Cover photo by TCC student Sofia Wong

SPRING 2012

Magazine Magazine This publication is a contribution from the students of Tarrant County College

and the Trinity River Campus Writing & Learning Center

“An Unshakeable Focus on Student Learning”

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Contents College is for Losers Gregory Morris Greg decided not to go to college and entered the workforce instead. Initially, he found success, but eventually found that in his attempt to bypass college, he lost something irreplaceable.

Feel the Beat Elizabeth Martin Elizabeth shares what it‟s like to feel the rhythm of a great bass line, let go of all your worries, dance the night away, and still feel good about it the next day.

East and West - North and South Sofia Wong Sofia Wong speaks of the incredible legacy her grandfather left on his family, as well as his influence and contribution to society.

Disneyland, 1986: Where are you now? Shawn Stewart In 1986, Shawn walked past a stranger in Disneyland. Eyes meeting, a connection was made and neither of their lives has been the same since. But where is she now?

The Professors, the Essay, and the Magic of Life Scott Thrower Acting on a radio announcement to enter an essay contest for a trip to Disneyworld turned into an unforgettable and life-changing experience for the Thrower family.

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Catching Every Red Light in America Payne Parker Old Buicks with Febreezed seats, pink Mustangs that cut you off, and texting drivers who could care less: find out how Payne keeps his sanity during rush hour.

Cosmo Betty Spencer If you have an incredible dream you‟d like to accomplish, maybe you could take some pointers from Cosmo. Just make sure you are not allergic to your dream before you achieve it.

Romanorum Synkretismos Miles Martin Rome created monumental structures inspired from its empire and all corners of the world. This article explains the secret of their success.

Sadie Connie Alling A beautiful short story about the bond between a grandmother and granddaughter and the gift they shared that made their relationship extraordinary.

Choreographing a Dinner Party Peter Zweifel Ever plan the perfect dinner party but have nothing go as expected? Peter shares a humorous story of what can happen when too many cooks get in the kitchen.

Food for Thought Photography Beautiful food photography by Jessica Hoover and Peter Zweifel.

Though the Lens of Alice Hale Photography Everyday life photographed through the lens of Alice Hale.

Fear of a Parent Huda Jabbar Abused and frightened, Huda and her sisters planned the perfect escape, but their hopes quickly died, requiring another plan when their abuser, her father, returned.

You Write Lauriva Day Writers love writing, with each motivated by their own reasons. Find out what motivates Lauriva in her passion for writing.

When Your Soldier Comes Home Chelsea Slater Our soldiers are coming home, but who will they be? What will they be? Can we pick our lives up just as before, or will it be the beginning of a war neither of us bargained for?

The Wizard Kenney Kost A mystical yet introspective writing.

The Day the Earth Shook Raymundo Buggs In 1985, Mexico City was rocked by a devastating earthquake that killed thousands and left many buried under tons of debris. Raymundo recounts his heroic efforts to save an infant buried under piles of rubble.

Destruction Lack Victory Terryon D. Desso The beautiful photography of Sofia Wong, combined with the simplicity and reflective elegance of this contribution makes it a winning combination.

My Dream Revised Shalamar Stricklin Shalamar was on track to achieving her dreams. However, being diagnosed with Lupus, while at the same time discovering she was pregnant, threatened not only those dreams, but also the life of her unborn child.

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By S

teve

n L

eM

on

s

A nother semester of incredible achievements at Trinity River is nearing an end. Students, faculty, staff, and administration all share in both the challenges and successes which make the T.R. culture great — not just this semester, but throughout every

year. Since the Trinity River campus opened, we have witnessed the student body increase from 3,000 students to well over 7,000. With such growth come the constant demands and time constraints of students, our profession, family, and even our goals. Although we realize the frantic pace which our respective positions require and attack them with passion and vigor, there are those infrequent times during quiet reflection when we ask ourselves, “Why am I here?” Am I here to inspire and motivate others to discover the true greatness lying dormant within themselves? Is it to enable, empower, and equip students with the tools and life skills necessary to overcome the cruel

adversity keeping them bound to generational poverty? Or is it because a teacher or mentor inspired me and now I have an obligation to pay it forward? Regardless of what your reason is for being here, your presence on this “achieving the dream” battlefield is undeniably necessary. For many of us, we could have chosen a different occupation to apply our talents; however, for most of us there was little choice in the matter. Teaching and mentoring became a relentless pursuit, a passion. It was a calling which drew us. For one does not choose the job of teaching or mentoring as a career; it chooses and defines you. The Merriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary defines a calling as: “A strong inner impulse toward a particular course of action, especially when accompanied by conviction of divine influence.” Maybe some of us had no idea our journey would lead us to this place, at this institution, in this discipline, or even this chair we occupy; yet here we are. There is a reason why each of us has been chosen to take this transformational journey. After all, it is the power of passionate educators and mentors who create the foundation of this country; they feed the soul of humanity. They are the molders of the raw creativity that exists within every student. They are the true change agents, transformers, and dream makers in the lives of others. Throughout history — not only in this country but around the world — it has been educators and mentors who day by day, student by student, influence the course of achievement. Regardless of their status or level of success, their success was influenced by an educator or mentor. Some caring educators or mentors who balanced the perfect blend of inspiration and passion to motivate those students to excel beyond their own expectations. “Change” has become the buzzword of our time. This term often represents not only an exercise in patience and creativity, but also the phrase of the day, week, month, and even year. Even the rules for achieving what was once thought of as the American Dream have been rewritten to include this change. We all know the expectations placed upon faculty and staff to perform at higher levels and produce better results are greater than ever before. There are times when even the most committed can find themselves slightly confused regarding our future. However, at the end of the day, there are still papers to grade, committees to form, meetings to attend, and students to inspire. As T.R. change advocates, our purpose is to make an exceptional difference in the lives of our students. Institutions of higher learning are further charged with not only doing more with less, but also accommodating a wider student demographic. Whether students are traditional or non-traditional, handicapped, ESOL, or from recent incarceration, T.R. faculty and staff believe if they apply themselves, they deserve the opportunity to achieve the dream of achieving a college education. The financially challenged or at-risk students are of special interest during challenging times of economic uncertainty. Students who live at or below the poverty line find themselves in a fight for their dreams. Many were born into a vicious and unforgiving generational cycle of poverty. Let’s

Make

It H

ap

pe

n

Many students desire to break this painful cycle of poverty, but feel trapped inside an abysmal labyrinth of not knowing how. In order to change their lives, and those of their children, they must find the courage, to reach out to those they believe actually care. T.R. faculty and staff are those people. Being first in their families to attend college, can often feel like a trip into an academic Twilight Zone. Once the college commitment has been made and the Accuplacer taken, students can feel overwhelmed and defeated before they complete their first assignment. According to a recent survey at Trinity River, around 40% of our students live at or below the poverty line. What does living below the poverty line actually mean? It means trying to make one dollar perform as ten. It means sometimes working two or even three jobs, under the constant threat of being laid off, and never getting home from work before 8:00 p.m. to put kids to bed, before finding enough calm to complete the next day‟s assignment. If they are lucky, it means driving a car with a blinking service engine light, bald tires, expired inspection sticker, out-of-date tags, all while trying to avoid being stopped by the police. If they are not so lucky, it could mean waiting on three buses to get to campus, while cutting library time short to catch the last bus which leaves too early for the ride home. Living in poverty also means walking past the Riverfront Café on their way to class, embracing the enticing aroma of garlic from a freshly baked pizza, knowing they cannot afford a piece, even though many may not have eaten in several days. We look into the faces of these students every day. Sometimes their eyes tell a story, a story of extremes; one of anger and bitterness, mixed with a “don‟t tread on me” attitude or expression. The other reflects a student who barely makes eye-contact yet continually suffers in silent pain. At times their harsh tone, unattractive loudness, perceived lack of attention, and classroom behavior may be hiding years of neglect, abuse, and disenfranchisement. They long for the encouragement, support, and understanding provided by a clearer vision of who they are and what they will become. We are here, as advocates to empower lives. This may not have been our first choice to be selected for such an honor. It has become our opportunity to make a difference far beyond just maintaining the new status quo. Our demographic represents and encourages change. A few years ago, Blockbuster dominated the video rental business. There was one on almost every corner. What happened? Change happened. Change ushered in “On demand television downloads,” Hulu TV on your computer, Netflicks in the mailbox, and Redbox machines on every corner dispensing the latest movies for one dollar. Not only did Blockbuster‟s demographics change, the world changed. Blockbuster did not change with their market. As a campus and team, we are not the academic version of Blockbuster. Our passion, creativity, and inspiration make us masters of transformation and student success. We now know that waiting for Superman to rescue us is not going to happen — not for students, and definitely not for us. Teamwork, a committed passion for student success, focused effort, and the implementation and follow through of creative efforts will promote and inspire measurable, necessary change. As individuals, each of us has a limited reach. As a T.R. family, we dramatically increase our influence, not just in North Texas, but throughout the United States. Our teamwork is an academic force of nature. So as the semester winds down, each student takes a piece of us with them. We may never realize the impact we all have on lives. Because of our calling, and why we are here, we each made a difference. In this edition of TCC Writes Online Magazine, we are excited to bring you examples from students of why we became educators and mentors. Whether a writing or photography submission, we are proud to showcase each of these beautiful works. Many will recall these students from classes, labs, the library, or cafeteria. We must never forget who we are and why we are here. Our roles influence students‟ decisions to participate in this wonderful publication. Whether instructors, staff members, or administrators, we all are changing the lives of students. We are helping shape the next generation for a new world. That is why we are here, so together, let‟s make it happen. Thank you.

Steven LeMons

Managing Editor

Our Trinity River Campus Hallmarks

An Unshakeable Focus on Student Learning

Service and Community Engagement

Strong, Open Communication

Professional and Personal Growth

Multicultural Competence and Language Acquisition

Interdisciplinary Collaboration

Wellness

SUPPORT

The mission of the Writing and Learning Center is to create, promote, and foster the value, growth,

and appreciation of writing.

SUPPORT

We are extremely excited to welcome the newest addition to the Trinity River Campus—the Trinity River East Campus (TREC). More than just a beautiful and state-of-the-art facility, TREC offers a fully-accredited nursing program as well as other Allied Health courses that equip tomorrow’s health professionals with the skills they need to compete in one of today’s fastest growing employment segments. We welcome all students, faculty, and staff to our Trinity River family, where you are in good hands and your future is very bright.

She has a very

bright future.

By

Gre

gory

Morr

is

“My career began immediately after high school.

I made the choice to go to work instead of going to college.

That choice has worked for me until recently.

I realize that I lost many things by not going to college.

I realize that I am a loser.”

I have been self-employed most of my career. I have been moderately successful in the advertising and real estate professions for many years. My career began immediately after high school. I made the choice to go to

work instead of going to college. That choice has worked for me until recently. I realize that I lost many things by not going to college. I realize that I am a loser. I often view losing as bad. I define it as having something that is important to me, and then not having it anymore. It was my game to win, and I lost. I had my phone, and then I lost it. I lost the money in my pocket. Losing is not always a bad thing. Losing teaches me to value and appreciate what I have. Sometimes I wonder if I can feel a “loss” for something that I never had. I moved back to Texas recently. I found myself in a position of having to start over. That is difficult for anyone, especially for someone in sales like me. I applied for many jobs. I had an interview recently for a salaried position. If I had been hired, I could have escaped the roller-coaster world of commission-only sales. My resume has an obvious void where “Education” should be. The void screamed at the employer like the “ghost of nothing” from my past. He was scared away. Regardless of how qualified, successful, or how much I have learned in the workforce, the lost job opportunities continue to haunt me. I wonder what opportunities I lost by not going to college. Money is not everything, but it is important. It is difficult to prove, but I know that I have lost money by not going to college. I see enough examples to know. I read articles that point out the salary differences between high school graduates and college graduates. I know that the salary for the job I did not get recently is higher than what I am earning now. It is painful. I feel the loss in my wallet and in my soul. I wonder what my earnings would be now if I had gone to college. Jobs and money are tangible. However, some losses are intangible. I am what some people refer to as “street-smart.” I am self-taught, and I have a broad knowledge of many things. My career in sales has put me in many interesting situations. I have met with politicians, company presidents, community leaders, and others in high authority positions. I have been a leader myself. I know how to handle myself in almost any environment. I can relate to many people on many levels. Nevertheless, I still feel like there are things that I do not know. I am not certain what those

things are. I lost an opportunity to learn by not going to college, and I wonder what I would know now if I had gone to college. Another intangible loss that I have suffered is my pride, that sense of pride that comes from accomplishment. I have done many things in my life that make me proud. I have two wonderful children. I have awards for being a top-producer in sales. I have led several civic organizations. My peers selected me as “Realtor of the Year” twice. I am proud of all of those accomplishments, but I still feel like I have lost something. I wonder what sense of pride I would feel if I had gone to college. I lost many things by not going to college. I realize that the only way to find what I have lost is to go to college. I enrolled in college recently. I look forward to finding what I have lost in job opportunities, money, knowledge, and pride. College is what I need. College is for losers.

Gregory Morris

flowers

Roses are red Just like my heart Which bleeds true Violets are blue Just like my tears When I don't see you Daffodils are yellow The color of the sun.... and your smile, Which chases away all my clouds Chrysanthemums are white Just like my wedding gown On the happiest day of our lives Tiger Lilies are orange The heat of passion When our bodies melt together

It is the feel of the bass. It takes over my heartbeat. It is the conscious decision to lose everything in my mind that has been worrying me and

just let go. This is what I do when I go to nightclubs. I feel the bass, I feel the beat, and the knowledge dawns upon me that living in the moment is all I need to be doing. In the breakdown, that is where I make the conscious decision to lose control over my body and become a slave to that heavy beat. I am a creature of the night and the animal whose master is the bass. The master who is constantly whipping me to move my body in ways I have not before, to let go and be completely and ever present in that moment. I move accordingly as to not disappoint the master, for its voice controls my heartbeat in that moment with its ever present pounding I feel through my body. By the end of the night, my ears are ringing, my stomach aches, and as soon as my face hits my pillow, I am in dreamland dreaming about when I can be a slave to the dark beat yet again. I am new to this experience, only a few months in, but I am already addicted to the drug that is the dark beat. It is what relieves my stress. The master sends me into another universe with its wobbles and energy. The synthesizer’s melody… it carries me away. I will forever be enslaved to the master that is the bass.

East and West

By Sofia Wong North

and

Sou

th

S omeone who has influenced me and my family in several ways is my grandfather; he has created an invisible path for us to follow. I never had the chance to meet him, but I am very fond of him because

he was thinking ahead of his generation. When I was a child, I heard on several occasions during family gatherings about his persona from my mom, uncles, aunts, and especially my grandmother. These stories sounded interesting for a small child, although, it wasn‟t until recently that I had the desire to know more about his life. Through hours of research I found out more about him. I will always be amazed by his numerous adventures and challenges, his courage to confront the unknown, and the great father figure he was. Growing up, I always knew the value of education, and whenever I found myself in a new country like the US or Japan, I would work hard to learn and master the language and understand its culture so that I could integrate into society and have a public voice. My grandfather did not have the privilege to attend regular school and pursue proper education, but later on in life he managed to speak Spanish as a second language. His name was Shung and he was born and raised in China in 1885 in the very poor farming village of Maosan, a province of Guandong. In his town, schools did not exist. Instead, kids would gather in community houses to learn how to read and write. His parents did not have much education either; nevertheless, they always encouraged education as a way to succeed in life. As a result, all of his children are college graduates and successful in life. My mother often repeats my grandfather‟s thoughts, saying, “I would do anything for you to graduate from college, no matter what it takes. If I have to sell our home, I will.” As a young adult, I moved to Japan, too young to envision what I was putting myself into. At the same time, my siblings were emigrating to Canada. In Japan, a country where foreigners are often called “aliens,” I was in a totally strange environment, had a language barrier, and was a cultural enemy. My siblings and I had left our native Peru, inspired by our grandfather to encounter new and better horizons. My grandfather left his country in 1901, at the early age of sixteen, also alone, and had to encounter all the difficulties a person experiences when moving to a new place. He started from nothing and all he had was the shirt on his back, but after persevering all his life, he finally succeeded and achieved his goals. After being away from home and the people who loved and cared for me, the places and sounds that were

familiar to me, the food and the scents that were considered comforting to me, I experienced similar changes and challenges that my grandfather had encountered in life. Now, I can relate more closely to him and appreciate the lessons hidden behind his story. Over a decade of being away from my country had replaced the delicious Ceviche for the Sushi, and I finally felt comfortable enough to call Japan „home.‟ I enjoyed having a great job and a great home, being surrounded by friends, and having access to a good social network. However, life unexpectedly turned over another leaf, and I left again for the third time and came to the U.S. Recently, I heard from my mother another story that amazed me about starting all over again in life, and it made me realize that there is no age limit in trying something new, that it is never too late. By the time my grandfather was sixty-two, he lost all he had worked for. He had worked over forty-five years in Peru and was old enough to retire, was married for the third time, and had ten kids. My mother was seven when he found himself in the good position to retire. He then sold all his property to live the relaxed life awaiting him back in China. Everything was going according to his plans until the communist party came into power and consequently, currency devaluated to the extreme. He lost everything, putting him in the situation to start all over again, going back to Peru to work to provide an education and a good life for his family. At first, I was not sure if I had made the right choice, but after knowing about his last story, I realized that I had to lose something in order to gain something else. Now, I find myself in a situation that is not easy to overcome for most people, although I am confident enough thanks to my grandfather‟s past experiences. Unintentionally influenced by my grandfather, I, too, have the innate desire to travel to different parts of the world, to learn about other cultures, and to challenge myself at different levels as an individual. I feel that if I hadn‟t heard the stories about my grandfather, I would not have the self-confidence to follow my dreams. Sometimes, I wonder how different my life would be now, and what my identity would have been if my grandfather hadn‟t made the choice of starting all over again back in Peru. Perhaps, I would have been born in China and experienced a totally different reality. I hope to find out more about him and see how his experiences will be reflected in mine throughout adulthood, and perhaps in more generations to come.

My grandfather and my grandmother were just married. China, circa 1930.

Studio picture of my grandparents and their children taken in 1940. My grandmother is holding a

new born baby girl.

My grandfather is already close to 70 years old. The picture

was taken in front of their home in Lima, 1965. Most of the kids were going to university or had already graduated.

Sofia Wong

I t was a place called Disneyland, where dreams are built on hills of sand, and castles in a morning’s tide glide away on glistening rivulets.

I was lost the among the fairytale towers, the perfect lawns, impossible flowers, until I stumbled near into the Girl I Never Knew. She wasn't alone, nor was I, yet when our eyes met, the rest of the world vanished, and I was… vanquished. We said as much as two could say, if only we could speak, if only minds were strong enough and legs were half as weak. In the Haunted Mansion line, we came together, side by side; for probably half-an-hour through that twisting, turning line, you could not have slipped a piece of paper in-between us; yet we stepped into our separate cars, without a touch, a single one. She will forever, ever be in that dark car ahead of me throughout the twists and alleys of this life of mine, her secret love You know how the song goes: “When you wish upon a star, Makes no difference who you are…” In a place where dreams come true, I lost the one I never knew. (c) 1986 sps arr

Disneyland, 1986: Where are you now? (it’s a small world, after all)

by Shawn Stewart

©

Life provides incredible opportunities for those willing to put forth the effort necessary to achieve them. It is a fact that miracles happen everyday, and it is these priceless moments which make life exciting. What began as an essay response for Scott and Irene Thrower turned into a miracle of a lifetime. Radio station 103.7 Lite FM held a contest asking its listeners to compose a 500-word essay for an opportunity to win a 3-day, 4-night, all-expense-paid family vacation to Disneyland or Disneyworld. The essay required answering one of two questions: “Write about a specific memory that you have about a trip you took to a Disney park,” or “Write about a memory that you might want to have on a future trip to a Disney park.” Scott entered the essay contest and won the all-expense-paid trip to Disneyworld for his family. The following is the actual entry he submitted. Take it from Scott: opportunity usually only knocks once. Seize it and create your own miracle.

W e were somewhere in the park...she was wearing pink tennis shoes, a Mickey t-shirt, overall shorts, and Mickey ears. And she

was laughing so hard she was crying. That‟s when I knew I was truly in love. Then she said something I will never forget...“Next time we are here, it better be with two little boys!!!!”

As fate would have it, we married soon after, but fate can sometimes be very cruel. We soon found out that it would be very difficult for us to have our own children. Just so you know, I came from a broken home with an abusive mother and a father that was never there, so I think that deep down inside me, I was relieved... relieved that I wouldn‟t have the chance to be a bad parent. One day at breakfast she says, “Let‟s become foster parents.” Why not? We would be taking care of someone else‟s children while they got their act together. What possible harm could come from it?

Steven arrived at our house on December 23, 2004. He was 11 months old and very much asleep. His blue onesy was filthy and smelled of stale cigarette smoke. His diaper was days old and he had a severe rash. And under all that grit and grime was a beautiful, blond­haired, blue-eyed boy that I instantly fell in love with. But I was still very much afraid. His brother, Thomas, was six days old when he came to us on August 29, 2005, and he was so very sick. He spent the next five days at Children‟s Medical Center in Fort Worth, with a serious infection... and my wife never left his side.

If there really are “momma‟s boys” and “daddy‟s boys,” we have two of them. Steven from day one did not let me out of his sight, and Thomas is never far from my wife‟s side. I wish I could say that

fostering them was easy, but it wasn‟t... they both had many health issues and our second home became a children‟s medical center. And on top of that, we were trying to adopt them, so we got to know the legal system very well. Finally, after many court battles filled with tears and frustration, we adopted Steven and Thomas in March 2007... and that has made all the difference in the world. You know, it‟s funny..! I began this with the specific intent of letting you send us to Disneyworld, but that‟s not really important, is it? After thinking about this all again, I realize that I have something worth more than a 1,000 trips to Disneyworld. I have love. I have hope. I have a family. And I have redemption... this scared little boy, who thought he could never make it right, met a woman who made him the best man he could possibly be and two little boys that have made him an even better daddy. Thank you.

Scott Thrower’s Winning Essay

Steven and Thomas‟s adoption day on March 9, 2007. After 2 ½ years, Judge Randy Catterton finally read aloud their names for the first time….Steven Wesley Dean Thrower and Thomas Ronald Weldon Thrower.

Assignment brainstorming Sentence and paragraph work Basic grammar Essay construction Finding and citing sources Technical writing Story and poetry analysis Literary terms Avoiding plagiarism College entry essays Resume assistance PowerPoint assistance

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Catching every

red light in

America By Payne Parker

Catching every

red light in

America

Managing along the paved But tampered turnpike

Bland Buick steering in the left lane Peering her Q-tip head over the bedazzled wheel

Giving a passing glance of cynicism But she doesn’t give a flying flip

Just the journey from point A to point B Zero regard for fellow travelers

Piloting a metal motorcar

Steering through at 5 o’clock Inevitable temper inducing bumper to bumper When that custom pink Mustang cuts you off…

Obnoxious custom license plate taunting the eyes Fury of fiery frustrations engulf your Febreezed seats Confident that their eyes are not on the road ahead

Texting mindless words of unimportance

A livid exhale does not suffice The only civil thing is to develop tolerance

By Betty Spencer

He’s not exactly

your ordinary cat

C osmo had to wait until dark fell over the whole ranch before he could make his move. He knew going before would most likely bring Miles to the front yard and that meant trouble.

Cosmo was on a mission to taste that cheese he stared at every night. So he milled about, watching the wooden swing move with the wind. He could hear the cows in the pasture and the raccoons scrounging for food. Now was the time! Cosmo took a giant leap off the porch and began his climb up the chain-linked fence. “Bark, bark BARK!” Miles began. “Miles, please don‟t wake our master. I will be back,” said Cos­mo. And he sprinted as fast as his legs would take him across the ranch and to the dirt road. As the sun rose, Cosmo was on the bed of a flat bed truck, hiding in the center of the hay that was bailed yesterday. This truck, he knew, traveled past his next destination. Cosmo was on his way. He could barely contain his excitement! He licked his paws, looking ea­gerly around the truck. Just then the truck stopped and he heard the door slam. He tried to duck underneath the hay, but it was too late. Copey had found him and snatched him up with his giant hands. “Meeeeeoooow!” Cosmo screamed. “You‟ve had your last free ride, Cosmo!” Copey yelled. With that he dropped Cosmo and gave the hardest kick imaginable. He kicked like he had been taught all those years in football practice. Cosmo flew into the air, seeing the Earth shrink below him. He smiled as he passed each star. Within minutes he made a landing on all fours—yes, cats always land on their feet. It wasn‟t how he intended to get here, but he was here! After all his dreams and wishes he was at the giant piece of cheese. He began frantically licking. He saw a foot print and an American flag. The more he licked, the more his nose itched. Cosmo knew this was bad. He tried to hold it in, but “ACHOOO!” He began sneezing; each was becoming harder than the previous. He was allergic to the cheese! He couldn‟t believe his luck. He sat in the giant foot print wondering who had walked here. “ACHOOOO!” Cosmo sneezed so violently that he began to drift off of the cheese. He reached for the flag, grabbing it as tight as his little paws could. It didn‟t work. Cosmo had pulled up the

flag with him, and before he knew it, he and the flag were plummeting towards the Earth. This was a much more frightening trip than the trip to the cheese had been, he thought to himself. Cosmo could see the ranch below him and began to prepare himself for a crash landing. All four legs stretched out, Cosmo landed next to the front porch of his ranch home. He barely had time to shake off before he realized that the flag was coming straight to him at a very high rate of speed. He took cover under the porch as the flag came down hard, embedding itself in the dry clay of the yard. “Miles! Miles! I did it!!” cried Cosmo, “I got to the cheese!” “Ruff, ruff. What cheese? What crazy ad­venture are you dreaming up now, Cosmo?” asked Miles. Cosmo looked up and with great excitement pointed his paw toward the moon. “There,” he ex­claimed, “there is the cheese!” “It must be nice to have nine lives,” Miles grumbled as he walked back to the comfort of his dog house. “Try not to get into any more cheese, Cosmo. It appears you are allergic.”

He’s not exactly

your ordinary cat

rt, as well as architectural timelines, speak of history rife with adaptation. Advancements in the arts

can be accredited to the blending of cultural elements. Numerous innovations have been attained

through the syncretism of artistic styling. This is most evident within the imperialistic civilizations like

that of Rome. Renowned for its superiority in engineering, Rome created monumental structures that

were both familiar and avant-garde. To accomplish this, Rome drew inspiration from all corners of

her empire and the known world. Syncretism is illustrated throughout Rome‟s temples, forums, and triumphant

monuments such as the Arch of Titus.

The architectural development of the arch cannot be credited to any specific culture. Numerous civilizations have

demonstrated the use of the arch in a variety of styles. Although arches can be found throughout the Roman known

world, it is highly plausible that the Romans adapted the arch from the Etruscans, due to their adjacent geographical

location. Though Roman and Etruscan arches claim similar concepts of weight distribution, Rome constructed

arches on a monumental scale. By its completion in 81 CE, the Arch of Titus surpassed all arches in aspects of

scale and the amount of weight it could bear (Davies et.al, 2007).

Davies, P., Simon, D., Denny, W., Roberts, A., Jacobs, J., & Hofrichter, F. (2007). Janson's History of Art. Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Pearson Education, Inc.

Davies, P., Simon, D., Denny, W., Roberts, A., Jacobs, J., & Hofrichter, F. (2007). Janson's History of Art. Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Pearson Education, Inc.

READ

Is the price of gas messing with your

vacation plans?

Ask your librarian for details on how you can stay home yet

travel for free.

You never know where it could

take you.

Two friends, an old sewing machine, and a relationship that lasted a lifetime.

By Connie Alling

Sadie

T he vision of her short, stout stature sitting on the chair in front of her sewing machine is as clear today as the figure that sat before me in the small, rural neighborhood in which we

lived in Pennsylvania. Cattle grazed just on the other side of the fence bordering the backyard we viewed through her bedroom window. She lived with her cousin while we lived in a house just four streets away. As an older child, I could walk to her house to visit my grandmother. The room was simply decorated. A glass plaque, hand painted in her favorite color purple, hung on one wall. On another wall hung her heavy round mirror (a cherished treasure I have ownership of today), bordered with a hand painted quote. A light colored wooden dresser with a lamp sat between her bed and her sewing machine, and a rug lay on the floor. Simple curtains framed the one bedroom window. The hum of the sewing machine, the sun coming in the window, the contented smile on Sadie’s face; something about her stirred a connection I had yet to understand.

For hours unending as a child, I sat silent on her bed within this environment. Few words were ever spoken. They did not need to be. A thread of communication was stitching our hearts together where our spirits had already met. She reflected both a deep love for me and a very dark distance from my life because by that time she had already lived through hardship unimaginable to me. No one meant more to me than Sadie. Our quiet hours shared, Sadie at her sewing machine and me on her bed, lost in a world of colors, textures, compositions, and the shapes of her buttons which poured from a collection of cookie tins onto her white Chenille bedspread. Sometimes she sang from her heart or laughed, more to herself than to me, as her mind followed the threads of memory through the fabric of her life to church and her childhood. The sound of her voice warmed my heart as she sang her beloved songs. It seemed to me, happiness came to her when she was transported to a happier place or time across the threshold into her world of sewing or music. She was not especially talented as a singer, yet even today I hear her voice as she passionately sang her beloved songs. Somehow I know she holds a place in the heavenly choirs of angels. It is as if I can see her there. As a seamstress, she was quite

talented, often making her own patterns. She would lovingly hand craft clothing for herself, my mother, my two sisters and me.

I did not understand her paranoid schizophrenia and it hurt deeply when she would leave and visit that side of her life. She was incredibly sad and troubled in this place that was so unknown by me. She cried often and said many things I could not comprehend. I hurt for her and as the years went by, I longed to reach her to bring her back. I felt as though the scissors used to cut out her wonderful clothing creations were being applied to my heart, cutting away someone I felt attached to like the other half of the piece of fabric being cut. As a child I missed her and did not understand when they took her to the hospital. I missed our times together. I missed her tins full of buttons. I missed my place of escape.

It is interesting how life turns. After years of spending hours on grandma’s bed with her buttons, I had the opportunity to share a bedroom with grandma. These memories are priceless treasures to me. Yet pulling at my heart strings are the heavy memories of an increasing number of times she would leave and go to her place of deep sadness and darkness. I longed for a better understanding of who she was. I was angry because I could not reach her or reason with her. I did not understand her or the thief who continued to take her away.

When Sadie was taken to the nursing home to live, I missed her. For the years she was there, I visited her whenever I had the opportunity to return to Pennsylvania. When she passed away, I was left without a very dear friend. However, the gift of her spirit remains in me and continues to live through me, expressed through each picture this artist paints, using the mediums of a sewing machine, fabric, and buttons.

Connie Alling

Photograph by Jessica Hoover

“My dad and Grandpa dropped the turkey, the stuffing spewed

all over the floor like blood and guts in a Samurai seppuku

death scene; but they just scooped everything back in the pan,

basted the turkey, and we all ate it three hours later.”

By Peter Zweifel

By Peter Zweifel

H osting lavish dinner parties for my friends

is one of my most passionate hobbies. I

love the feeling of warmth and happiness

that I can taste in a delicious glass of wine, touch in an

affectionate embrace with a friend, smell in the

intoxicating aroma of food cooking, and see on the

smiling faces of my guests. I consider hosting a dinner

party to be much like choreographing a ballet, requiring

careful planning, the ability to improvise, a firm grasp

on time management, and people who are willing to

participate in a common vision. My love for dinner

parties first began as a child during Thanksgiving, my

favorite holiday.

At the helm of this annual monstrosity was my

wonderfully masochistic mother who delegated only a

few tasks to select individuals. Grandpa Lewis made

the cranberries and gravy. My father was supposed to

be in charge of roasting the turkey, but, in reality,

Grandpa was in charge of that too---three quick taps

on the table with Grandpa‟s cane were sufficient to

announce it was time to baste. My three siblings and I

helped as much as we could without getting in the way,

with my two older sisters occasionally faking

incompetence to shirk duties.

Aunt Barb always brought the green bean casserole

because Uncle Ricky still will not forgive my mother for

the one time she made it with fresh green beans

instead of canned. One cousin would bring a dessert,

and Cousin Tommy would sometimes bring wine he

had made himself; there was always plenty left over.

As a kid, I was thrilled to have people in the house. It

was exciting to have family to play with or to hear the

laughter of adults telling jokes that I didn‟t understand.

One year, Aunt Dorothy locked herself in the bathroom

for four hours with her dog, Max, whom she claimed to

be her dead husband reincarnated, because Uncle

Ricky told her that Swedish people suck, even though

he himself is Swedish. Another year, my dad and

Grandpa dropped the turkey, the stuffing spewed all

over the floor like blood and guts in a Samurai seppuku

death scene; but they just scooped everything back in

the pan, basted the turkey, and we all ate it three hours

later. The roasting pan still bears the dent. These were

the elements of Thanksgiving dinner that I loved the

most--the unpredictable human interactions. I can

remember feeling like I was witnessing magic being

created. There was a vibrant energy in the air, filling

me with an inspiration to experience the most of life.

I now attempt to share that feeling with others. By

using the skills I have learned as a professional

choreographer, I believe that an ordinary dining

experience can be transformed into a living work of art.

I begin by carefully selecting a menu with an

interesting and satisfying progression of flavors and

choosing music that enhances the food‟s tone of

expression. I then invite guests suited for each event

based upon individual personalities and palates, and in

the same way mixing and matching different dancers

will create unique movement qualities in a ballet,

distinct combinations of personalities will create unique

interactions and conversations. Whether in the studio

or at home, I love to surround myself with people who

inspire me.

A typical

Peter Zweifel family spread

Food For

Thought

Eating: for some of us it is a national pastime. Eating and food find themselves right there next to baseball and apple pie. From robust, spicy-flavored chili concoctions to sweet, tantalizing diet-buster baked goods that make counting calories a true test of will, when it comes to eating and

satisfying our tummies we leave no stone unturned. However, if you find yourself being just a tad on the disciplined side and just love to look at food rather than partake of the endless bounty at your local Golden Corral, this article may be just for you. Thumb through any major magazine and it‟s plain to see there are many amateur and professional photographers who specialize in the art of food photography. At Trinity River, we are extremely fortunate to have a wealth of gifted and talented students who are also interested in such studies. Featured are samples from two student photographers who can make the weak at heart ditch their frozen Lean Cuisine meals and find any excuse for really getting their grub on. Take a look and see if you‟d rather have a plate of one of these delicious offerings, or microwave popcorn for lunch.

Dishes created and photographed by Jessica Hoover

Food For

Thought

Bread baked and photographed by Peter Zweifel

Th

rou

gh

th

e le

ns

of Alice Hale

of a Parent An excerpt by Huda Jabbar

W ith all the screaming and hitting, we could not say anything to him, so we let him hit us until he got tired. He eventually stopped and left. Along with him, he took our house keys and

told us, “No one can save you now.”

I grew up with my two sisters and father; Haybat is my older sister, she is twenty-five years old; Hajr is my younger sister, she is twenty years old; and my father, Salam, is fifty-three. We all lived under the same roof for twenty-two years. On the outside, all seemed well and happy, but on the other side of the door, life was hell for my two sisters and me. For years, my sisters and I lived and dealt with our father‟s temper and abuse, both verbally and physically. My sisters and I never spoke to anyone of what our life was like at home. Fear can be such a powerful feeling that choosing to deal with it may seem easier than not dealing with it and fearing more. In 2009, my family and I had to move from the capital of Turkey (Ankara) to another city (Amasya) for preparations to move to the United States. At this point in time, my father

had been making promises of how he was going to change—easier said than done. After moving to Amasya, my father went from bad to worse. Living with him had really become a fear of whether we would wake up in the morning or not. One day, I was sitting on my bed crying from this blinding pain I had in my stomach. My father walked into my room and asked me why I was sitting on my bed looking horrible; I told him that I was not feeling well. He told me, “If you do not like the life we have here, you can get out.” I was mad and hurt, so I asked him why he was treating me the way he was. Bad idea. I should have just shut up and dealt with it like I always had. I stood up for myself, and as a result all I felt was my head being banged to the wall. He attacked me and started hitting me with all his strength.

For the first time in years, my older sister Haybat stepped in and tried to protect me. Of course, he did not like that and started hitting her as well. With all the screaming and hitting, we could not say anything to him, so we let him hit us until he got tired. He eventually stopped and left. Along with him, he took our house keys and told us, “No one can save you now.” I remember looking at Haybat and saw the fear in her eyes.

We waited until he left the house to even talk about what happened, and after he did, we started planning how we were going to run away. The distance between Ankara and Amasya is six hours, and the only way we could get to Ankara is by bus. After making many calls and shedding many tears, we finally had a plan. I pitched an idea to my sisters and they agreed.

At night, from fear, we took shifts sleeping. There was always one of us awake, because he had made threats about killing us in the middle of the night. It was probably the longest night of our lives. When the morning came, Hajr and our father got ready and left, but before they did, I told Hajr to text me fifteen minutes before getting home, so that we can wrap things up. As soon as they left, Haybat and I started packing, and mind you we had a little baby girl with us, Mira, my niece. We packed to where it looked like we had nothing, but yet enough to last us for months. Our home was very small, and hiding something in it was impossible.

After packing, I walked to the bus station and got us three tickets for the 12:30 p.m. bus to Ankara. Oh, and in case you have forgotten, we can only leave the house one person at a time because we do not have a key, so Haybat stayed at home while I was running around getting things done. I got the tickets and ran back home. I called a cab so I could take the bags to the bus station. As the cab pulled to the front of the apartment, Haybat started handing me the

bags and I carried them down. As I was doing that I got a text message that said, “We will be home in five minutes.” I think at this point my heart started skipping a beat from fear. The adrenalin kicked in really fast and strong. My sister Haybat, God bless her heart, was not good in dealing with such things, so the way she handled this was by jumping up and down screaming, “What are we going to do?” She repeated this about three times until I said, “Haybat, shut up, let me think.” She did, and we figured something out.

At 12:25, Hajr and my father walked in and we immediately told him that we had an appointment to get our nails done. He said okay. As Hajr reached to grab Mira, he said, “Why are you taking Mira with you? She is a baby. That environment is not good for her.” I think at this point, I was ready to just die. We finally convinced him and left. We raced to the station and actually made it on the bus. Fear is one of the most powerful emotions a human being can possess; you can either let it take over and be its prisoner, or you can beat it and move forward; fear is the soul‟s weak side, and there is one thing I will tell you about me: Fear is my biggest fear and my hardest struggle, but every time I beat it I feel freedom in my soul.

Huda Jabbar

Looking for a new discovery? We‟ve got it.

Are you ready for your soldier to come home? Have you prepared their favorite meal in your mind? Desiring to have a romantic night in— Or out for a night of dancing? Planned to have the kids whisked away for a sleepover at a friend‟s house? Are you ready to look at your solider— And you feel you don‟t really know that person? Nor they you? Have you prepared to look into the eyes of someone— Who was only a shell of whom they were before? Knowing but not knowing- Is a scary place to be—alone— With someone you love. Are you ready for the unknowns that your soldier is bringing home? PTSD, a physical or mental illness, a hidden drug or alcohol problem, or worse? Missing limbs or maybe just MIA? Are you ready for their death? Your loss— Your grief— Of a life cut short. The only way to be ready is to prepare yourself— Through prayer, meditation, rest— Whatever it takes for you to care for yourself so you may care for your soldier. A piece of advice? Think positive all the way through the journey of when— Your soldier comes home— To you.

When Your Soldier Comes Home By Chelsea Slater

Deep inside lives a wizard

He knows how everything goes

How all games are played

The simplicity in order

The organization of chaos

The knowledge to be gained from truth

On the outside is just a boy too afraid to crack the shell…

The boy toils in magic

Fire and ice

Earth and wind

Trying to grasp an understanding

Trying to crack the shell

Slowly the wizard begins to rise

But the boy begins to cower

Losing his concentration

The blue flame slowly begins to fade from his fingertips

He drops to his knees

Was this a glimpse of it all?

Fibonacci

The golden mean

Melt into geometry and fill a room with your soul

Dance on sound waves

Vibration

Vibration

Slow vibration

Solid matter

The wizard rises

The shell cracked on the floor

Blue flames dance on his fingertips…

The Wizard

By Kenney Kost

Wow, I really blew it. I need to get some REAL

help with my paper.

Don’t worry bout it Dawg. No big deal, I can help you with your stuff. I

got your back.

C D

Schedule an appointment and come see us first

at the TR Writing & Learning Center. Get help from the true professionals.

Sam, Shawn, Tina, Casey, or Steven

Call today and get the help you need!

817-515-1069

Don’t leave your grades to chance.

By Raymundo Buggs

“A fter a couple hours of

digging through the rubble

we finally made a hole that

would lead us to what used

to be a single family

apartment. It was then that

the decision was made to

lower me with a rope and a

flashlight to see if I could

find any survivors. I did not

think twice about it.”

It was just another day. My mother had been awake since five

that morning managing the daily routine which involved ten

children getting ready to go to school. The sounds of footsteps

around the house were as familiar as the sounds that birds make

when the sun touches them with warmth and greets them into a

brand new day. It was just another day. September 19, 1985.

The time was 7:00 AM, the place was Mexico City and our lives

were about to change forever.

My brother Fernando had just finished brushing his teeth and it

was finally my turn to use the bathroom and continue getting

ready. As I approached the door I noticed my dog. She was

crawling, shivering and terrified. I looked around and was unable

to see or feel anything. But I knew something was very wrong.

As I stared at my dog I heard the sound. It was like thunder but

there was no rain or lightning to go with it. And then I felt it. The

whole ground was moving in a way I had never felt before. When

a person is born in Mexico City he or she learns to deal with

three things: pollution, traffic and earthquakes. But this was no

regular quake. This was the monster everyone had talked about

for years but never knew exactly how to describe it. Then the

sounds changed.

Screams around the house that pierced my ears

and sent chills through my spine told me that I was

not dreaming. My sisters were feeling it too and

they were hysterical. My father ran to the living

room and did the only thing he could possibly do.

He stood right under the big chandelier and

stretched his arms, sure that if it fell he would be

able to catch it and save his precious fixture. I

looked at him and knew then that he loved that

chandelier more than he loved us. Either that or he

had just lost his mind. My mother, well, she prayed.

Looking at the different reactions made it all even

more surreal. It felt like one of those dreams where

amazing and ridiculous things appear to happen all

at once, falling in place as musical notes from a

masterfully composed symphony. But this was no

ridiculous dream and I was not going to wake up

and find my mother in the kitchen waiting for me to

come eat breakfast. I was not going to find my

father fumbling with the keys to his car wondering

where his briefcase was, or witness another one of

my sister‟s already famous performances in which

she would try to explain why she got a bad grade

again.

This time was totally different and I was not ready

for what I saw next. Across the street from our

house is the United Nations building. This is an

enormous structure of metal and concrete that

proudly shows the entire city its splendor and

magnificence with its more than forty levels. All of

which were moving as if dancing to the most

macabre song marked by the horrendous drum

beat of debris falling to the ground. The concert of

fear continued all around me, directed apparently

by an invisible hand that, with the motions of a

director‟s wand, caused that building to move from

left to right and from right to left in what seemed to

be an endless concerto of chaos and destruction.

And the sounds continued to change and with it the

buildings around us continued to fall. A gray cloud

appeared at a distance as if announcing the

coming of something or someone so diabolical that

the heavens preferred not to greet. I knew who it

was. Its name is Death and it was there to visit us

that day and it had made itself at home,

devastating those dear and close to us. I waited for

our uninvited guest to take my family but then it

fled.

Just as it had come it left. Its visit lasted sixty

seconds. Later that day we would learn that it had

been an 8.1 earthquake on the infamous scale. We

also learned that seventy thousand people were

dead or trapped under debris. It was time for us to

do something before our unwelcomed visitor

decided to come back for seconds in this all-you-

can-kill buffet.

Other people followed, and the platoon soon turned

into a brigade. There were dozens of people

helping dig through the piles looking for survivors. It

was amazing to see the collage of people united by

a single goal. For the first time in my life I saw the

people of my city working together. The rich were

helping the poor and the poor were helping the rich.

There was no division. No social status. No degree.

It was then that the decision was made to lower me

with a rope and a flash light to see if I could find

any survivors. I did not think twice about it. I just

tied the rope around my waist and held the flash

light in my right hand as my mother nodded,

approving of the choice that had been made.

As I began my descent, I noticed an unfamiliar

odor. It was like putrid vomit or worst. Days later I

would become familiar with it through my many

visits to the make-shift morgue when we brought

water and dead bodies to the workers there, but for

now, that terrible smell almost made me turn back.

That‟s before I saw a woman who was holding what

seemed to be a doll in her arms, protecting it. The

woman was dead. The doll was a baby. But she did

not die in vain. She actually sheltered her baby with

her own body, taking the weight of huge pieces of

concrete so that her baby could live.

That was amazing. I could actually see with my own

eyes the sacrifice that a mother had made for her

child. Many times I heard my mother say, “Oh, I‟d

die for you.” This mother literally did. What changed

my life was not the earthquake itself. Nor was it the

multitude of people that perished that day. Not even

the many expressions of love that we showed to one

another. What really changed my life was the look in

the eyes of that baby. For it was not the look of fear

but of peace. Peace that only those who have been

touched by the power of love get to enjoy.

I will never forget that moment. I will never forget

that woman, whom I understand better today than I

did before. But more than anything I will never forget

that baby. It was the baby who taught me to dig hard

in order to find the eyes of peace.

Presenting Trinity River people with topics that make you think.

Get up close and personal with

people you only thought you knew.

Exciting people!

Raymundo Buggs

Visit the World Lounge in

East Fork !

It is one of the best places on campus to learn about the people and the world around you. Ever wonder what time it is in your country, or try

locating your homeland on a world map? On permanent display is a global map and clocks representing various time-zones. The rotating exhibit will highlight students who make up the wide variety of cultures here at Trinity River. If you would like to submit your story and picture for display on the

wall, please stop by the Writing & Learning Center in TREF 1402.

Photograph by Sofia Wong

“Consequently, I had also discovered that one of the greatest things I enjoyed was no longer going to be an option

for me: being a mother. I could not have children.” My mother is a single parent of two grown multiracial children. A young parent, she later explained to me, and that as we were growing up, she was growing with us. We had several firsts as individuals, but more importantly as a family. Being the oldest, I felt it was my responsibility to help my mother with everything from a young age. I started doing dishes at five years old, ironing at seven years (which I am still not good at twenty years later), and watching the neighborhood kids, as well as my own brother, wherever we lived. We moved constantly, which personally I enjoyed. Every time we moved I treated it as a little vacation, a break from reality, even though it was my reality. At eighteen, I had graduated and was making my way through my first year of college while attending trade school. Excited to be progressing in my life in all situations, I was looking forward to doing things the right way: getting my Masters in Business Administration, working in New York, and having kids when I could settle down and enjoy them. I never planned on being a married mother, but a single mother. Shortly after my nineteenth birthday, during my second semester of college, however, I was diagnosed with Lupus, an auto-immune deficiency that was destroying my life as well as my dreams. A stiff wind couldn’t have saved my life if I had decided to end it. God, on the other hand, can handle all things. I dove into research about how such a thing can happen and what doctors were doing about it. Consequently I had also discovered that one of the greatest things I enjoyed was no longer going to be an option for me: being a mother. I could not have children. I learned to deal with the medication, the doctors, the frequent questions, and the unexplainable reasons I couldn’t have my own life back. I spent the next couple of years coping with the daily struggle of life

as it would forever be, or so I thought. In 2008, I found myself living in Fort Worth, Texas. Life had seemed to restore itself. I had a live-in boyfriend, a job, and new friends. I had recently turned twenty-one and was enjoying the hype of being me with hardly any responsibility. I learned to handle the stress by turning it off, to not worry. One month after my birthday, for reasons that still escape me, I had purchased a pregnancy test with a girlfriend. We both took the test. She wasn’t and I was. I WAS pregnant! I couldn’t stop saying it. The joy that filled me from the moment I had seen the two lines just continued to grow day in and day out like my baby. Doctors’ appointments were worth going to. Watching friends’ children was something I could enjoy again. Life seemed much better than it had before, and I remembered that as I shopped for little tiny outfits and baby bottles, and I searched for names.

Everything was back on track for the most part, and I could not thank God enough. I had cleared the three month span of danger and was gliding halfway through my fourth month at a doctors’ appointment, waiting to see if I was having a boy or girl, when my doctor said, “There isn’t a heartbeat, Shalamar.” I remember throwing up. It took the miracle of God, a lot of prayer, and a stubborn will to help me see that He has plenty planned for me. Still to this day I find myself tearing up with what could have been, but I can no longer sit around and continue to cry about the hand I had been dealt. Therefore, I went back to church and started volunteering with the youth group. I still see it as my life’s mission to do what I can for the world, even if I have to start small. I currently work with babies that do nothing but love me, which feeds a large part of what I’ve considered missing since that December. I went back to school, not having done it for

An excerpt by Shalamar Stricklin

quite some time, and remembered how much of a bookworm I am. I want to receive my degree in only the Lord knows what. I like to think along the lines of “Jack of All Trades: Mastered.” I do know that I want to adopt. I want to run an orphanage and I want to be able to care for my children as best as possible, with a degree behind my name. I am still dreaming too, just leaving room for revision along the path. Thank you, God, for what I do have: My love for others.

Shalamar Stricklin

Student Writers and Artists Wanted TCC Writes Online Magazine

is accepting student submissions!

We are always looking for talented writers and artists for TCC Writes Online Magazine. You could have your work showcased for everyone to enjoy. Since Trinity River students are such incredible writers and artists, we look for every opportunity to promote your outstanding work. Contributions can include any of the following: Artwork

Personal essays Poetry Short stories (no longer than 2 pages double spaced)

If you would like more information or would like to submit samples of your work, please stop by TREF 1402 or call (817) 515-1069. Who knows? You could be the next William Shakespeare or Jane Austen.

All submissions should be e-mailed to

tr.writes@tccd.edu

2012 class of

Congratulations

Jessica Hoover

Photographer

Food For Thought

Sofia Wong

Photographer and Writer

East and West North and South

Payne Parker

Writer

Catching Every Red Light in

America

Terryon D. Desso

Writer

Destruction Lack Victory

Huda Jabbar

Writer

Fear of a Parent

Gregory Morris

Writer

College is for Losers

Thanks to each of our students for contributing to the most recent issue of TCC Writes Online Magazine, courtesy of the Writing & Learning Center at Trinity River Campus. In the Center, our unshakeable focus is on student learning—helping you become more successful writers, learners, and leaders. We believe that students are amazing writers, and that your openness and willingness to share is inspiring. Best of luck to all of you in your writing pursuits.

Connie Alling

Writer

Sadie

Raymundo Buggs

Writer

The Day the Earth Shook

Shalamar Stricklin

Writer

My Dream Revised

Kenney Kost

Writer

The Wizard

Lauriva Day

Writer

You Write

Not pictured:

Alice Hale - Through the Lens of Alice Hale - Photographer Elizabeth Martin - Feel the Beat Chelsea Slater - When Your Soldier Comes Home Betty Spencer - Cosmo Peter Zweifel - Choreographing a Dinner Party Miles Martin - Romanorum Synkretismos

In addition to exceptional customer service and friendly staff, we also provide equipment, services, and classes free:

Towel service, Cybex cardio equipment, Nautilus circuit training machines beautiful spin room, kickboxing, aerobics, yoga, Pilates and weightlifting

Private showers and lockers, convenient access to Trinity Trails and cycling paths

Hours of Operation Monday -Thursday

6 a.m.- 9 p.m. Saturday

9:a.m.-12 p.m. Sunday

1 p.m.- 4 p.m.

Located on level B-1 in the Trinity Building call us at 817-515-1905 or 1906

To every Trinity River student writer, staff and faculty member, and countless supporters of TCC Writes Online Magazine, we thank you for your contribution and dedication to making this publication possible.

Student Writing Contributors

Connie Alling

Raymundo Buggs

Lauriva Day

Terryon D. Desso

Huda Jabbar

Elizabeth Martin

Miles Martin

Gregg Morris

Payne Parker

Chelsea Slater

Betty Spencer

Shalamar Stricklin

Sofia Wong

Student Photography Contributions

Alice Hale

Jessica Hoover

Sofia Wong

Peter Zweifel

Faculty and Staff Contributions

Steven LeMons

Shawn Stewart

Scott Thrower

Samantha Windschitl

Editors Maggie Engel

Steven LeMons

Shawn Stewart

Samantha Windschitl

Dr. Jim Schrantz

Special Thanks

The Trinity River English Department

Dr. Tahita Fulkerson

Dr. Scott Robinson

Dr. Jim Schrantz

Dr. Bryan Stewart

For more information or to submit a writing sample to TCC Writes Online Magazine, please email your submission to

tr.writes@tccd.edu or stop by the Writing & Learning Center, TREF 1402.

Read other issues of TCC Writes Online Magazine online at www.issuu.com

Enter tccwrites09 in the search window

Additional Assistance David McDonald Beverly O’Hara