ELA/Literacy
Released Item 2015
Grade 11
Narrative Task
Son from the Father’s Point of View
VF641116
Sample Student Responses
(with annotations)
VF641116
Anchor Set
A1 – A10
A1a
As a boy, my father instilled in me the morals of a hardworking man.
Labor. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
There wasn't even time for my father to breathe or display his affection - because that's what my
father did; he cut sods, day after day- and cared for us night after night. My father was capable of
caring for us without any outside help. And I knew from that point on that it was necessary for me
to do the same as he had.
As I grew older the work I did became more and more labor intensive. I found love when I met my
life and we had a beautiful, bouncing, baby boy. I tried to instill the same morals my father did to
me: Labor. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
But Seamus was different than that of me or Father. When Seamus was young he would
occasionally watch me work; whenever he was there he always had with him an inquistive eye. He
questioned everything that I would do while I worked. He wondered why I couldn't be at home with
he and his mother. I told him what I knew.
"Daddy has to work, so you can stay at home with Mommy."
As Seamus grew older he stopped questioning labor and started working alongside me in the
fields. We worked together to support the family, day after day. And I cared for everyone night after
night. Seamus would become absent after working, and would reappear, in the middle of the night,
with dissheveled notebooks and dozens of different pens. I would look at him with the same
inquisitive eye he gave me, when he was young. But I never asked. I knew that while he was out
he enjoyed his life rather than tolerating his labor in the fields. The boy was grown now, I cannot,
and no longer want to, control him. Seamus stopped working with me in the potato fields. I never
saw my son until odd hours of the night- returning with his supplies. Seamus was no longer
assisting the family fiscally. Although, his mother asked if I could do anything to ger him to return to
the fields, I would never force my boy to do anything.
My father began to lose his touch with reality; his life, his personality, became his work. Advancing
towards his final resting place, he learned of Seamus' absence in the fields. My father knew. He
had to, for as soon as he heard, he asked to speak to him. Seamus, fearful of a beating, came to
speak with his grandfather. Father asked me to leave, Seamus' eyes asked me to stay. I walked
out the door and placed myself near enough so that I could her as much as possible.
Tears
I heard my father sob waterfalls. And that was all I could handle. I left earshot until Seamus came
to me afterwards with a grin from ear to ear. And recounted to me what happened.
"I walked in, greeted Grandfather and he sat me down. He simply said 'where have you been these
nights?' And as I cannot lie to a man I hold such respect for, I told him 'I have been spending my
nights in forest writing
Score Point 4
A1b
nights in forest writing what I see. Not only in the forest but in the world as well. I see the suffering
in the world, women selling their bodies; men selling the clothes off their backs; children toiling in
the fields. I see the suffering you and he both do. Your life is full of toil and you accept it.
Grandfather you are not living your life, you are survivng it. You live to save us our lives, so we can
live, but I cannot live, Grandfather, if you are not!'
"Grandfather sat there in tears. I saw the look in his eyes and I began to tear as well. Grandfather
expressed the pride he had for me. Dad, my entire life I thought I was doing something
undesirable. I thought I had let my family down, and he told me that I made him proud. As
Grandfather is nearing his end he asked me one thing, and that was to continue writing. For him, I
will continue to write and make a mark on this society. I will write about the toils of the field; the
danger in the streets; I will write of the beauty of the stars. I continue to make this world beautiful
through the meanings of my words on this page, Father."
I then wanted to express how proud I was of him as well, and express the beauty of his work, and
the depth of his meaning, and that I knew he could flourish here, and that he is good enough and
that I loved my son. But the saline moisture omitting itself from my body told him all of that.
Score Point 4
Annotations
Anchor Paper 1
Score Point 4
The response effectively develops the characters, the scene, and events. The response
includes effective development of the character of three generations: the father—
hardworking, honorable, but unquestioning (I told him what I knew. “Daddy has to work so
you can stay home with mommy.”), the son as he becomes a man (Seamus would become
absent after working, and would reappear, in the middle of the night, with dissheveled
notebooks and dozens of different pens.), and the elderly grandfather, whose tears signify
acceptance of the young poet’s dream (As grandfather is nearing his end he asked me one
thing, and that was to continue writing.). The response demonstrates purposeful coherence
and cohesion, making it easy to follow the progression of ideas. Sentences are varied with
short, simple sentences (Seamus’ eyes asked me to stay) and long, coordinated sentences (I
then wanted to express how proud I was of him as well, and express the beauty of his work,
and the depth of his meaning, and that I knew he could flourish here, and that he is good
enough and that I loved my son.) used purposefully to establish effective style.
A2
I took great pride in the plots that sat right outside our window. In summer, sweat would drip from
my brow as I shoveled, digging up the dirt, digging up the potatoes I had grown from a single seed.
Salty and tired, I would greedily slurp fresh milk from the bottle, just like my father liked it. Thirst
quenched, I would once again stoop rhymically through the potato drills, caring for the land that
had belonged to my father and his father before him. The labor was backbreaking and tedious, and
when the veins bulged in my arms I knew it wouldn't be long before I would collapse from the
exhaustion of the day. I pushed. I pushed myself, pushed the shovel, pushed through the years.
All the while, I could feel my son watching me through his second-story window, eyes boring into
my back as I continued to dig. It was for me, but it was also for him. I wanted him to learn the ways
of his ancestors and the value of hardwork. I wanted him to understand what it means to work hard
for something, to commit to something, to watch it grow.
At times, he enjoyed helping me. We would dig, and scatter new potatoes that we picked, loving
the cool hardness in our hands. His smile at the end of a good day was brighter than sunshine. We
would sit together at the dinner table and talk about the next harvest, the next day's weather, and,
to my surprise, literature. My son, while always happy to help me, was not particularly fond of the
work. He was not lazy. His patience, however, did not lie in the work of a potato grower. He
preferred pen to shovel, and was always quicker to pick up a book than a potato.
I had hoped that one day he might follow in my footsteps, that, as the days passed, he would grow
into a strong young man that valued labor and hardwork.
Seamus changed rapidly. One day he was a just a little boy, watching me in awe. The next day he
was a teenager, lanky and tiresome. His interest in growing waned, I could see it in his eyes. His
quiet room confined him, pen in hand, waiting for the plot of a story to emerge as even remotely
worth writing about. We both valued the tools of our passion: I, my shovel, and he, his pen.
I worried. I worried that he would never learn the trade, would never learn the incomparable feeling
of dirty, sunkissed skin and a mind at ease. In his later years as a teenager, I saw the formation of
a true man. Seamus was strong, smart, kind. He was everything I had hoped for him and more. He
once told me that hewrote so that others would know of the work my father and I had done, and
the impact it had made on his life.
That was when I realized that he didn't have to farm and toil to know the value of hardwork or the
value of preservation not only of traditions, but of individuals. For my preservation, I had my shovel.
For his, he had his pen. Always cocked gently in his hand, ready to scribble ideas at the drop of a
hat; ready to work hard and focus all of his attention on his passion.
To be passionate is the most honest thing a person can be. I never truly understood what it meant
to work hard for something, to commit to something, to watch it grow. Watching my son, I have
learned.
Score Point 4
Annotations
Anchor Paper 2
Score Point 4
The response includes effective development of narrative elements, beginning in the
introduction with the father’s reflection on his source of pride, “the plots that sat right
outside.” The accompanying sense of satisfaction is effectively developed using sensory
details (sweat would drip. . . . Salty and tired) and descriptive words and phrases (greedily
slurp fresh milk. . . .veins bulged in my arms. . . .I pushed myself, pushed the shovel, pushed
through the years) to demonstrate the father’s point of view. The son is introduced in the
second paragraph as a silent observer, but this role is also developed effectively—he is
learning “what it means to work hard for something, to commit to something, to watch it
grow.” The growth of the child to a man is similarly well developed and consistently parallel
to these early lessons. The description of the child’s growth leads purposefully to the
conclusion, with the father’s realization that his son has learned from him, and in turn he has
learned from his son. Overall, through the organization of this response, each idea leads and
builds to the next idea, from the father’s initial point of view to the father’s final realization,
demonstrating purposeful cohesion.
A3
When my son was a small child he would always be out helping my father and I in the field. He
would help collect the unearthed potatoes with his elder brother and younger sister. He would bring
out refreshments to my father and I while we worked. He was always more dedicated to the family
farm then either of his siblings. However, despite his attempts he was never cut out for farm work.
When he was old enough I tood him and his brother out to work in the fields, after all they would
inherit our land once their mother and I passed away. His brother got the hand of it no problem and
was a natural just like his grandfather and I, but his brother was the only one of the two. It was
hard to accept, that my youngest son could not follow the family occcupation, and frightening too.
How was he to survive if he had no certian income for his future? What would he do? I admit I feel
my fear came out as anger to the boy, and it drove a wedge between our once good relationship.
When we used to joke around at breakfeast, much to the dismay of his mother, I never saw the
boy at breakfeast anymore. He would come down only after his brother and I had left for the fields.
His mother tells me that he would spend most of his time up in his room with only school books to
keep him company. When I did see him at dinner, he was never the same cheerful, excited boy
that he once was. I felt that it was my fault that he was lost, but I could do nothing to help him.
It wasn't until he was a teenager that he really began to write. He had written things for school such
as papers and stories, but nothing that ever truly impacted him. When he was fourteen his teacher
had her class studing poetry. It was then that I started to see glimpses of the boy he once was.
Poetry gave him life when before he would just go through the motions of life without caring. This
caused me worry too, despite the fact that for the first time in years my son was happy again I
could not help but fear that if this was my son's life path that he would fade away because poets
are not known for their huge income. Once again my son mistook my fear for anger and receded
back into the dark cave from which he had finally emerged from. This time, however, he had his
poety to keep him from fully receding.
It was five years until I actually read one of his poems. He had moved out when he was eighteen
and, to the best of my knowledge, was rooming with one of his high school friends in the city. I was
reading the paper one morning and by chance instead of skipping over the Rising Artists section
that I normally did, I actully looked at it. In that section the headline artist was my son. He was
labeled as one of the best, if not the best, poet of his time. I was overcome with a feeling of relief.
My son was fine, he could make a living and support himself. In fact, according to the article, he
could do beter then that. He was destined for great things, which in turn would provide him with
enough money to support our family. Yet my pride prevented me from going and visiting the boy.
His mother and sister went to see him weekly.
He is thirty five now, and is one of the best poets of the century. His mother and sister go to see
him weekly, but I still have not seen him since he moved out. Now my health is rapidly declining
and I won't live much longer. I know that I won't recover from this illness, and I need to make up for
my past mistakes in dealing with my youngest son. I need to apologize. I request my wife to send
for him because I have no strength to move. I pray that he will come. I need to apologize. His
arrival waked me from my slumber. He is scared, I can see it in his eyes. He approaches me and
kneels down beside me. I know my time is running out. I draw breath and say "I'm proud of you." I
release my last breath when he replies "I love you father." I have been forgiven. I am free.
Score Point 3
Annotations
Anchor Paper 3
Score Point 3
The response includes mostly effective development of the father's point of view towards his
son as he matures. The response reveals details about the character of the father (caused me
worry . . . poets are not known for their huge income) and the son (Once again my son
mistook my fear for anger and receded), and establishes a sequence of events that builds
toward the final reconciliation. It is fairly easy to follow the progression of ideas since each
paragraph begins with a statement that orients the reader and clarifies the chronology of
events (It wasn’t until he was a teenager. . . .He is thirty five now). However, the
development is not consistently appropriate. Details are included that do not originate in the
text poem and are extraneous to the prompt (His brother got the hand of it no problem),
interrupting the flow of the narrative.
A4
The rustling of dirt awakens me from my thoughts, returning me to the present. The ever-present
grind of physical labor: boring, perhaps, but soothing, comforting.
This is the way it has always been, from my father to his father to the potato famine to the coming
of St. Patrick and the conversions to the old ways of the Tuathe de Dannan to whatever came
before. Man works to get his bread, sometimes starving, always working. It's a peaceful way of life,
unchanging, but comforting. It is a part of me, this manual labor, a part that I would never give up,
never, never, never...
Not so with my son. I can see it in the way he looks at me and Father working in the fields, digging,
digging, eternally digging. He appreciates our work, understands the peace and solitude of it,
knows that the physical drudgery of our labor does not, in fact, mean that our mental capacity is
stunted or uncared for. He knows, and yet he does not know.
My son is a poet. As an Irishman, I couldn't be happier. Our poets have always been the most
renowned of artists in our country. From the epic spinners of old to W. B. Yeats, our poetry has
kept us Irish, through mass conversion and English oppression and starvation. My son is not
meant to be a digger, like we have always been. He is a poet, and a poet he must be.
Yet, I can see his secret desire. He wants more than anything to be one of the path, to have the
appreciation of his family, of his ancestors. He knows not that being a weaver of words can still
connect him to the earth, to the past. Past is truth. Past is past. Past is future. Past is now. Past is
poetry.
I look up at the window between the growing piles of dirt and watch my son stare down at us,
paper in hand. I smile. He doesn't notice. He has realized the power of the pen, the way that poetry
can dig back into the past and appreciate the present dirt in a way that nothing else can. He has
truly become a man, a poet, an Irishman.
He is truly one of us, now. Irish, all of us. Poets, some. Diggers, others. All the same, all part of the
greater whole. I couldn't be prouder.
Score Point 3
Annotations
Anchor Paper 4
Score Point 3
The response provides mostly effective development by addressing the changing difficulties
that each generation of the narrator’s family encounters. Progression is logical; a meaningful
introduction and conclusion as well as linking elements (Not so with my son.) demonstrate
cohesion and coherence, even as the writer shifts from specific (My son is a poet.) to general
(Our poets have always been the most renowned of artists). Narrative elements are used
mostly effectively in the response: developing the father’s, the son’s, and Ireland’s point of
view and pacing effectively toward the outcome—the moral that the father and the son are
alike, “. . . all part of a greater whole.” The development, however, is not consistently
appropriate, and the progression is not purposeful. The father reflects on his son, the grown,
mature poet, but not on the maturing process.
A5
Grasped firmly in my hand I held my shovel, snug as a gun.
Above me the sound of a ballpoint scribbling over a wood surface:
My son writing. I glance up
His hand moving like the ocean, swift and quick only to pause for a moment and continue on.
He sat and wrote. His thumb securing the pencil ever so lightlly, delicate yet strong. I could tell
whatever he
was writing was consuming not only his mind but his body aswell.
His face moved with every stroke of the pen guiding his thoughts in the way they ought to go
according to what is good to him.
He is so different from me and my Father. Always looking out the window but staying in. Working
with his hands but never how I do. Watching my father work as a boy but never helping, just
observing and thinking.
Making that same face that he is now that shows his loss of thought.
This type of life isn't for boys like my son, they need to create things and be different starting with
the
mind.He's always been different and will continue to do so.
He uses his pen to dig into the mind while I dig into the ground.
Two men very alike but differing in all ways.
I turn and look up only to see his pen moving then pause, he looks down at me. A moment shared
thoughtse xchanged, but no words spoken.
We then both return to digging.
Score Point 2
Annotations
Anchor Paper 5
Score Point 2
The response mimics the style of “Digging,” an acceptable but, in this case, not always
effective technique. Metaphors (His hand moving like the ocean. . . .He uses his pen to dig
into the mind) add a descriptive element to the response and demonstrate the stylistic
similarity to the text poem. The response includes some narrative elements but is only
somewhat developed (ballpoint scribbling. . . .securing the pencil ever so lightly. . . .every
stroke of the pen guiding his thoughts). While there is comparison between the generations
and minimal reflection on the future (He’s always been different and will continue to do so.),
the response does not convey the father’s observations as his son becomes a mature poet.
The format of the response, nearly entirely reflection with short sentences (He is so different
from me and my father. Always looking out the window but staying in.), enhances the
stylistic link to “Digging.” The response demonstrates some coherence, clarity, and cohesion.
A6
As a father, I have seen my child grow up and mature along the way. My father in the same way
has sculpted me into a hard-working man by putting me through physical labor from a young age.
Similarly, I tried to appy the same parenting my father had done on me. on to my own child. I
myself could handle a spade just like my old man, however my son never applied the same focus
and concentration to become great men like my father and I. I remember when he brought a milk
that was "Corked sloppily with paper". On the otherhand I taught him to appreciate things in life
whether it be the "cold smell of potato mould" or the "curt cuts of an edge". In the end the pen will
always rest in his hand, he just has to dig with it.
Score Point 2
Annotations
Anchor Paper 6
Score Point 2
The response includes some appropriate development as the father reflects on the son’s
maturation process. The tone is expository in much of the response (On the otherhand I
taught him to appreciate things in life whether it be the “cold smell of potato mould” or the
“curt cuts of an edge.”), explaining how the father taught his son, rather than creating a
narrative that follows the son’s growth. Overall, the response generally attends to the norms
of the discipline.
A7
Another hard day in the field. My son helping me with the potato field. Young as he is he has
bigger dreams then these little fields. He writes poetry and uses his brain to make his living instead
of his back like me. My son has helped me in the fields and now he writes like a pro who has finally
made the deal. He has turned his life around and made me so pround and yet im still in this potato
field.
Score Point 1
Annotations
Anchor Paper 7
Score Point 1
The response is minimally developed, with a basic sequence of events and limited reflection
(made me so pround). The language and sentence structures are simplistic, moving from
event to event with few narrative elements. In places, gaps in development (Young as he is
he has bigger dreams then these little fields. He writes poetry and uses his brain to make his
living) and repetition of ideas (Another hard day in the field. . . .helping me with the potato
field. . . .helped me in the fields) limit the clarity of the narrative. The process that takes the
boy from the field to the successful professional is missing entirely.
A8
My son wasnt interested in the work I had passion for. You gain everything you could need from
physical labor. You dont see much out of someones writing. You dont get the smells or feeling
quite like working outside
Score Point 1
Annotations
Anchor Paper 8
Score Point 1
The response is limited in appropriateness, because although it is responsive to the prompt,
there are few narrative elements. Development consists of minimal reflection (You gain
everything you could need from physical labor.) from the father’s point of view. The response
is limited in appropriateness, because although it is responsive to the prompt, there are few
narrative elements. Lacking a sequence of events, the response fails to address changes in
the boy as he matures, and opportunities for development are often limited by a lack of
descriptive and concrete language. For example, the response reads, “You dont get the
smells or feeling quite like working outside,” but does not describe the experience.
A9
I see my father digging and the big holes he was digging. I see the firmly shaft he is using to root
out the tall plants to pick the potatoes. My father cut many turf in just one day. I carried milk to him
but he fell. I will dig with my father.
Score Point 0
Annotations
Anchor Paper 9
Score Point 0
The response includes development that is inappropriate, as the sequence of events is a brief
summary of the poem. The prompt requires a shift in point of view as well as the
introduction of details not found in the stimulus. The response demonstrates little to no
awareness of the norms of the discipline.
A10
I do not have a good relationship with my son. I am out digging in the dirt most days, but I see him
watching me in awe.
Score Point 0
Annotations
Anchor Paper 10
Score Point 0
The response is written from the father’s point of view and addresses, in a very literal
manner, how the father is seen through the eyes of his son (I see him watching me in awe).
The response is undeveloped; there is no attempt to establish events or characters.
Practice Set
P101 - P105
P101
My son is always watching me and his grandfather. watching as he is learning what we are doing.
he looks interested, cause he wants to be like me. digging potatoes and planting them.
P102
I look upon my son, at how it has done. Buried this hole while the birds chirp on. A fine young man,
hard working like me and his grandfather whos now being lowered away. For years spent he has
mended the fields and gatherd the hay but no more will he be working his life away.
P103
The sun beats down on my back as i fling dirt over my shoulder, picking up new potatoes. I look up
to see my son at his window above me and gesture for him to come down to the yard. He is such a
good kid and i love him dearly, as does my father. Potato farming is as much a part of his life as it
is my life or my father's life. He has told me of the satisfaction he feels after removing a fresh
potato from the ground, cool and wet from the rich soil. I hope he remembers these peaceful times
as he grows older, i know i still remember working the fields when i was a kid. I do not think my son
will continue with this work however, and thats okay. Im just happy to know he appreciates what
real physical labor is like, not many people do.
Its been many years now since that day on the farm. My son has grown up now. Like i expected he
has strayed from the path i took as a boy. He does not endure the same physical labor i have
always endured, but he is still a hard worker and he respects those who must perform harder work
than he must. He is a writer now and he is a good one. I see him sitting at his desk digging through
his brain to find the next line to write. I sure appreciate the work he does, i know i could never write
at his level. He may not be doing hard physical labor, but he is definitely strong when it comes to
mental labor and he respects anyone who works hard at what they do. He has matured into a fine
young man that i am proud to call my son.
P104
My son, Seamus Heaney, has grown to be a true man. He is no longer the young boy he once
used to be. I remember when I would dig with my father. My son would be there watching. He
would observe our hard work and he would help us by bringing us milk in a bottle. He has grown
up to be a different man. He did not follow in our foot steps. I was upset at first, because I wanted
him to be like us. I did not want to allow him to be a writer.
I wanted what was best for my son. I thought it would be better for him to follow in our foot steps
and work on a farm.
"You will not be able to succeed," I said. "It is better know you will always have a job," I explained.
I believed that farming would be a more suitable job for my son. There are writers who do not
succeed, and I did not want my son to be one of them. I believed that if he followed in our foot
steps, he would be more successful and always have a job. No father wants his son to be a failure.
As time went by, however, I realized that the true failure was me. I was pushing my son to
become something he did not wish to be; that is one of the worst things a man could do to his son.
As time went by, I realized that my son would be successful in whatever he chooses to do. My
father and I had a great connnection. I believed that by following in our foot steps, my son would
have that same connection with me; but, I realized that it was only drawing us farther apart. No
man would want to have a connection with the man who ruined his dream.
I learned to accept my son's decison and now I realize my mistake was forcing him to be
something he did not want. My son is different. He has grown up to become his own person. A
great writer he has become. I am proud, even though I would have liked him to follow in our foot
steps. It takes a real man to be different. My son is a real man. I wanted him to dig, like my father
and I. My son does dig. My son digs with his squat pen
P105
I, like all of the men in my family, have joined the family business. I learned from my father, who
learned from his father, who learned from his father and so forth. The bar was set so high by my
father and I completely missed it. I was expected, like all the fathers before me, to teach my son
the ways of the family business. Afterall, it is not so hard once you get the hang of it. I just wanted
my son to have the same connection I have with my father... I had come to expect it from him.
I failed, not only myself, but all of the men before me in my family. It was my responsibility to
teach him and I must have done something wrong. Maybe I should not blame myself though.
Afterall he is the one to choose writing over family. How selfish of him to do this to me. How selfish
of him to choose anything over family. Nothing was ever a choice for me, so how did I let him see it
that way. How did I let him. How did this happen?
After the shock of hearing what my son had chosen, I was so angry that I could not see straight.
The longer I spent out in the fields, the more numb I felt to it all. Out in the field nothing mattered,
everything was so distant. The days grew longer and Instead of being out at the field from dawn til
dusk, I was there well before and there well after. I was starting to be out there all night... and my
wife knew she had to bring me back. Bring me back to reality, trying to make it not so painful but
not too numb.
I was expected to hit the ground running and forgive my son so quickly, leaving no time for me to
forgive myself. Just looking at him made all of my emotions flood. In theory, he was forgiven but I
could not bare to look at him. One day though, there was a knocking on my door. Before I could
get up, I heard the slip of a paper under the door. With shaking hands, I picked up the piece of
paper with my son's handwriting on it. Digging.
Tears were already burning my eyes. The clouds have lifted from this storm of dispair, suddenly I
can see why he chose writing. I could feel his passion seeping from the paper. I feel his pain of not
feeling good enough to follow in my foot steps, I once had this feeling while watching my father. I
envyed my father's ease for so long. Digging had become so easy, I lost sight of this feeling. Now
is not the time to critisize my son... it's a time to encourage him. Tell him that his writing is beautiful
and that I have never read anthing like it, because it is and I have not. I have not failed to teach
him, I have failed to support him, that is what fathers do.
I owe this realization to my son and the praises he has given my that I do not deserve. His gift is
more than I could ever ask for in a son. He has a new way of carrying on the family business.
Although it is not conventional, it is his way and I will be proud of him for as long as I live, for he is
my son and I love him.
Practice Set
(order of scores: Written Expression, Conventions)
Paper
Score
P101
0,0
P102
1,1
P103
2,2
P104
3,3
P105
4,2