 THE LOVE EMBRACE OF THE UNIVERSE To mother, to marry, to smother, to carry, I crack and bleed for you, o wise one, as you bawl, bald as a child in my arms. Do you smell the earth? Do you smell the iron, the rain, the milk, my dear, as she weeps for us? She who made us (just as we made each other) of clay and spit now holds us lest we break. Lest we tumble into the darkness and smoke that you know so well. I crack and bleed for you, beloved, as my ring finger swells around its umbilical adornment. The sky aches like my abuela and I, like my bisabuela - I am no woman, no man, bones and blood I am. But you - three-eyed and glistening - sleep like the dead, head on my breast. 
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 I know it’s a cliche day for a proposal
When cupid wields his bow and arrow, Strikes the ones who are destined to be Entangled with a red string of fate Tying two souls, yet setting them free I know it’s stupid to hope, “Too good to be true” But yet I still yearn For a love like that too Eros and Psyche had their happy ending, Romeo and Juliette suffered But at the end of the day They still shared the greatest love, did they not? Their hearts sung with joy Though the melodies did not persist But for that moment of bliss Wouldn’t you give it all too? Oh, how I wonder, What it’s like to be truly loved, For my heart to be so full Brimming with pure serenity Glowing so bright it could burst I want a story out of fairy tales Where there’s a prince with a dark curls With a strong princess who looks frail; Somewhere in the midst of their adventures They fall in love, Ever so enamoured Their devotion like a dove Two souls forever bound, Deeper than tree roots can reach into the soil To plant their feet to their homeland Nurtured by the rich ground And when the earthly enchantment crumbles They disperse like stardust into the darkness of night But they have no worry For they will continue to dance among the stars Glowing brighter than the flurry Of a million galaxies combined I know it’s a cliche day for a proposal When couples exchange bouquets of red and kisses on nose tips blushed pink, I’ll stand to the side with a small saccharine smile And wonder, when will my turn come? Will it ever be me? How long until my prince offers me his gloved hand? Until I have my ever-after, Is there really someone out there A secret admirer Watching from afar with reverent eyes of mirth? I know it’s stupid to hope, “Too good to be true” But yet I still yearn For a love like that too  What’s your favourite love song?
Her new pieces, made of—who knows!—plastic and carbon and steel, meant to replace the blood and bone she was born with, all wired into her flesh. She was an entirely new beast, a chimaera of man and machine. The weight of her steps down the street were different, lighter, yes, but heavier too, her limbs foreign and loaded. No, not since the accident had she felt herself, she was changed, that much was clear. And surely Jax couldn’t help but see that too. They had changed, the two of them, their own routes irreparably altered. She had moped around their apartment, a thundercloud of ill humour, meaning to say I love you, thank you for staying with me, thank you, thank you but all that came out of her mouth was a mess of bitterness that tasted like bile on her tongue, and left Jax crying. She recognised her unpleasantness, undoubtedly. But her body wasn’t hers anymore, and all that cool, moulded flesh was marching her around; a puppet dangling from wired strings. What was she meant to do about it? Today, of all days, she should be able to fill that lacuna in her heart where affection was supposed to sit—but no, she couldn’t. She was hellishly tired, fuzzy with it. She’d been sleeping on the couch, and there weren’t any curtains in their living room, she’d said it didn’t bother her, and Jax said there wasn’t any point buying any, since it was just temporary. Just until she could get control of herself and stop her false parts jerking around in the night. The motor-cognitive link took a while to adjust to, that’s what everyone said. Don’t underestimate how difficult it is. Give yourself time. She didn’t want time, she wanted to be ready now, back to herself. And today—it was one of Jax’s stupid things—no, not stupid, don’t think that—all that history stuff, all the old holidays. Valentine’s Day. It was sweet in a way, but it was the last thing she felt like right now. She’d managed to slip out early to her new job—how she missed her old one—while Jax was still asleep, managed to find excuses to stay out, stay away, and the accident had turned her into a coward, too. Too scared of putting off the inevitable, but now she was dragging her sorry behind home through the dusk, and she swore she’d put a smile on her face, because today couldn’t be the day it fell apart for them. Down the street, yes, up the stairs, and then there’s just the door between her and it, her and them, together. She waited, but nothing was coming, so she twisted her keys in the lock, and stepped in with a guilty shuffle of feet. And Jax, Jax was there, smiling stupidly. Her artificial heart skipped a beat as she muttered a hello, and maybe it didn’t even sound sullen. They stepped closer and for a second she thought that they were going to kiss her, and she froze up, like a newbie in her first race, caught by the rush. But they don’t kiss her and she’s not disappointed, not at all, even if it makes her chest ache. They grabbed her hand instead—her good one, the one that’s still her—and they were saying something, but all she caught through the humming static in her ears was; “Roof.” Back out the door—she made Jax stop, so she could lock it, better safe than sorry, she didn’t listen and look where she is now—and then they went up, up, up the stairs, spilling out onto the roof. She noticed, then, the plastic bag in their hand, the logo, even as Jax lined cartons out along the roof edge. And she’s glad for the food, protein substitute and noodles in orange and ginger and soy, because she can focus on chewing, even if it all tastes like ash. Jax was quiet. They’d been quiet a lot, lately. “Look at the city,” was all they said, and look she did. This city doesn’t sleep, but it dozes, and it was coming awake with every new light that flickered like a winking eye. Hello, hello, I’m here, it was saying. She was here too, she wanted to reply, and maybe, for once, she was. Concrete under the fingers of her good hand and the candy floss layers of night falling around her. She looked over at Jax. And she got a little bit of that old spitfire courage back. She wanted—needed—to tell Jax how she felt. She had to make them understand. “Jax, I… gave up on you. On myself. On us. I let you down. I ran around trying to avoid… this. I’ve been so…distant, and I deserted you when we should have been working through this together. I needed you, but I couldn’t own up to it, decided I’d rather watch you cry than sort myself out. I never want to say goodbye to what we’ve got. I lied to you about what I was feeling, and I hurt you. Never again. Never.” She swallowed, waited for the bullet. “I’m sorry. I love you.” … “Eve,” Jax said. … And this time, when Jax moved closer, they did kiss her.  At the altar
I need to confess something I have said, quaking as twelve, fourteen, sixteen years of being devotee flutter from my hands I confess cross necklace around her delicate throat gravel in my knees she is altar He is silent I am flesh and this is to sin stained glass splintering in my eyes all colours I walk from Eden with a basket of plums  I'm allergic to chocolates and roses. I always have been. The mere idea of Valentine’s; the thought of love itself—it disgusts me. From a young age, I never understood why people have this sort of attraction, this obsession, with another being. Why? I ask. Why dedicate yourself to something so fragile, yet so temporary?
I used to laugh at the ones who held hands in the streets and the ones who whispered promises they couldn't possibly keep. "Forever," they said, as if the world hadn't proven time and time again that forever is nothing but a cruel lie. I swore I’d never be one of them. And for the longest time, I wasn’t. Then, I met her. She wasn’t extraordinary. Not in the way books and movies paint their protagonists—she didn’t have golden hair that shimmered in the sun and the piercing eyes that burned through souls—there was something else about her. A quiet kind of gravity, a pull I couldn’t explain. I told myself it was nothing. Merely a passing interest. Just a fleeting thought. But fleeting thoughts don’t carve themselves into your bones. I started seeing her everywhere. I memorized the way she moved, the rhythm of her speech and the way her fingers curled around the edge of a book. I learned what made her laugh, what made her pause and what made her sigh, as if the weight of the world was pressed against her chest. I told myself I was simply observant. Nothing more. And yet, when she wasn’t there, I searched. My eyes traced every crowd while my body tensed at the sound of her voice. The world without her felt dull, colorless and suffocating. I hated it. I hated her. I hated that she made me feel this way. Love was supposed to be temporary. Weak. A fleeting spark destined to die out. I had always believed this. But this new emotion was fire in my veins—a hunger that would never be satisfied. I needed her, not in the way that lovers need each other, but in the way the sea needs the moon—desperate and unrelenting—dragging itself to the shore just to be close. And then she left… It was inevitable, wasn’t it? People leave. That’s what they do. That’s what I had always known and what I had always sworn to avoid. But I couldn’t let go. Not anymore. She is everywhere. In the spaces she no longer occupies, in the air I breathe and in the silence that stretches between my thoughts. I see her in strangers and in the shadows. I see her in the way the world moves—without her. It is wrong. It is unbearable. They call this love. They say it’s beautiful. What a lie. Love is not chocolates and roses. It is not sweet, nor is it soft. It has jagged edges and empty spaces. It is learning the shape of someone’s existence, only to be left tracing ghosts in the air where they once stood. And yet—despite everything, despite knowing how it ends, despite this hollow ache she left behind, I would still do it all over again. Maybe I’m not just allergic to chocolates and roses. Maybe I was never meant for love at all.  Most Reading Challenges at St Cuthbert's have a requirement to read an award-winning book - luckily, a lot of the books that win these awards are the best books you might hope to read! Check out lists of different prizes and the books that have won them below, along with our recommendations!
The Newbery Medal for Fiction We have a list of Newbery Winners here that you can peruse to see which ones are available at the moment. Here are some of our top recommendations! Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech - powerful, mysterious and fun story of a girl on a road trip to find her mother. Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse - a novel in verse set during the dustbowl era of the Great Depression in the United States. Criss Cross by Lynne Rae Perkins - a story that tells many stories in one, exploring the way our lives 'criss cross' with each other. Sounder by William H Armstrong - the story of a friendship between boy and dog after his father is sent to prison unfairly. Moon Over Manifest by Clare Vanderpool - a girl goes searching for answers in her father's hometown during the Great Depression. A great adventure/mystery. The Tale of Despereaux by Kate Di Camillo - a fantasy about a very special mouse who longs to be a knight. Dead End in Norvelt by Jack Gantos - based on true events, this very funny story follows the protagonist over a long hot summer when he is grounded and forced to help his neighbour, an obituary writer. Catherine, Called Birdy by Karen Cushman - set in 13th Century England, this is the (very funny) story of a lord's daughter who absolutely refuses to get married to the man she's been arranged to wed. Holes by Louis Sachar - a classic mystery set at a desert juvenile facility where the inmates are forced to dig holes every day. A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle - a classic fantasy about a girl determined to find her father, pursuing him through space and time. Freewater NZ Book Award for Children and Younger Readers This is the highest award a New Zealand book can receive - and we have heaps of them here at the Library! See some of them listed on this reading list (the same one as the Newbery list). For a longer rundown of past winners, click here. Here's some of our faves: 2much4u by Vince Ford - a boy takes a series of random jobs to help pay his mum back after wrecking her car in this very funny award-winner! Mophead by Selina Tusitala Marsh - an awesome graphic novel about growing up Pasifika in New Zealand. Charlie Tangaroa and the Creature from the Sea by Tania Roxborogh - Cool Percy Jackson-style fantasy series about a boy who finds a mermaid washed ashore. Ockham Prize The Ockham Prize is New Zealand's most significant book award. It is a subset of the New Zealand Book Awards. We have a huge range of Ockham winners at the library - so we have a huge range of amazing New Zealand literature! Why not give these titles a go: Lioness by Emily Perkins - two women in an apartment building find themselves drawn to each other after a corruption scandal rocks one woman's husband's business. The Axeman's Carnival by Catherine Chidgey - told from the point of view of a magpie named Tama who witnesses the destruction of a marriage in this darkly funny satire. The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton - this massive but incredible book is set in the early colonial days of New Zealand. The Big Music by Kirsty Gunn - the story of a dying man trying to create one last great piece of music. Tū by Patricia Grace - the story of three Māori men who return from war and the secrets they keep. Nobel Literature Prize Unlike other awards, this prize is given to a person's overall output, rather than a specific title. Treat this list like a recommendation to go and explore what the winning authors have to offer. Man Booker Prize One of the most esteemed prizes a book can receive, the list of Man Booker winners reads like a list of the greatest books written this and last century. We can recommend: Prophet Song by Paul Lynch - With Ireland controlled by a fascist government, a group of rebels must choose between family and freedom. Shuggie Bain by Douglas Stuart - A heartbreaking story of addiction, sexuality and love from the point of view of an Irish working class family. Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders - When the son of President Abraham Lincoln dies, he is sent to a Purgatory-like space where he watches his family grieve. Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel - thought by some to be the greatest book of the 21st Century so far, this book chronicles the rise to power of Thomas Cromwell in the 15th Century, who became advisor to King Henry VIII. The Life of Pi by Yann Martel - a young Indian boy survives a shipwreck, floating on the ocean in a life raft along with a tiger from his family's zoo. The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy - a pair of twins have their lives thrown into chaos during India's 'Love Laws' period in this indictment of the caste system and colonialism in India. Check out the list of nominees for this year's prize! Currently we have Percival Everett's James in the library, along with several others! Pulitzer Prize Possibly the highest honour a book can receive, the Pulitzer Prize has been given to many of the most important books of the 20th and 21st Centuries. You've probably heard of many of them! Some of our recommendations include: The Nickel Boys - Powerful drama about two boys living at an infamously brutal boarding school during the Segregation era in the USA. Demon Copperhead - a thrilling modern-day update of Charles Dickens' David Copperfield. All the Light We Cannot See - wartime drama set in France during the invasion of Nazi Germany. The Road - haunting post-apocalyptic story that follows a father and son as they try to survive a broken world. Beloved - Toni Morrison's classic story of a dysfunctional family of freed slaves in the post-Civil War Era, whose house is haunted. To Kill a Mockingbird - One of the most beloved books of the 20th Century, Harper Lee's book discusses racism from the point of view of a young girl in a small Southern American town. The Old Man and the Sea - Ernest Hemingway's simple but profound novella tells the story of an old man trying to catch a giant fish, but is about so much more. The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck's astonishing account of a family who must pack up all their belongings and head West during the Great Depression. Check out the winners of this year's Pulitzers here. Carnegie Medal Much like the Newbery Medal, the UK-based Carnegie Medal awards the best in children's and young adult literature. If you can't find a good Newbery winner, you might want to talk to your teacher about whether a Carnegie winner might be okay to read instead. Here are some favourites of ours: October October - an eleven year old girl who lives a solitary life with her father in the wilderness finds her life changing after she rescues an owl and her mother comes home. Look Both Ways - ten stories about ten different young adults as they walk home from school. It's weirder than it sounds! The Poet X - a frustrated teen in Harlem, New York, learns to pour her angst and pain into her poetry. One - the heartbreaking story of a pair of conjoined twins who must face the possibility of being separated. Told in verse. A Monster Calls - a boy grieving the loss of his mother wakes up one night to find a giant monster looking in his window. Northern Lights - this classic Philip Pullman fantasy tells of an alternative world where your soul lives outside of your body and inter-dimensional travel is possible.  A vivid story of death and the loss of innocence by Valencia Santhara.
By Valencia Santhara The attic was spectral and cavernous. Moonlight shone through the cracked stained glass, casting dark blue and red shadows on the wooden canvas of the floor. The pock-marked and battered eaves stretched upward towards the rounded roof, which caved into the centre space to reveal a forgotten, broken, dusty dollhouse. I crept towards it, careful to not wake those slumbering below and lifted the hatch. Metal creaked, grown rusty with age, as I forced the old hinge open. As I peered inside at the jumbled heaps of discarded, tiny furniture, my gaze focussed on a crumpled photo, carelessly discarded on the top of a miniature bed. Two faded, young faces beamed at me from the background of a children’s colourful playground. Memories came pouring back of Matthew and I. It seemed like a lifetime ago when there had been the two of us together. The playground was our ocean. We would swirl in the massive dark, broiling sea of the spongy astroturf. A brightly painted boat suspended on poles was our vessel. It would creak and groan, swinging on its chains making us feel as if it was on the verge of capsizing. Young children would pull on metal stays in a futile attempt to keep the deck upright, as others playfully pushed their fellow crew into the black vault of the ocean’s bodice. We imagined waves, white and frothy, thrashing against the gaudily painted portholes of the lower deck. It was always best in a storm. When the wind roared and howled, it felt like an angry beast was lashing at us wildly, threatening to rip a child free and send them whirling into the vortex. But of course, we were never allowed outside then; we would be scooped up by the harried teachers and rushed back inside. Matthew, otherworldly Matthew. He always seemed unfazed by the imminent danger as he leaned into the winds battering his tiny body. Even as electrified strands of lightning forked through the darkened sky, even when the young trees strained and bent almost to breaking point, and even when the rain drove sideways in a frenzy of rage. He would stand, young and free. His hair was wild, his black eyes alive, and his mouth split into a grin of pure delight. We would play games on our boat on the high seas. Imagining sea monsters lurking beneath us. Something was coming, quiet but deadly. Something was there, humming and gliding. Something was coming. We would scream and shout imagining colossal, scale-like fins piercing through the ocean’s surface. We would dart and cower from imaginary fangs that gleamed ghostly white and great curved wings which towered above us. The wicked serpent was our bounty. The sea dragon. The sound of our shrill shrieks would pierce through the oppressive humidity. We answered his battle cry with our own spears, our puny sticks held upright in the air. One. His neck would rear up. Two. We’d load our weapons. Three. He’d charge at us and we would respond by firing our lethal array of weaponry against him. Tiny, sharp stones. Matthew was our brave captain, he’d steadily manoeuvre his boat weaving through the assault outwitting its predator. The air would be heavy with the jubilant shouts of excited children, united, as the boat cleaved through the deep blue towards the sea dragon, intent on deeply gouging his vulnerable belly. We were too naive, our hearts and minds fixated on childish desires - games, make-belief and imagination. She stared at us darkly with a malicious leer. I can vividly remember where I was when my father came to me that day. I was playing with my doll house, rearranging the furniture in the miniature rooms to fit my ever-expanding collection. A plane had crashed, he told me. There were no survivors. It was a Malaysian Airlines aircraft flying from the Netherlands destined for Malaysia, both countries at peace. It ended over Ukraine, a nation torn in two, ripped from the air by a jet shot out of the sky, most likely by Russian-backed separatist rebels in eastern Ukraine. On that ill-fated morning, 298 people tumbled from the sky. Innocent victims. Matthew was one of the 298 victims that day. Everything went dark and cold. Children are not supposed to know about death’s embrace, how she can prey on the innocent, always only a breath away. I often wonder if I made the most of my time with dear, sweet, brave Matthew. I was always thinking of what game to play next, what lay ahead in our future, unaware of how easily life can be taken away from us, so randomly, so cruelly. I look back on those bittersweet times fondly and know that even though Matthew isn’t here today, he lives on in those memories eternally.  Told from the perspective of a dog, this short story by Estelle Lee is about a whole lot more than just the day-to-day life of a beloved pooch.
By Estelle Lee My name is Pax. I live with my Mum and Becca in a green-coloured house. I like to eat kibble and beans and broccoli and above all, things I’m not allowed to. I like greasy paper bags and chicken scraps. I steal them when my mum isn’t looking when we go outside. I go out and snatch them, and when she tries to snatch them back I tell her off. That’s one of the reasons I like to go outside. When it rains, I don’t go out even though I love the taste of the brown-flavoured paper and the white-flavoured chicken. When I was little I remember trying to walk to Becca, who was floating in a clear blue pool, and falling in. That was the day I learnt what water was. Becca saved me, but I was grumpy. She picked me up and dried me off and laughed, but even now, I still don’t like the wet. As long as I stay dry I am happy. Now that’s all water under the bridge. Since then I have done lots of things. I went to school and did well. I came second place in a competition only by one or two seconds, so it doesn’t count. I basically came first. Since graduation, I’ve been enjoying my life. I am very social. My favourite hobby is gossip. I go outside in my garden and listen as hard as I can. When I hear someone yell far away, I like to yell back. When people walk by, I defend my home just in case they want to come in. My Mum says that I have a fearsome shout that scares away young children which I'm very proud of. While I scare off potential intruders, I am really very friendly. I like to say hello to them every morning in the park. There is Albus who has big white fluffy hair, and Ollie, who is bald and wears jumpers. We talk a lot before our parents yank us away from each other. We are best friends. While I have heaps of friends, I have one arch nemesis. Grey lives on the house diagonally from ours. He is awful. He is quiet and lives in his neat house with his quiet parents and their quiet baby. I am loud so we do not get along. Sometimes when I am shouting early in the morning or late at night Mr Grey walks over to my house. He tells me off in a stern voice, sometimes with a few very naughty words, and then talks to my Mum. He makes her roll her eyes when he leaves. Greyhound’s neatness annoys me the most. He is always freshly trimmed and his hair is never grotty or matted like mine. It’s not natural to be so clean. On the other hand, I think I need a haircut more often. Often my hair will grow so long it covers my eyes and I can barely see anything at all. When that happens I like to run in circles very fast around my house. That way, my hair flies back with the wind and I can see again. When my hair is long, I get tangled in bushes and I have to bring gifts wrapped up in my fur which Becca cuts out for me. Becca hates the rain for a different reason, and not because she fell into a pool when she was little like me. She hates the rain because she has to brush out my matted hair and wipe down my muddy feet after a rain shower. I pretend to hate my hair brushes, but I secretly wait for her to sit down with me and brush out my tangles. I wonder what Becca used to do before she brushed my hair in the evenings. When I was very young, Becca seemed quite old. As I've gotten older, she's stayed almost the same except for her growing a bit taller. Sometimes Becca comes to me and she is sad. Her eyes get watery and big drops fall onto her face like rain. Sometimes she worries about school, or her friends, or our family. Sometimes, she worries about me. When she worries about me, she asks me what she will do without me? I tell her that she shouldn’t talk about things like that. She is still sad after. She thinks I haven't noticed that I'm getting older faster than she is. I know I won't be here forever, but I will always be by her side. I can't control how long I live, but I can control what I do. I want to make her happy and see her sunny smile every day. After I go, I don’t know what I will do or where I will go. I do know there will be no more Mum, no more Becca and no more green-coloured house. I know that Becca will rain for a long long time when that happens. I hate the rain but it is a small mercy that I won’t be there to see it. I will be there for the last day of hot sun.  In this moving essay, Maya Ng reflects on the differences in disciplining children between New Zealand and her home country of Malaysia.
Essay by Maya Ng During the first Margin meeting, where everyone took part and placed their ideas, a member of us raised her hand and said two words that sent me back to five years ago. “Cultural Shock” As an immigrant, I’ve had a handful of experiences. Ranging from wearing shoes indoors, to people walking barefoot in public. I still can’t wrap my head around that culture, it continues to make no sense. While everyone in that room chittered and chattered away, I still felt like I was alone. Think back to when you were in primary. What was one of your greatest fears in school? Sure, cooties were a big thing then, but for me it was - well, school. Back in early 2017, after the Chinese New Year holidays in Malaysia, I had forgotten to bring my maths worksheet. It was left on the dining table where I rushed to complete it that morning. The consequences were fatal. The teacher wasn’t just not happy, she was absolutely furious. It was to the point where she screamed, threw my desk and bag out of the class. The chair struck my thigh in the middle of her tantrum. She roared at me, hand gripping the slender rattan, I knew what would be coming. 5 slashes on the back of the hand, 45 on the palm. A total of 50 slashes altogether. This was “discipline”. Not those where it's one or two or ten - this was the real deal, and there was no way out of that. Caning was a common use of “discipline” back in Malaysia, that was how I was brought up. While I disagree that adult figures should cane children, it was what I knew. Didn’t bring your homework? Caned. Late to class? Caned. Humming to yourself but you’re bad at singing? Caned. I learnt many things about caning over the five primary school years. A harder rattan doesn’t hurt as much as a flexible one, make sure that the stick hits below your fingers - or you can’t write for the rest of the weekFlexible rattans with rubber bands tied at the tip were basically your doom. Instead of talking about the recent Power Rangers episode, or who got their parents to deliver their lunch during break time, it was which teacher caned the hardest. My childhood consisted of canning to the point it wasn’t the cane I feared, but who held it. Arriving in New Zealand schools was basically stepping into Wonderland. Clean streets, rare sights of drains, actual trees, less motorcycles, and shepherd pie. But, something was off in the school. Something I didn’t understand or believe. There were no “discipline” methods: no canes or rulers to be “disciplined” by. There were no conversations on who caned hardest, but rather the recent video of DanTDM on YouTube. Nobody watched Power Rangers here. I expected our principal to walk around the school with a cane in his hand, but that didn’t happen either. The only day that I had seen a cane was on the day we learnt about the Victorian School Era, about writing on slates, using charcoal pencils, and being caned. A lot of my classmates seem to have found it amusing, I remember one of the girls whispered into my ear. “I really want to be caned just to know how it feels like.” It must have struck a chord in me, because I was fairly upset about her comment. To them it probably still remained an unsolved mystery. During this time of writing, as I’m nearing the end of my school years and preparing for university, I wondered how I pulled through in the end. How common high school mishaps like not being invited to parties, break ups, falling out of friendships, attempting to send the “photos”, had little to no effect on me. I realised that caning gifted my stoic nature, a habit of suppressing my opinion and emotions. It built an instinct that the consequence of failing would result in my hand caned. I’m quite open to discuss my experience being caned, in a certain way it’s nostalgic, but it brings back bittersweet memories. With the lack of coverage on this issue, I sometimes feel like my experience was nothing but a daydream, a horrible nightmare, or in between.   Special Report by the Margin Team On the 19th of June, 62 Pacifica girls and boys - from years 11 to 13 - had the privilege of attending Fono, consisting of students from St Cuthbert’s College and Dilworth. Fono is an event that happens annually, wth the year 12 and 13 students organising the event. Their work is supported by various teachers from both schools. The organisation of this event is vital. A major decision is the theme, as this is the core focus of the event. This year's theme was Tauhi Vā. Tauhi Vā is one of the four Tongan values. Tauhi means to care for or nurture, and Vā means the spaces between things or people. Combined, this means to nurture and care for the relationships between people. The theme took inspiration from the relationships between students from Dilworth and St Cuthbert’s. The Fono leadership team expressed their reasoning for this theme and their motive, being to connect and create relationships between both schools. This was further encouraged by the Fono leadership team. On the day, they had stated “Please use this opportunity to make connections (...) and remember this year's theme”. Fono is made up of a series of speakers, this year having four. Efeso Collins was the first speaker for Fono. Efeso Collins is a New Zealand politician, of Samoan heritage. During his speech, he focused on the importance of Tauhi Vā to him; This was his family, as they are an important relationship in his life. The second speaker, Graham Tipene, emphasised the importance of Tauhi Vā. Graham Tipene is a Maori artist, and much of his artwork is displayed across Tamaki Makaurau. Graham Tipene's speech emphasised the importance of keeping and nurturing healthy relationships. Sulu Fitzpatrick is of Samoan heritage and is a St. Cuthbert's Old Girl. She is a Netball player for the Northern Mystics, and was the third speaker. Sulu Fitzpatrick's story of losing herself encompassed the importance of Tauhi Vā. The final speaker at Fono was Sekope Kepu. Sekope Kepu is an Australian rugby player and the captain for Moana Pasifika. His speech focused on the importance of Tauhi Vā in his career, especially as a captain. Throughout Sekope Kepu's speech, he displayed the value of Tauhi Vā in a team environment and as a leader. One student particularly enjoyed the speakers, especially Efesso Collins' speech, stating, “I thought he was going to talk about politics and his job, (...) he talked about his sacred Tauhi Vā which was his family”. The day ended with many activities. This allowed students from St. Cuthbert’s College and Dilworth to create inter-school relationships. The main activities included a dance competition, followed by a workshop done with Action Education. One of the participating students from St. Cuthbert’s College stated, “It was something new to me, and it was a good experience”. Many students appreciated the purpose of the day. In the words of another student, "It was something I really enjoyed and I would do it again". Photos all courtesy of the STCC student photography team  |
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