Campus Windmill Vol. 1 Cover 1

Cover designed by Jordan Wyliecontents side a

Welcome to the first issue of The Windmill – a literary magazine or “zine” showcasing the work of dozens of talented, creative individuals who all call Brookhaven College home. What you hold in your hands is the culmination of countless hours of hard work by students enrolled in journalism and photography courses at Brookhaven College. The Brookhaven Courier staff and advisers teamed with English professor Aaron Clarke in Spring 2013 to draw in not only written works but photography, art and illustrations from the students, staff, faculty and employees of Brookhaven College. Then, in May, The Windmill staff gathered together and read every submission and reviewed all the art before the project began in Summer I. Keeping space limitations in mind, Windmill staff voted on submissions and separated them by categories like nature, love and death and then paired the literary works with similar art or photography. Throughout the summer months, each page was thoughtfully laid out, read, re-read and edited for accuracy. This project will hopefully be a catalyst for The Windmill to become a bi-yearly publication.

DISCLAIMER: This publication may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the editor. The Windmill’s editorial and design positions are held by student enrolled in the journalism and photography courses offered by the Communications Division at Brookhaven College. The material published in The Windmill was culled from entries submitted by students, staff, faculty and adminis-trators of Brookhaven College. Any thoughts, opinions or ideas, either expressed or implied in this publication are those of the individual writers or artist and do not necessarily represent or reflect those of the administration, faculty, the student body of Brookhaven College or the staff of The Brookhaven Courier. Correspondence to the editors should be sent to the attention of The Brookhaven Courier, Brookhaven College, 3939 Valley View Lane, Farmers Branch, TX 75244, or emailed to [email protected]. All rights revert to authors or artists upon publication.

Editor-In-ChiefMaddox Price

Managing EditorAzure Wedan

Art DirectorJordan Wylie

Copy EditorChris Allison

Photo EditorEriana Ruiz

Windmill AdvisersDaniel RodrigueAaron Clark

StaffAdriana SalazarNicholas BostickVadim DozmorovAnacany MorenoMary Catherine

Editorial ConsultantsRori HarringtonErin Marissa Russell

Page 1 ∆ Darn Them (Traditional Ghazal)

by Dr .Thom Chesney

∆ Illustration by Janeth Davalos

Page 2-3 ∆ Pine Tree Has Risen

by Kathryn DeBruler

∆ Photo by Nicholas Bostick

Page 4 ∆ Sonnet 1 to Matt Gibson: The

Fever by Erin Marissa Russell

∆ Photo by Dr. John Neal

Page 5 ∆ Ode To A Childhood Summer

by Gretchen Parra

∆ Photo by Maddox Price

∆ Agnostic Acrostic

by Dr. Thom Chesney

∆ Photo by Vikki Ethington

Page 6 ∆ Conflicted by Melody Guerra

Landa

∆ Bottled Up by Brandy

Walthall

∆ Art by Janeth Davalos

Page 7 ∆ Illustrations by Vadim

Dozmorov

Page 8-9∆ Cancer: It’s Kind Of A Big

Deal by Aubrey Williams

∆ Photos by Claudia Valerio

Page 10 ∆ Broken by Thaun Lam

∆ The Wall by Wonsup Shin

∆ Seasons by Jihoon Kim

∆ Change by Hye-Sug Jang

∆ Photo by Vikki Ethington

Page 11 ∆ My Inner Light by Sophia

Stavron

∆ Photo by Mauricio Luna

∆ My Love, One Click

by Sophia Stavron

∆ Photo by Maddox Price

Page 12 ∆ QEP Enhancement Q&A and

photos by Mary Catherine

∆ Background photo by

Vargha Manshadi

Illustration by Travis Self

Fall 2013 | The Windmill | 1

A simple plan — neatly wroughtInstant win — or so I thought.

Patch her jeans, the knees are worn —10 minutes or so, I thought.

Good enough for her to wear?Only look so-so, I thought.

Two inches more ‘round each hole?That’s too much to sew, I thought.

Ruined them, Dad! How could you?House fell empty; so, I thought. - Dr. Thom Chesney

Darn them (traditional ghazal)

Illustration by Janeth Davalos

2 | Fall 2013 | The Windmill

“Thank you for calling SloTix. My name is Michael, ho -” And the caller hangs up, or drives under a bridge, or drops their phone in the bathtub. I don’t know why, but they do. There I am with my headset on and tickets to sell and no one to buy them. This happens a few times every day. I find it emotionally depleting every time. I started working here at SloTix about four years ago. We’re - I say we because I identify with the company the same way that other guys identify with foot-ball teams - a ticketing agen-cy based in Des Moines, Iowa. What started out as a father and son endeavor eventually grew into the Midwest’s most pro-lific ticket sales company, aimed at promoting family oriented events. SloTix is a Christian company. My boss, Mr. Slocum, is the cor-nerstone. He likes to joke that he grew closer to God when he start-ed scalping tickets in the 1970s. As a kid he would go out on weekends with his dad, (also Mr. Slocum) would hock tickets to Iowa State games on street corners. Mr. Slocum (the younger) said that every time he was able to sell a $10 ticket for $50, he would ex-claim, “Good God!” and that was how he got to be so religious. I like Mr. Slocum a lot, de-spite all his inherent hypoc-risies. He gave me a chance. We sell tickets to events like The Ten Commandoments, which is a play that combines Bible sto-ries with pyrotechnics and fake explosions. I don’t say it like that to customers, because then they won’t buy anything, so instead I say that The Ten Commando-ments is a highly illustrative rei-magining of the Bible, enhanced visually by pyrotechnics and simulated explosions, all start-ing at the low-low price of $39.95 per ticket, not including appli-cable fees and service charges. Sometimes when people call in for tickets to things like The Ten Com-mandoments, I start to question myself. What am I doing and why am I doing it? The long and short

By Kathryn DeBruler

Pine Tree Has Risen

of it is that I am doing a job that doesn’t matter, for money that does. I have a lot of debt. Funerals, in case you’ve never had to pay for one, are as expensive as they are sad. Like my parents always say, “Pleated satin linings don’t pay for themselves.” Which leads me to a confession. I am not alive. You’re way ahead of me, right? You’re thinking that here’s a guy who works a menial, minimum wage job. He’s unfulfilled. He’s dead inside. Well, you’re half right. I am dead on the inside. But I’m also dead on the outside. Like, Judy Garland dead. Suck-ling pig at a family reunion dead. Doorknob - eh, you get the idea. My untimely death occurred when I was 17, after going over to my grandmother’s house one day after school. She - my grand-mother (affectionately known as Mi Maw) - had called me to

complain that my mother, who brought her groceries once a week, had put the paper tow-els too high for her to reach. I remember not wanting to go over to her house that day. I want-ed to go home and watch TV in my room, but I also didn’t want to be a bad grandson. So I went to her house, all dutiful-like, and got out the stepstool. My mother really had put them quite high. I don’t know what she was thinking. Even with the stepstool, it was a reach. As I grabbed the pack-age of Mounty (my family likes to buy Canadian off-brands) the stepstool collapsed. It was old and had rusty hinges. I was maybe two feet off the ground, but I’ve never been the most graceful per-son. As I fell, I hit my head on the pointed corner of my grandmoth-er’s linoleum kitchen counter. Some men die in battle, at

the hand of others, their bod-ies riddled with bullets. A hero’s death. Me? I bonked my nog-gin on a decorating faux pas from the 1960s. The counter, not counting the blood splatter, was orange and had a yellow sun-burst pattern, proving that for some, there is no mercy in death. So I died. And that was that. I watched the EMTs take my body out in a bag. Talk about a surreal experience. They al-most dropped me as they were putting me on the stretcher. Do you have any idea how dis-concerting it is to see people be so negligent with your corpse? I was still warm, for Christ’s sake. Then there was the funeral, with all of its pageantry and crying and those super creepy floral arrange-ments - the ones shaped like rings. Meanwhile, my parents were losing their minds from all the

Photo by Nicholas Bostick


grief, because they saw me sit-ting on the couch every day. I didn’t know what else to do after I died, so I just watched lots of TV. I definitely couldn’t go to school, because people tend to be suspi-cious of a corpse doing chemis-try. I guess my parents thought that I would go away after they were done with the first stages of grieving - that they’d be able to move on with their lives. But I just sat there and became more and more acquainted with the wonders of daytime television. If you ever need to know anything about game shows, soap operas or talk shows aimed at the stay-at-home-mom set, I’m your man. It took about four months of me watching TV to convince my par-ents that I was dead, but not what I refer to as “dead dead.” If you’re dead, then your body may be in the ground, but that’s just a representational thing - you still have to walk your dog and pay bills and stuff like that. But if you’re dead dead, then you’re just worm food. To convince my parents that I was just dead and not dead dead, I had to imple-ment every argumentative tac-tic from my adolescent artillery. As a teenager, I was used to having to repeatedly argue a case for myself. I had successfully convinced my parents to get me a dog, extend my curfew on three separate occasions and to let me get a tattoo for my eighteenth birthday. So we talked it over, and after much emphatic pleading and hand waving, I was able to win them over. I think what really sold them was when I got an old sheet, cut two holes for eyes and put it on. I followed my parents around the house saying, “Boo. I’m a ghost.” They agreed that it really was me and that they weren’t going crazy but that the situation itself was. My mom and dad’s main concern was that if our friends or neigh-bors found out about the whole being dead, but not dead dead thing that either my entire family would be committed, or we would have to be interviewed by Bar-bara Walters. My family hates Barbara Walters. It was decided that I would be a secret and that my new life would start now. While all my friends were pre-paring to go off to college, I began to look for work. Something that

would be fulfilling, earn well, and lead to better opportunities while not exposing my dead ass to the world. As it turns out, no such job exists. So I became a call center rep. The job is perfect for my dead lifestyle. I don’t have to leave the house (although I do at night, when all my suburban neighbors are inside yelling at each other) and I can work in my underwear. My mom asks me not to do this, say-ing that I am a dysfunctional slob. Then I remind her that I am a dys-functional dead slob and she goes away. Even though I don’t really believe in what I do, I still do it well. I greet the customer clearly and state my name. I smile while I talk because I read a maga-zine article a few years ago that said a smile can be discerned in conversation without the other person ever seeing your mouth. I really do try to get people the best seats, and I’m honest with them when they ask if they’re in the nosebleeds. I ask how their day is going when my computer lags and there’s a lull in produc-tive conversation. We talk about their dog, barking in the back-ground, or about shows they’ve seen in the past. I am, for all intents and purpos-es, the perfect employee. It’s not just the way in which I approach customers that makes me a great employee but the fact that I don’t have a lot of needs. Think about it - I don’t need smoke breaks, let alone lunch breaks, I never eat up valuable company time taking a piss and I don’t have to sleep. Of course, I don’t let my boss know that, or I’d have no life.The hard-est part about my job was just getting hired. When the only qualification is the applicant’s ability to fog a mirror, well, I’m instantly the low-est man on the hiring totem pole. Coupled with the fact that I had no work experience and smelled like

death, made for an interesting interview. Whenever I go out in public, I always wear a pine tree under my clothes - the ones that they make for cars. It’s demean-ing but effective. I have to wear one, otherwise people would pick up on a definite stank – the fishy, worst side effect of being dead. My parents and I have tried every other remedy we can think of. I’ve sat in bathtubs full of tomato juice, doused myself in rubbing alcohol and invested heavily in deodor-ants, but nothing works except for that damn tree. SloTix is located four towns over from where I live. In general, Iowans only leave their hometowns for weddings, funer-als and a once-a-year shopping excursion to the Des Moines Inter-national Shopping Mall. So when I do need to go into the office, I can do so knowing that the odds of running into anyone I might know are slim. Luckily, I don’t have to go often - mostly just for training days or company workshops. Workshops often involve hav-ing to fall, backwards, into the arms of a co-worker. I don’t like having to do this, as this level of close personal interaction, com-bined with movement, means that I have to wear two pine trees at a time. Most of the time I work from home. I take, on average, 90 calls during an eight-hour shift. I sell more tickets than anyone else in my department, but the majority of my calls don’t involve a sale at all. Most of the time, I’m just an-swering questions about sound quality or how Will Call works. Then there are the calls when all I have to do is lend an ear to peo-ple who need someone to talk to. As it turns out, there are a lot of lonely people in this world. I can empathize. It’s a lonely busi-ness being dead. But the peo-ple I’m talking to aren’t dead. I

don’t know this for sure though - for all I know, the world could be full of dead people. I assume that if there were lots of people like me, we would have devel-oped a code for communicat-ing with each other by now. Like, we would say, “10-4, pine tree has risen,” or something like that. No, the people I talk to have dif-ferent problems. I listen and say reassuring things, all while keeping a close eye on my talk time and looking for ways to segue the conversation back to The Ten Commandoments. “It’s just so hard doing things by yourself for the first time,” says the customer. “I completely understand. Mov-ing to a new city after a divorce can be really difficult,” I reply. “Oh? You’ve been in my shoes before?” It’s better for my sales numbers if I lie, and I like to think that it’s better for the customer, too. They need someone to lie to them. “Unfortunately, yes,” I reassure them. “I think the one thing that really helped me was just forcing myself to get out and do things. Just because your life took an unexpected turn doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to enjoy it along the way.” There’s a pause. I can hear a cha-ching on my end. “You know what? You’re right. That’s what I’ve been telling my-self, but it’s so nice to hear it come from someone else. Even if you are a stranger. What did you say your name was again?” “Michael.” “Well, Michael, you’re a wise man. You obviously know how to live life to the fullest.” “Thank you, ma’am. I try. Now let’s get you out of the house and into a seat. Would you prefer or-chestra or mezzanine?” “Give me your best available. If I’m going to enjoy myself, I might as well do it right.” “Couldn’t have said it better my-self, ma’am. Now will we be put-ting that on Visa, MasterCard, American Express or Discover?” I end the call by thanking the woman for her purchase, telling her to enjoy the show and asking if I can provide any further as-sistance. She says no, that I’ve done enough. This makes me feel good and like the pine trees are worth it – almost like I’m not dead inside. Or outside. R

“My mom asks me not to do this, saying that I am a dysfunctional slob. Then I remind her that I am a

dysfunctional dead slob and she goes away”


Sonnet 1 to Matt Gibson:

The FeverLike shuddering from a thick, fitful sleep

Like the final, freeing cycle in a fractal dreamI used to deem love a beautiful tormentA stony weight that ached in your veinsBurning fever that kept you up all night

And raw, tender skin to pull the world throughBut like laughing before I open my eyes

The call of the threading train that weaves throughEvery window in town, one song stitching

This breath to the next, the next, the next ...

Your love tells me I am not onlyThat mockery I meet in the mirror

But three dimensions unfolding in a fourth unityAnd angles indiscernible without your refracting light.

- Erin Marissa Russell

Photo by Dr. John Neal


Up early we’d be, my siblings and I,Playing all day under the bright desert sky.

Barefoot we’d walk down alleys and roads,Sometimes we’d find fat lizards called horny toads.

Bermuda grass, lawn games and a sticker or two,Mother-May-I, Red Rover and a game of Statue.Soon we’d go home for a break and a meal,Peanut butter sandwiches and Let’s Make a Deal.

Swimming lessons at “the beach” and the smell of Coppertone.Ball parks, little league, and a pickle juice snow cone.Forts we would build, sting rays we would ride,We’d have to go soon, no more could we hide.

Grandpa’s house and family and Chiclets gum,Toys in the toy box and more fun to come.Ghost stories with cousins outside in the night,Uncles in sheets did scare us outright.

Good times in summer we had were quite vast.Family and sunshine made memories that last.

- Gretchen Parra

Ode to a Childhood Summer

Photo by Maddox Price

When I asked youHow to repairA poem, youTold me no oneExpected aVerse of mine toEffect change orRealize dreams.

- Dr. Thom Chesney

Agnostic Acrostic

Photo by Vikki Ethington


conflictedDon’t push me.Please push me.I hope for a treacherous fall.I can’t stand the waiting.I can’t stand the anticipation.

Love me; Hate me.Hate my eyes.Hate my dreams.Hate my desires.Please love me.

Push me over the edge.I ask you.I beg you.

Love me more.Hate me less.Don’t ever stop.

Can’t stand this cage I’ve built for myself; A barrier between me and my dreams;A cascade of tears;A dam of fears;Fears that trap me;Want me;Release me;Force me.

Hate my lies;Love my binding ties.

Tear me down;Break the wall that consumes me.

Love me; Hate me.I don’t care.

Shove my past into the future.Take my future and burst it open.

Tear my life apart;I give full permission.

Help me shed my tears;Blow my mind;Wake me up.

I’m blind.I can see everything so clearly.

I see you;You see me;I see so little;I see so much.

Love me; Hate me.

Never give up on me.

- Melody Guerra Landa

Bottled UpSend me your love in a bottle of Chianti.Tainted red with the sweet smell of you.

The taste of your girth lingers on my lips like my favorite hymn.

You, my addiction, staining my soul with the remnant(s) of life.

Bringing forth a passion in me that erupts like the sun to the Eastern sky.

Filling my cup with enough love for a lifetime.

Turning a simple touch into a blissful night.

I flinch as your fingertips navigate my spine.

Your thumb imprinted on my body identifying with my warm flesh.

Soft whispers in my ear of sweetsomethings to come.

Gazing in my eyes watching the story in my soul.

And I’m occupied in your eyes.Drowning in your dimples, tracing

your outline from head to toe;Simply bewildered by God’s

magnificent creation.Loved up to the moon, viewing my

reflection in the pool of your heart.Enamored with your aroma stirring idly

in the air.Returning me to a modest state in life,

a point with few cares.

If this is a dream, don’t wake me.If reality becomes harsh, help me bear.

If time is split at its seam of existence, let us prevail where time is unknown.

This is love.This is the purest image of beauty.

This is a long sigh goodnight.This is an extended stretch

good morning.This is April’s first shower.This is Southern tea in the

summer’s shade.This is November’s final leaf.

This is winter’s first chill.This is the Richter’s largest quake.

This is love.

- Brandy Walthall

Illustration by Janeth Davalos

Fall 2013 | The Windmill | 7Illustrations by Vadim Dozmorov

Cancer: It’s kind of a big deal

Cancer has always been a dominant and overpowering force in my life. My first real feeling of loss was when my grandmother passed away from lung can-cer in 1994. I was sitting in the gym during one of what seemed like 50 “end-of-the-year as-semblies,” watching the dust particles dance in the sunlight filtering through the Hershey-bar-shaped windows, when an assistant principal walked over to the 7th grade section with a determined look on his face. Everyone glanced around ner-vously, wondering which prank had been discovered and who would be expelled or punished. Did he discover that Mr. Ha-gen’s door had been glued shut? Had he walked into the Saran Wrap covering the open door-way? Ignoring the teachers entirely, he asked a girl named Amy where Aubrey was. Amy, a snobby, backstab-bing liar, vaguely waved away from me, saying she was not even sure who Aubrey was. Tentatively, I raised my hand. As I did, I wondered what I could possibly be in trouble for; I was not behind any of the pranks, just amused by them. He told me to come with him; I needed to get my things and clean out my locker quickly. My nervous footsteps echoed throughout the deserted hall-ways, the doors slamming be-hind us, amplified to the point that I wanted to cover my ears. He did not speak and be-gan to walk at a faster pace, forcing me to run to keep up. Finally, unable to take the agonizing silence any more, I

By Aubrey Williams

said, “Mr. Watkins? What did I do? Am I in trouble?” He of-fered no information, and told me it would be explained when I reached the office. I hurriedly cleared my locker, my hands trembling as I crammed note-books, pencils and candy-col-ored scraps of paper into every available pocket of my back-pack. With a resounding clang, my locker slammed shut for what would be the final time that year. “Who gets kicked out of school with only three days left in the school year?” I wondered aloud as he walked (and I ran to keep up) to the office. If he heard me, he didn’t show it, and I know he had to have heard me. When I rounded the corner, I stopped with a lurch, the assistant prin-cipal slamming into me, propel-ling me forward into a heap in front of my mother. She stared at me, eyes red, sniffling. I stayed on the floor, knowing my legs would not hold me up. “Is it Dad?” I asked, my words barely audible due to an un-controllable shaking as my eyes began to sting with pent-up

tears. She shook her head, as the secretary assured her there would be no trouble if I missed the remainder of the year. I watched the two women, my mother and the secretary, ex-change a look. Mrs. Campbell patted my mother’s hand ten-derly. Terrified, I wondered if I would be able to get up. My mother helped me stand and, wrapping her arms around me, we walked out of the school. My little sister, Katie, was waiting in the car, her eyes rimmed with red, her cherry nose sniffling at regular intervals. “Will somebody PLEASE tell me what’s going on?” I yelled. As we drove toward our home, bumping over the dirt road, the clouds of dust enveloping us in a dark cloud even on this sunny May afternoon, I became aware of what was happening. My grandmother, my dad’s moth-er, had gone into a coma, and this time the doctors and nurses were sure she wouldn’t recover. My grandmother had been sick for as long as I could remember. Diagnosed with lung cancer long before I was born, she died mul-

tiple times, and multiple times she was resuscitated, not ready to leave her children or unborn grandchildren just yet. I never knew my grandmother without her “nose hose,” the nickname my cousins and I gave her oxygen tubing when we were children. Even though she was ill, she was still my favorite person. I loved spending the night at her house, watching her shows or a John Wayne movie with her while she drank cup after cup of cof-fee and I sipped a Big Red float. She told us stories about her life, growing up in the foothills of rural Tennessee, and had us laughing hysterically as she told us about how horrible my dad had been as a child. As I remembered all of those things, I realized why my moth-er did not want to say anything to me in the office of my school. My grandmother died six days later on Memorial Day. We rushed to be by her side, because my mom and dad final-ly thought we were old enough to tell her goodbye. In her cool, dim-ly lit room, I sat holding her hand,

Photo by Claudia Valerio



sitting next to my uncle, as my dad sang to her in the way that only he can. His voice, strong and true even with tears streaming down his face, accompanied by the soft beeping of the monitors tracking her breaths and heartbeats, is something I will remember always. As he finished the last line of “Amazing Grace,” his voice wa-vered on the final note as it broke into a gut-wrenching sob. I heard a soft gasp, almost a dreamy sigh, from my grandmother. I thought she was showing her ap-preciation to my father, but I later learned that was, in fact, her last breath. She left this earth on the final notes of my dad’s song, hold-ing my hand, and I will always be thankful that I was able to share that moment with my dad. My mother’s father passed away two short years later from a differ-ent type of cancer. He had been bitter about his diagnosis and re-fused treatment, claiming he no longer cared if he lived or died. My grandmother, the glue that held her family together, whose life was not complete unless she was doting on her husband or do-ing something for her children or grandchildren, became a differ-ent person as well. My grandfather constantly yelled about the unfairness of it all. Spit sprayed whoever was in close range, his angry words slashing through even the thickest skin like a knife dipped in poison. He alienated himself from everyone, and yet, everyone still cared and showed concern for him, caus-ing him to become more furious. On a chilly Monday morning in October, I begged my mother

to let me stay home from school. I had spent all weekend with friends: attending a hockey game, having a bonfire, playing hide & seek in the dark and staying up until the wee hours of the night. She thought I was exhausted, but I pleaded, “Mom, please let me stay home. I have this feeling that something’s going to hap-pen with Grandpa, and I want to be here with you if it does.” “Aubrey, if something happens I’ll come get you right away, I promise,” she said as I reluctantly boarded the bus for school and shuffled my way through class. At 9:26 a.m., I was sitting in my geology class when the inter-com squawked to life, the feed-back causing everybody in the small room to cringe as a voice fought through waves of static. “Mr. Becker, please send Aubrey to the office ready to check out.” I remember telling my best friend, “My grandfather died. Tell every-one I won’t be there this week-end.,” and walked silently out of the room. When I reached the office, I ignored the sympathetic looks from the office staff and asked my mom, “Is he dead?” She burst into tears, devastated over the loss of her father, the man she loved so dearly but never got to say goodbye to, and this time I was the one who consoled her. My heart had been hardened toward the grandfather I had adored as a child, the man whose bitterness over the “unfair hand he had been dealt” became more important than those who loved him. This loss was easier to handle in a way, but it still hurt knowing

I would never hear his voice yell-ing out the answers to the puzzles on “Wheel of Fortune,” desperate-ly trying to beat me at solving it. As I grew up, I knew that I wanted to work with chil-dren, so when my dad told me of an opportunity to work with pediatric cancer pa-tients I jumped at the chance. I remember my first day on the Hematology/Oncology floor vividly: the constant electron-ic beeping of monitors and IV pumps, the buzzing of pagers made audible as they buzzed against change or pens bounc-ing around in scrub pockets, the simplistic laughter of children who know they are sick but do not realize how serious it is, and the overly-clean smell of disinfectant. The fluorescent lights glared overhead as an LED star streaked across the ceiling panel painted to look like outer space, while the au-tomatic doors opened and closed with a ‘WHOOSH’ as staff, pa-tients and parents walked in and out of the outer hallway and play-room. Seated at the desk with a trainer, I learned there would be a new admit: a four-year-old boy who had just been diagnosed. His mom and dad, dressed in tat-tered clothing with matted hair and dark circles under their eyes, could barely walk through the door. “Why him?” his mother cried, while her husband consoled her. Their utter heartbreak struck a chord with me, and as a parent, I could not even begin to imagine what they were going through. As the new person on the floor, I was stuck working the over-night shift, and it seemed like the child’s parents never slept. We became close, talking almost ev-ery night for hours on end while he slept fitfully, muttering about superheroes in his dreams. His dream? To meet Spider-Man and to help catch a bad guy. A month later, he was still in the transplant unit (the rooms set aside for those who are the most at risk), when Spider-Man 2 came out in theaters. One afternoon, he heard a knock on his door and us-ing all the energy he could muster, he whispered, “Come in.” In walked Tobey Maguire in full Spider-Man costume. His mouth dropped open and tears streamed down his swollen face as Spider-Man announced that he had brought

along a sneak peek of Spider-Man 2 in hopes that he would want to watch it with him. For two hours this little boy sat with his hero, watching him capture villains and save the city. Within a few days, the little boy stopped breathing and was sent to the Intensive Care Unit. I visited him every day before I left to go home and stopped in to see his parents each night when I returned. One morning I left after kissing his mottled cheek and was almost home when I got a call from his nurse. “We just lost him,” she said. “And his mom is asking for you. How quickly can you get back up here?”I turned around, racing back to the hospital. I flew up the stairs and into the outer ICU waiting room. His mom and dad were leaning against the window and I opened my arms. She fell into them and as I held her up, she sobbed, hiccup-ping, “Why?” over and over and over again. Her husband asked if I would go back into his room with them, because they did not want to go alone, and I agreed. I did not feel it was necessary to tell them it was my first time seeing a newly deceased body. He looked peaceful (although the blue and purple marbling all over his body was disturb-ing at first glance); he was free of tubes and machines, the end credits of Spider-Man played in the background and I thought it fitting that our little hero had passed away in the presence of his hero on the television screen. Meeting that boy, getting to know his family, gave me the push I needed to choose a career. Work-ing with cancer patients is not for everybody. Working with pediat-ric cancer patients is even more difficult, but it is not a decision from which I have ever wavered. Making a difference in the lives of children and their families is something I feel I was made to do. Cancer is the victorious villain who makes no excuses and refus-es to accept defeat, for it will not go quietly, nor will it go without in-flicting as much pain as possible, and yet ... every single day there are those who triumph over can-cer, successfully ensuring that cancer does not have a win in the win column or the final word. I intend to be there, fighting with them every step of the way. R

Photo by Claudia Valerio

ChangeThis man was taking a walk one day.

He stopped to look at the flowers in full bloom.He thought to himself,

How ordinary and repetitive his life was … following the same pattern.

So he wanted to change his direction in life like those flowers

that were lively and in full bloom.

- Hye-Sug Jang

Seasons There is a season for everythingA season for sunshine, a season for rainIt’s always changing and never staying the sameLeaves drop from trees in the fall while flowers bloom in the springEverything has its season; it’s always a continuous transformingFlowers bloom after harsh winter to shed some light on the worldThey show through hardship that there will come a dayWhere everything goes well, according to your wayLife is like that too, never standing at restFor one thing happens and then the next, so we are on a never-ending quest

- Jihoon Kim

BrokenNo talking, no laughing.All I want is family feeling.Since when things turned out this way.The food so cold.

- Thuan Lam

The WallFly like a bird

Beyond the wallBeyond the world

Rush like a buffaloTear down the wall

Tear down the prejudice

- Wonsup Shin

Photo by Vikki Ethington



I feel the excitement tingling up and down my spine as your profile is matched to mine.It’s not the snow-tipped mountains in the background that have caught my eye.But more so, your manly stance and inviting smile that makes you attractive to me.Your energy jumps through my computer screen and captures my attention.Strength, courage, kindness, compassion are oozing through the pixels.

I am searching for you, looking for you with patience, using my heart as a compass.I have traveled to the ends of the world, and laid out many miles of “I love you.”Is your heart made of iron or gold? I want to believe that not all jewels are fake.My intuition has taken up wings, and my gut is left to take a chance in your love.We’ve all tasted happiness and been disappointed. So have you healed your past wounds?

You are no ordinary man. What I am looking for, I do not have within me, but here you are, the missing piece to my puzzle.I feel it has been written in the book of life that we take roots together.I can feel it now. Our thoughts are entangled. A warm embrace and electricity is exchanged between our hearts.You are the “one,” just a click away. - Sophia Stavron

I am your guide through any storm.I am your heart, so use my compass.

Life may throw you punches, but I do not bruise.I have no fear, and for faith and love,

I have endless amounts of space.Spiritual warrior, from your past battles,

you have built protection made of steel.If you allow me, shed your steel walls,

and I will heal your wounds.In the depths of your soul,

worry is not welcomed through my door. I forgive you.

Sweetness is your lips as you speak your truth to the ones you love.

Self-doubt tributes to loneliness, so use my key of love to free yourself and join me in life.

I rejoice in the selfless beauty that you shine into the hearts of others.

Your mark is always made, and the stamp of love is never forgotten.

Together we make dreams come true, so don’t dress the light of your star.

Listen for the sirens in your bust.I whisper in your ear the direction of your life’s passion.

Music, creativity, and service to others are a healthy lust.Unconditional love is all that I have for you

and I’m glad you keep me full.I am your daily flame.

I exist here forever. Your light never burns out.

- Sophia Stavron

MY INNER LIGHT

Photo by Maddox Price

MY LOVE, ONE CLICK

Photo by Mauricio Luna

Quality Enhancement PlanWhat is your favorite book?

Dr. Thom Chesney

Brookhaven College President

Book: “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love”

by Raymond Carver

“This book was very informative when I was becoming a writer. It has a style I like to emulate, which is very dialogue-driven.

Contemporary styles are typically what I write and mostly

what I read.”

DJangoran E. Famie

Student/Finance Major

Book: “In the Sea There Are Crocodiles” by Fabio Geda

“This is my fourth book I have read in English. I like it because it is based on a real story, and the main character is a very

strong boy who left Afghanistan to make it to Italy. If I was a boy of his age, I would not be able to

do that.”

Content provided by Mary Catherine

Thelma Martinez

Student/dance

Book: “Breaking Dawn” by Stephanie Meyer

“I am into the whole sci-fi and fantasy world. I am a really big romantic, so I am into the love story. I like this book because it

really wraps up the series.”

Jessica Beavers

Circulation Assistant

Book: “Love in the Time of Cholera” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

“It was one of those books I had to read in high school, and he

[Garcia] just writes so beautifully, it captivates you.

It is one of those books I like to read just for fun.”

Antonio Alcala

Brookhaven Police Officer

Book: The Bible King James Version

“My wife was always a Christian, and I had a relationship with Him, but it was 1989 when I really accepted Jesus Christ

into my life.”

Khadija lateef

student/automotive technology

Book: “Top Gear 100 Maddest Cars” by BBC Books

“I like it because it has amazing cars. I love cars. They are my passion. I read it when I am

stressed out or bored.”


The Quality Enhancement Plan, developed by employees and students, has two main objectives: improving reading skills and improving engagement related to reading.

Documents

Campus Windmill Vol. 1 Cover 1