A University Press magazine November 2013

See page 12.

Inside:

• Survivor• Trade Days

• Modest Proposal• Kangaroos

• People

Speaking up for those

back home

UPbeatA University Press

MagazineNovember 2013

EDITOR

Chelsea Henderson

STAFF

Chris Moore

William Jones

Xenia Herrmann

Mallory Matt

Kristen Stuck

Nhu Pham

Adriana Sanchez

Brandi Dumas

Jessica Lane

Melvin Nelson

Tara Wigley

ADVERTISING

Melissa Conley

Cover byWilliam Jones

This issue of UPbeat is a production of theUniversity Press staff.

UNIVERSITYPRESS

A THIRTEEN-TIME ASSOCIATED PRESS MANAGING EDITORS AWARD WINNER

©University Press 2013

ESTEEMEDESTABLISHMENT

— page 10

PEOPLE— page 4

CANCERSURVIVOR— page 8

AFRICA’SDEAF— page 12

WINNIEMARKET— page 16

BREEDINGJOEYS— page 20

www.lamaruniversitypress.com

N o v e m b e r 2 0 1 34UPbeat PEOPLE

Jayson Craig has toys — a lot oftoys. The 30-year-old Grovesnative has a closet full of fig-urines and stuffed toys thatreflect his love of television andmovies. From Pee-wee Hermanto Steve Urkel, from ALF toMarilyn Monroe, Jayson’s collec-tion encompasses a variety ofshows. His collection grew fromhis love of horror films. “My firstones were Jason Voorhees,Freddy Krueger and MichaelMyers,” he says. Jayson worksat the Barnes & Noble Bookstoreon campus and has been col-lecting for a few years. “I startedbecause it was fun and ahobby,” he says. Most of thetoys date from the 1960s, ’70s,’80s and ’90s. “The ones that Ihave from the ’70s are allstuffed,” he says. He gets mostof his collection from eBay, andhe spends a couple hours everyother week looking for toys. Hehas a Michael Jackson figurethat he bought for $20, whichhe estimates is worth $500 to$600 now. While he buys thetoys for himself, he says hehopes they will be worth some-thing that he can give to hisfuture children. The oldest toyhe has is a Redd Foxx from the“Sanford and Son” TV show anda J.J. (Jimmy Walker) from“Good Times.” A “Terminator,”his favorite, is still in the pack-age, which makes it more valu-able. “I just like the show,” hesays. Jayson’s collection provesone is never too old to play withtoys.

Boy ToysJAYSON CRAIG

Text and photo by Nhu Pham

N o v e m b e r 2 0 1 3 5 UPbeatPEOPLE

Surrounded by thousands of No Doubt Fans in asold-out pavilion — where the voice of Gwen

Stefani and the then not-so-famous Katy Perrywere drowned out by the over-eager audience to

sing along — Sandra Mancilla, who was attendingher very first concert, discovered a passion. It wasthe summer of 2009, and Sandra says the excite-ment and the energy of the crowd was unlike any-thing she had experienced before. The Devers sen-ior says she has spent more than $1,000 on tick-ets and travel to concerts since that fateful day.She keeps the ticket stubs in a box in her room.

The broadcast major’s obsession with music cross-es all genres — except Mexican corridos. Among

all the concerts she has attended, just like a kiss,she says her first is the most memorable. The one

artist she is looking forward to seeing is JohnMayer. He recently had surgery on his throat, butSandra says as soon as he is back on the road,

she will be there. “He’s the one person I’m dying tosee,” she says. Sandra plans to pursue a career inbroadcasting, but expects to continue her concert-going. “I want to fulfill my dreams,” she says, “andwhen I look back on my life, I want to be able to

say, ‘I didn’t just sit around and watch TV.’”

SANDRA MANCILLAConcert Junkie

Text and photo by Brandi Dumas

Fabulous StyleTERRANCE JACKSON

Creativity is Terrance Jackson’s middle name, and style is hisattitude — and it always has been. “My first work of art was onmy mother’s white car — I grabbed a sharpie and went to work,”he says. By age 4, the fashion merchandising junior quickly real-

ized he had a passion for making his ideas come to life. WhenTerrance entered middle school, he began to sketch and designclothing. “I dressed very well and knew the styles of clothing I

liked, so I began to combine both,” he says. Terrance is presidentof Lamar’s Fashion Merchandising Association and has also

shown at fashion shows such as La Soiree in Beaumont.Terrance also uses his personal experience as a victim of bully-ing for motivation. “I describe myself as being androgynous —what doesn’t kill you, makes you fabulous,” he says. Terranceplans to launch his own clothing company, and continues tosketch daily while being an activist for gay rights. Terrancerecently launched his website, tajiillustrations.tumblr.com,

where his designs can be viewed in 3D. “I want to share my pas-sion with everyone,” he says. “Everyone needs to see my work,

and I have something to offer this world.”

Text and photo by Adriana Sanchez

N o v e m b e r 2 0 1 36UPbeat PEOPLE

When Mercedes Johnson dances, the struggle she facesto establish balance between her two chosen careers is

invisible. The psychology major and dance minor hasbeen dancing for nine years, and has known that she

wanted to go into psychology since she was 14. Thebubbly 21-year-old says that creating symmetry

between her love for psychology and her passion fordance is a bit of a balancing act. “I’m in the process offiguring out how to make them fit together,” she says.

“It’ll be interesting to see how it all works out in thefuture. Dance lets me express myself in ways that

words don’t allow, but psychology is close to my heartas well.” She says her grandmother has paranoid schiz-ophrenia. “That was kind of the doorway to me wantingto become a psychologist.” Mercedes says her goal is tobecome a dance director, preferably working with mid-dle-school girls. She wants to help them grow, not onlyin developing their craft, but also as people. “I want to

teach them about what it means to be a young lady,not just a young woman — there’s a difference,” she

says. “I think it’s important for young girls to know whythings like modesty are important.” She also wants to

become a psychologist, working with either children orveterans. Whether through dance or diagnosis,

Mercedes says she just wants to help people.

Balancing Act

Text and photo by Jessica Lane

MERCEDES JOHNSON

Latrice Gallow is a contradiction. She is an electrical engineer, but also anartist. More than that, she is a “pretty” girl who also values her high GPA.“Many people don’t think you can have beauty and brains — but I am livingproof that they are wrong,” the LU senior says. Latrice already has an elec-trical engineering degree, a business degree and a leadership certificate, andshe is in her final semester for a chemical engineering degree. While mostpeople who survive the grueling course work of one degree are quick to leaveschool, Latrice decided that she was not done with her college career, so shestayed. “As a child, I wanted to be a juggernaut, educationally equipped forsuccess and ready for global expansion and corporate America,” she says.As well as studying, Latrice is putting herself through school with a full-timejob as the lead financial analyst at the Port Arthur Public Library. “Hardwork and dedication to believing in myself have made my dreams a reality,”she says. “Perseverance is the key to anything if you want it badly enough.”Oh, one more thing. In the little spare time she has, Latrice makes art andwrites poetry, although this is one area where her natural confidence is qui-eter. “I never share my art work or my poetry,” she says. “I am very sensitiveabout my craft — maybe one day I will share.” When that day comes, don’tbe surprised to find Latrice’s works of art in fine galleries.

LATRICE GALLOW

Text and photo by Melvin Nelson

More Than a Pretty Face

N o v e m b e r 2 0 1 3 7 UPbeatPEOPLE

Quadriceps of SteelOn the surface, Lydia Crump is a typically conservative lady from Vidor, but she has a darkside — she loves to rough up other women. The Lamar Institute of Technology student com-petes for the Spindletop Roller Girls. Lydia’s parents met at the roller rink and incorporatedskating into their kids’ lives at a young age. “I was recruited from a parking lot,” she says.“One night, I was roller skating in a parking lot with a friend of mine, when a car pulls upand asks how old I am. Then she told me about the local roller derby team.” Lydia, alsoknown as “Broad Cast-her,” which reflects her communication emphasis, has been playingsince January and has skated one season so far. The 21-year-old won MVP for blocker andwas rookie of the year. “I’d say the hardest thing about derby is the physical workout,” shesays. “It’s great for your body. We all have quadriceps of steel.” Lydia encourages anyonethinking about trying roller derby to give it a try. “I love everything about roller derby,” shesays. “I’ve always been competitive at everything I do. If you can roller skate, are very compet-itive and can take a lot of pain, roller derby is the perfect sport for you.”

LYDIA CRUMP

Text and photo by Kristen Stuck

N o v e m b e r 2 0 1 38UPbeat

Nina Kenney is a cheerfulwoman, with a kindly face andwarm, brown eyes. She smiles alot. For an onlooker, it is hard toimagine that her face is hiding along history of illness and suffer-ing.

Kenney discovered a lump onher breast in 2006 — it was AprilFool’s Day.

“I was sure that nobody wasgoing to believe me,” she says. “Iwas afraid everybody would thinkI was fooling around.”

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a joke.Kenney was in her bathroom

when she felt the abnormality inher breast.

“I knew immediately what itwas,” she says.

At that time, the tumor wasalready more than an inch insize.

A mother of two sons, Kenneysays she still remembers her firstthought.

“I was afraid that my boyswould be raised without theirmother,” she says. “This was themost horrible thing about thecancer altogether. I didn’t wantthem to lose their mother.”

After Kenney found the lump,everything happened quickly. Herphysician, Dr. Dar Kavouspour,did a biopsy.

“When I woke up from thesurgery, I could tell by the lookson my sons’ and husband’s faceswhat he was about to tell me — itwas cancer,” she says.

Overnight, her life changed.Kenney had to quit her job as amiddle school teacher becauseshe felt too ill.

She was no longer NinaKenney — mother, wife, teacher.She was now “The woman whohas cancer.”

“I didn’t like the idea that peo-ple were thinking I was going todie,” she says. “You are kind oflabeled, and you are not as wholeand as strong as you used to be.”

Kenney says she didn’t try to

hide her illness. “However, it can be a chal-

lenge for a person with cancer tounderstand that people do thingswhich they think will help you —because they want to help you,”she says. “Sometimes, what theysay and do doesn’t make you feelany better. If you understand thatthey do these things to make you

feel better, then it makes sense.” The official terminology for

her cancer is invasive ductal car-cinoma. Behind this complicatedterm is a kind of breast cancerthat starts in the milk ducts andremains “in situ” until it spreadsoutside the duct and becomesinvasive.

“The cancer is fed by three

different types of hormones —estrogen, progesterone, and HER-2 receptor,” Kenney says.

“My treatment plan wasdesigned based on these factors.It deprives the malignant cellsfrom what keeps them alive.”

Although she has no medicaltraining, when Kenney talksabout cancer, her speech quick-ens as she rattles off medical ter-minology. As she has learnedabout her condition, she hasbecome fluent in the language ofthe disease that is now so much apart of her everyday life.

Kenney had to learn what wasgoing on in her body and how thegrowing cells were workingagainst her.

The treatment plan includeda segmental mastectomy, a sur-gery in which the parts of thebreast which have cancer, as wellas some surrounding unaffectedparts, are removed.

Her treatment also includedchemotherapy, which destroys allfast-growing cells in the humanbody. In this way, the chemoeliminates the cancer. However, itnot only fights the cancer — italso fights the healthy cells in thebody.

Everybody reacts differentlyto the chemotherapy — Kenneythought deeply before describingthe treatment.

“When you get chemotherapy,you don’t sit there and feel imme-diately ill,” she says. “You don’tfeel anything while the infusion isgoing in.

“After a few days, it feels likegetting a cold. On the first day,you feel a little tingle in the backof your throat. A day later, youfeel a sting in your throat andafter that, your nose will startrunning. A day after that, you willfeel really sick.

“When you get chemo, eachday (might feel like) a week. Thefeeling of being sick builds upafter every infusion — and in the

KENNEY REMAINS OPTIMISTIC, CARING IN FACE OF BREAST CANCER

Scary DiagnosisSTORY PACKAGE BY XENIA HERRMANN

N o v e m b e r 2 0 1 3 9 UPbeat

Now bald, Nina Kenney, left, who has breast cancer, holds a picture of herself with hair, taken this summer. Kenney has to take numerous medica-tions, above, to deal with the side effects of chemotherapy.

end, you are really sick.” After the treatment was over,

Kenney says it was more than ayear before she was pain free.

“The pain I was suffering fromwas not a pain a regularpainkiller can cure — it was nervepain,” she says.

“Chemo is not as horrible as itsounds — but it just sucks. Younever know how your body isgoing to react. Sometimes I wouldfeel good the day after the infu-sion, and just one day later, I hadthe feeling that my teeth werecoming out of my head. It felt as ifthey would literally become loose.

“The worst thing about it isthat you have no control aboutyour body. Your nose might bebleeding all of a sudden, and yourhair is falling out. This is whatgetting old must be like.”

It took the now 47-year-oldseveral years to rebuild herstrength. She says she wasn’taware of how long it took untilshe looked back every once in awhile and realized how much bet-ter she felt compared to the yearbefore.

Kenney says she had trust-worthy doctors at the MDAnderson Cancer Center inHouston. They helped her getthrough her treatment plan. Sheconcentrated on everything herdoctors told her to do — step bystep.

“I literally had their faces inmy mind when I had to drinknasty stuff to do a test, and whenI got pricked with needles, andwent to surgery,” she says.

She could have said, “No, Idon’t want any of this,” but she

trusted her doctors to know whatwas important.

“My doctors never said I ‘had’to do this treatment, but theyknew it was what had to be doneto get rid of cancer,” she says.“They gave me statistics and toldme, ‘This is the best way to do it.’”

Her oncologist in Beaumont,Marjorie Green, told her, “Youwon’t die from this.”

“She told me that the cancerwas not going to kill me,” Kenneysays. “This cancer wouldn’t be theend of me.”

Dr. Green proved to be right.Not all women that suffer

from breast cancer are as luckyas Kenney. The National CancerInstitute estimates there will be234,580 new cases of breast can-cer in the United States for 2013.This year, more than 40,000

Americans are going to die fromthe disease.

Chemotherapy is expensive.Kenney estimates that her infu-sions cost around $20,000 —each. Fortunately, she has goodhealth insurance. However, itmade her think about people whohave no insurance.

“A while ago, I was standingin an elevator together withanother woman and her daugh-ter,” Kenney says. “The daughterhad to give the news to the familythat the mother was only going toget two of the three medicines sheneeded. It was the last time theywere going to give her chemobecause she didn’t have healthinsurance.

“I felt guilty, because I was

See KENNEY, page 22

N o v e m b e r 2 0 1 310UPbeat

By Mr. Christopher R. Moore, esq.With regards to Jonathan Swift

The NCAA has taken a lot of hits in the medialately. The “All Players United” campaign by col-lege athletes who are trying to stand up to thegoverning body has gained a little steam. Then,there is the question of why the NCAA has notbeen involved with the situation at GramblingState. Now, the conversation around paying col-lege athletes has grown louder and louder.

Someone needs to stand up for the NCAA. Asto my own part, having turned my thoughts formany years upon this important subject, andmaturely weighed the topics under discussion,I modestly propose a few ideas to keep the sta-tus quo.

Firstly, college athletes are paid enough. Theyare guaranteed an education. Tuition rates arehigher than ever. The schools can raise thetuition rates if the student athletes want a payraise. No one else on campus gets to receive afree education and get paid.

After all, from where would the money come?Mark Emmert, president of the NCAA, makes amere $1.7 million per annum, according toUSA Today. That can’t be divided up betweenthousands of athletes. Coaches and athleticdirectors make hundreds of thousands of dol-lars, even at small schools — millions at “big”programs. Instead, the group should use thatwell-deserved money to buy brightly-colored furcoats, gold chains and diamond-encrustedcanes, just to show the student athletes whothe real bosses are.

Secondly, they are student athletes. The “stu-dent” comes first for a reason. Universitiesalready change grades to help them out. Someeven go as far as to put them in easier onlineclasses. How much more do they want? This isdone for the students’ benefit — how else couldone expect them to succeed? The coaches andathletic directors don’t benefit from changingplayers’ grades to make them eligible to play.

Former NFL player Dexter Manley admitted tonot being able to read. For many, that raises

the question of how he stayed eligible to playfor four years at Oklahoma State University.The school and the NCAA did their job of mak-ing sure he could play. What he did, or didn’tdo, in the classroom is on him. The NCAA tooka guy who might have had no business beingin college and gave him a college education.That’s generosity.

The student athletes are there to get an educa-tion and play for the love of the game. Coachesand athletic directors would do their jobs forfree education and the love of it, but they haveto pay bills.

There is, likewise, another great advantage inmy scheme, being that it will prevent the stu-dent athletes from thinking they should betaken seriously. Quite frankly, the student ath-letes should wear tighter uniforms. Their bodiesare being put on the line every time they stepon to their respective fields of play. We might aswell be able to see what they are working with.Other universities should follow the example ofschools like Ferris State and host more weightlifting fundraisers, where fans can come in andwatch the athletes display their incredible featsof strength. The athletes, therefore, go out andmake the money which they can bring back tothe people in the fur coats, gold chains and dia-mond-encrusted canes.

Thirdly, the NCAA isn’t heartless. WhenLouisville basketball player Kevin Ware brokehis leg, with the bone exposed through theskin, on national television last year in theNCAA tournament, the NCAA allowed shirts tobe sold for $25 apiece to support him. Theshirt read “ri5e up,” with Ware’s jersey numberreplacing the “S.” The NCAA couldn’t useWare’s name, because their rules argue itwould be unethical to make money off of hisname. Fortunately, exploiting his jersey num-ber and injury is a perfectly reasonable propo-sition.

The schools provide health benefits, clothingand a place to stay. I have heard some arguethat they are treated like women of ill repute,supported by others with fur coats, gold chainsand diamond-encrusted canes. And they arethe world’s oldest profession, which proves thestability of the business model.

When people suggest that student athletes bepaid, they do not consider that some schoolscannot afford to pay all athletes. As every goodbusinessperson knows, when you can’t affordto pay someone, you just suppress wages.

Lastly, the student athletes should be flatteredto be invited to play at the college level. Lastyear, according to Forbes, seven of our nation’sfine institutes of higher learning each spentmore than $1 million recruiting young men forthe honor of playing sports — how sad thatthey should have to try to convince ungratefulathletes to do what any one of us diligent citi-zens would gladly do, simply for the honor ofthe game.

I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, that Ihave not the least personal interest in endeav-oring to promote this necessary work, havingno other motive than the public good of theNCAA and the fine universities, by not onlycontinuing a great tradition, but also byenhancing it.

Recently, at Grambling State, the football play-ers boycotted their game because they felt liketheir working conditions were unacceptable.These cry babies bemoaned the fact thatpadding on workout benches was torn or miss-ing, or that there were torn mats in theweightlifting room, and there was mold on theceiling and shoulder pads, among many othersupposedly “unsanitary and unsafe” work envi-ronments. The players stood together andrefused to play a game until the situationimproved.

Poppycock, I say. This cannot be allowed.Those players should be punished and the pro-gram dismantled. It sets a bad example for therest of the universities. Imagine if a top-25team boycotted the NCAA by refusing to play anationally-televised game. Think of the moneythat would be lost. Millions would be flusheddown the drain. If every college did it, theNCAA might cease to exist.

And we can’t have that.

Mr. Moore is the humble editor of the sportingdepartment of the University Press.

For preventing the dismantlement of the NCAA and strengthening their authority over unruly student-athletes

Another Modest ProposalN o v e m b e r 2 0 1 3 11 UPbeat

Graphic by Mr. William T. Jones, esq.

N o v e m b e r 2 0 1 312UPbeat

n the plains of Africa, the safari is home to manyobstacles and wildlife, cursed beneath anunforgiving heat. To Millicent Musyoka, it’s asun-baked kingdom pining for a change. Likethe rain that breaks the heat on the plains,Musyoka’s bravery and determination is

changing the stereotypical view of Africa’s deaf.Born and raised in Kenya, Musyoka pursued her

passion for people with disabilities against fierce odds,changing the way her culture beheld the “cursed.” Hersafari — her journey — dared her to speak out for thosewho could not. Now, she teaches others to do the sameas an assistant professor in Lamar’s deaf studies anddeaf education department.

“Speaking” is actually one of Musyoka’s specialties.“I speak 11 languages,” she says. “So, to me, lan-

guage is not an issue.”In her country, there are 74 different tribes, all

speaking their own, unique language.“Every tribe in Kenya has a geographical position,”

Musyoka says. “I was not born in the geographicalposition of my community — my tribe. I speak my com-munity’s language and the tribe’s language I was bornin. I also had to speak the national language, Swahili,because it’s what everybody speaks in the country, andmy mother was a teacher. She believed English wasvery important for us kids, so we spoke English athome, too. By the time I went to preschool, I was speak-ing four languages.”

Musyoka says that in high school, she was a girlscout.

“To earn my community service, I went to schoolswith students with disabilities — that was my interest— to go and see what they do, mainly, because I comefrom a background where there are a lot of culturalmyths and stereotypes about why a person becomesdisabled,” she says.

It’s common in the Kenyan culture to believe dis-abilities have nothing to do with genetics or accidents,Musyoka says. It is considered an abomination. Manybelieve the disability is a result of something the par-ents did to make the gods bless them with that kind ofchild.

“Another reason was that, maybe, when they gotmarried, the husband did not pay the dowry,” she says.

Most African children with disabilities are not wel-come and they feel it, Musyoka says.

“There are parents who hide their children with dis-abilities,” she says. “Nobody ever sees or knows theyexist, because their parents don’t want anyone to think(badly) of their family. There was also the unspoken rulenot to stare or make comments when they pass by. It’sa bad omen — that if I stare at them, then I would becursed to have a child with the exact same disabilities.”

Musyoka attended Kenyatta University in Nairobi

MUSYOKA JOURNEYS FROM KENYA TO BEAUMONT TO SPEAK UP FOR DEAF

LU assistant professor Millicent Musyoka models a traditional Kenyan Leso robe.

it’s a safariSTORY BY

MALLORY MATT

PHOTOS BY

WILLIAM JONES

O

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and joined the Disabled Students Associationafter being placed at the cafeteria tables set asidefor them. She was not disabled, but she knewwhy her university placed her there.

“I wasn’t disabled, but I was really tiny —very underweight,” she says. “At 5 feet 3 inches,I weighed about 95 pounds. I used to feel sofunny in my country, because most Africans arebig. Being big is a good, positive thing. I remem-ber going through a lot of genetic testing when Iwas little, for my family to find out why I could-n’t be big. Because of my size, my universitydecided I could not be with the rest of the stu-dents. So, they put me at the table of studentswith disabilities to be served my food.”

Musyoka says no one told her she was sittingthere because she was underweight. Those werethings her culture did not speak of. They weren’tsaying she was small. They were saying the stu-dents, with their frenzied pushing and shoving inthe waiting lines, would crush her.

“As a result, (the disabled) became my peo-ple,” she says. “It really gave me the opportunityto explore my interest and to make friendshipsthat allowed me to learn their challenges.”

Classes in Kenyan universities often have500 to 1,000 students — and no PowerPoint. Itwas in such a class that Musyoka was intro-duced to the deaf world.

“The classes are more lecture based,” shesays. “In my first year in my undergraduate,there was this student who sat next to me wholoved to copy my work. Having everyone tell me Iwas too tiny, I was very sensitive to any waysomeone behaved to me, so I thought he wasbullying me.

“He was the first deaf person I met. Heshared his experiences and challenges of beingdeaf in a hearing university without the supportof interpreters or note takers.”

Musyoka says her classmate told her therewere more students like him, but they used avery special type of language to communicate —a language he had no intention of learning forfear people would learn he was disabled.

She was instantly fascinated, so her class-mate introduced her to Michael Ndurumo, a deafman who worked with the education department.Ndurumo had a program for hearing students tohave the opportunity to learn sign language.

“That is where I began my safari into the deafworld,” she says. “I got my undergraduate(degree) in education, and I was trained inKenyan Sign Language as an interpreter. I didn’twant to teach at a general school. I wanted toteach at a deaf education school. I began a newstruggle of trying to convince my governmentthat I needed to go to a special school.”

Musyoka says that in her country, the stu-dent does not choose their school or major. Thegovernment allows the student to list their firstthree desired universities and majors, and thefinal decision is based on the “need assessment”of the country.

“Education was not my first choice — it wasmy third,” she says. “My first major was law. I’vealways wanted to be a lawyer, and maybe oneday I’ll pursue it, but, in my country, teaching isvery highly respected. It’s a very well-paid joband held to the same esteem as a lawyer or adoctor, because the teacher makes everybody.”

Musyoka says that when she graduated withher education major, the government alreadyhad a place for her in a regular school, but sheturned down the offer.

“I made an appeal to my country’s ministryof education and requested, kindly, if they wouldreconsider,” she says. “I really wanted to be in adeaf school, but, you see, most teachers at spe-cial schools did not have bachelor’s degrees. Abachelor’s was so highly regarded that you need-ed to go to a public school. It was a struggle for awhile, but they noticed I was very stubborn — sothey gave in. I’ve always been a fighter.”

Musyoka says she taught at a high school forthe deaf for about four years. Then she heard thegovernment was looking for somebody whounderstood deaf education, knews the languageand at least had a bachelor’s degree, to be cur-riculum specialist for deaf education for pre-school to associate degrees.

“After I applied, I remember I went to theinterview, and the interviewer said to me thatthey were looking for a government officer, and ifI knew what that meant,” she says. “I said, ‘Iknow, I saw your age bracket. My age is notthere.’ At that time I was either 23 or 24, and theminimum age was 35. To be a government offi-cer in my country is a very high position. Youneed to have had a lot of training, skills andexperience, and here I was — fresh from myundergraduate.”

Musyoka says the interviewer asked her whyshe came if she knew she did not qualify.

“I said, ‘When I looked at the position, Inoticed I met all of the requirements apart fromone — age,’” she says. “And to me, that’s a num-ber. What matters is, ‘Can you do the job?’ I said,‘If you get somebody else who beats me, I don’thave a problem. You can choose that person. ButI strongly feel that I qualify for the job.’”

After she completed the interview, Musyokasays she left her interviewer with one thought.

“‘I feel I did well in this interview’,” she says,“‘but there are some things I cannot change. Ican’t change my tribe — that is a destiny; I wasborn into that tribe. I can’t change that I’m awoman — too bad. And, I cannot change that Iwas not born earlier. If you bypass those threefactors, I think I’m qualified for this job, butthank you for the opportunity.’ And I left.”

A few months later, she received a call saying

Millicent Musyoka uses sign language as she teaches in the Speech and Hearing Building.

See MUSYOKA, page 23

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PICTURESTORYPACKAGEBYWILLIAMJONES

WINNIE

WONDER

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PICKIN’ AND DIGGIN’AND LOOKIN’

FOR A BARGAINEvery month, on the weekend following

the first Monday, an eclectic traveling bandof vendors gather in Winnie for Larry’s OldTime Trade Days. The event features peoplefrom all walks of life who come to SoutheastTexas’ largest flea market. Vendors rangefrom retired craftsmen to budding entrepre-neurs to people out of work looking to makerent. The grounds, which hold up to 500vendors, is a cornucopia of recycled cloth-ing, movies, cards, rusty tools, antiques andcollectibles. One can find hand-crafteditems such as jewelry, mugs, yard art, can-dles and even commemorative wooden foot-balls. The brightly-colored stalls attract alarge crowd looking for decorations for thehome or items to complete a collection.Despite multiple TV shows focusing on“picking,” there are still a few bargains to befound if one is willing to dig.

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It is scientifically proven that pet-ting animals helps relieve anxietyand reduce stress. While most stu-dents come home in the afternoons tokick back and pet their cat or dog,Matthew Parrish, Lumberton sopho-more, comes home to slightly less con-ventional companions — hiskangaroos. “Whenever I’m not in class or at work,

I really love to come and hang out withthem, and be around them,” he says. “It’sdefinitely a good thing to just get away fromclass and work. It’s relaxing.”

Parrish first became acquainted withhis new pets when his mother married hisstepfather, Perry Viator.

“My stepdad loves them,” he says. “Heis really interested in kangaroos, and webreed and sell them everywhere in theUnited States. We’ve had kangaroos inTennessee, Ohio, New York, Florida —we even had a kangaroo appear on theJay Leno show a couple of years ago.”

Parrish says he was shocked whenhe first found out that his stepfatherowned kangaroos.

“At first, I kind of didn’t believe mymom that he had kangaroos,” Parrishsays. “I was like, ‘Yeah…OK.’ But then Icame and saw them, and I was like, ‘Wow.’”

While they are pets first, breeding themis important because it is his stepfather’sbusiness, Parrish says.

“We sell females for about $3,000 andmales for about $2,500,” he says. “We usual-ly have between 25 and 35 babies a year.”

Parrish says that currently they havearound 30 kangaroos, including the babies,which are called “joeys.”

“They breed all year long, so we get littlejoeys all throughout the year,” he says. “Whenwe have the joeys, we will actually pull the babykangaroos from their mother at about eightmonths and we’ll bring them inside. We keepthem in these little pouches — basically like adenim tote bag with a baby blanket sewed insideit. That’s like their artificial pouch and they canhop in and out.”

It is important to separate the babies fromtheir mothers so that they become tame, Parrishsays.

“By bringing them in, letting them get usedto us and feeding them kangaroo infantformula, they become used to people,”he says. “Then we ship them on an

LU’S PARRISHKICKS BACK WITH

UNCONVENTIONAL PETS

STORY AND PHOTOS BY TARA WIGLEY

JJoeysum gpi

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airplane, just like you would ship a dog or acat, to the people who buy them.”

Parrish says he tends to get attached tothe little joeys while they are living in thehouse.

“Feeding them is really cool, because it’snot something I thought I would ever do —feed a kangaroo,” he says. “It’s fun.”

Parrish gets to meet different breedersfrom around the country.

“I would have never thought that peopledid this,” he says. “That has been one of thecoolest things, just meeting different peopleand seeing what they do. There is a guy inOhio who bought a baby kangaroo, one time,to use as a mascot for his ice cream company.He has a dairy farm, and their mascot is akangaroo with a baby cow in the kangaroo’spouch. So they have one of our baby kanga-roos as their mascot. That’s really cool to me.”

Parrish says it is important to keep upthe relationships he and his stepfather havewith each kangaroo.

“In the evenings, we normally walk thepens with bread and milk,” he says. “It’s socool petting them — it never gets old. Theyfeel like big teddy bears. They’re really soft.

Most people think their hair would be stubbyand dry.”

Parrish says that many people in theirnative Australia view kangaroos as a nui-sance.

“People eat them, people make shoes out

of them, and backpacks and everything,” hesays. “But when you really get to spend timewith these animals, care for them and get toknow them, they all have their own personali-ties, and they are just great creatures. They’rereally friendly, and they make great pets.”

MatthewParrish,Lumbertonsophomore,bottlefeeds ayoung kangarooat hishome. His familybreeds theanimals forsale acrossthe UnitedStates.

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given everything I needed. Thiswoman had a family which wasdepending on her, that neededher — just like I do. So why wasshe not given the same things?That is wrong.”

Although Kenney supportsprograms that offer free breastcancer screenings, she thinkscritically about events such asBreast Cancer Awareness Month.

“In many cancer campaigns,there is less money given to actu-ally help people than we think,”she says. “If you give money to acancer campaign, you really needto investigate where your moneyis going.”

Kenney pauses to search forwords. She says she wants to usethe right words. She doesn’t wantto raise a political question.

“I worry that there are peoplethat cannot be saved,” she says.“I cannot understand that peopleare so willing to give money towear pink colors and say they aresupporting this cause. Why isthat any different from makingsure that everybody that hassomething wrong with them getsthe care that they need?”

In July, Kenney went to MDAnderson in Houston to receiveher “passport,” certifying that shewas finally cancer free.

“I had felt that there was amass where fat had been injectedto reconstruct the area removedby the segmental mastectomyback in 2006, but I assumed itwas scar tissue and didn’t thinkmuch about it,” she says.

Her cancer specialist orderedtesting in that area. One testturned into another and, finally,her doctor had bad news —another tumor, meaning morechemotherapy.

“I was angry, I was scared,and I didn’t want to go through itagain,” she slowly says. “However,after the first chemo, I’m feelingOK — in fact, better than Iexpected — except for a few baddays.

“As the bad feeling builds upslowly, I will maybe feel bad in theend — but I still hope I won’t.New medicines have been devel-

oped within the last few years,and some new ones against nervepain.”

Now, due to the chemo,Kenney’s long, dark-blond hair isgone again.

“It is a relief to finally shavethe hair off,” she says. “Before thehair gets ready to fall out, theroots of the hair hurt. You thinkhaving short hair is drastic, butgoing without hair at all is moredrastic than you expect.

“However, it is more shockingfor other people because youdon’t have to look at yourself.

“I would get up in the middle ofthe night, and if my scarf had fall-en off, I would pass by the mirrorand get scared because I thoughtthere was a man in there.”

Kenney doesn’t want to loseher hair, but she sees the goodthings in becoming hairless again.

“I’m going to lose all my hair,everywhere,” she says. “Even theeyebrows and eyelashes are goingto fall off. I won’t have to worryabout the hairdryer, the curlingiron, the make-up or any of that.It’s like being a man. I can eventake a shower twice a day, and Iwill be dry within a minute.”

Kenney says there is a com-fort when the hair begins to fallout.

“You know then that thechemo is working, and the medi-cine is destroying the fast-grow-ing cells in your body,” she says.

Kenny says that, when she

found out she needed chemoagain, she was planning to changeher hairstyle. She wanted to shaveit short and color it black.

“It is an opportunity to risk adramatic new hairstyle,” shesays.

But before she got to makethat choice, her hair was gone.

When she found out she hadto have chemo again, she took ina small wild kitten. This was notthe first time she had rescued ananimal.

Kenney works with theHumane Society, fostering ani-mals that need help. She hastaken care of kittens that neededfeeding around the clock and adog that was rescued from a dog-fighting ring.

She also raised two horsesthat she gave away to a friend.

“When I was a little girl and Iwould say my prayers, I wouldalways say, ‘God bless my par-ents. God bless all the animals inthe world. God bless all the peo-ple in the world.’

“I always felt like people couldspeak for themselves and animalscouldn’t, so they needed some-body to take care of them — morethan I did. I don’t say that ani-mals are more important, butthey are more defenseless.

“If there is an animal on theroad that needs help, I will stopand chase the animal until Icatch it.”

Kenney says she is selfish.

She helps people and cares foranimals for a selfish reason —because she feels good helpingothers.

Kenney, who returned to teach-ing after her first treatment, saysshe is open with her middle-schoolstudents about her condition.

“I had to tell my students whatwas going on,” she says. “I wantedthem to know that cancer is ahorrible illness so that they will beprepared if they ever have to faceit. I also wanted them to knowthere is a good chance to survive.”

Kenney is an optimist and isquick to list the positive changesrelated to her cancer.

“The physical part of goingthrough cancer has freed me froma lot of things,” she says. “I don’thave everything that societydeems as being important to befemale. I know now that peoplewant to be with me because ofwhat is in my mind and notbecause of the way I look.”

The cancer has also broughther family closer.

“My sons saw my mortality forthe first time in their lives, and itmade them try to appreciate ourlives together,” she says.

“We all became more patientwith each other and enjoy thetime we have together.”

Kenney will have a lot oftime to enjoy her family onceshe has beaten canceragain — this time,hopefully, forever.

KENNEYContinued from page 9

NinaKenneyholdsone ofthe catssherescuedandfostered.The catis nowliving atherhouse.

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they could not find anyone else tofill the position. Musyoka says theyreiterated the problem with her ageand, with her head held high and asmile, she repeated, “I know I’mquite young, but I’m ready to proveto you that age is not a factor inanything that I do in my life.”

Musyoka was given the job.“During my time as a deaf edu-

cation specialist, I thought it wasimportant to break the oral tradi-tion and go into sign languagefully,” she says. “For a very longtime, teachers kept drilling thesekids to speak. The rest of the hear-ing world was learning math, sci-ence, geography and history, whileour deaf children weren’t.

“So, I developed the preschool

curriculum for the entire country toimplement for deaf education. Thatwas a great achievement for me tosee that we have a preschool syl-labus that is not just focusing onteaching speech and oral communi-cation, but is teaching academics.”

Musyoka says she developedKenyan Sign Language as an exam-inable subject, held to the sameesteem as math, reading and sci-ence, for K through 12 — a curricu-lum even the United States does nothave in the deaf schools.

“Before I left, I discussed theissue of deaf children learningEnglish, Swahili and Kenyan SignLanguage,” she says. “Swahili is ournational language and English isour official language. I thought thatwas a lot of burden for deaf childrenhaving to learn three languageswhile hearing preschoolers only hadto learn two.

“I led a group of people to pres-ent to the government a request to

drop Swahili as a subject to deafstudents. It was a big issue. It’s themost political issue to addressbecause Swahili is a national, patri-otic, citizenship language with greatrespect in my country.”

By saying she wanted it to bedropped for deaf students,Musyoka was accused of trying tosay deaf students are not Kenyans.

“But, I wasn’t saying they’renot Kenyans. I was basically say-ing, ‘They have a language,’” shesays. “If we recognize Kenyan SignLanguage as a language for deafpeople in this country, then we aredefinitely saying deaf people areKenyan citizens. That was a strug-gle, but they bought it. I was veryhappy the day they said, ‘Yes.’ Tome, that was another greatachievement.”

Musyoka says that she hasmade a big difference in her coun-try.

“My country loves me,” shesays. “Whenever I go to my coun-try, I have to do community serv-ice and travel to the schools I’veworked with, and give some publiclectures and talk to them. I’m stillvery active.”

Musyoka worked in that posi-tion for about three years. She waspromoted to special educationdeputy program coordinator andlater became the head of specialeducation.

“So, after running the programfor a year, I decided to go for morestudies,” she says. “I wanted toperfect myself in my area of disci-pline, but also to get rid of that‘Miss’ in front of my name. (In2003), I pursued a master’s ineducational psychology — it wasthe only thing available that per-tained to my area. During my sec-ond year, I got an invitation for aprogram to sponsor me to furthermy studies. I was called toGallaudet University, here in theUnited States. It is the only uni-versity for the deaf in the world.”

Musyoka says she had beentraining in Israel for a few monthsupon receiving the invitation. Shearrived home in Kenya, and threeweeks later, she left for America.She earned her master’s and herdoctorate at Gallaudet.

“I worked there as an assis-tant preschool teacher for stu-dents with multiple disabilitiesafter my master’s degree,” shesays. “Then, while getting my

Ph.D., I worked as a researchassistant for a National ScienceFoundation project called VisualLanguage and Visual Learning.That was the greatest thing I everdid because, working in this cen-ter, you have collaborations allover the country and out of thecountry. You learn and work with‘Who’s Who’ in the research of deafeducation.

“Despite having worked in deafeducation in Kenya for such a longtime and coming to GallaudetUniversity, the greatest experienceI had was to be in the midst of somany deaf people who were inter-ested in education. I have comefrom a background of seeing deafpeople struggling with education,but to be in a university where thepresident is deaf, the faculty isdeaf, the students are deaf — thatwas the first time someone askedthe question, ‘Are you deaf or hear-ing?’ And that was the first time Ifelt uncomfortable to say I washearing.”

Musyoka worked with the VL2

project and as an adjunct profes-sor for Gallaudet from 2007 to2012, before coming to LamarUniversity in August 2012.

“After I finished my doctoraldegree, I wanted to teach at a pro-gram similar to Gallaudet,” shesays. “I wanted a program thatwas appreciating and includingthe language and culture of deafpeople. It was only LamarUniversity.”

Musyoka currently teaches inthe master’s program and oneundergraduate class. She is alsoinvolved in many deaf educationresearches.

“I’m doing a study in collabora-tion with Gallaudet University andUniversity of California-San Diegoon how teachers address the vari-ous issues of immigrant deaf stu-dents,” she says. “We’re looking athow to develop programs in teacherpreparation to address their cultur-al and language needs.”

Musyoka says that she andMary Anne Gentry, another facul-ty in DSDE department, recentlysubmitted a grant to research thedeaf with additional disabilities.

“Today, with what we are see-ing, the picture is changing,” shesays. “Every day, we are met withnew challenges.

“It is a safari — and I amloving it.”

MUSYOKAContinued from page 13

Millicent Musyoka shows off her collection of African art.

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LamarUniversityDiningHall

Hours:

Monday-FridayFull Breakfast 7-9:30 a.m.Cont. Breakfast 9:30-10 a.m.Lunch 11 a.m.-2 p.m.Dinner 4:30-8 p.m.Dinner (Friday) 4:30-7 p.m.

Saturday and SundayBrunch 11 a.m.-1 p.m.Dinner 4:30-6 p.m.

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