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9 11 0 0 R

Level 2 English, 2014

91100 Analyse significant aspects of unfamiliar written
text(s) through close reading, supported by evidence
9.30 am Thursday 13 November 2014
Credits: Four

RESOURCE BOOKLET
Refer to this booklet to answer the questions for English 91100.
Check that this booklet has pages 24 in the correct order and that none of these pages is blank.
YOU MAY KEEP THIS BOOKLET AT THE END OF THE EXAMINATION.

New Zealand Qualifications Authority, 2014. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced by any means without the prior permission of the New Zealand Qualifications Authority.

TEXT A: NON-FICTION
In this passage from a book review, the writer explores his response to a book about how New Zealands
identity has been created by the people who have lived here.

Review of Encounters: The Creation of a New Zealand Identity: A History

I own a house, and a small parcel of land, which I paid the current market rate for, slapbang in the middle of an old swamp. It was once known as Aglionville. Now its known as
Alicetown, after a prominent settler by the name of Alice. On first meeting me, people often
ask where I live. They need a sense of place to locate me and everyone else on their own map
of the world. Where they live in relation to me determines their status in society; it reaffirms
their own choice of location; it identifies their cultural tribe, their clique; it helps to build their
identity. And every one they meet is equally assessed. This is not a Western phenomenon.
Mori do it too. They talk about themselves in terms of where they are fromtheir mountain,
their river, their whakapapa. All of this helps to determine who we are as individuals and
where we sit in the world.
The New Zealand playwright Greg McGee had his most famous character address an aftermatch rugby function with the most profound question in all of our literature to date: What
are ya? Who are we, indeed? That question of identityreal, imagined, and desiredis
a pivotal question in historian Paul Moons new book Encounters. In it, Moon explores the
historical identity of our land and our people. Who are we, and what have we thought of
ourselves as we have journeyed through time? He looks at the Mori mythical explanations
of how this country was first settled, and the later misguided interpretations of European
academics with agendas of racial purity and Christian morality.
Later, Moon tackles the question of physical geography. New Zealands literary tradition and
its cinema of unease endlessly refer to the ways in which the land shapes us. The weather,
the sea, and the mountains all enclose and embrace us. I recently heard a comment that New
Zealanders are not tolerant in large crowds, such as two-hour queues for rides at Disneyland,
because we are so used to the sparseness of population and the vastness of open spaces. Yet
at the same time it would be difficult to move far in any town or city without encountering
the encircling hills, or meeting the ocean or having to ford a river. The land and its infinite
natural incarceration can not be escaped. Even in the densest city areas a mountain or a river
is close by and can even be seen out of the nearest window.
Encounters is the wide-ranging and gripping story of New Zealands changing national
identity, how it has emerged and evolved through generations. In this genre-busting book,
Paul Moon delves into how the many and conflicting ideas about New Zealand came into
being. What results is an absorbing piece of scholarship, an imaginative and exuberant
epic that will challenge preconceptions about what it means to be a New Zealander, and
how our country is understood. Lyrical, breathtaking and provocative, Encounters offers an
extraordinary insight into the beginnings of our country.

Glossed word
incarceration

imprisonment

Source (adapted): http://adventuresofthecoffeebarkid.blogspot.co.nz/2013/07/encounters-creation-of-new-zealand.html.

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TEXT B: POETRY
This poem depicts the pursuit and capture of an escaped horse by the person who had been riding it.

The Horse is Loose

The horse is loose. In traffic. Eyes all white, the
saddle flapping, stirrups beating.
A red ute speeds beside it. Someone half out the
window grasping for reins, she pulls
down as the horse rears next to the red, red,
truck. The horse digs in its heels. Stops. The

rider tumbles through the window. She lands on

the smallest boots. The horse, the horse
is now a tap dancer refusing to stand still, it
does a quick routine, shuffle hop step, the

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shim sham shimmy. Backwards, backwards,

back legs up onto grass, onto hill backing
away. The rider. Her helmet frames her neck,
tinier, her checks insignificant. They stand
together, jarred limb-ed, vibrating knee-ed. Both
heaving in, breath in shovelfuls.

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Glossed words
saddle
a seat attached to the back of a horse for a rider to sit in
stirrups
a pair of hoops attached to either side of the saddle for a rider to put their feet in
reins
a loop or strap that a rider holds on to in order to guide or control their horse
Source: Emma Barnes, The Horse is Loose, found on http://stillcraic.blogspot.co.nz/2012/07/tuesday-poem-horse-is
-loose-by-emma.html.

TEXT C: FICTION
This piece of short fiction portrays the experience of a person with a condition that has affected their
physical ability.

Its for Your Own Good

You take another step forward, savouring the feel of the grass beneath your feet. Your mother
reaches out for your hand to steady you, but you look at her, triumphant.
Youre doing well today, she says. You want to see if you can make it to the bench?
You look at the ground, concentrating with all your will to move each leg forward, commanding
your wasted muscles to follow your instructions. Your balance wavers; the ground beneath
you feeling like quicksand, but your mother holds you steady when it looks like you might
fall.
You pause for a minute to catch your breath, and you see Mr Arbuckle and his wife sitting in
their car. Mrs Arbuckles head is tilted sideways as always; the angle so unnatural it looks as
if her neck is broken. Mr Arbuckle patiently spoons mouthfuls of ice cream into her mouth,
her dull eyes showing no pleasure at her daily treat. You look away and start walking again.

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When you finally reach the bench, a thousand firefly lights dance around inside you for joy.
Your mothers face shines like shes finally won the lottery.
Do you think Dr Malcomson will let us go back to Wellington when he sees how good my
walking is now? you ask your mother hopefully.

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He thinks the climate here is better for your recovery, she says.
Ive been gone so long none of my friends even write to me anymore.
Youll see them again, she says. The doctor is just being careful you dont have another
relapse.
You sit on the bench, looking out over the marshes. The water and the sky are all silver and
steel grey, devoid of any vibrancy. No children run laughing along the footpath. No cars
drive on the road nearby. There is just you, your mother, the Arbuckles, and the stillness of
the wetlands seeping on in to dampen your spirits.

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A flock of spoonbills flies in perfect formation over the water, heading towards the sea.
You know they can fly all the way to Australia, says your mother, like you dont already
know.

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All the way to Australia, where the sun is so hot it has burned the desert sands bright red.
Where fish every colour of the rainbow swim through cathedrals of coral. Where bleachedblonde surfers play chicken with great white sharks.
We should go back now, says your mother. You look tired. Ill get the wheelchair from the
car.
The last of the spoonbills cries a mournful farewell as it disappears into the distance, making
its escape to Australia.
No, you say. Im going to walk.
Source (adapted): Sarah Anderson, Its for Your Own Good, in Snorkel #9, April 2009, http://snorkel.org.au/009
/anderson.html.

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