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September 11, 2006 - Image 7

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Monday, September 11, 2006 - The Michigan Daily - 7A

BRANDON
Continued from page 1A
munity hospital where they were
born could not treat the boys'
rare blood disease.
One of the twins had been
taking from the other's blood
supply in the womb, leaving
one anemic and the other over-
whelmed with red blood cells.
One of the twins, Brandon said,
was purple.
The twins spent the first sev-
eral weeks of their lives in the
facility before making a full
recovery.
"That's not something you
forget," Brandon said.
Brandon, then 28 at the time,
was just beginning a new busi-
ness venture with partner Larry
Johnson called Valassis which
would lead to Brandon's future
corporate success.
And 26 years later, with a $4-
million donation to the Univer-
sity, half of which will go to the
facility that saved his friends,
Brandon has remembered.
The money from Brandon and
his wife, Jan, will bring the Uni-
versity's Michigan Difference
fundraising campaign closer to
its goal of $2.5 billion.
To date, the campaign has

raised more than $2.1 billion.
Brandon, an Ann Arbor
Republican who is the chair-
man and CEO of Domino's
Pizza, was elected to the Board
of Regents in 1998 and is up for
reelection this November.
The Brandons' donation will
be split across several areas of
the University where their fam-
ily has personal connections.
Two million dollars will be
dedicated to the construction
of a state-of-the-art neonatal
intensive care unit within the
new $523-million C.S Mott
Children's and Women's Hospi-
tal. University officials expect
to break ground on the new
hospital this October. Brandon
said the hospital is cramped for
space, particularly in the neona-
tal unit.
"Chairs are wedged between
incubators," he said.
Brandon said the unit's
new layout will be much more
accommodating to families,
giving them more private space
and allowing them to stay with
their children 24 hours a day.
Of the remaining $2 million,
$500,000 will go toward cre-
ating a center to store digital
records at the School of Educa-
tion. Brandon graduated from
the school in 1974 with a bach-

elor's degree and teaching cer-
tificate. He said that while the
school had the space to house
the research materials, it lacked
the funds for the proper technol-
ogy.
The Brandons earmarked
$750,000 for the Athletic
Department, $250,000 of which
will be set aside for the David
and Jan Brandon Scholarship
Fund to assist student athletes.
As a defensive end on the
football team, Brandon was
apart of three Big Ten champi-
onship teams and the 1972 Rose
Bowl squad.
The last of the funds will be
split into three $250,000 gifts,
one to the University's Muse-
um of Art, one to the urology
department and one to the Busi-
ness School.
Brandon said the timing of this
donation is completely unrelated
to his re-election campaign. He
will compete for one of the two
board seats up for grabs.
"I can't imagine that giving $4
million to the University can be
viewed negatively," he said. "I
can't imagine that there will be
many voters in the state of Mich-
igan that will even know I made
this donation to the University."

NANO
Continued from page 1A
horse. When a cell recognizes a dendrimer that
resembles a sugar molecule or something equal-
ly appealing, "the cell says hello, and brings it
inside," Banaszak Holl said.
Once inside, the dendrimer releases a pack-
age that wouldn't have otherwise made it into the
cell.
The gifts that the nanoparticles bear would
differ depending on the mission. If a dendrimer
is synthesized to seek out and bind with a specific
cell in order to alert a researcher of its presence,
the payload might take the form of fluorescent
tags. If the goal is to infiltrate and kill a can-
cer cell, a lethal chemical could drop from the
dendrimer's belly and lay waste to the unsuspect-
ing cell.
Banaszak Holl said nanotechnology could
become an extremely useful tool for screening,
diagnosing and treating cancer. Some predict
this technology, in addition to the growing arse-
nal of medical tools used to fight cancerous dis-
ease, could extend the human lifespan by up to
40 years.
Extraordinary health benefits may exist in the
world of nanotechnology, but so may unforeseen
risks.
Banaszak Holl compared developing nano-
technologies with the introduction of pesticides.
Like the harmful effects of pesticides not appar-
ent for several links down the food chain, adverse
effects of nanotech may go unforeseen.
Banaszak Holl, whose current project explores
the potential of some dendrimers to behave like

cholera toxin by tearing holes in cell membranes,
said he appreciates the foresight being exercised
by those doing nanotech research.
"I think we're doing a much better job address-
ing the obstacles," than in the past, he said.
There is still an enormous amount of work to
be done before emerging nanotechnologies can
be put to practical use which might mean
job and research opportunities for some college
students.
Pascale Lerouli, a chemistry graduate stu-
dent instructor and a member of Banaszak
Holl's research team, encourages students to get
involved in nanotechnology research at the Uni-
versity.
"Not everyone gets a chance to get involved
with something that is on the cutting edge of
technology and is going to affect everyone," she
said.
Most of the new diagnostic tools and treat-
ments involving nanotechnology are only in ani-
mal-testing phases right now and applications of
nanotech such as cancer treatment may be years
down the road.
Lerouli sees the obstacles as a chance to wit-
ness the unfolding of progress.
"It took a long time to develop computers,"
she said, "but now they've ended up in our liv-
ing rooms and drastically change the way we
live."
Lerouli predicts that the future of nanotech-
nology will affect the overall health of our gen-
eration more than anything else.
"You don't want to be sick, and you don't want
to see your family sick," she said. "You owe it to
yourself while you're at the University to learn
about this."

Quake sends shock
waves from La. to Fla.

r Magnitude 6.0
earthquake too small
to trigger tsunami; no
damage reported
TAMPA, Fla. (AP) - The larg-
est earthquake to strike the east-
ern Gulf of Mexico in the last 30
years sent shock waves from Loui-
siana to southwest Florida Sunday,
but did little more than rattle resi-
dents.
The magnitude 6.0 earthquake,
centered about 260 miles south-
west of Tampa, was too small to
trigger a tsunami or dangerous
waves, the U.S. Geological Survey
said.
The USGS received more than
2,800 reports from people who
felt the 10:56 a.m. quake. Scien-
tists said it was the largest and
most widely felt of more than a
dozen earthquakes recorded in the
region in three decades.
"This is a fairly unique event,"
said Don Blakeman, an analyst
with the National Earthquake
Information Center who said the
quake was unusually strong. "I

wouldn't expect any substantial
damage, but it is possible there
will be some minor damage."
The most prevalent vibration,
which lasted for about 20 sec-
onds, was felt on the gulf coast of
Florida and in southern Georgia,
Blakeman said. But residents in
Alabama, Mississippi and Louisi-
ana also called in reports.
"It rattled our trailer pretty
good," said Dan Hawks, who
lives near Ocala in the small cen-
tral Florida community of Pedro.
"The house started shaking. We
could actually see it moving. We
looked at each stupidly and said,
'What's the deal?"'
Florida counties along the
Gulf of Mexico called the state
emergency operations center with
reports of tremors but no damage
was reported, spokesman Mike
Stone said. Gov. Jeb Bush was
informed of the situation, Stone
said.
The earthquake likely did not
have any effect on oil operations
in the Gulf of Mexico, according
to Ray Connolly, a spokesman for
the American Petroleum Insti-
tute, the trade association for the

U.S. oil and natural gas industry.
Earthquakes are factored into the
design of the industry's equipment
both onshore and offshore, Con-
nolly said.
The epicenter is an unusual
location for earthquake activity,
but scientists recorded a magni-
tude 5.2 temblor in the same loca-
tion on Feb. 10.
"This kind of occurrence is
unusual in that spot, especially for
an earthquake of this size," Blake-
man said of Sunday's quake.
The temblor was unusual
because it was not centered on a
known fault line. The "midplate"
earthquake, deep under the gulf,
was probably the result of stresses
generated by the interaction of
tectonic plates in the earth's crust,
the agency said.
Only one of Florida's rare earth-
quakes caused significant damage.
In January 1879, St. Augustine
residents reported heavy shaking
that knocked plaster off the walls.
A more recent temblor, in
November 1952, prompted a resi-
dent of Quincy to report the shak-
ing "interfered with the writing of
a parking ticket," the USGS said.

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9/11.
Continued from page 1A
"We're under attack?"
Later, she would recall meeting
with the University's upper echelon
of administrators 10 minutes after
that exchange. She was wrong. The
University's emergency response
team convened at 11 a.m. - about
two hours later. Nearly two hours of
watching the news had melted into
what seemed like minutes.
Meanwhile, University spokes-
woman Julie Peterson left her office
after seeing the second plane strike
the tower. Peterson's job requires
her to keep up-to-the-minute on the
day's news, but the images were too
much to bear, so she would use the
radio to stay updated for the rest of
the day. It wasn't until years later
that she saw footage of the towers
collapsing.
Within minutes, the Univer-
sity switchboard was flooded with
calls from parents trying to locate
students and news outlets trying to
find expert professors who might
be able to shed some light on the
morning's events.
10 A.M.
LSA freshman Scott Foley was
in Calculus II. He spoke in a hushed
whisper to his classmates: "There
was a terrorist attack in New York
City."
The class buzzed and the lectur-
er, perhaps assuming that indefinite
integrals were causing the anx-
ious electricity in the classroom,
continued to teach. Foley and his
classmates grimly speculated about
which cities would be hit next.
Outside, the atmosphere was sur-
real. Students who would normally
be rushing to class talked quietly
or stood by themselves, crying. On
South University Avenue, groups of
strangers huddled around radios.
Walking around, it was clear who
knew about the attacks and who
didn't. People who knew walked
slower, their voices muted.
Department heads e-mailed their
staffs, offering advice and instruc-
tions on how to comfort distressed
students. One minute before 11
a.m., Carol Dickerman, director
of the Office of International Pro-
grams, sent out an update on stu-
dents studying abroad. She wrote
that program directors abroad were
taking directions from American
authorities.
"They will also be alerting stu-
dents to ways in which they avoid
drawing attention to themselves as
Americans," she wrote.
11 A.M.
Provost Lisa Tedesco called
a meeting of top administrators.
Tedesco had assumed the position
of the University's second-in-com-
mand only six days earlier.
At the meeting, which Bollinger
joined via speakerphone from New
York City, administrators decided
to cancel class. At noon, they sent
out a statement under Bollinger's
e-mail account expressing con-
dolences and recommending all
classes that week be dedicated to
discussion about the attacks.
Other than that, few concrete
plans were made.
NOON
Someone at a pay phone in front
of Ulrich's bookstore on South Uni-
versity Avenue called the police.
There's a bomb in the LSA

Building, he said.
12:30 P.M.
Leaders from LSA Student Gov-
ernment, the Michigan Student
Assembly and the Muslim Stu-
dents' Association, as well as other
student leaders, crowded into a con-

ference room in Harper's offices
after lunch.
They decided to hold a candle-
light vigil that night on the Diag.
Several student leaders headed to
grocery stores. They bought all the
candles in stock.
They also decided to set up
walk-in counseling for distressed
students in central areas. A sign in
the Kuenzel room of the Michigan
Union had "COUNSELING SUP-
PORT, all are welcome" scribbled
in marker.
Twenty local therapists vol-
unteered their expertise, talking
students through the shock. Some
went home as late as 1 a.m.
1 P.M.
Although he had seen a seen a
cloud of smoke hovering over New
York City earlier on a West Hall
television, Alford Young, a profes-
sor of Afro-American studies and
sociology, had not yet grasped the
day's gravity.
He was on his way to his office
in the LSA Building to call his
mother. He found his co-workers
milling around outside the building
as police officers and bomb-sniff-
ing dogs searched corridors and
trashcans for traces of explosive
material.
People outside the building
were skeptical that there was actu-
ally a bomb inside. Conversation,
of course, centered on the attacks
in New York City, Young's home-
town.
3 P.M.
After almost two hours of search-
ing, faculty were allowed back into
the building. The canine unit had
turned up nothing.
The bomb threat was a fake.
Young joked with his colleagues
that this was probably the most
excitement the dogs had seen in
months. After all, there aren't very
many bomb threats in Washtenaw
County.Faculty members laterfound
that one of the dogs had defecated in
the sociology department's offices.
Young finally called his mother.
She told him what he hadn't real-
ized watching TV earlier that day:
Two of the most prominent build-
ings in the heart of his home city
had crumbled. The cloud he had
seen was not smoke, but the rem-
nants of the World Trade Center
floating above the city.
8 P.M.
Asad Tarsin stood on the side
of the Harlan Hatcher Graduate
Library facing Haven Hall, watch-
ing campus police officers assume
posts around the Diag.
Worried that the campus might
violently lash out against Muslims,
he and the vice president of the
Muslim Students' Association had
met with campus police earlier that
day. They were especially worried
about the women of their commu-
nity, who were easily identified by
their headscarves.
Between 15,000 and 20,000
people flooded the Diag for a vigil,
students standing shoulder-to-
shoulder from the steps of the grad-
uate library to Ingalls Mall.
Tarsin was amazed at the sea of
people stretched out before him.
Everyone on campus who has a
pulse must be here, he thought.
Police estimated it was the larg-
est crowd ever assembled on the
Diag.
In front of him, he noticed a
man with an American flag painted
across his bare chest. He was wav-

ing, chanting, enticing the crowd
to join in his patriotism. As the
night's speakers took the stage,
Tarsin thought briefly of the dan-
gers of mob mentality, unnerved by
the chance that someone out there
might accuse him and other Mus-

lims of having links to terrorism.
Police were relieved to see the
crowd sit down silently. Despite
their numbers, people spoke in
hushed voices. One person coughed
near the graduate library, and the
sound echoed across the Diag.
Five campus religious leaders
took their turns at the microphone
on the steps of the library. Tar-
sin studied the crowd's reaction
to each. Some waved flags, others
cried, holding onto friends.
Sherman Jackson, a professor of
Near Eastern studies and a promi-
nent figure in the American Mus-
lim community, urged the crowd to
understand that the men responsible
for the day's events did not repre-
sent Islam.
"This act, in Islam ..." he stut-
tered and stalled, searching for
words. He yelled: "No! It has no
place"
Applause thundered from the
crowd.
Tarsin was comforted by the
thought that the speaker's words
would stifle any backlash against
the Muslim community.
Greg Epstein, a humanistic rabbi
and a graduate student, was the last
speaker that night.
Take one hand, and hold onto
your culture and family, he told the
crowd.
With the other, he instructed,
reach out to the people around you.
He sang a song and stepped off
the stage, his own hands shaking so
violently that he had to hang on to
fellow speakers Jackson and Hillel
Director Michael Brooks for sup-
port.
The vigil ended, and Tarsin
walked Jackson around Tisch Hall
back to his car on State Street.
Although they had earlier cautioned
friends to seek safety in numbers,
Tarsin and other Muslims felt safe
going out again. Campus Muslims
would see isolated incidents of hate
in the following weeks, but not the
wave of hate some had feared.
Epstein and Rachel Tronstein, a
leader in LSA Student Government,
walked home together that night.
On the way, Epstein said something
he would remember and later repeat
to Newsweek magazine.
"Our generation, as long as we've
had an identity, was known as the
generation that had it easy," he said
to Rachel. "We had no crisis, no
Vietnam, no Martin Luther King,
no JFK. We've got it now. When
we have kids and grandkids, we'll
tell them that we lived through the
roaring '90s, when all we cared
about was the No. I movie or how
many copies of an album sold. This
is where it changes."
Five years later, he realizes he
was right.
Students found their way home.
The clock on the Bell Tower struck
midnight. It was Wednesday.
This story was researchedby Daily staff
reporters Anne VanderMey, Christina Hil-
dreth, Laura Frank, Kelly Fraser, Amandta
Markowitz and Walter Nowinski.
They conducted a series of interviews
withadministrators,faculty, staff and stu-
dens. To reconstruct the amiisration's
response, theyspoke with E. Royser
Harper, vice president for student affairs;
Lester Monts, senior vice provostfor aca-
demic affairs; University spokeswoman Ju-
lie Peterson;James Etzkorn, then-clinical
director ofCounseling And Psychological
Services: Bob Winfield, director of Univer-
sity Heath Services; DPS spokeswoman
Diane Brown; and then-Business Prof. B.
Joseph White, who served as interim presi-
dent ofthe University after Lee Bollinger
left. He dedicated his tenure to the victims
of the Sept.11attacks.

Faculty interviewed were Alford Young,
associateprofessor of Afro-American
studies;RClecturerHelenFox; and Priti
Shah, associate professor of psychology.
Students interviewed were Tricia
Bass, Loren BergerAmanda Czop, Greg
Epstein, Scott Foley, Dave Krease, Steven
RodriguezAsad Tarsin, Rachel Tronstein
and Phillip Zinda.

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