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纽约时报写作竞赛
纽约时报写作及多媒体竞赛是由纽约时报下属Learning Network主办的针对全球中学生的文科艺术类比赛。比赛每年均会吸引全世界上万名中学生参加。每个月的比赛主题各不相同,纽约时报往往会提前一年公布下年各月的主题及起止时间。2021-2022年度比赛主题有 Personal Narrative,Review Contest, Vocabulary Video Contest, Profile Contest,STEM Writing, Editorial Contest, Summer Reading Contest 等等多个主题,年龄在11-19岁的全球中学生均可以参加。

Personal Narrative 个人陈述
2021年10月13日到11月17日的写作竞赛主题是 Personal Narrative,即个人陈述。本年度的个人陈述写作比赛,是纽约时报举办的第三届年度个人陈述写作竞赛,邀请孩子们用少于600字的语言,讲述一个关于生活的有意义的经历或故事。
人们谈论起纽约时报,最容易想到的是它的首页新闻内容。其实,纽约时报也有刊登个人陈述小文的传统。实际上,多年来纽约时报一直保留了几处版面,用来专门刊登类似的个人陈述小文,反映的主题从家庭、情感、校园生活、人类与动物的互动,残疾生活、焦虑心情等等。为此,纽约时报鼓励学生们写出有关自己生活中的某一特殊意义的时刻或事件,勇敢地和他人分享。对于未满13周岁的学生,可以让父母协助提交,满13周岁的学生,可以自行在纽约时报网站创建账号提交。学校老师可以给同一学校的学生集体提交作品。
参赛要求:
  • 参赛学生必须是11-19岁的初中和高中生
  • 参赛作品必须是一篇短小有力,真实有意义的关于自己的故事
  • 文章从未在其他地方发表过(包括校报),也从未参加过别的比赛。
  • 字数少于 600 字 (不包括题目)
  • 每个学生只能递交一篇
  • 个人完成,非团队作品
  • 截止时间是美东11月17号晚11点59分。
评奖情况:
2020年第二届纽约时报个人陈述写作比赛,共收到了来自世界各地中学生们的9000多篇作品,经过大约2个多月的评审,最后产生了大概150位获奖者。获奖分四个等级,Winners, Runners-up, Honorable Mentions, Round 4 Finalist。 其中最高奖Winners 7位,Runners-up 优胜奖13位,Honorable Mentions 荣誉奖22位,末轮(第4轮)入围奖95位。
佳作欣赏
附上一篇2020年纽约时报个人陈述最高奖作品,非常感人。文章出自一位德州15岁的高中生之手,讲述了得知父亲被诊断患有Pick's desease,或许只有四年生命后,在和父亲一起做Peach Pie过程中,忽然感觉自己长大的故事。作者非常感激有这4年,因为已经足够让父亲看着自己成年。
“Peach Pie” by Elisabeth Stewart
age 15, College Station High School, College Station, Tex.
When the phone finally stopped ringing and the house lay still with grief, I filled my home with the aroma of flaky pie crust and sweet peaches to mask the scent of worry that still lingered.
The weekend after the diagnosis, Mom had copied and pasted the same text to each concerned relative, old friend and college roommate: Jay was diagnosed with a type of early-onset dementia in April. We had an appointment with a neurologist in Houston last week. His condition is called Pick’s disease. We are going back in a few weeks for more information.
Then Mom put down the phone, rubbed her forehead, and suggested that we go for a drive.
I grabbed my newly-minted learner’s permit and started the Nissan Pathfinder we bought from our neighbors after Dad’s company confiscated his truck. On the interstate, we passed a fluttering banner with bold red letters: “Fredericksburg peaches, the best fruit you can find in Central Texas.” Mom slipped on a medical mask and went to negotiate with the vendor.
Now in our kitchen, peach juice seeped through the cardboard box onto the counter. I rinsed a ripe peach under the sink and lifted the fruit to my lips. Juice dribbled down my chin to my arm. The sweet smell diffused into the living room and pulled Dad away from the football reruns on TV.
“Oh! You got peaches?” His large stomach pressed into the counter as he eyed the fruit with childish glee.
“Here,” I handed him a green serrated knife. “We’re making peach cobbler.”
I showed him how to peel the skin off the fleshy fruit, run the blade around the seed, and loosen the peach halves to cut the juicy fruit. As I made pie dough, he asked questions: How long does it take to bake? How much sugar? Are you adding almond extract? How many peaches? What should I do with the seeds? I combined our efforts with a lattice topping over the bed of peaches, and then signaled Dad to open the oven.
Standing there at the counter, showing him how to slice and measure and mix in a calm, firm voice, I suddenly felt grown up. The summer had reversed our roles; now, I was the adult, wincing as the blade neared his fingers. Mom worked through quarantine, so I stayed home and cooked his dinner, washed his T-shirts and helped him make phone calls. When Dad asked the same question every night — “Are we eating inside or outside?” — I always gave him the same answer, unless the August heat decided to scorch the patio. I stayed up late thinking about him and anxiously monitored him like an overbearing caretaker.
That same day, long before the afternoon drive and peach cobbler, I had held my tears as I read the prognosis for Pick’s disease: four to 10 years, depending on how fast the damaged proteins overpower Dad’s brain. I decided then that I would be grateful for just four more years with Dad, enough for him to see me become an adult for real.
Once the pie crust shone golden through the tinted oven door, we gathered on the patio to eat and watch the birds. I savored the moment and the warm dessert before either of us aged further: silver spoons clinking in fiesta bowls, vanilla ice cream melting over the cobbler, both warm and cold and perfectly sweet, a memory to cherish in the coming weeks when we wouldn’t have the time for baking or long evening drives.
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