Tiger PAWS Fall 2015 by SPC English

Tiger PAWS

St. Philipâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s College Volume 4 Issue 2 Fall 2015

Tiger PAWS Personal Academic Writing Space St. Philip’s College Volume 4, Issue 2 Fall 2015

Cover Art: Most of the World by Juan Crispin Photograph

Tiger PAWS is a student-run literary art journal composed of students’ works, such as prose, poetry, art, and photography. The selected works may not reflect the attitudes or opinions of St. Philip’s College or the Department of Communications and Learning.

Acknowledgments The Tiger PAWS staff wishes to thank the following people: Randall Dawson— Dean of Arts and Sciences Dr. Erick Akins—Title III Director, Title III Grant Management TyUHOO Williams—Chair, Communications & Learning San Juan San Miguel—Academic Program Coordinator, Rose R. Thomas Writing Center Nereida Reyes— Senior Tutor, Writing Center Mitchell Miranda—Art & Photography Judge Velia De La Rosa—Administrative Services Specialist, Communications & Learning The UPS Store St. Philip’s College Public Relations Department Department of Communications & Learning for funding the publication

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Editorial Staff Student Staff:

Faculty Staff:

Danielle Alonzo

Lee Ann Epstein

Samantha Ayala Amaya

Stephanie Gibson

Mary Bello

Pris Lopez

John Calloway

Jamie Miranda

Josie Dawn Carrillo

Aurelia Rocha

Anastacia Casarez

San Juan San Miguel

Zuleiva Del Angel Mialovena Duque Victoria Garcia Keren A. Hernandez Itohan Isibor Julian Salazar Alexandra Sanchez Raeneisha Toliver

Submissions for the next edition of Tiger PAWS in Spring 2016 will be accepted through March 4, 2016. Enrolled SPC students are encouraged to submit essays, short stories, poetry, artwork, and/ or photography. Fall 2015

Table of Contents Most of the World—Juan Crispin…...………………....……………………..

Cover

“/deja-vu-?/”—Jacinto Valencia…....…..……………………….…………..

The Strong Man—Juan Crispin……………………………...……………….…

“My Childhood”—Lorena Salas Mendez…….…………….…………

Let Me Free—Saadia Abdi….…….…..……………………….………………....

Open the Hatch—Juan Crispin………..………………………..……………….

“Nature’s Cure”—AnastaFia Casarez…………………..…………....... 14 Owls—Oriana Gonzalez………..………………………………………….........

PADS—Joe M. Cervantes, Jr.…………..…………………………..……......

Makkah—Suhail Madani………..………..…………..……………….………...

“Open Windows”—Ryan Rivera.…………………..….………………….

DAD—Joe M. Cervantes, Jr…..…………………………….…...…………….

“Do You See What the Heart Knows?”—AnastaFia Casarez 22 Nap Time—Joe M. Cervantes, Jr……..……………………………………….

“An Imperfect Perfection”—Ted Davis…..………………...………….

In His Light—Joe M. Cervantes, Jr….…….…………….…….……...…….

Waiting to Dance—Joe M. Cervantes, Jr…..…………...……..………...

Chicago Downtown—Abdulmohsen Aljami…………………....……..

Inside Global Harbor Mall—John Calloway…………….………….…...

“Smile”—Leatre Y. Cooper……………………………………………..…..…..

God’s Light—Samantha Peña..……………………...……………...………….

“Learning to Believe”—Valerie Cisneros………………….……….….

Folklorico’s Beauty—Josie Dawn Carrillo………..….……………....…

“When the Birds Sing”—Alan J. Quiles, Jr..………….……….…….

Stems—Juan Crispin………………………………..…………………….………....

“My Curse of Love”—Anastacia Casarez….…………...………..…..

Love on Water—Emily Molina…...………………………….………………....

The Start—Juan Crispin…………...…………..………………………..……..…

Roar—Alexandria Arevalo…...…………….……..…………………………….

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Table of Contents “A Blue Falcon’s First Flight”—R. Daniel Gomez……….….……..

Elegant View—Abdulaziz Alqurashi…..….…………...……………………..

Towers next to the Holy Kaaba—Marwan Alharbi……………....……..

“What Makes a Writer?”—John Martin…………….……………………

These Hands of Mine—Samantha Ayala Amaya…………………………..

“3 Minutes”—Priscilla Palomo………………….……………………….……...

400% Artist—Samantha Ayala Amaya…………………….……………….…

The Beauty of Afterlife—Josie Dawn Carrillo…………………….…….....

“Melanie”—John Martin………………………………………………………........

“Revise”—Giovannie Mendoza……………..……………………………..…...

Miniature City of Shanghai—John Calloway…………..……………….…..

“From Nothing to Something”—Saadia Abdi……..….……………….

Light in the Darkness—Josie Dawn Carrillo.………………….…...……….

Spider Web—Erlene Gallegos...…………………………...………..……………..

“Helpful High School Experience”—Shaneka Crawford……..

“The Influence in My Education”—Zuleiva Del Angel…………

Mrs. Murphy—John Calloway…………………..…….……………………...……

Our Judges………………………………………………………………………………………

Back cover

Fall 2015

\deja-vu-?\ By Jacinto Valencia

Deja-vu, I close my eyes, and I’ve seen you. I go somewhere, and I see you. I think to myself, and I remember seeing this play out too. Is it you? “Deja-vu…” So curious, so delightful it all may seem, but bewildered and confused. Is it all a dream? As I come and go through these flashes of my life. Moments seem like glitches; I feel I’ve seen this moment twice. So I strive, and I drive to get very far ahead, Only to see the thought return in my head. It can all be so strange and all so crazy new, but think as hard as you can; you’ve done this numerous times too. DEJA_VU …

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The Strong Man By Juan Crispin

Photograph Fall 2015

s ge’ Jud ice o Ch

My Childhood By Lorena Salas Mendez

I didn’t have a mother or a father as a baby. My dad was not with us because of some legal problems, and my mother… well, what can I say? She abandoned me as a baby. My childhood was not the best but not the worst. I’m not going to say I had everything, but I had food on my plate. The only thing I ever needed or ever wanted was love from at least one of my parents. My heart felt like an empty hole, and instead of filling it up with love, it was filling itself with hate. Since I didn´t have either of my parents, I grew up with my aunts. I didn´t have a place that I could call home. When one of my aunts was no longer able to take care of me, I got passed down to the next aunt, and the cycle kept going. All of them had kids of their own, and they were all older than I was. Since they were older than me, they thought they had the right to push me around. Even when I snitched on them, it was pointless because their mothers would believe them and not me. They would use me as their maid and hit me with no compassion as if I were not related to them. And if that were not enough, they would insult me, and instead of calling me by my name, they would call me, “Bastard.” I never got to dress nice, and I always looked like a hobo. My clothes were old clothes from all of my cousins. I had their used shoes as well, and they were not in the best condition. Everything they did to me was hurtful. Their words and actions just made me dislike them; actually, I hated them. I know I was too young to even know the definition of hate, but it was just such a strong feeling that I knew it was hate. At least, that´s what I thought. I didn´t have anyone to talk to or anyone that would actually listen to me. I never expressed anything that I was feeling in front of anyone. I was too afraid of how they would react to my emotions. I didn’t want them to treat me worse than they already did. I cried every night in the restroom while I was showering, so no one

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would notice that I was crying and make fun of me. My eyes would get red, but my excuse was that I got shampoo on my eyes. I also liked to get on top of the roof at night when everyone was asleep and stare at the sky and stars. I liked to pretend that the stars were people and started telling them about my day and I how I felt. I knew they were not really listening to me or that they would not respond, but that was all I had. I never had a toy, doll, or teddy bear to play with. My aunts said I had no time for that and that I had chores to do. When they would leave me alone, I would go outside and gather sticks and anything that I could to tie the sticks together. By doing that, I would make stick figures and played with them. That was my entertainment. I know it was not much, but to me, they were the best toys I had in my childhood. I always had them saved in the corner of the house where no one would be able to see them or destroy them. They were breakable, but I tried to take good care of them. My childhood was not something any child wants, but we are not able to choose our families or our lifestyles. With so many bad things happening to me, one would have expected me to grow up being a villain, hating on everyone and disliking the world, trying to make everyone pay for what they did to me. It turned out that I did not see things with hate. After a while, I kept getting older, so I understood a little bit more about life. Sometimes all the things that happen to someone make them stronger, and that is what happened to me. Having so much responsibility as a child made me who I am now. My childhood is an important event because it motivates me to be a better person and to never give up. I have learned to forget and forgive instead of hating on the people that hurt me. I decided to forgive my aunts and cousins for my horrible childhood because it was the right thing to do. It was hard to forgive them, but I knew I had to because how could I start a new life with hate in my heart? They all apologized to me and asked for my forgiveness, and I gave it to them. I can honestly say after so much pain in my childhood, I turned out fine.

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Let Me Free By Saadia Abdi

Photograph 12

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Open the Hatch By Juan Crispin

Photograph Fall 2015

Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Cure By Anastacia Casarez

Turn the sun down low Bring the moon out slow Twinkle the stars just right Let me live out this night Under the moonlight Just abruptly right Strengthen with new powers Such a rejuvenating shower Dancing under the sky While time passes me by Light as the wind My broken heart will mend

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Owls By Oriana Gonzalez

Painting Fall 2015

PADS By Joe M. Cervantes Jr.

Photograph 16

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Makkah By Suhail Madani

Photograph Fall 2015

Open Windows By Ryan Rivera At the time, I always thought I was mentally ready to save a life whenever the opportunity came. But nothing ever prepared me when I finally had someone’s life resting in my hands, let alone three. I researched a lot of lifesaving techniques, and even got to go through a live simulation to test my skills. The sight of blood and traumatic injuries never bothered me, so I knew I was mentally ready. But my view on it changed when I finally got the call from my platoon leader that a medic was needed on the ground. I was sitting in the back of an armored vehicle that could seat six people in the blistering heat of Afghanistan, and being in this vehicle with no air conditioning only made it feel worse. We were driving on the only highway in the area where we were doing our covert clearing mission when the convoy suddenly stopped. That’s when I heard on the head set that the medic was needed on the ground immediately. This was it, my first casualty, my first real life patient. As the ramp was lowering, I could feel the heat waves pour in through the door, and a gust of desert sand swirled about inside the vehicle as the ramp leveled out to the ground. I stepped out of the vehicle and started walking towards a white station wagon on the side of the road. “What’s going on?” I said as my platoon leader joined me, walking towards the car. “The interpreter is telling me that there are three casualties in the back of the vehicle; we did a quick search, so it’s safe to approach the vehicle,” my platoon leader said quickly. “What are their injuries, and how did they get hurt?” “We don’t know their injuries. All we know is there was a land mine involved, and three people are hurt; we don’t know how badly though.” He sounded annoyed, I can only guess because nobody was answering any of his questions. As I pulled up to the vehicle, the driver opened the trunk and revealed two men sitting up with their backs against the back seat, facing me and covered in blankets. I gave one of my fellow soldiers my weapon since I 18

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was going to be in tight quarters. I had my pistol with me, so I wasn’t completely helpless. As I reached in and started to remove the blanket and revealed the injuries of both civilians, the gentleman on the left was severely burned, and the other had an amputated leg. The adrenalin hit me like a train. All the training, videos, and research all started flowing through my mind. As I started grabbing things from my aid bag, the driver suddenly grabbed me by the shoulders and started panicking and screaming at me. He was speaking Pashto, so I could not understand a word he was saying; plus, I was too busy still analyzing the situation. I looked him right in the eyes, and he looked into mine. That’s when time froze. In an instant, a surge of different emotions crashed through my mind, body, and soul. I first felt fear wash over me, and I felt helpless and scared. Anger and frustration then boiled from my feet up to my head. My chest exploded with hope and happiness. That’s when the driver started to laugh, and for some odd reason, I was compelled to share the laugh with him. Then, time resumed. One of my soldiers pulled him off me, and I was right back to where I was. I grabbed my supplies and started treating the leg injury. I knew he couldn’t understand me, but I just reassured him as I was doing everything I could. When I finished, I looked up at him, and it happened again. I was mentally exhausted but appreciative and hopeful. He began to cry and speak to me. I didn’t understand what he was saying, but it seemed like I was mirroring his feelings. My eyes began to water with him. I then shook my head and snapped out of it. “What is happening to me?” I shouted to myself. I looked over to the civilian that was burned. When I did a quick look up and down, I realized there was nothing I could really do, and I did not have the supplies to treat a burn of that size. As soon as I made this conclusion, we locked eyes, and he shook his head with acceptance. “Did what happened to me just happen to him?” I asked myself. When I started gathering my things, the driver then grabbed me by the arm and started walking towards the passenger seat. “Of course, there’s a third casualty,” I said when I figured out why he was doing this. When we got to the seat, a third civilian was hunched over with the smallest cuts all over his face and his eyes swollen shut. “Fazi! Ask this man to squeeze my finger if he can hear me,” I told the interpreter as I analyzed the injuries and grabbed supplies. I felt the faintest squeeze that

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got weaker as the seconds passed. When I looked into his eyes to see if any brain trauma occurred, this is when it happened the third time. Except this time, I felt nothing. The only feeling that came after that was cold. I closed my eyes, and the desert heat began to flow all around me again. I leaned in the vehicle, one leg grounding me on the street, the other inside the vehicle. I began wrapping his head in gauze; it’s all I could really do. The driver then sat back in the driver’s seat and began yelling at me in frustration. When we locked eyes, then all of a sudden, I felt a flash of anger. Suddenly, the road swept off my foot and the world started to move. “Stop the vehicle! Wudrega! Stop now!” I commanded. The vehicle just started getting faster and further away from everyone else. I looked back and saw one U.S.. vehicle giving chase. I had two difficult options: to end a life or to jump out. If anything were to happen to the driver, the other three were going to lose their lives as well. Finally, I grabbed my things and jumped out. The earth then grabbed me with relentless force and tumbled me about. When the ground stopped, I stood up and tried to put together what happened. When everything was said and done, I had a lot of time to reflect on what happened. It was a very strange event. Oddly enough, the only thing that really bothered me was looking into these people’s eyes. It was the first time I understood the meaning, “The eyes are windows to the soul.” It all made sense to me; I shared the same emotions and feelings every individual was feeling at the time. The first encounter was with the driver, the only one not injured, his panic and frustration and being relieved that he found some help and the anger he expressed when he became impatient. I shared a mutual understanding with the second casualty just by looking at him. Knowing what I knew, I knew the third was not going to survive multiple shrapnel wounds that peppered his entire head. That was the worst feeling of all, and ironically enough, I felt absolutely nothing. For years, I prepared myself for a situation like this, always ready, always hungry, waiting for my turn to help those in need. When the opportunity came, I went in confident and ready for action. As much training as I received, it was really easy to do my job and to witness the traumatic visions of war, but nothing ever prepared me for the emotional roller coaster I felt when I peeked into open windows.

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DAD By Joe M. Cervantes, Jr.

Photograph Fall 2015

Do You See What the Heart Knows? By Anastacia Casarez

Do you ever stare at the stars? Just to wonder who you are Take a look beyond the sea Of another life meant to be You walk and talk But ever think youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re wrong? They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder But you never get a chance to hold her With eyes we are blessed to see But with the heart understand the unseen

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Nap Time By Joe M. Cervantes, Jr.

Photograph Fall 2015

An Imperfect Perfection By Ted Davis We were very close growing up. We were only two years apart. It was just us before my brother arrived seven years later. We’re a very close -knit family. A typical southern family, my mom and dad were high school sweethearts and are still going strong to this day. I’m very blessed to have both of my parents as most of my friends grew up in single-family homes. When we were younger, we could only imagine about growing up and having kids. My sister would always say, “I’m going to be a superstar, so no kids for me.” She was very wrong as she would be the first to have kids out of all the siblings. I remember the day like it was yesterday, August 11, 2009. For me, it was a typical work day. I worked a rotating shift, so I was on nights that week. She was overdue, so a Caesarean section had to be performed. Everyone was excited about the new addition to the family. Mom yelled, “Hurry, we have to be there at 9 A.M,” as I walked in the house. I was just getting in from work and was very tired. Although tired, I loved getting off in the early mornings, birds chirping, fresh morning air, and seeing all the cars and people trying to get to whatever it was they had to do that morning. It was one of the positive things about small town living. I was very excited for my sister but fell asleep almost instantly after showering. I awoke about six o’clock that evening and called my mom to get an update on the status of my niece. She told me nothing had happened yet, but at 10 P.M., they were going to perform the Caesarean section. I asked, “Who’s the doctor that’s doing the surgery?” My mind was put at ease when I found out it was Dr. Booker, knowing he delivered me and my two siblings all in one piece. I visited my sister for about an hour in the hospital and went on about my regular workday routine. I went in to work at 11 P.M. that night. I was so tied up into my work that I didn’t feel my phone vibrating in my pocket from all the calls and text messages. I had no clue what was happening at that very moment, that my sister was in a life or death situation, or that my niece may not even make it into this world. I was still in my own little world.

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As I went on break, I looked at my phone, and I knew something was wrong. I had 30 missed calls and 15 text messages. That was all I needed. I didn’t bother to call anyone. I just told my supervisor I had to leave. My job was only 15 minutes from the local hospital, but that had to be the longest 15 minutes of my life. I called my mom and dad but no answer. As I was driving, I remember praying for my sister and my niece to please be alright. I never thought pregnancy was a big deal. I guess you never think about it like that if you’re not the one going through it. As I pulled up to the hospital, it was packed. I knew something serious had happened because of the people that were spread everywhere, mostly classmates of my sister. I weaved through the crowd looking for my family but could find no one. There were too many people. Some were there because they cared and some for information. I went back outside still calling anyone I could when I saw my brother-in-law outside. He called for me, “Hey, I’m over here.” I ran over and asked what happened, still very worried. He was in tears. Apparently, everything was normal up until the performance of the Caesarean section. The anesthesiologist gave her the anesthesia shot in the wrong spot, which caused her to go into a coma when they started the surgery. It didn’t numb her like it was meant to do, and she felt the knife cutting her. My family said they knew something was wrong. All they heard was the doctors saying, “Code Blue, Code Blue.” My heart dropped, and I could feel the tears start running down my face. But she was still here; she wasn’t dead. We had hope. She was in a coma for two days. When she came to, she didn’t remember anything or anybody. It was very hard for me. I thought this was going to be life for her. No one should live like that. Someone I saw almost every day didn’t know who I was. She didn’t know she had a child or that she was in a coma just a day earlier. All we could do was pray for her, and God answered. As weeks went by, her memory gradually came back. I felt special because I was the first she remembered. In the end, everything worked out. Sometimes you may go through hell to get to heaven, but perseverance is key. She had a beautiful baby girl, Ryia James. We all go through things in life, which can make life seem very imperfect in all aspects. But only strong-willed people that never give up turn that imperfection into perfection.

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In His Light By Joe M. Cervantes, Jr.

Photograph 26

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Waiting to Dance By Joe M. Cervantes, Jr

s geâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Jud ice o Ch

Photograph Fall 2015

Chicago Downtown By Abdulmohsen Aljami

Photograph 28

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Inside Global Harbor Mall By John Calloway

Photograph Fall 2015

Smile By Leatre Y. Cooper

I am happy when I see the sun, Shining in the sky. I smile, smile, and smile. I smile, smile. I am happy when it rains, I smile, smile, and smile. I am happy when I see the moon at night, I smile, smile, and smile. I am happy when I see the stars at night, I smile, smile, and smile. When I see my heavenly Father, I will cry, cry, and cry and smile. Because He taught me to appreciate the beauty of this world. He taught me to Love.

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God’s Light By Samantha Peña

Photograph Fall 2015

Learning to Believe By Valerie Cisneros As I lay in my bed on a very hot and humid summer night, I could not help but weep in sadness. Earlier that day, my mother and I had gotten into another confrontation. I distinctly remember my heart sinking as she continued to belittle me piece by piece. Belittling was my mother’s form of showing me who was in control and who would, eventually, win the argument. I wish I could say I was used to it by then, but I definitely was not. My life under my mother’s roof was somewhat heart-wrenching. The most difficult period of time in my life was definitely at that particular moment. I was in high school and under unimaginable stress due to my mother’s constant irate antics. All I needed was my mother to support me and be my number one motivator. However, she was the one person who negatively influenced my education to the point where I felt like I did not matter and felt like giving up. While I was in high school, I went against my mother’s wishes and became a cheerleader. It was one of my ultimate dreams for my high school career. I would constantly see how involved my friends’ mothers were in their lives supportively and educationally. I would become saddened and jealous to the point where I would have to run off in a little corner and cry. Seeing how my friends’ parents pushed them and motivated their children made me yearn for the same thing from my mother. My mother had a tendency to always discourage me instead of uplift me. Crying hysterically every other morning, I would get dropped off at school while my mother made sure to continue yelling at me so everyone knew how horrible of a daughter I supposedly was. How was I supposed to focus in school after a horrifying morning like that? When I was a sophomore, my grades began to suffer because the fights with my mother were becoming unbearable, and I became of age to attain a job. It was my sixteenth birthday, and that is exactly what my mother took me to do. It was another way of her showing me who was in control. Acquiring a job did not seem like such a bad idea at the time because my mother decided to stop buying my clothes, shoes, and school supplies, and no longer paid my phone bill. I became solely responsible for myself, and it infuriated me. As a mother, how could she expect this of me? I had the 32

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desire to excel in school and be involved in all the extracurricular activities I could. However, what I desired to be never mattered to my mother. In an attempt to ensure I would succeed, I worked all the way through my senior year and somehow managed to maintain passing grades just enough to be considered college material. I spoke of attending college and obtaining a college degree with honors quite often. I even expressed to my mother what schools I wanted to attend. My mother would become irritated with me, and I could never understand why. I thought a mother was supposed to be happy that her child was going to attend college to further his or her education and better his or her life. I eventually became upset yet again. I should have expected my mother was going to have a negative reaction or to basically not care at all. My education never mattered; therefore, I felt I never mattered. My graduation was around the corner, and, of course, my mother continued to be the same person she was. She even began to mock me and use my desire to attend college against me. “What? You think you’re better than me because you’re going to college?” she would say. “No, Mom, that’s not it at all,” I would say with my head hanging low in total defeat. “All this talk about college you have been doing is ridiculous. You need to grow up already. If you are going to do it, just do it, and shut up about it already.” If my mother would have taken the time to pay attention to my academics, she would have known I was doing all I could to ensure I would get into college despite all of the trials and tribulations I was going through because of her. I began to realize my mother was very close-minded. She thought that just because she did not go to college, it was not a life necessity. Of course, my mother was a hard worker, but had she gone to college, she would have not had to spend her life working so hard. One would think she would have wanted more for her daughter and for her to accomplish all the things she did not. I would never wish what I went through with my mother on anyone. At that time, I suffered from a lot of self-esteem issues. I never thought I was ever going to be good enough or amount to anything because of how my mother would treat me. I had to learn on my own how to believe in myself because the one person who was biologically prone to do so did not. Fall 2015

If there was something my mother did teach me, it was how not to treat my children. From that moment forward, I vowed I was going to be there for my children in any way that I could. I want to be actively involved in my childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lives educationally. It is important for me to let my children know how important it is to get an education, period. I will not discourage my children the way my mother discouraged me. My motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s words haunted me until I was officially out of her house. To this present day, my mother does not realize how much of a negative impact she had on my life. Yet, I want to thank her for lighting this fire in me to prove I am capable of succeeding in life and in college without her motivation or support.

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Folkloricoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Beauty By Josie Dawn Carrillo

Pen, Pencil, & White Charcoal Fall 2015

s ge’ Jud ice o Ch

When the Birds Sing By Alan J. Quiles, Jr.

As hours run astray, when night turns into day, the drapes illuminate a shimmering glow. As it was foretold, I am no longer young and bold; I invite you into the know of my restless fold. My eyes are wide; my brain is idle; sleepless nights have imprisoned me once again, in vital. The sound of birds is unwelcoming to my ears, the life born into day as I sit here counting the wasted years. For hours have beckoned me awake, awake into the madness of a somber existence. I've become a slave to the morrow of yesterday's fade. To dream would be serene, when sleep must intervene like dark tunnels embracing trains full of steam. The linear pattern of my eyes set ablaze the veins, the dark circles of my vision’s strain. Oh, weary brain, please abstain, and hibernate, till we meet again. Here I sit pondering the life that passes by. I must rest, for tomorrow I will continue to ponder why. If only I could catch some shut eye, surely I’ll rest when I die.

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Stems By Juan Crispin

Photograph Fall 2015

My Curse of Love By Anastacia Casarez

You just walked out Yet it feels like forever Words spoken out loud Feelings light as feathers My heart is aching With salt like tears a run Unwanted thoughts are raking None allow me much fun Slowly collapsing inside Fading out of existence Ease my mind Surely I insist No moment of peace No words to please Worth priceless memories Of love lasting eternity My gentle curse Loving you hurts

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Love on Water By Emily Molina

Photograph Fall 2015

The Start By Juan Crispin

Photograph 40

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Roar By Alexandria Arevalo

Photograph Fall 2015

A Blue Falcon’s First Flight By R. Daniel Gomez My whole life I could publish a number of chapters filled with life-changing events. One of the more casual yet less graphic events and experiences that remain imprinted in my memory as if only yesterday includes a hot Georgia summer of 2005 and a fear of heights. Acrophobia always plagued my mind, but that was forever changed once I arrived at the U.S. Army Airborne School located at Ft. Benning. It was my third week in, and so far, by the grace of God, I was still there. But it was now time for me to complete the five required jumps from a moving aircraft. The prior two weeks were all training and safety indoctrination: what to do in the event of a mid-air parachute malfunction, how to steer, how to land, and, most importantly, how not to land and a few other vital training lessons. As one of the black hat instructors vulgarly said with a large tobacco dip in his cheek, “It’s time to sack up, ladies. There’s no turning back now. You find yourself in a screw up while up there and you start panicking, good chance your funeral will be closed casket. Now let’s fly!” We were herded into single file “sticks,” as they were referred to, made up of twenty to twenty-five jumpers per stick, two sticks per aircraft, and three aircrafts. We had just finished all of our pre-flight inspections and had been individually examined by the jumpmasters in a warehouse built harness shed. Approaching the aircraft was intimidating as the heat and exhaust from the engines blew at my face while we were loaded into the cramped propeller driven plane through the rear cargo opening. Once we were seated and we all were able to get as comfortable as possible, the worried looks among the faces had me still feeling uneasy. The sound of the massive propellers and engines drowned my thoughts, and all types of mechanical sounds disrupted anyone’s voice if he or she were not shouting. I attempted to close my eyes so that I could say a personal prayer, giving thanks for all I had and requesting repentance for all my flaws; all the while, the aircraft was positioning for takeoff on the runway. Once in the air, our flight stabilized, and within minutes, my nerves started to steady until the female jumpmaster within our “stick” opened the side exit door. I felt the pressure change as a rush of noise and wind flooded the giant cabin that was momentarily housing us as she cleared the area to position the first jumper. I was seventh from the first jumper and could clearly see, yet faintly hear, her signal and shout, “Stand up!” We all rose to our feet, and I could feel the giant blasts of air hitting my face as I stared at the door, eyeballing the ground that was steadily 42

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moving away at 1200 feet altitude. At that exact moment, my eyes were surreally fixated on an open door of a plane that I was standing in. Readying myself to jump, I vulgarly, yet encouragingly reminded myself, “This is it. I’m doing it! I can’t back out now!” The jumpmaster with her hand gestured and shouted “Hook up!” We immediately unhooked our static lines that were fastened to our bodies and connected them to the large static line cables that ran through the middle of the aircraft above our heads. Her next command was, “Check equipment!” which signaled us to check ourselves and the buddy in front of us. Like dominoes, from the rear of the “stick,” each young soldier shoulder tapped the men and women in front of each other saying, “Ok-okok-ok.” All the “ok’s” made it to the front of the cabin and within lit-up rows of bright red lights, in the same way red lights illuminate a traffic signal. She grabbed and slid the first jumper and his static line and readied him about a foot and a half from the exit door. The enriched adrenaline was running through my veins like never in my life, and, in an instant, all the lights switched to green. “Go-Go-Go-Move-Move!” she shouted as she grabbed each soldier’s line, one after the other. My trek through the C-130 was short as I approached her, handing my line to her. At that moment, I turned and took my leap and in an instant was sucked from the craft, and all became what one must feel to be sucked up by a tornado; wind, motor, and chaos filled my ears as my hands gripped the reserve chute anchored to my front. I began to count out loud, “One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand!” knowing that if my count was to pass four, I was to deploy the reserve. Another instant later, my body violently jerked back as if being severely clotheslined, and in a blink, all chaos ceased. A few moments had passed as I replied to myself while trying to catch my breath, ‘Ok-ok.” I looked up, “Ok, canopy is good!” Several more moments passed, and I was able to compose myself with the experience of what I had just done. Floating down to the earth overtook me. Endorphins and neurotransmitters flowed through my body at a level I had never experienced, and as I slowly descended down to earth, a spiritual sense of beauty captured me, something I still see clearly in my memories. The enthrallment was short lived, and I snapped my attention back to the fastapproaching ground. “Ok, I have to land; I have to land!” I responded. And within seconds, I was pulling my rear risers in an effort to slow my impact, slightly bending my knees, and within few more seconds, I was bracing for impact. I slammed into the ground in a way that reminded me of once childishly jumping from a ten-foot ladder, and I lay there on my back for a second when all of a sudden, I felt the parachute start to violently drag me across the dirt. I struggled and was finally able to grip the release hooks on Fall 2015

my shoulders, and in another instant, I finally found myself free from the hold of a dragging parachute. I lay there for a minute on my back, blissfully staring at the blue skies while replaying and processing what I just did. An overwhelming sense of relief clutched me as I lay there, holding in a childish giggle. A few days later, we stood in a ceremonial formation. One by one, the black-hatted jumpmasters in ritualistic military fashion made their way through the rows of freshly graduating paratroopers, pinning us with coveted airborne wings that would forever be on our uniforms. In the background stood the menacing red and white two-hundred-fifty foot jump towers that we were hoisted up and released from with training chutes, except now was different; I felt transformed. No longer did I look at them with anxiety; I now looked at them like a child looks at his favorite roller coaster ride. From that day, I never experienced my acrophobia again. In every reflection I saw of myself walk past afterwards and from that day forward, my fear, my acrophobia, and my anxiety in high places were replaced with a feeling of potential unlocked from within. Fear was replaced with a new image, the image of a U.S. Army Paratrooper.

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Elegant View By Abdulaziz Alqurashi

Photograph Fall 2015

Towers next to the Holy Kaaba By Marwan Alharbi

Photograph 46

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What Makes a Writer? By John Martin Nothing in life worth getting comes easily; it takes hard work. There are also things that are not difficult to obtain but are time consuming. I also have a goal that I have spent years trying to accomplish, my dream of writing. I discovered that I had a strong interest in writing when I was in the fourth grade. From the moment I got into the process, it was like I could never stop. The work was fun, and it kept my literary skills sharp. It would become one of my favorite hobbies, but keep in mind, it was not always this way. Initially, the process was mind numbing, and I was not the most patient at nine years old. Those nights where I had to write words in triplicate, along with sentences, were truly unbearable. Still, the assignments were grades, so I had to work through them. I was responsible for writing weekly essays, and for the first two weeks, I put little effort into the presentations. I noticed my grades were slipping, and I had no solution. One day, I remembered what was in bold letters on every copy of our weekly prompts, “BE CREATIVE.” At that moment, it hit me. Make the topic more interesting; that way I’ll have more fun writing it. Everything changed once I found that I wasn’t limited to what the prompt said. Suppose the topic was about two turtles. I could do more than just write a story about the turtles avoiding predators and eating lettuce. I could make them talk and have adventures. I added in parts from my favorite movies at the time to make them as entertaining as possible. The next part was to get a good classroom reaction. Days later, the classroom loved my essays. Every week I would be asked to present first. The teacher started giving me higher grades, even having me present essays to other periods. It was clear that while I was good at homework and quizzes, I really shined with essays. The papers soon became my favorite part of the class, and English became my favorite subject. In time, I wanted to dive deeper into writing to make my work tighter. My stories were good, but I still made simple mistakes, such as spelling and punctuation errors. After fixing those errors, I felt like my writing was good enough to win an upcoming essay contest for my school. As fate would have it, I was wrong. The loss didn’t stop me though. I knew my writing was good; I was just going to have to make it better. Luckily, I would change the way I wrote stories in time. Fall 2015

I soon had to write essays differently in middle school. I would not get as much creative freedom as before. It was no longer about “Who can make the best story?” but “Who can tell the best version of this plot?” One plot had me write about the creation of an already existing animal with the inclusion of a Greek deity. I was able to focus more on how the story was written, instead of constructing plots. This skill would be far from my last. I would be introduced to new forms of writing afterward. High school then introduced me to persuasive essays. These involved convincing people of my opinion, and at times, I would get off topic to the point where people never knew which side I was on. With some practice, it became easier to be firm and focused in my beliefs. We still wrote stories; I just took it more seriously. I added humor to the plot, but I dialed it back from how I used to write. I was not presenting them, so there was no need to be a comedian. I then wanted to try writing more freely. Subsequently, I noticed that even though writing was my interest, I almost never wrote anything outside of class. I decided to change that by joining the poetry club. I saw it as the perfect setting to be creative in, as poetry was seemingly written freely. Just like with the writing contest, I was wrong. We got prompts just like with essays, and they were not something I looked forward to. Plus, I had a simpler, cheery vibe to my work. Every other poem seemed more artistic and dark. Once the club disbanded, I was unmotivated with creative writing. I felt like there was no point in doing it without a reason. Strangely, I still got encouragement from peers to continue writing. One girl even called my work “amazing,” saying that I could be a great author. Her words would soon give me an idea. After that, I thought, What if I made a book of my own? I got to work on developing ideas for stories. These were details like characters and plot development. The problem was that I never wrote any of it down. Once high school ended, I had written many essays and thought my work was top notch. Still, I could never get anything on paper, being too concerned with how people might receive it. Well, it wouldn’t be that way for long. Through time, I remembered that I was not releasing the story yet and that the most important thing for me was to make it as creative as possible. It was then that I finally got the resolve to put the ideas to work. During the summer, I made it a mission to get started and stay on top of any written story I could think of. The hardest part is focusing, so I make sure to at least write something every day. Currently, I’m working on an original story, along with an entry for Tiger Paws. If I had to attribute my writing to anything, it would be the advice I took in the fourth grade to be creative. Because of those words, writing became fun for me, which gave me the drive to move forward with my craft. 48

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These Hands of Mine By Samantha Ayala Amaya

s geâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; d u J e oic Ch

Mixed Media: Colored Pencil, Acrylic Paint, & Coffee Fall 2015

3 Minutes By Priscilla Palomo First, there was me. Socially awkward and incapable of making friends, there were many like me, I’m sure, but who was I to find out? I was no one. I can bore you with my tales of self-discovery, that great lightbulb that lit when I discovered my self-worth. But this isn’t about me, well, at least, not just about me. Then came mine: I had my daughter two days shy of my 23rd birthday, nothing greatly notable, easy pregnancy. But like many things, it was the little things I overlooked. She is always in a rush. She was in this world twenty minutes after the first push. She was walking in a year and a half. “Leave me alone, Mom; Josephine can do it.” Where this third person talk comes from, I have no clue, but this is often said when I offer help. And just three minutes later, I get the shy girl slowly walking back with the smile on her face, head tilted at an angle as she looks up at me. “Mommy, Josephine needs help.” Ah, it happened again. I just overlooked those three minutes. Three minutes, such a short amount of time. Of course, the amount of time varies, but for the most part, three minutes is all the time she needs to realize she still needs her mommy. But in those three minutes as I sit and watch her, my mind runs. All the things she can become, the determination on her face, the look in her eyes as she obviously makes every attempt to figure out how to complete the task currently at hand--will she always have that drive? I can see her teaching a class, raising kids of her own, the CEO of some large company. I even think of the ways she might fail. That first broken heart, or lost game, so many things await her as her future looms ahead. Three minutes ago she didn’t need me. Three minutes later, I was the only one who could help her. 50

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400% Artist By Samantha Ayala Amaya

Pen on Multi-media Paper Fall 2015

The Beauty of Afterlife By Josie Dawn Carrillo

Pencil, Pen, & Charcoal 52

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Melanie By John Martin The time had hit noon as two men sat at the kitchen table. One was 17; the other was eight years older. With their many similarities, the untrained eye would see them as brothers. No one knew that they were far closer. Apart from occasional glances, the two had mostly eaten in silence for over an hour when the teenager piped up to ask a question: “So, how is this possible?” The sudden break of silence caught the man off guard. “Come again?” he asked, as if the question wasn’t clear. The boy sighed in frustration before rephrasing. ”How are you able to talk to your past self like this?” the older Will gave a condescending answer. “Simple, I came here in a Time Cruiser instead of some souped-up DeLorean. It’s just like I explained already.” That comment made Will’s teeth begin to grind. He could’ve sworn he also heard a muffled “idiot” from under his breath. Ever since he first appeared, the man seemed to have something against his past self. He arrived as Will was wiping his car down, and the first words the guy spoke were, “You’re doing that wrong.” Will controlled his anger, deciding to instead change the subject. “Why did you come back to this time period?” For the first time that day, the man finally looked up at Will to answer. “I didn’t intend on this; the time switch in my car malfunctioned. It should be fixed sometime today,” he answered monotonously. Will was halfway listening, as he had a question he felt compelled to ask. “Will, Wha-,” he was quickly cut off. “I told you I go by ‘William’ now,” The teen irritably corrected the question. “Alright, ‘William,’ what’s your problem with me?” William cocked an eyebrow at the question as Will continued. “Ever since you got here, you’ve been on my case. I want to know why.” William grew outraged at Will’s confrontation. “You want to know? Okay. My problem is that you’re irresponsible, acting like life is a game!” he said as he left his chair, advancing on Will threateningly. Will stood up from his own seat, glaring at his upcoming Fall 2015

self. “So what, you came to fix me? You’re not needed here, so why don’t you just leave?!” He roughly shoved the older him about five feet backwards. Enraged, William prepared to retaliate when suddenly, a beeping noise distracted the two. William’s watch was sending an alert that his car had been transported to the present. How convenient, William thought as he flashed a defiant smirk towards Will. “You want me gone? You’ve got it; just know this. Once I leave, that mistake we made happens all over again!” William spat as he made his way to the front door. “You’ve been talking about that all week! What ‘mistake’ did I make exactly?!” Will called out. William turned to face him, his voice progressively falling into a murmur. “It’ll happen on your 20th birthday…You’ll get your driver’s license and take Melanie on the road to celebrate.” Will was bewildered to hear his little sister’s name. Mel, what does she have to do with this? He pondered. William felt his eyes fill with tears, with a large lump forming in his throat. He managed to choke the lump down before continuing. “Y-you’ll meet up with (sniff) a friend t-to go…dr-drag racing.” William’s body trembled, as his lip quivered rapidly. “You’ll get Melanie…to go with you and…you’ll drive so fast.” William struggled to stifle his whimpering. “You’ll h-hit a wall.” His whimpering grew in volume. “What happened?” Will asked, growing tense as he immediately guessed the worst. “You’ll run from the burning car.” William’s whimpering became hysterical as Will urgently attempted to get more information, his own voice faltering. “No, what happens to Melanie? Tell me!” William collapsed onto the floor as he began to speak in broken sobs. “What do you think happened?” Unnoticed by either of them, his body started radiating a white glow. No. Will thinks somberly to himself. “How did I tell-?” William’s answer interrupted his question. “You never told them. You’ve had to live with that guilt for five years, 54

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Will. I stole that time cruiser to go back to that night and stop myself, but when the time switch broke, I ended up here.” Will looked down at William, unsure of what to say to him. At that moment, he noticed William’s glow, but for the moment, he said nothing. Pulling himself together, William decided that he needed to go back home. As the pair walked outside, Will took notice of the car. It looked like a blue Lamborghini Murcielago. It had four doors and what William described as “plasma thrusters” underneath the back bumper. It also sported a glow similar to William’s. As he prepared to leave, William looked at the younger self with a crucial face. “Will, if you don’t listen to anything else I’ve told you, remember this,” he said, getting into his car. “Take life seriously as you get older. Be responsible and make it so that night never happens; can you promise me that?” He had his hand outstretched towards Will. “You have my word,” Will vowed as he shook his older version’s brightened hand. William gave him a proud look as his car blasted forward, disappearing in a bright flash of light halfway down the street. The teen soon made his way back to the house, intent on keeping the promise he made to the older him. Suddenly, a crimson red Ferrari drove haphazardly onto his curb. As the driver ran towards him, Will noticed that the man looked similar to himself. “Are you William Jones?” he asked urgently. Will was stunned. “Yeah but didn’t you-?” he was interrupted halfway. “Listen, I know this’ll sound crazy. I’m you from the future, and we need to talk.” Will gave the man a baffled look. “What do we need to talk about?” The man looks at the adolescent intensely. “It’s about Melanie.”

Fall 2015

Revise By Giovannie Mendoza

Moving up in a position may require special training to deal with work-related relationships. Since I graduated with a degree in management, I was able to move in Johnson Control Inc. as a supervisor. I came across quite a dilemma. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve become a supervisor for the department I have worked in for three years. I grew relationships with coworkers, and now they canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t accept orders from me. Some do not understand appropriate behavior in the work place. There are proper behaviors in avoiding situations when it comes to offensive language.

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Miniature City of Shanghai By John Calloway

Photograph Fall 2015

From Nothing to Something By Saadia Abdi How does it feel to fall and to lose all hope? How does it feel to rise and never fall again? Reading was never my strongest subject nor was writing. I grew up thinking that you have to know how to write in order to read. I grew up thinking wrongly. Being able to read is one thing, but being able to write is another. Where I came from, I was never taught to read nor write. I woke up every day and walked to school, over the hills, the rivers, and even through the rain and the heat just for an education. Education is the key to survival, which opens doors for many opportunities. It only takes one book and an imagination to unlock an individual's potential and escape reality. Being able to read takes me to another world while being able to write helps me create another world. I never knew how strong a woman could be, which kind of reminds me of my mother, who went from nothing to something. Being married at such a young age and going through trials and tribulations has made her the strong and independent woman that she is today. Everyone is familiar with the phrase, â&#x20AC;&#x153;The ones that you love the most are the ones that hurt you the most.â&#x20AC;? This phrase connects to a book that I have read that made me reflect on my life, a book that brought me to literacy and made me see the potentials I have within me: Farther than I Meant to Go, Longer than I Meant to Stay by Tiffany L. Warren. The main idea of this book is, while being betrayed by the man she loves, criticized about her weight, lied to, and even being broken into pieces, Charmayne still manages to rise. Reading the story about her life is what brought me to reading. Farther than I Meant to Go, Longer than I Meant to Stay was the first book that changed my life. This book was the only book that I have read from beginning to end. While reading this book, I felt as if the author was speaking to me. For one thing, I felt as if her message was written for me. I never had an interest in reading; I thought it was a waste of time. I was always the one that would avoid any situation that involved reading. For example, when my teachers would ask me to read in front of the class or even when my mother asked me to read the mail to her, I would avoid it. I never learned how to read until the 7th grade. I mean, I knew my ABCs and 123s, but I never understood what I read most of the time. I read at a 3rd grade level at the age of twelve. It was embarrassing. When I read in front of the class, I would get stuck on words such as education, continue, culture, and even country. Feeling hopeless, embarrassed, and laughed at encouraged me to learn how to 58

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read. Reading means a lot to me, especially being in a tribe where women are known to be married at such a young age as fifteen or sixteen. Most of the women in my tribe did not complete high school nor any other higher educational level. Some people believed that I would not complete any level of education and would be married by the time I was sixteen. I finished high school, and now I am a freshman in college. Not only did I finish high school, I made it to an even higher level of education. Reading is my go-to, no matter what day I am having. I have read book after book and gone on adventure after adventure. They say that reading is the key to everything and a foundation for literacy. Some advice that my father shared with me was to read before you enter. He once told me a story of a man that did not read before he entered. My father described a room where the man had entered, containing a sign that said, â&#x20AC;&#x153;DANGER AHEAD.â&#x20AC;? The man entered the room and died because he was unable to read the sign. The message that this story conveys is the importance of knowing how to read and understand what one is reading.. This advice my father shared with me helped me realize how much I needed reading in my everyday life. Reading, then, has given me a voice when I did not have one. Reading has given me a free ticket to anywhere I want. To be able to go beyond my limits and to see the world in a whole new way is incredible. Reading has brought me farther than I meant to go and kept me longer than I meant to stay.

Fall 2015

Light in the Darkness By Josie Dawn Carrillo

White Charcoal, Pen, & Pencil 60

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Spider Web By Erlene Gallegos

Photograph Fall 2015

Helpful High School Experience By Shaneka Crawford Baboom, baboom, baboom 7he thumping and pounding of my heart was unbearable. My nerves were rushing through my body at 100 miles per hour. It was fight or flight in my head, but in reality, there was no choice; I had to stick it out. Everyone tried assuming who I was before I even opened my mouth. Strange faces with peeled eyes just stared at me as if I were from a whole different country or speaking a foreign language. Standing in front of a heavily scratched and dented podium before a class filled with strangers, I made eye contact with everyone before I tried to delay my speech as long as possible. All eyes were on me as if I were an illustrious model on a runway. How was I supposed to start? Were they going to enjoy my paper? Finally, I summoned up the courage to say, “The basis of my paper is on a new student attending a new high school on the poorer side of town as opposed to one on a different side of town.” The ice was now broken, and a heavy weight was lifted from my shoulders. So I continued and soon got more comfortable with myself and others in the classroom. The same students that were giving me death stares as I walked in now wanted to befriend me. We all compared schedules, and I came to find out most of my classes contained the exact same people. Instead of walking to the next class alone, I was accompanied by an entourage. When walking in the hall, my attention was captured by rather boisterous singing and obnoxious dancing. I felt as if we were now in a circus rather than a school. Nonchalant teachers in the hall just looked and turned away without a word. Well, if the teachers don’t care to say anything, why should I? There were couples everywhere making out on each corner, colorful words racing through the air without a care. Nobody wanted to go to class except me; for some odd reason, the hallways seemed much more interesting. When the bell rang for lunch, everyone herded like a stampede and did whatever they had to do to get there, whether it was run, jog, skip, push, or even skateboard. No one was ever in a hurry until it was time for lunch. Just when I thought things were settling down, the words, “FOOD FIGHT!” echoed across the cafeteria. Pizza here, carrots there, applesauce everywhere, white shirts now colored with food, and white walls 62

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smothered in tomato sauce. Hall monitors came running in, followed by the officers, and then the principal. Food throwing ceased as everyone took his or her seat. Everyone was required to remain seated and to clean the whole cafeteria to perfection after we were chewed out. I wanted to leave this school and be put far away from it. I couldn’t possibly fit in; what was I to do? The last two periods of the day didn’t get any better or worse, DQG WKH\ didn’t change my mind about not wanting to be there. On the way to third period, an argument began to escalate between an African American female and a Hispanic female, colorfully stating their positions loud and clear. Hall monitors arrived on the scene late as usual; fortunately, there weren’t any black eyes or broken bones yet. As soon as I thought the calamity was laid to rest, after school an actual fist fight broke out between two African American males. All I wanted to do was go home and get away from everyone and everything. I managed to stick it out through the year and didn’t even notice how fast it went by. Next thing you know, summer came along faster than I could ever imagine. My brother Maynard, Mr. tall, light, and handsome, withdrew me and drove straight to Brooks Academy of Science and Engineering for a tour. After touring the school, my brother knew for sure Brooks Academy was the place to be; I was enrolled in AP classes, was on the basketball team, and was taking dual credit courses. I was a little sketchy about Brooks Academy only because it seemed too good to be true, but I knew it was a completely different environment and was nothing compared to my previous scholastic institution. Most importantly, I was able to associate with like-minded students, highly considerate teachers, and finally felt comfortable being myself in a school where everyone wanted to successfully soar high. In conclusion, as a sophomore, writing about the composed descriptive essay that was assigned and completed freshman year, I knew my literacy journey had begun. Once I read the last sentence, everybody including the teacher, fell in love with the fluidity and language of my writing. Now when I looked around the room, those same faces were now dazed and staring at me as if I just read to them the cure for cancer. I never knew how intrigued and moved people could be by my writing. Since that day, I’ve always enjoyed writing and have remained a great writer when it comes to school as well as outside of school. Fall 2015

The Influence in My Education By Zuleiva Del Angel People throughout my life have influenced me one way or another in my education. Some people have brought negative influenceV by creating boundaries in ways for me to believe that I may not be successful. Although, there haYH been negative influenceV, the positive influenceV haYH always had more of an effect on my education. My parents have been there entirely to support me in my education. They have taught me the value of education DQG how important it is to have knowledge 7hey have talked to me about how it is a privilege that I am in this country and have the opportunity to study and be successful. To begin with, my family, including me, was born in Mexico. As I was very young, my parents decided they would come to the United States for me to be given a better opportunity to study. My parents did not want me to struggle getting through school the way they struggled when they were young. They have talked to me about how they were not able to finish their education due to the fact that it was impossible for their parents to continue paying a monthly expense that was required to be able to attend school. Most families in Mexico faced the same situation since people were not getting paid enough to pay for schooling. The familiesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; children, at some point, had to drop out of school and continue working to help their families with their home expenses. Unfortunately, my parents were only able to attend school up to the fourth grade since they were raised within large families, and it was difficult for everyone to attend school. In that situation, my grandparents had no other choice but to accept the fact that their children would not be able to finish their education and instead had to help them by beginning to work to help pay for food, clothes, and bills. It was difficult for my grandparents to endure the situation their children had to go through because they wanted them to be successful, but it was not possible. For years, my grandparents blamed themselves for not being able to offer my parents the education they deserved to be successful, but they raised them to believe that one day they could offer their children a better way to be successful. As I was growing up, my parents talked to each other about how they wanted me to have an opportunity to go to school and be successful. They did not want me to end up in the same situation they did when they were young. One day, without a thought, my parents decided to move to the United States because they knew that if we moved to the U.S., it would be much easier for me to attend school and have a better education. Growing

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up knowing that my parents were not educated gave me the motivation to go to school each day and give the best I had. I wanted to make my parents proud and show them that I wanted to be successful in life. I wanted them to see that although they were not able to finish school, they were educated enough by their parents to teach me the value of having knowledge and being successful in life. Each day, seeing my parents working hard for my education made me realize that going to school and getting an education were very important. My parents always tell me that having knowledge can take me anywhere. I began to set goals for myself and to never give up, no matter the circumstances. I knew that the goals I had set for myself were not going to be easy to accomplish and that I would face negativity from people who did not believe in me. Most negative comments came from professionals who believed I would end up cleaning rich peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s houses like my mother because of my nationality. I cried not only because they did not believe in me but because they did not realize how my mother struggled when she was young and the sacrifices she made for me to get an education. ,n time, I have proved those professionals wrong because, little by little, I have accomplished goals that I have set for myself, which were to be rewarded a license to be a medical assistant, graduating high school with a perfect GPA, and attending college at St. Philipâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. I have set bigger goals to accomplish within time and with a lot of hard work and dedication. The negative comments were at some point affecting me because achieving my goals has not been easy, but I have had my parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; support and advice to help me continue to work hard for what I want. Although I have not accomplished every goal that I have set for myself, I know that I can achieve them because I believe in myself, and so do my parents. Their unconditional love and support has been my strength to keep trying harder in school. They know I will keep facing boundaries that will try to keep me from being successful, but they have told me to keep believing in myself and that I can get anywhere I want because I am intelligent. I appreciate the hard work and sacrifice my parents have done for me because they have taught me an important lesson. They were not successful in school, but they were successful in teaching me that knowledge is very powerful and that knowledge can be very helpful for me in becoming the physical therapist that one day I will become. To me, my parents are the most educated human beings because they had the knowledge of moving from one country to another, finding a job without experience, and raising me in becoming the person that I am today.

Fall 2015

Mrs. Murphy By John Calloway

At 102, Mrs. Murphy is St. Philipâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s oldest living graduate. Photograph 66

Tiger PAWS

Our Judges Prose: San Juan San Miguel

is the Academic Program Coordinator of the Rose R. Thomas Writing Center at St. Philip’s College. He is also an Adjunct Instructor in the Communications and Learning Department. He has a Master’s Degree in English Literature from UTSA and a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English from St. Mary’s University. He enjoys traveling, cooking (and eating), cycling, reading, writing, and funding Kickstarter campaigns but most of all basketball! He is currently in pursuit of his lifelong ambition to be an NCAA Division I Men’s Basketball Coach.

Poetry: Nereida Reyes

has been a staff member of the Rose R. Thomas Writing Center for fourteen years. She is a St. Philip’s graduate who received a Bachelor of Arts in English from the University of Texas at San Antonio. As a great grandmother, she still enjoys swimming, cooking, writing poetry, reading, and dismantling the myths embedded in America’s so-called generation gap.

Art/Photography: Mitchell Miranda is an awardwinning artist, photographer, and graduate of St. Philip’s College. He holds a Bachelor of Arts in Studio Art and a Bachelor of Science in Cultural Anthropology from Baylor University; he received a Master’s Degree in Middle Eastern & Eastern Mediterranean Archaeology from University College London’s Institute of Archaeology and is currently a doctoral student at Reading University in England. His artwork has been exhibited at Baylor’s Martin Museum of Art and the Hill Country Arts Foundation where he was named a Texas Emerging Artist. When abroad, he FaceTimes his pet gecko, Little Man.