By Blake Gilmore          Last December, my principal sent me an email with the subject “Blake- you would love this!”  Intrigued, I opened the message, which redirected me to Bank of America’s internship page.  Thanks, but no thanks, Mr. Faulkner.  Interning at a bank?  I’m not exactly financially inclined.  I read on in amusement.  “Do you have what it takes to be a Bank of America Student Leader?  If you are a junior or senior in high school with a passion for improving your community, we would like to help you turn that passion into action.”  Okay, perhaps that does sound like me.  Then it dove into specifics.  Student leaders work at a nonprofit for eight weeks during the summer and get a week long, all-expenses paid trip to Washington D.C.  Sweet!            

I was notified of my selection in May.  Technically, I didn’t choose to intern at the International Institute; we were matched together because of my student council project to increase humanitarian aid to Darfur.  Neither my friends nor I had heard of it.  In fact, over the past two months, exchanges like this have been commonplace: Friend: “Let’s go to the mall tomorrow!  I need a bathing suit for Cancun!”

Me: “Sorry, I can’t.  I have to work.”

Friend: “Aww. That sucks,” they say, assuming work constitutes as saving small children from dirty pools or selling flat soda at a rec center. 

Me: “No, actually, it doesn’t.  I work at the International Institute.”

Friend: “Hm.  Never heard of it.”

Me: “It’s a nonprofit organization serving refugees, asylum-seekers, and immigrants.  I help in different departments in the morning and teach English in the afternoon.  You should come volunteer!”

Friend: “Asylum-seekers… aren’t those, like, crazy people?”

Me: “Err… no.”           

Thankfully, the people at the bank knew precisely what they were doing when they aligned me with the institute.  Its ever-pervasive mission, devoted staff, and strong-willed clientele continually amazed me.  I wasn’t simply regarded as the lowly intern.  Institute employees, especially Kate, included me on important projects and considered my input. They even made their own coffee!  Each deeply values the agency’s mission, a fact clear in their numerous overtime hours.  And there was never a dull moment.  There was constantly someone interesting to talk to and something new to learn.  Yes, my summer has largely consisted of work, but it hasn’t felt like I’ve been working!  Cheesy?  Yes.  Overstated?  Not in the slightest.          

Though my internship has come to a close, I plan on spending more time at the institute during the school year.  I’m forming an after school “tutoring team”, holding donation drives, and completing my photo documentary featuring clients from the institute.  An II high school/college faction modeled after I-Squared is also in the works.  My hope is to increase awareness of the institute and galvanize young people to get involved.  This remarkable organization- and all those associated with it- is long overdue for some recognition.             

Missouri sales tax holiday starts at 12:01am Friday, August 1 and ends at midnight on Sunday, August 3. All school supplies are exempt from sales tax during this period.

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School Supply Specials!

Missouri sales tax holiday starts at 12:01am Friday, August 1 and ends at midnight on Sunday, August 3. All school supplies are exempt from sales tax during this period.

Advertised specials for the week of Sunday, July 20 – Saturday, July 26

Walgreens
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* TI-83 Plus Graphing Calculator……………………… $74.99 (after mail-in savings)

Today’s blog post is by Intern Blake Gilmore. Blake is a student at Brentwood High School.

It’s the morning of my first internship. My father guides our Infiniti SUV as it circles the International Institute. Peering into the passenger mirror, I begin to apply the last coat of my mascara when the vehicle comes to a screeching halt. The wand scrapes an inky black line onto my upper eyelid. “Dad! Why didn’t you tell me you were going to stop? I need to set a good impression,” I exclaim, though I recognize this is probably what I deserve for applying makeup in the car. Mildly annoyed, I say goodbye and resolve to remove the mess in a bathroom before anyone sees me. Too late. A man unlocks the glass door just as I reach it, giving me a peculiar look.           

After some feverish cleaning, I set out to explore the Institute with twenty minutes to spare. It’s a bit reminiscent of an airport, actually. Perhaps this is symbolic. The airy main hall is replete with ethnic decorations, from a cabinet filled with ornate dolls in traditional dress to massive photographs from around the world. I make my way towards the lobby and sit. A woman exits a classroom fully enwrapped in a tan burqa. Her stark brown eyes are the only parts she reveals. Suddenly, I’m fully conscious of my bare knees peeking out beneath my blue dress.  Kate Howell, the volunteer coordinator, cheerfully greets me shortly thereafter. She’s wearing a dress, too, albeit the fabric continues a few inches farther than mine. She leads me behind the welcome desk which we’ll be staffing until the man who usually works there returns. Non-profit employees must be versatile. I listen as she gives me more information on the Institute and the vast assortment of services they offer. They completely care for refugees, delivering them from their country of refuge, picking them up at the airport, and ameliorating every aspect of their lives to help them succeed.           

By 8:45, a smattering of cultures converges within the lobby. Various dialects merge, rising and falling in an indecipherable clamor. A small Burmese (or perhaps Bhutanese?) boy, dark eyes darting around the unusual environment, pulls on the pink satin fabric of his mother’s dress, chiming its embroidered gold trinkets. Muttering something in broken English, the mother sashays to the front of the welcome desk. All I interpret from her utterance is “I… class.  Okay?” Somehow Kate knows exactly what she’s trying to convey, handing the woman two red square passes. There are only a few basic accents to learn, Kate explains. Once you have these down, communication is infinitely easier. She makes it sound almost simple!  Then a woman who appears to be African shuffles over. “Hello,” I say. She nods and beams a warm, Maya-Angelou-esque smile. The withered lines of her face speak of the tribulations she’s endured. I look at her dress, wondering if she knows what its repeating phrase means. Then an epiphany: she doesn’t care about dress pattern, nor does she concern herself with dress length!  And this woman has triumphed in battles far greater than fighting with a mascara wand. This woman–like each of these immigrants and refugees–is just thankful this organization is here to help her assimilate.             

Considering the adventures within my first hour at the Institute, I can’t wait to discover what my next eight weeks will bring.   

This week we start a news series of posts from guest bloggers who are new volunteers and interns at the International Institute. Over the summer you will be hearing about their adventures and reflections on their work with the immigrants and refugees of the IISTL. We hope you’ll stay tuned.

Today’s post comes to us from Ashley Mace, who is a rising Senior at Lafayette High School. 

Making the journey from my humble middle-class abode to the International Institute not only serves as a time for me to listen to Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits but also as a journey into the most fascinating part of my week. It begins with a turn out of my subdivision filled with cookie-cutter houses, lawns of meticulously cut grass, and children playing with the latest and greatest of toys. I drive a bit further then enter onto the highway overflowing with expensive new cars passing each other, racing in agitation to get to work on time. Finally I see that glorious exit for Grand Blvd. and I turn down the volume on “Piano Man” just to take in the sights and the atmosphere. Although I’ve just eaten my breakfast for the day I can’t help but wish it was lunchtime as I drive past a few ethnic food markets and the Kabob restaurant I have been setting my sights on for a couple of weeks. And alas, here I am, at the intersection of all corners of the earth, entirely separate from our normal busy and materialistic culture, at the International Institute. 

Coming from the suburbs, my idea of diversity unfortunately consisted of ordering takeout Chinese on a Friday night. Then I enter into this entirely new world where people of all nations, backgrounds and walks of life congregate in their native dress to take an English class or secure a loan on their new small business. It is the perfect blend of honoring heritage but looking forward to new life in this great country of opportunity. These people have experienced things my peers and I cannot even begin to imagine from war to starvation to poverty, usually in the refugee camp that kept them from an even harsher life. You can see the pain in some eyes but often behind that dim shadow lays a different thing, a much greater thing. Behind that shadow lays hope for the future and for a new life.

The phenomenal staff at the Institute has a heart that beats for these clients and for making their transition to life in America easier. Many of them come from similar backgrounds in countries of conflict and actually made use of the services they now offer. It’s no wonder they came back to work here; this center is a truly integral part of the

St. Louis community that continues to shift and mold our city to be representative of the entire world instead of merely our Western ideals. Some people may be scared of change but I am convinced that international diversity of this kind will teach us about others and push our community to become more informed and cohesive. To this purpose and vision I will continue to make the trek out to the most interesting, crazy, and ambitious center of its kind, the International Institute.