Just for Fins
Page 16
Anyway, as I thought about my now-discarded plans to become a marine ecologist, to get a degree in marine biology so I could help save the oceans from my place on land, I thought about how Miss Molina had been so willing and eager to help me with my college plans. . . . Maybe she would be able to help me with my current problem, too.
As soon as I’d decided to ask her for help, my mind turned off, and I fell asleep.
Now, faced with actually doing the asking, I wish I’d stayed awake long enough to figure out this part of the plan.
Probably the easiest way is to be as honest as I can.
“A lot of things have changed in my life in the last couple weeks,” I begin. “And I don’t think that going to college is going to be part of my plan.”
“Are you certain?” she asks. “Getting a higher education is the doorway to far greater career opportunities.”
I rub my itchy palms against the edge of my seat. I knew this was going to be a tricky part of the conversation. The teachers at Seaview High seem to be on a mission to get every single student to college. In most cases, I think this is a great goal. But not every kid needs college. Some of them just need to work. Like Quince. They gave up on him a while ago—he already has a job in construction lined up, and there’s not much a college degree is going to do for him.
A college degree isn’t going to help me rule Thalassinia, either. Human higher education doesn’t offer classes in mer politics, and that’s what I need to learn to become a better future ruler. Not that I can share that bit about my plans with Miss Molina.
“I’m sure,” I say, hoping she’ll leave it at that. “But the thing is, I still want to make a difference in the oceans. I still want to help the environmental efforts. I just don’t know how to make that happen.”
She purses her lips again and glances at the ceiling, thinking. I sit quietly and wait.
“It is true that the scientific community represents only one facet of the efforts to preserve the world’s oceans.” She pulls open her bottom desk drawer and starts flipping through the files. “There are a number of nonprofit organizations that are always eager for volunteers.”
“That’s great,” I say, “but . . . well, I was kind of thinking about starting my own organization.”
She pauses her search and looks up, surprised.
“Oh, nothing big or anything, just me and my friends.” And by “friends,” I mean the most powerful merfolk in our part of the ocean, who aren’t exactly feeling friendly toward me right now.
I sit on my hands so they don’t start fidgeting with the hem of my skirt.
“I don’t understand,” Miss Molina says. “What are you asking from me?”
“Advice,” I say, leaning forward. “Some of my friends think the problems are too big for us to make a difference. They see ocean warming and oil spills and overfishing and just want to give up.”
“Ah, I see.”
“How do I convince them that we can change things for the better?” I give her a shaky smile. “How do I get them working together toward a common goal?”
“You’re serious about this?” she asks, like she’s gauging my commitment. Like she’s trying to find out if I’m just going to bail on this like I did on the interviews.
“Absolutely,” I say. “As if my entire world depended on it.”
She studies me for a moment, lips pursed and thinking. Maybe she wonders why I’m so adamant about this, and I wish I could explain it. To her I must just look like some random high schooler who happens to be focused on saving the oceans at the moment and will probably change her mind next week. And the week after that. And every week for the next three years. She doesn’t realize that the ocean isn’t a passing fad for me—it’s my home. And I’m going to do whatever I can to protect the mer world and my people.
My determination must read on my face, because she finally nods.
“If you want to get everyone working toward the same end,” she says, “the first thing you need to do is define the scope of your mission.”
“How do I do that?” I ask.
“There are two parts to any mission statement,” she explains. “First, you need to define what problems you want to tackle. Are you interested in keeping the oceans clean? Or counteracting the effects of climate change? Or reducing the impact of human activities on the marine ecosystem?”
“Yes.” I nod. “All of the above.”
“Then you need to document each problem as thoroughly as possible.” She braces her forearms on her desk. “Do some research so you know exactly what you’re facing.”
“Like a survey or something?” I ask.
“Exactly.”
“Okay,” I say. “And then second part?”
“Determine how you are going to try to solve each problem,” she explains. “What actions are you going to take, and how are you going to measure and define your success?”
“Okay, that makes sense.” I realize I’m fidgeting with the hem of my skirt and stuff my fingers back under my thighs. “What if my first goal is just to get other people—my friends—involved and committed to the problem?”
“That is always a difficult part of the process.”
She reaches back into her file drawer and pulls out a thick green folder. Flipping to the very back, she pulls out a pale-blue sheet of paper. As she holds it out for me to see, she says, “Perhaps you can begin with something as simple as a petition.”
As soon as I’d decided to ask her for help, my mind turned off, and I fell asleep.
Now, faced with actually doing the asking, I wish I’d stayed awake long enough to figure out this part of the plan.
Probably the easiest way is to be as honest as I can.
“A lot of things have changed in my life in the last couple weeks,” I begin. “And I don’t think that going to college is going to be part of my plan.”
“Are you certain?” she asks. “Getting a higher education is the doorway to far greater career opportunities.”
I rub my itchy palms against the edge of my seat. I knew this was going to be a tricky part of the conversation. The teachers at Seaview High seem to be on a mission to get every single student to college. In most cases, I think this is a great goal. But not every kid needs college. Some of them just need to work. Like Quince. They gave up on him a while ago—he already has a job in construction lined up, and there’s not much a college degree is going to do for him.
A college degree isn’t going to help me rule Thalassinia, either. Human higher education doesn’t offer classes in mer politics, and that’s what I need to learn to become a better future ruler. Not that I can share that bit about my plans with Miss Molina.
“I’m sure,” I say, hoping she’ll leave it at that. “But the thing is, I still want to make a difference in the oceans. I still want to help the environmental efforts. I just don’t know how to make that happen.”
She purses her lips again and glances at the ceiling, thinking. I sit quietly and wait.
“It is true that the scientific community represents only one facet of the efforts to preserve the world’s oceans.” She pulls open her bottom desk drawer and starts flipping through the files. “There are a number of nonprofit organizations that are always eager for volunteers.”
“That’s great,” I say, “but . . . well, I was kind of thinking about starting my own organization.”
She pauses her search and looks up, surprised.
“Oh, nothing big or anything, just me and my friends.” And by “friends,” I mean the most powerful merfolk in our part of the ocean, who aren’t exactly feeling friendly toward me right now.
I sit on my hands so they don’t start fidgeting with the hem of my skirt.
“I don’t understand,” Miss Molina says. “What are you asking from me?”
“Advice,” I say, leaning forward. “Some of my friends think the problems are too big for us to make a difference. They see ocean warming and oil spills and overfishing and just want to give up.”
“Ah, I see.”
“How do I convince them that we can change things for the better?” I give her a shaky smile. “How do I get them working together toward a common goal?”
“You’re serious about this?” she asks, like she’s gauging my commitment. Like she’s trying to find out if I’m just going to bail on this like I did on the interviews.
“Absolutely,” I say. “As if my entire world depended on it.”
She studies me for a moment, lips pursed and thinking. Maybe she wonders why I’m so adamant about this, and I wish I could explain it. To her I must just look like some random high schooler who happens to be focused on saving the oceans at the moment and will probably change her mind next week. And the week after that. And every week for the next three years. She doesn’t realize that the ocean isn’t a passing fad for me—it’s my home. And I’m going to do whatever I can to protect the mer world and my people.
My determination must read on my face, because she finally nods.
“If you want to get everyone working toward the same end,” she says, “the first thing you need to do is define the scope of your mission.”
“How do I do that?” I ask.
“There are two parts to any mission statement,” she explains. “First, you need to define what problems you want to tackle. Are you interested in keeping the oceans clean? Or counteracting the effects of climate change? Or reducing the impact of human activities on the marine ecosystem?”
“Yes.” I nod. “All of the above.”
“Then you need to document each problem as thoroughly as possible.” She braces her forearms on her desk. “Do some research so you know exactly what you’re facing.”
“Like a survey or something?” I ask.
“Exactly.”
“Okay,” I say. “And then second part?”
“Determine how you are going to try to solve each problem,” she explains. “What actions are you going to take, and how are you going to measure and define your success?”
“Okay, that makes sense.” I realize I’m fidgeting with the hem of my skirt and stuff my fingers back under my thighs. “What if my first goal is just to get other people—my friends—involved and committed to the problem?”
“That is always a difficult part of the process.”
She reaches back into her file drawer and pulls out a thick green folder. Flipping to the very back, she pulls out a pale-blue sheet of paper. As she holds it out for me to see, she says, “Perhaps you can begin with something as simple as a petition.”
