International Service and a Story for your viewing
So, I am an IB Diploma candidate. What does that mean? In my senior year of highschool (next year), I take a higher level test in my first language and the literature thereof (that's English), a standard level or higher level of mathematics (I'm going the standard route), a higher level test of two areas of history (for me, that's History of the Americas and History of the 20th Century, with a Pre-IB course of World History), a standard level or higher level of the experimental science of my choice (I chose Higher Level Biology), a standard level or higher level of a second language of my choice (I will test in standard level French next year) and test in the higher level or standard level of some other subject (I chose standard level psychology). These tests are on a scale of 1 to 7, with 4 being a passing score, and with a needed cumulative score of 28 (or something like that). I will also write an extended academic essay on a subject of my choice (yet to be chosen). In order to make sure that we're still healthy children, we must also participate in 50 hours of creative stuff, 50 hours of active stuff, and 50 hours of service, 10 of which have to be on an international level.
So, I've been working on all of this stuff. The service isn't bad. In fact, through hospital volunteering, I already have 42 hours. So, the community level service requirement is fulfilled. However, I need some international service. So, Inglemoor High School has ready-made international service projects. Two to be exact. They are "Project Darfur" and "Invisible Children." Project Darfur is supposed to combat the genocide in the Sudan, and Invisible Children is supposed to combat the child insurgence armies in Uganda. However, I don't really want to participate in these. Not because they aren't good ideas in their essence. Both are horrible things happening today. However, they are both so highly out-of-reach. What are highschool students in Kenmore, WA supposed to do in Darfur? Not even the UN has a plan for that one. And the American Red Cross has pulled out of that place. Similar story concerning Uganda.
I want to feel like I'm doing something that will make a difference in someone's life, even if it doesn't change a nation. If it helps someone, I've succeeded. If we're just raising awareness, so other people can feel bad about what they can't help, we're just filling a requirement.
So, after researching, here are a list that I plan to present to the IB coordinator about things that I could plausibly help with and actually help someone in:
-Pediatricians for Central America's Children: an organization where pediatricians give up their time and volunteer to treat Central American children. However, it is expensive to keep them in supplies, so people all over host item drives for first aid supplies and whatnaught. This is something a high school could plausibly do.
-Global Feast: Basically you raise money that is then distributed to low income, international peoples with bleeding disorders
-Latter-day Saint Humanitarian Center: Hey, we could collect items for and assemble kits. Newborn kits, hygiene kits, school supplies kits, whatever
-Fight the Bite: The RedCross's organization that gives insectiside treated bednets to people in third-world, malaria infested countries. Even coin drives would work. To buy and ship a bednet is $10. There are 2000 students at my school. If we are able to collect $.10 per student, that's 20 nets. And I'm sure we could make more than $.10 a student if we ask for loose change at lunch, right?
-Room to Read: I've worked with them through National Novel Writing Month and Writer's Make Magic. Basically they build Children's Libraries in Southeast Asia, and translate books into languages that these kids can understand and have scholarship funds for these kids to go to college. It has the theory that the end of poverty starts with education. I could ask the Inglemoor High School Writing Club (of which I am part of) to do Writer's Make Magic--or something similar. We sat in front of a movie theatre and people sponsored us $.01 on the word that we wrote while they were in their movie. Then that money went to build a children's library (this one was in Laos).
Does anyone have any other ideas?
Part Number 2
A Story for your critiquing. I'm considering sending this off to the rounds of publishers who have accepted nothing yet. However, for any people who are lurking that are not my friends, I'm just going to tell you now, yes copyright is pending, so don't even try it. It's probably not good enough for it to be worth your copying anyways.
My Only Regret
“Maman, Papa says that the bread is getting more expensive, and he doesn’t know what we will do,” a little child called down the street of Les Champeaux, running to burrow his little head in the skirts of his mother.
The child’s mother hastily ran forward and covered her child’s mouth. “You should not say such things, my dear Christophe. For they will think you do not like the Republic. Do you want them to think they your father is complaining? Then your father will meet the same fate as your brother, Grégoire. Fermes ton bouche, sil-tu plais mon fils.”
At the mention of his past brother, a tear welled up inside little Christophe’s eye. “Why did those men take Grégoire away? And where have they taken Etienne?”
Christophe’s mother only held her son closer into her dress, when thinking of her other sons, she sometimes couldn’t contain her sadness, even if it put her own life in danger. “They will be fine, Christophe,” she said before lowering her voice. “God will protect Etienne no matter his fate, and Grégoire is a martyr in God’s eyes.”
It was hard to think of Grégoire. He had done nothing other than being a member of the aristocracy. Grégoire, like the rest of the family, was noble by birth. But he had secured fortune by marrying the daughter of a rich marquis. It hadn’t lasted long. He had met his fate quickly, it not taking too long for the Committee to declare Grégoire an enemy of the Republic. The drop of the guillotine blade fell so often in Paris that no one would even know which one dropped upon their beloved brother.
Destitution had hit the family many generations ago, so for the rest of the family, the Revolution made little other changes. Charlotte had still needed to attend the convent, and Etienne had still needed to become a parish clergy. But, ever since Etienne’s arrest, being called an enemy of the republic, accused of plotting to restore the Roman Catholic Church, the family had been quiet about the Republic. It hurt too much. Etienne wasn’t gone yet. There was still hope. Inside each heart of the family they all knew they wished that Prussia and Austria would succeed, and would place Louis XVII in his rightful place. It was too dangerous to voice these hopes, though. No one, not even their closest of friends, could be trusted anymore.
“Papa!” Christophe cried as he saw his father returning from the print shop where he now, as a regular citizen of the republic, made his living.
“Come here, mon petit bijou,” his father called as he came, swaggering down the street. Christophe, his energetic little eight-year-old legs pounding the ground as he ran, threw himself into the strong embrace of his once-noble father. His father scooped him up, carrying the thin boy on his hip. Christophe had grown thin. Ever since the Revolution had begun, there had been even less bread than there was before. Christophe’s father walked to his wife side. “Adélaïde, did you receive the letter from Alexandre?”
Adélaïde nodded to her husband. She had gotten the letter from her oldest émigré son. As always, he had ignored her pleas for him to break all contact from the family. It was too dangerous for him, and it was too dangerous for the family. Anyone in contact with an émigré, regardless of who it was, could be subjected to the National Razor. “Oh, Adrien, I worry about him so. How are we to live in a country like this? How are we to raise a family in a country like this?”
“Shh!” Her husband shushed her. “Ne parles pas, ma femme. Do not speak such things. Your children need a mother for them.”
It wasn’t long before the other children at home, 14-year-old, blacksmith’s hand Armand, and 12-year-old Emilie, a washing-girl for the inn, returned to the broken-down nobleman’s house at the end of the road. Regardless of how lost the family became in the Republic, they still tried to forget the Revolution as they sat in their home. Their only hopes of the Girondins had been exiled from Paris, and still the terror continued outside of their home.
Armand sat, trying to teach Christophe to read, holding that though the family was anti-revolutionary, they were still “enlightened” individuals and that Christophe needed to become one as well. A knock sounded on the door. Armand rose, leaving the book, as Christophe muddled through the tricky French phonetics. He opened the door.
“A letter for you, Citizen,” the courier said handing it to Armand. Armand’s mother ambled swiftly to the door, her skirts swishing as she passed Christophe on the floor.
“Where is it from?” she asked the courier. “Do I need to pay you for the delivery?” She would always maintain her honesty. Most people wouldn’t ask that. They’d hope the courier would forget. The courier probably wouldn’t, the price of living being as high as it was.
“It is from Paris, Citizeness. And you owe me a sous,” the courier told her as she took the letter from him. Mumbling under her breath, she pulled the sous for her apron pocket and quickly handed it to him.
The courier left them alone, and Armand bolted the door behind him, as the children’s mother handed the letter to her husband. He opened it with trembling fingers. It could be news of Etienne. As he read the French characters, his face paled.
“What is it, Adrien?” his wife asked.
“What has our Charlotte done? She’s thrown her life away. And why? What has she hoped to gain?” he raved. He threw the letter on the table. Christophe sounded out the last line which could be seen beneath the off-center fold, not recognizing the handwriting as his family did.
He did not know what it meant. He only knew, from his father’s expression that it was not something he should be happy about. “I do not wish I had not done it. My only regret, dear father, is having disposed of my existence without your permission. I remain, and ever will in the eternities remain, your daughter, Charlotte Corday.”
So, I've been working on all of this stuff. The service isn't bad. In fact, through hospital volunteering, I already have 42 hours. So, the community level service requirement is fulfilled. However, I need some international service. So, Inglemoor High School has ready-made international service projects. Two to be exact. They are "Project Darfur" and "Invisible Children." Project Darfur is supposed to combat the genocide in the Sudan, and Invisible Children is supposed to combat the child insurgence armies in Uganda. However, I don't really want to participate in these. Not because they aren't good ideas in their essence. Both are horrible things happening today. However, they are both so highly out-of-reach. What are highschool students in Kenmore, WA supposed to do in Darfur? Not even the UN has a plan for that one. And the American Red Cross has pulled out of that place. Similar story concerning Uganda.
I want to feel like I'm doing something that will make a difference in someone's life, even if it doesn't change a nation. If it helps someone, I've succeeded. If we're just raising awareness, so other people can feel bad about what they can't help, we're just filling a requirement.
So, after researching, here are a list that I plan to present to the IB coordinator about things that I could plausibly help with and actually help someone in:
-Pediatricians for Central America's Children: an organization where pediatricians give up their time and volunteer to treat Central American children. However, it is expensive to keep them in supplies, so people all over host item drives for first aid supplies and whatnaught. This is something a high school could plausibly do.
-Global Feast: Basically you raise money that is then distributed to low income, international peoples with bleeding disorders
-Latter-day Saint Humanitarian Center: Hey, we could collect items for and assemble kits. Newborn kits, hygiene kits, school supplies kits, whatever
-Fight the Bite: The RedCross's organization that gives insectiside treated bednets to people in third-world, malaria infested countries. Even coin drives would work. To buy and ship a bednet is $10. There are 2000 students at my school. If we are able to collect $.10 per student, that's 20 nets. And I'm sure we could make more than $.10 a student if we ask for loose change at lunch, right?
-Room to Read: I've worked with them through National Novel Writing Month and Writer's Make Magic. Basically they build Children's Libraries in Southeast Asia, and translate books into languages that these kids can understand and have scholarship funds for these kids to go to college. It has the theory that the end of poverty starts with education. I could ask the Inglemoor High School Writing Club (of which I am part of) to do Writer's Make Magic--or something similar. We sat in front of a movie theatre and people sponsored us $.01 on the word that we wrote while they were in their movie. Then that money went to build a children's library (this one was in Laos).
Does anyone have any other ideas?
Part Number 2
A Story for your critiquing. I'm considering sending this off to the rounds of publishers who have accepted nothing yet. However, for any people who are lurking that are not my friends, I'm just going to tell you now, yes copyright is pending, so don't even try it. It's probably not good enough for it to be worth your copying anyways.
My Only Regret
“Maman, Papa says that the bread is getting more expensive, and he doesn’t know what we will do,” a little child called down the street of Les Champeaux, running to burrow his little head in the skirts of his mother.
The child’s mother hastily ran forward and covered her child’s mouth. “You should not say such things, my dear Christophe. For they will think you do not like the Republic. Do you want them to think they your father is complaining? Then your father will meet the same fate as your brother, Grégoire. Fermes ton bouche, sil-tu plais mon fils.”
At the mention of his past brother, a tear welled up inside little Christophe’s eye. “Why did those men take Grégoire away? And where have they taken Etienne?”
Christophe’s mother only held her son closer into her dress, when thinking of her other sons, she sometimes couldn’t contain her sadness, even if it put her own life in danger. “They will be fine, Christophe,” she said before lowering her voice. “God will protect Etienne no matter his fate, and Grégoire is a martyr in God’s eyes.”
It was hard to think of Grégoire. He had done nothing other than being a member of the aristocracy. Grégoire, like the rest of the family, was noble by birth. But he had secured fortune by marrying the daughter of a rich marquis. It hadn’t lasted long. He had met his fate quickly, it not taking too long for the Committee to declare Grégoire an enemy of the Republic. The drop of the guillotine blade fell so often in Paris that no one would even know which one dropped upon their beloved brother.
Destitution had hit the family many generations ago, so for the rest of the family, the Revolution made little other changes. Charlotte had still needed to attend the convent, and Etienne had still needed to become a parish clergy. But, ever since Etienne’s arrest, being called an enemy of the republic, accused of plotting to restore the Roman Catholic Church, the family had been quiet about the Republic. It hurt too much. Etienne wasn’t gone yet. There was still hope. Inside each heart of the family they all knew they wished that Prussia and Austria would succeed, and would place Louis XVII in his rightful place. It was too dangerous to voice these hopes, though. No one, not even their closest of friends, could be trusted anymore.
“Papa!” Christophe cried as he saw his father returning from the print shop where he now, as a regular citizen of the republic, made his living.
“Come here, mon petit bijou,” his father called as he came, swaggering down the street. Christophe, his energetic little eight-year-old legs pounding the ground as he ran, threw himself into the strong embrace of his once-noble father. His father scooped him up, carrying the thin boy on his hip. Christophe had grown thin. Ever since the Revolution had begun, there had been even less bread than there was before. Christophe’s father walked to his wife side. “Adélaïde, did you receive the letter from Alexandre?”
Adélaïde nodded to her husband. She had gotten the letter from her oldest émigré son. As always, he had ignored her pleas for him to break all contact from the family. It was too dangerous for him, and it was too dangerous for the family. Anyone in contact with an émigré, regardless of who it was, could be subjected to the National Razor. “Oh, Adrien, I worry about him so. How are we to live in a country like this? How are we to raise a family in a country like this?”
“Shh!” Her husband shushed her. “Ne parles pas, ma femme. Do not speak such things. Your children need a mother for them.”
It wasn’t long before the other children at home, 14-year-old, blacksmith’s hand Armand, and 12-year-old Emilie, a washing-girl for the inn, returned to the broken-down nobleman’s house at the end of the road. Regardless of how lost the family became in the Republic, they still tried to forget the Revolution as they sat in their home. Their only hopes of the Girondins had been exiled from Paris, and still the terror continued outside of their home.
Armand sat, trying to teach Christophe to read, holding that though the family was anti-revolutionary, they were still “enlightened” individuals and that Christophe needed to become one as well. A knock sounded on the door. Armand rose, leaving the book, as Christophe muddled through the tricky French phonetics. He opened the door.
“A letter for you, Citizen,” the courier said handing it to Armand. Armand’s mother ambled swiftly to the door, her skirts swishing as she passed Christophe on the floor.
“Where is it from?” she asked the courier. “Do I need to pay you for the delivery?” She would always maintain her honesty. Most people wouldn’t ask that. They’d hope the courier would forget. The courier probably wouldn’t, the price of living being as high as it was.
“It is from Paris, Citizeness. And you owe me a sous,” the courier told her as she took the letter from him. Mumbling under her breath, she pulled the sous for her apron pocket and quickly handed it to him.
The courier left them alone, and Armand bolted the door behind him, as the children’s mother handed the letter to her husband. He opened it with trembling fingers. It could be news of Etienne. As he read the French characters, his face paled.
“What is it, Adrien?” his wife asked.
“What has our Charlotte done? She’s thrown her life away. And why? What has she hoped to gain?” he raved. He threw the letter on the table. Christophe sounded out the last line which could be seen beneath the off-center fold, not recognizing the handwriting as his family did.
He did not know what it meant. He only knew, from his father’s expression that it was not something he should be happy about. “I do not wish I had not done it. My only regret, dear father, is having disposed of my existence without your permission. I remain, and ever will in the eternities remain, your daughter, Charlotte Corday.”
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