oh well, it doesn’t matter.
At any rate, I was thinking about this, and I came to the opposite conclusion: I think your
strict parenting forced me to be more independent. Early on, I decided to be an easy child
to raise. Maybe I got it from Daddy – he taught me not to care what people think and to
make my own choices – but I also decided to be who I want to be. I didn’t rebel, but I
didn’t suffer all the slings and arrows of a Tiger Mom, either. I pretty much do my own
thing these days – like building greenhouses downtown, blasting Daft Punk in the car
with Lulu and forcing my boyfriend to watch “Lord of the Rings” with me over and over
– as long as I get my piano done first.
Everybody’s talking about the birthday cards we once made for you, which you rejected because they weren’t good enough. Funny how some people are convinced that Lulu
and I are scarred for life. Maybe if I had poured my heart into it, I would have been upset.
But let’s face it: The card was feeble, and I was busted. It took me 30 seconds; I didn’t
even sharpen the pencil. That’s why, when you rejected it, I didn’t feel you were rejecting
me. If I actually tried my best at something, you’d never throw it back in my face.
I remember walking on stage for a piano competition. I was so nervous, and you whispered, “Soso, you worked as hard as you could. It doesn’t matter how you do.”
Everybody seems to think art is spontaneous. But Tiger Mom, you taught me that even
creativity takes effort. I guess I was a little different from other kids in grade school, but
who says that’s a bad thing? Maybe I was just lucky to have nice friends. They used to put
notes in my backpack that said “Good luck at the competition tomorrow! You’ll be great!”
They came to my piano recitals – mostly for the dumplings you made afterward – and I
started crying when I heard them yelling “bravo!” at Carnegie Hall2.
When I got to high school, you realized it was time to let me grow up a little. All the
girls started wearing makeup in ninth grade. I walked to CVS3 to buy some and taught
online film provider.
concert hall in New York.
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drugstore.
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myself how to use it. It wasn’t a big deal. You were surprised when I came down to dinner
wearing eyeliner, but you didn’t mind. You let me have that rite of passage.
Another criticism I keep hearing is that you’re somehow promoting tunnel vision, but
you and Daddy taught me to pursue knowledge for its own sake. In junior year, I signed
myself up for a military-history elective (yes, you let me take lots of classes besides math
and physics). One of our assignments was to interview someone who had experienced
war. I knew I could get a good grade interviewing my grandparents, whose childhood
stories about World War II I’d heard a thousand times. I mentioned it to you, and you said,
“Sophia, this is an opportunity to learn something new. You’re taking the easy way out.”
You were right, Tiger Mom. In the end, I interviewed a terrifying Israeli paratrooper
whose story changed my outlook on life. I owe that experience to you.
There’s one more thing: I think the desire to live a meaningful life is universal. To
some people, it’s working toward a goal. To others, it’s enjoying every minute of every
day. So what does it really mean to live life to the fullest? Maybe striving to win a Nobel
Prize and going skydiving are just two sides of the same coin. To me, it’s not about achievement or self-gratification. It’s about knowing that you’ve pushed yourself, body and mind,
to the limits of your own potential. You feel it when you’re sprinting, and when the piano
piece you’ve practiced for hours finally comes to life beneath your fingertips. You feel it
when you encounter a life-changing idea, and when you do something on your own that
you never thought you could. If I died tomorrow, I would die feeling I’ve lived my whole
life at 110 percent.
And for that, Tiger Mom, thank you.
Reported by Mandy Stadtmiller
(2011)
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TEXT 2
Kate Loveys
Let them eat pizza: Parenting guru’s recipe for bringing up children
Children should be allowed to eat pizza and watch more television, says a parenting guru.
Dr Bryan Caplan believes parents try too hard when bringing up their offspring and
advises a more relaxed approach.
5
He claims “investment parenting” – music lessons, organised sports and educational
games – does not make the slightest difference to children when they become adults.
Instead, the academic says, parents should “cut themselves some slack”1 and stop trying
to control every aspect of their child’s lives.
He calls for a relaxed and fun style of bringing up children dubbed “serenity parenting”
which involves parents taking a backseat role.
10
The theory will cause consternation among the growing band of so-called “tiger mothers”.
[…]
But Dr Caplan’s advice is likely to relieve the many busy parents who are often racked
with guilt over how little time they can devote to their children. […]
be less critical or less strict with somebody.
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He states: “Right now, parents are “overcharging” themselves for each kid. Parents can
sharply improve their lives without hurting their kids.
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“Nature, not nurture, explains most family resemblance, so parents can safely cut themselves a lot of additional slack.
“Quit fretting over how much TV your kids watch. Don’t force them to do a million
activities they hate. Accept that your children’s lives are shaped mostly by their genes and
their own choices, not by the sacrifices you make in hopes of turning them into successful
adults.”
He points to academic research on twins and on adopted children which found that parenting’s long-term effects range from small to zero for a wide range of outcomes such as
health and success in later life.
25
Studies also show that a child’s intelligence can be increased by parental interaction when
they are young.
But by the time they reach the age of 12 it has no effect.
(2011)
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TEXT 3
A.S. Neill1
Summerhill – a radical approach to child rearing
[General Policy Statement taken from www.summerhillschool.co.uk]
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I am not decrying learning. But learning should come after play. And learning should not
deliberately [be] seasoned with play to make it palatable. Learning is important – but not
to everyone. Nijinsky2 could not pass his school exams in St. Petersburg, and he could not
enter the State Ballet without passing those exams. He simply could not learn school subjects – his mind was elsewhere. They faked an exam for him, giving him the answers with
the papers – so a biography says. What a loss to the world if Nijinsky had really to pass
those exams!
Creators learn what they want to learn in order to have the tolls that their originality
and genius demand. We do not know how much creation is killed in the classroom with
its emphasis on learning.
I have seen a girl weep nightly over her geometry. Her mother wanted her to go to university, but the girl’s whole soul was artistic.
The notion that unless a child is learning something the child is wasting his time is
nothing less than a curse – a curse that blinds thousands of teachers and most schools
inspectors.
Classroom walls and the National Curriculum narrow the teacher’s outlook, and prevent him from seeing the true essentials of education. His work deals with the part of the
child that is above the neck and perforce, the emotional, vital part of the child is foreign
territory to him.
Indifferent scholars who, under discipline, scrape through college or university and
become unimaginative teachers, mediocre doctors and incompetent lawyers would possibly be good mechanics or excellent bricklayers or first rate policemen.
I would rather Summerhill produce a happy street sweeper than a neurotic prime minister.
In all countries, capitalist, socialist or communist, elaborate schools are built to educate
the young. But all the wonderful labs and workshops do nothing to help Jane or Peter or Ivan
surmount the emotional damage and the social evils bred by the pressure on him from his
parents, his schoolteachers and the pressure of the coercive quality of our civilisation.
The function of the child is to live his own life, not the life that his anxious parents
think he should live, nor a life according to the purpose of the educator who thinks he
knows best. All this interference and guidance on the part of adults only produces a generation of robots.
We set out to make a school in which we should allow children freedom to be themselves. In order to do this we had to renounce all discipline, all direction, all suggestion,
all moral training, all religious instruction. We have been called brave, but it did not
require courage. All it required was what we had – a complete belief in the child as a
good, not an evil, being. Since 1921 this belief in the goodness of the child has never
wavered: it rather has become a final faith.
(1960)
A.S. Neill (1883-1973) founded the Summerhill School in 1921, a progressive residential school in the UK.
famous Russian ballet dancer.
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B
Debi Alper
How Lucky You Are
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If it wasn’t for the photo on his mobile, Max would have no proof that he’d met Ishraqi in
real life. It would be easy to believe that she was just a dream. A figment of his twisted
imagination.
Max’s mum was always telling him his imagination was twisted. His teachers said that
was a good thing. Max was creative, they said. The Brit School1 in Croydon was the ideal
setting to nurture his strengths and guide him onto constructive paths. Or some such crap.
Max didn’t buy it. Okay, the Brit was a vast improvement on his old school and it was
great not to have to wear uniform. But along with the music and performing arts you still
had to do the same old boring stuff like Maths and English.
This time last year, he’d been full of enthusiasm for his new school. Until the day he
came home to find a bulging rucksack sitting in the hallway. His dad had sat him down,
explained how he felt stifled and needed to get away. He was going off travelling, to “find
himself”, he said. Max was old enough to understand.
“Look after your mum for me,” his dad had said. “She’ll be fine – probably better off
without me.”
Yeah right, Dad. That’s why I heard her crying every night for weeks after you left.
Fuck off then and if you do manage to find yourself in Thailand or wherever you are, give
yourself a kick in the bollocks from me.
Burrowing deeper under his duvet, Max squinted at the grainy image on his mobile
screen. Two teenagers, sitting side by side on a concrete wall on the concourse outside the
UK Borders Agency building in Croydon Town Centre. […]
You would think they’d known each other for ages. You would think they had a future
ahead of them.
You wouldn’t think that a moment after the photo was taken, Ishraqi would walk away
and Max would never see her again.
Closing his eyes, Max drifted back.
Dan stood at the door of the bus, glaring at Max.
“You can’t bunk off, he objected. “We’ve got a Maths assessment today.”
Max shrugged.
“Which, you twat, is the exact reason why I’m bunking off.” Dan shook his head in
disgust.
“You’re mad, y’know? You’re lucky to have a place at the Brit – and you’re just wasting
it.”
He jumped off the bus and walked away up the road.
school for performing arts and technology.
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Max sat back in his seat and planned his day. […]
Jumping off the bus, he pulled his hood down low over his eyes. […]
No sign of the rain, so he headed over to the flat expanse of concrete near the bus stop
to have a fag. There was the usual bunch of people milling round outside the vast concrete
and glass block looming up into the sky. The sign said the building was the UK Borders
Agency and there was a Union Jack fluttering above it, but Max had no idea what went on
in there. […]
Besides, Max was sixteen and was focused inwards, unaware of anyone else unless
they made a direct impact on him.
Extracting a crumpled packet containing tobacco and Rizlas1 from the pocket of his
skinny jeans, he sat down on a low wall and began the ritual of rolling the thinnest possible fag. The task was engrossing so he was only subliminally aware of the two women
hovering in front of him, the older one talking on her mobile.
It was at that moment The Wanker came onto the scene. Everyone knows the type.
Shaved head, tattoos, vicious dog, hatred of anyone they think is different … The dog was
on a long lead and his leering bullet-headed owner was letting it run among the crowd,
snarling and snapping at legs. […]
While Max was hunched oblivious, licking the adhesive strip on his rollup, the dog ran
straight for the two women in front of him, circling the older woman’s leg. As she struggled to keep balance, she grabbed hold of her companion who in turn staggered, tottered
and fell.
Onto Max’s lap.
“Oi! Watch it!” Max yelped, holding his fag up out of harm’s way.
“Sorry. Sorry,” the girl gasped.
[…] He peered up at her and decided she was fit in a shy sort of way. Not the usual goth
type he went for – her black hair looked natural for a start – but she had really nice dark
eyes.
“S’all right,” Max said with what he hoped was a winning smile.
He wriggled along the wall to make some space. […] After a moment’s hesitation, she
perched on the edge of the wall next to him.
“You bunking?” Max asked, patting his pockets for his lighter.
The girl looked shocked.
“No,” she replied. “I am here for an appointment. To this place.”
She indicated the concrete hulk behind them. Her English was good – better than many
of Max’s London-born friends – and she had an accent he thought only added to her cuteness factor.
“So what happens in this place?” he asked, not because he was particularly interested
in the building, but it was as good a conversation opener as anything else he could think
of.
“It’s part of the Home Office. […] It’s where they deal with immigration – refugees and
asylum seekers.”
paper that is used to roll handmade cigarettes.
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It wasn’t long before the three had exchanged stories. Max thought his was really boring compared to both of theirs. The older woman was called Alexsa and she had a job in
a refugee centre as a support worker. She’d originally come to England from Kosovo, as a
refugee herself. The blushing girl was Ishraqi. She had left Iran a year and a half ago, after
both her parents were arrested at an anti-government demonstration.
“You came here alone?” Max asked trying to wrap his head round what it must feel
like to be a kid and leave everything that’s familiar and everyone you know to go to a
strange country where you don’t even understand the language.
“I came here as an un-accom-panied minor,” Ishraqi said, pronouncing the words with
care and checking with Alexsa that she’d got it right. “But Alexsa found me a place to live
with an Iranian family and a school too. I learn English and next week I take my GCSEs1.”
[…]
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“So where are your parents now?” he asked.
Ishraqi shuffled her feet and it was Alexsa who replied, though not to the question he
had asked.
“Look, guys,” she said. “I’ve just been told Ishraq won’t be seen for another few hours.”
She turned to the girl. “We can wait inside.” […]
Seeing his potential diversion about to disappear inside the concrete block, Max felt a
lurch of disappointment swiftly followed by a spark of creative genius.
“Hey! I’ve got an idea,” he said. “How about Ishraqi and I hang out together?” […]
Alexsa looked dubious.
“I don’t think …” she began.
To Max’s delight, Ishraqi cut in.
“Oh, please, Alexsa. We would be careful. What could go wrong? If I stay here with
you I will just be bored and worry about the appointment…”
Alexsa gave the pair a long hard look, scrutinising Max through narrowed eyes.
“You don’t have a mobile, Ishraqi. I wouldn’t be able to contact you…”
“No worries,” Max said. “You can take my number.” […]
“Okay,” she said, though she still sounded doubtful. “But you stay in public where you
can be seen at all times, you understand? As soon as I hear her appointment’s coming up,
I’ll give you a ring.”
Max quite liked the idea of acting as a tour guide. An empty day filled with something
unexpected and different. Why not? […] Alexsa gave Ishraqi a fiver and told her to get a
sandwich or something for lunch before walking into the building and leaving them to
face the day together. […]
“I think we’ll start with an overview,” Max said to show how seriously he was taking
his role. […]
She allowed him to tow her in his wake as they ran to the tram stop and leapt on board.
Finding two seats at the back, they settled in to watch south London roll past their window.
“We’ll just take the loop round the town centre,” Max reassured her when she reminded him they mustn’t go too far.
General Certificate of Secondary Education. Svarer til 10. klasse i Danmark.
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“It’s so … grey,” she murmured peering out the window. “No trees and not even much
sky with all these buildings.”
“Oi! You dissing my country?” Max teased.
To his dismay, Ishraqi turned round, her eyes wide with horror. “Oh no!” she protested.
“That would be rude. I would never…”
“Hey, lighten up,” he said nudging her in the ribs. “I was only joking.”
Seeing she still looked agitated he decided to change the subject.
“So what’s your country like then?”
Ishraqi turned back to the window with a sigh.
“There is no future for me in my country,” she said, her voice so quiet he had to lean
over to hear her. “I do not even know where my parents are or if they are still alive.”
Max felt his stomach turn. Just that morning he’d had a huge row with his mum. She
drove him crazy with her nagging about homework and taking responsibility and all that
crap. But what if she disappeared and he didn’t know if he would ever see her again? The
thought was too awful to contemplate. Time for another change of subject.
“So what GCSEs are you taking?” […]
She listed twelve subjects and then asked what he was taking.
“As few as I can get away with,” he confessed. […]
Max had thought showing Ishraqi round for the day would be no more than an interesting diversion, but as the time passed he found he was having more fun than he’d anticipated. […]
“When I first come here to this country,” she said, “it felt so strange to be able to wear
whatever I like. I could choose if I wear a hat or not. Or jeans. Or a short skirt.”
Max looked blank so Ishraqi explained that in Iran she could never leave her home
without being covered up from head to foot. […]
“Until I came here, no one outside my family and closest girlfriends had even seen my
hair.”
It was way beyond Max’s comprehension. He searched for something sensitive and
intelligent to say and reckoned he did pretty well under the circumstances.
“Your hair is beautiful. And anyway, this is your home now,” he said pulling her closer.
To his delight, she didn’t duck away. It wasn’t a full on snog, but the kiss was sweet all
the same. […]
Just as Max was trying to decide how he could possibly top that, his mobile rang. He
squinted at the screen and didn’t recognise the number. “Is it Alexsa?” Ishraqi asked, the
disappointment evident in her voice.
It was apparently. Ishraqi would be seen shortly. They had ten minutes to get back to
the Borders Agency.
Alexsa watched the young couple walking towards her, arm in arm. Their heads were
close together and they were laughing. […] They seemed to have bonded and had a good
time. Alexsa knew the girl was blocking on the possibilities of what might happen at her
appointment and she wanted her to have a day she could remember. Just in case …
[…] Alexsa was attempting to make a special appeal on humanitarian grounds that the
girl’s life could be at risk if she was forcibly returned to Iran. […]
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Alexsa knew things could go badly wrong at this appointment and her chest tightened
as she watched the laughing couple walk towards her. […]
Max said he’d wait for them but just as they were about to go, he called them back on
impulse and asked Alexsa to take a photo on his mobile. He snuggled up to Ishraqi on the
same low wall where they had first met a few hours earlier.
Alexsa clicked the shutter. Max turned to Ishraqi and kissed her for the second time.
This time the kiss lasted a little longer and he pulled back with a reluctant pout.
“We have to go now,” Alexsa insisted, twitching from foot to foot. […]
Nearly two hours later, the lights in offices, shops and on the streets were winking on.
The buses and trams were filling with rush hour commuters. Max’s stomach growled and
he wondered what his mum would be cooking for tea. His tutor would probably have
phoned her to say he hadn’t been in, so he’d have to negotiate his way through that. He
thought about Ishraqi not knowing if her parents were alive or dead and resolved not to
argue with his mum for once. […]
Half an hour after that, he was getting cold. He jumped up from the wall and paced
round in circles […] . Fifteen minutes after that, he saw Alexsa walking out of the glass
doors.
She was alone, her eyes red, her feet dragging as if she was reluctant to leave. Max ran
over, his heart pounding.
“Where …?”
Alexsa shook her head.
“I’m sorry, Max,” she said, resting her hand on his shoulder. “They’re deporting her.
They took her out the back entrance. She’s already on her way to Tinsley House.”
“Where …?” Max said again, as though that was the only word he had access to.
“It’s an Immigration Removal Centre near Gatwick,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Max. I
didn’t expect this myself I thought we might still have a chance …”
“But … but … she’s got GCSEs next week …”
Even as he said the words, he realised how stupid they made him sound. But he didn’t
care. It was wrong. It was just wrong.
“Where will they send her?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.
“Back to Iran.” […]
“Iran?” he breathed. “Alexsa – her life could be at risk there. Surely if they knew that
they wouldn’t …”
He broke off at the pain in the woman’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Max”.
“There has to be something we can do! She’s still in the country. I’ll organise a protest
on Facebook. I’ll get people involved. […] We can stop this, Alexsa, we can … We must!”
Alexsa put her arms round Max’s thin shoulders and hugged him. He didn’t care that
he was crying or that people might be watching. He didn’t care …
“Go home, Max,” Alexsa told him. “Go home to your mother. Work hard. Take your
exams. And know always how lucky you are.”
When Max arrived home late, his mother took one look at his face and bit off the angry
lecture she had been preparing. Instead, she folded her son in her arms and waited for the
time he would be ready to talk to her.
(2010)
08/03/12 08.16
Anvendt materiale (til brug for Copydan):
Sophia Chua-Rubenfeld/Mandy Stadtmiller. “Why I love my strict Chinese mom”. The New York Post
website, January 18, 2011, viewed August 2011. (www.nypost.com)
Kate Loveys. “Let them eat pizza: Parenting guru’s recipe for bringing up children”. The Daily Mail
website, May 16, 2011, viewed August 2011. (www.dailymail.co.uk)
“Summerhill’s General Policy Statement”. A.S. Neill. Summerhill – a radical approach to child rearing.
1960. Summerhill website, viewed February 2011. (www.summerhillschool.co.uk)
Debi Alper. “How Lucky You Are”. LONDON/33 boroughs shorts. Volume 2: WEST. Eds. Bobby Nayyar
and Charlotte Judet. London: Glasshouse Books, 2010.
Image credit: Lulu Chua-Rubenfeld.
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