When a year draws to a close, one often reflects on the moments or people or things that impacted him or her the most. During my last two years of high school, I suffered-er-completed the International Baccalaureate Diploma Program. The IB program is an international educational program for entry into higher education during high school. It’s extremely rigorous (you have nothing on us AP), extensive, and is recognized by many universities here and abroad. I bring up IB because during this lovely winter break, I agreed to help tutor a few struggling IB chemistry students with exam prep at the request of my old IB coordinator and English teacher, Martha Heine. Their current instructor is objectively horrible, and refused to take any advice on how to teach the increasingly frustrated seniors what they needed for their exams in May, hence our outside intervention was needed. Two other alums and I met with the kids for four days, fueled by hatred for their teacher and caffeine provided by Starbucks and Ms Heine.
As I drove back home on the last day of tutoring, I was hit with a deep nostalgia for the long sunlit IB hallway after school. It was often quiet. Sunlight would filter through the high windows illuminating the banners of past diploma recipients in an almost halo. Classmates would be sprawled on tables, chairs or even the ground finishing something that was probably due that night. The wall of college acceptance letters would practically glow under the fluorescent lab lights – a testament to the insane work and dedication of us students.
There were darker times as well. I remember fears of mediocrity slowly wearing away at myself and my peers until we came apart oh so slowly. Watching dear friends bend and break under pressure that was school related or otherwise. Feelings of inadequacy that would manifest arms holding me tight, as I held on even tighter, wishing and wanting comfort for us both. However, I remember getting past that.
You see, IB wasn’t just a program, it was an experience. My class was a tightly knit family of 30 or so students bound together by the aches and pains of MLA format, disdain for Theory of Knowledge (basically like Good Life here at UF), and sleep deprivation. Most of our teachers knew us better than we knew ourselves, and in return we irked them like the scrappy children they never wanted but were stuck with for two years. We inspired each other through our art, our accomplishments, or even our ability to consume copious amounts of coffee without passing out. We were a tiny island in the sea of high school students, a little prideful but only because we felt like we deserved that much after writing 4,000 or so for the monstrous Extended Essay that we held a funeral for, black veils, eulogies, and all.
The rest of my college years lie ahead of me, but I can never shake the lasting impression this program had and will always have on me.
After all, I think therefore IB, right?
