Angel Bell and Jee’Von Pratt received the highest marks in the Bahamas Junior Certificate (BJC) and Bahamas General Certificate of Education (BGCSE) May 2022 English language examinations, respectively.
Angel, who wrote the BJC paper, used as her prompt the picture of a young boy and an adult male on a slow-moving horse to craft a narrative of a character who was suffering from dementia and who remembered riding a horse in the past.
Jee’Von, a graduate of St. Augustine’s College (SAC), who now attends Howard University in Washington, D.C., wrote the BGCSE paper narrative essay in which he had to write a story that included the following scene: “Do not break anything,” she said sternly. I nodded before replying in a quiet voice, “I won’t.” Soon after, there was a loud bang.”
The BJC examiners wrote that Angel Bell’s “Beatrice” is a powerful narrative, with the voice being that of an Alzheimer’s victim.
“Angel B. Bell has captured the speaker’s love for his father, his sense of loss and confusion, as well as the frustration of his caregiver. Using a variety of literary devices, such as precise diction, vivid figures of speech, symbolism and the deliberate and sustained use of the present tense to create immediacy, young Bell places us in the world of the aged speaker and we are trapped there with him, in what will be an endless regurgitation of old memories.”
Jee’Von said he was inspired to write his story because of the “bystander effect” which he experienced a few years ago. And how he would act when someone desperately needs assistance. Would he stand and do nothing, or would he make a sacrifice and help even if it put his own safety at risk? Pratt said he believes character development makes any story interesting.
“It causes you to be invested in a character’s journey,” said the Howard University freshman majoring in robotics.
While Jee’Von’s essay was written about an intruder, and Ministry of Education examiners discourage candidates from writing violent pieces in response to prompts, they described Jee’Von’s writing as mature and well managed. And said Jee’Von demonstrated emotional intelligence by using vivid descriptions and relevant techniques. And that his script could be used to sensitize students about the reality of crime and violence in society.
The examiners said in his narrative, Jee’Von showed, not told.
A narrative essay tells a story or gives an account of something. And contrary to popular belief, it is not the easiest type of essay to write. Telling a story in an effective way to hold the attention of the reader means the writer needs to be highly skilled. Anyone can tell a boring story.
During the examination, students had approximately one hour in which to write a concise, well-structured interesting essay.
Prior to writing her BJC paper, Angel said she came up with the idea for the story having researched Alzheimer’s after watching a television show in which one of the characters suffered from the disease. Her research she said sensitized her to the stigma that dementia patients face and that she was forced to examine her own prejudices. She said all the factors played a part in the telling of the narrative.
And for Angel, the elements of a good story include a compelling plot, interesting or relatable characters, and originality. She said the characters must be people with whom the readers can empathize, and that the plot must be unique, so as not to bore the reader.
Angel said she developed her writing skills in her English classes where she learned the importance of showing, not telling, and also where she was taught to use literary devices such as similes and dialogue to bring her writing to life. She said she was able to expand her vocabulary through the tedious syntax exercises and literary analysis.
Every year, the Examination and Assessment Division of the Ministry of Education publishes the essays that received the highest marks in the BJC and BGCSE English language exams. Students can choose from a variety of genres such as argumentative, descriptive, expository and narrative.
ANGEL BELL’S TOP SCORING BJC ESSAY – “BEATRICE”
The room is stifling and quiet, with nothing but the low crackling of fire to break the heavy silence. I look over at a young woman sitting on a chair not too far away from me. I decide to break the silence. “You know, when I was a boy I had a horse named Beatrice. Oh, how I loved that horse!” I smile fondly as sweet memories from my childhood fill my mind like a faucet I cannot turn off. “I remember,” I begin, “the days when my father would take me out riding on old Beatrice when he came home from a long day on the farm. He’d always drop his tools at the door and kneel to hug me.” I laugh and look up to see the woman smiling softly at me.
I continue. “Oh, how many times I’d fall off and every time I did, he’d stop Beatrice, but he’d never help me up. He’d sit there, looking off into the distance, waiting until I finished crying.” The room goes quiet once again, and I stare out the window at the dilapidated stables outside. “Of course, Beatrice is gone now and so is my father. But I’d love to ride again. Henrietta, won’t you take me outside?” Her smile falls and her voice saddens. “Maybe later, Mr. Butler. Not right now.”
I scrunch up my face into a distorted pile of features and pout. “Why? This is the third time today you’ve said no. Don’t you want to ride with your granddad? Scared I’d beat you in a race, huh?” She laughs and gets up out of her chair, leaving me to glare out the window once more.
I hear Henrietta’s voice through the thin walls. “No. Look, you don’t get it! It’s really weirding me out, Mrs. Butler. He keeps calling me Henrietta – my name’s Alice! When I agreed to being your father’s caregiver, you didn’t tell me this would happen! There aren’t even any horses outside and he keeps asking me to ride with him!” I frown. What is she talking about? Why, there are stables just outside! I turn to look out the window, only to be greeted by empty stables and tattered saddles resting atop their doors. I could have sworn the horses were right there! Wait, where’s Beatrice? I call out, “Henrietta! Have you seen Beatrice? She’s not in her stable.”
Henrietta enters the room, grabs the handles of my wheelchair and turns me away from the window before sitting back down in her own seat. She mumbles something, but I don’t catch it. I turned my view back to the fire, as it rustles like trees in a storm. The room falls quiet once more, and I’m left to my thoughts once more.
“Henrietta, have I told you about Beatrice?”
JEE’VON PRATT’S TOP SCORING BGCSE ESSAY – “THE INTRUDER”
I stared blankly at the television screen. The cool evening breeze creped through the open window and weaved through my curly hair. The faint sound of police sirens echoed in the distance, seemingly growing louder. The bushes near my house rustled with the sounds of leaves and twigs snapping. “Must be a cat,” I thought. My mother entered. She was leaving for her evening shift at the hospital. “Do not break anything,” she said sternly. I nodded before replying in a quiet voice, “I won’t.” Soon after, there was a loud bang.
I sprung from my chair. My mother frantically grabbed the remote and turned off the television. We stood and waited. The evening breeze picked up, transforming into a violent haul. Emerging from the dark guest bedroom was a tall, burly figure. His orange pants were soiled and tattered. He wore a green hooded jacket that partially obscured his face. The only feature that was visible was his thick beard. The follicles were grey and spindly like dead lines. As he stepped forward, the knife in his hand became visible. He spoke with a deep, commanding voice.
“Get on the floor,” he growled.
I would always freeze in tense situations like this one. A few months earlier at school, my friend, Bradley and I were strolling by the school pond, reminiscing on our elementary school days. Suddenly, a fuming Jason bolted out of a nearby classroom and charged toward us, knife in hand.
“Where is my money Bradley?” he shouted.
“You’ll get it tomorrow, I promise!”
“Tomorrow is not soon enough.”
Like a rabid animal, Jason pounced on Bradley, slashing and lacerating my friend’s flesh. A few moments later, several teachers ripped Jason away and subdued him. Bradley moaned in pain, his white school shirt soaked in dark red, the knife still jutting out of his stomach. Meanwhile, I stood petrified, unable to move without the assistance of bystanders. Bradley was savagely attacked and all I had to offer him was a ghostly facial expression, quivering arms and a rock-solid stance. Those were the same features I displayed when I set my eyes on the intruder.
“Get on the floor,” he repeated. My mother quickly got onto the carpet and motioned to me to get down. But once again, I just stood, stupidly staring at the tall man. However, this time my arms stopped quivering. I released the tension in my face. I began to feel movement in my body again. The man dashed towards me with his knife. I grabbed the television remote and hurled it at him. It stunned him. My mother and I scampered to the back door, into the backyard.
During all the commotion, I did not even realize that the distant police sirens were now louder than ever before. My mother and I were relieved to see a wave of officers storm into our yard.
I looked down at the grass, the blades shimmering in the moonlight. I collapsed onto the lawn. While the soft grass blades hugged my sweaty face, I remembered Bradley. His contorted limbs. His bloody shirt. His lifeless eyes. I deeply regretted the lack of action I took on that day. I then looked at my mother. She suffered no stab wounds, her white hospital uniform was still pristine and she still had life in her eyes. I gave a small grin, as I wrapped my arms around her. Shades of blue and red blanketed the officers as they escorted the man from our premises.