The Spectator: Special Centennial Issue

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CENTENNIAL MAGAZINE

(1915 – 2014) Celebrating one hundred years of journalism, The Spectator has created a commemorative magazine in honor of its history, as well as that of Stuyvesant High School. One hundred years ago, The Spectator started with a four page newspaper with a cover story on the football team’s victory in February of 1915. During these hundred years, The Spectator has acted as a student voice of the school, covering controversial and pertinent issues, and above all, this newspaper has become the pulse of the student body.

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The Spectator Centennial Magazine

TABLE of CONTENTS The Spectator The Stuyvesant High School Newspaper

Images of Stuy History

“The Pulse of the Student Body”

Pg 4-5

E D I TO R s

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C H I E F

Lev Akabas* Teresa Chen*

Influential Teachers Pg 10-13

News

Pg 18-19

sports

Pg 20-23

E ditors

Best Food and Drink Near Stuy Pg 26-28

E ditors

E ditors

B u si n ess

M a n agers

Andrew Fischer Deanna Taylor* E ditors

Eric Stringham Chris Grant F ac u lty

A d v isor

Kerry Garfinkel

E ditors

Shane Lorenzen Dennis Nenov* Please address all letters to:

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C opy

W e b

E ditors

345 Chambers Street New York, NY 10282 (212) 312-4800 ext. 2601 stuyvesantspectator@gmail.com

Sample College Essays

E ditors

Eliza Hripcsak Tyler Ishikawa

Chris Kim Grace Lu Annique Wong h u mor

directors

Kelly Luo Da-Ye Shin

Emma Bernstein Daniel Kodsi Justin Weltz*

Creative Writing

Shahruz Ghaemi Emma McIntosh

L ayo u t

Ariella Kahan Maisha Kamal Emma Loh* O pi n io n s

A rts & e n tertai n me n t editors

Alisa Su Lydia Wu

Coby Goldberg* Tina Jiang Andrew Wallace*

From The Spectator Archives

Anne Duncan Justin Strauss Jin Hee Yoo

art

E ditors

F eat u res

P hotography E ditors

We reserve the right to edit letters for clarity and length. © 2014 The Spectator All rights reserved by the creators. * Managing Board

THE SPECTATOR

100 YEARS OF JOURNALISM

COVER PHOTO CREDITS ROW 1: PROPERTY OF SPECTATOR 1904 ROW 2: (FROM LEFT TO RIGHT)PROPERTY OF SPECTATOR 1908, PROPERTY OF SPECTATOR 1941, PROPERTY OF SPECTATOR 1970 ROW 3: (FROM LEFT TO RIGHT)PROPERTY OF SPECTATOR 1969, Courtesy of Carl Schoenberger, COURTESY OF INDICATOR 1989, COURTESY OF INDICATOR 1990, COURTESY OF INDICATOR 1991 ROW 4: (FROM LEFT TO RIGHT)COURTESY OF INDICATOR 1991, COURTESY OF INDICATOR 1991, PROPERTY OF SPECTATOR 2001, ANNE DUNCAN, JUSTIN STRAUSS ROW 5: (FROM LEFT TO RIGHT)JUSTIN STRAUSS, PHILIP SHIN

TIMELINE: 100 Years of The Spectator, Stuyvesant, and the World The first issue of Caliper is published. In the same 1905 year, the Stuyvesant Orchestra is founded and the

On September 12, Stuyvesant High School opens its doors to 155 male students and twelve male faculty members, including principal Dr. Frank Rollins, at its temporary site, 225 East 23rd street.

During the first year, the enrollment at the new school doubles, necessitating an additional nine instructors and generating extracurricular activities such as the Mathematical Society, Glee Club, and Dramatic Society, in addition to football, basketball, rifle, and tennis teams.

Albert Einstein publishes his Special Theory of Relativity, including E = mc ²

1905

school song, “Stuyvesant, Dear Stuyvesant,” is written.

1906

The first issue of The Indicator is published.

The cornerstone of the new building is laid in September.

1904

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Images of Stuy History

By LEV AKABAS, Alexia Bacigalupi, TERESA CHEN, Alice Cheng, and Katrina Wong On the facing page is a timeline of photos charting over a century of history of Stuyvesant High School. From life in the old building to the culture of the 21st century and everything in between, this is a key explaining the significance behind the following photos. Photos are arranged chronologically from left to right: Pictured: Dr. Franklin Rollins, the first principal of Stuyvesant High School, 1904. Principal Rollins was recognized as one of the foremost educators in the city, and is quoted to have said, “The highest culture includes something more than knowing,” and that “the power to do is one of the marks of the cultured man.”

Pictured: An old classroom, 1908. Stuyvesant quickly grew to accommodate fifty organizations in its first years, including familiar ones like The Spectator and Arista. One of the biggest clubs was the Stuyvesant Training Corps: the first volunteer military unit to serve the United States.

The Stuyvesant Training Corps responded to conditions abroad that had led to World War I (later, over 100 faculty and students from Stuyvesant would be sent into service). Members in the club took hikes, staged battles, and taught military tactics to students. The club, though considered the besttrained military unit of all New York City high schools, did not last long. It became inactive after the end of World War I until the 1940s, when World War II brought its return.

Pictured: The old school building.

In September of 1907, Stuyvesant moved into its then-permanent location on East 15th Street. Ptomaine Joe’s was the Ferry’s (Gourmet Market) or Whole Foods of the 1950s. Located directly across from the old Stuyvesant building on 15th street, Ptomaine Joe’s was known for its huge hero sandwiches, taking on a new level of popularity among Stuyvesant students.

Pictured: The Stuyvesant football team celebrating a victory, 1941.

Stuyvesant’s most notable sports rivalry during its first half-century was against DeWitt Clinton High School in football, a matchup covered regularly in The Spectator all the way through the 1960s.

Pictured: Stuyvesant students supporting the Vietnam War, 1966. Stuyvesant during the late 1960s and early 1970s reflected a nation in turmoil. The Vietnam War pitted young against old, liberals against conservatives, “doves” against “hawks.” Talk of

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war dominated school life, especially for upperclassmen, as they would soon be eligible for the draft. Students would gather outside the building in the morning, discussing the war and distributing leaflets — a “whole political theater [was] going on,” Carl Schoenberger (‘68) recalled. He and many others initially supported the war, believing in the “Domino Theory” — the idea that if South Vietnam “fell” to the Communists, then Laos, Thailand and Cambodia would follow suit. He even attended a pro-war parade along with a few other students who wanted to support the troops.

“We felt we were standing up to the Communist threat, which was very real and imminent in the 1960s” said Schoenberger, who changed his opinion as it became clear that thousands of American soldiers were dying in an unwinnable war that did not impact the country at all.

Prompted by such a reality, on May 5, 1970, the day after four students were killed by National Guardsmen during an anti-war demonstration at Kent State University, a group of 1200 Stuyvesant students non-violently protested the Vietnam War by blocking the main entrance to school. Only 30 percent of students attended class.

The next day, seven pro-war Nixon supporters were waving American flags out of a third floor window of the school. Anti-war demonstrators broke into the room, tore up the American flags, and became violent before being asked to leave the school. On May 7, anti-war protestors taunted and threw garbage and small rocks at a group of pro-war students, causing a fight to break out. Teachers had to intervene and escort the students back into the building before anyone was seriously injured.

On May 8, school was closed in memory of those killed at Kent State, and non-violent protests continued through the following week with several policemen helping to keep things peaceful. After original reluctance by Principal Fliedner to let demonstrators use the auditorium, he allowed them to hold an assembly on May 12, during which members of both factions were given the opportunity to speak. The protestors agreed to end the strike the next

day as an “act of good faith.”

Pictured: Stuyvesant students from the 1970s.

Pictured: AAS (Afro-American Society) leaders, 1970. The Afro-American Society (AAS) was founded in 1968 to foster a sense of community among Stuyvesant’s African-American students.

The Spectator wrote after the society’s inception, “You’re intelligent.

Suppose you also happen to be black. You are among thirty other students in the class. They are all white […] You realize you are by yourself.” Adrian Kelly, a member of the society’s four-man leadership committee in 1970, said that the society “helps to pull blacks together, while also providing a much less restrictive atmosphere in which the brothers can talk.”

The society became controversial early on when it refused to include white students in its meetings. It also made a series of demands for racial equality to the school administration and Principal Fliedner, over which negotiations lasted for more than a year. Their request for the right to review the revised textbooks and syllabi for the Freshman Geography course was granted. The AAS also came to an agreement with the administration that their request for a holiday commemorating the birthday of Malcom X, on which there would be excused absences and no tests, was unreasonable because only the Board of Education has the power to declare school holidays. The AAS also demanded the right to create a new elective course relevant to minority students, but the administration reserved the right to institute courses, and eventually added an African-American literature class within the decade. The AAS pushed Stuyvesant to hire a parttime black college advisor from the National Scholarship Service and Fund for Negro Students (NSSFNS), but the administration allowed an NSSFNS advisor to make only occasional visits to the school without access to students’ files.

The administration and the AAS also came to a resolution that the AAS had the right to visit middle schools to recruit black and Puerto Rican students to apply to Stuyvesant. In addition to recruiting

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more minority students, the AAS also urged the administration to heavily recruit black teachers, as there was only one black teacher in the entire school in 1970.

The AAS issued several statements criticizing Principal Fliedner and even called for his resignation.

Tensions heightened on May 14, 1970, when the AAS was denied in its request to hold an assembly to discuss the killing of six blacks in Augusta. Students damaged an electric organ in the auditorium, burned the American flag, and threw dozens of eggs against the walls.

Pictured: The Voice magazine, 1977. The Voice was created during 1973-1974 school year with the purpose of encouraging freedom of expression. In 1976 school year, The Voice was prevented from publishing the results of a sex survey in its magazine by the administration due to the fact that it was “personal in nature.” The survey included questions on sex roles, homosexuality, birth control, and other controversial topics, although participants would have remained anonymous. Jeff Trachtman, the editor-in-chief of the paper, went to court believing the censorship to be a violation of the First Amendment. He won the case at a district level, but the judge’s decision was overturned on a Board of Education appeal to the United States Court of Appeals of the Second Circuit. Trachtman requested for a hearing from the Supreme Court but was denied.

After the incident, The Voice operated independently from the school budget, becoming a successful and profitable “underground” publication.

Pictured: Stuyvesant student walkout, 1979. In 1975, a financial crisis forced the Board of Education to cut teacher salaries by 25 percent. Over the next four years, nearly all the cuts were restored except for those applying to PSAL coaches, who responded by taking a leave of absence, causing a delay to the start of the fall sports season. On October 2, 1979, the Student Union and several athletes organized a walkout of over 2,000 Stuyvesant students. Students carried posters and banners demanding, “Save our Teams!” and “Support the Coaches’ Walk

Images of Stuy History

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the photography department

Pictured: The 9/11 terrorist attacks, 2001. Because of Stuyvesant’s proximity to the World Trade Center, students at the time witnessed a rare and terrifying experience of the most devastating terrorist attack ever to occur on American soil. According to The Spectator, students who were on high floors saw people falling off the towers, plummeting to their deaths. Panic and fear spread through students like wildfire. Stuyvesant was evacuated, and classes weren’t resumed until September 21, when Brooklyn Tech shared their building for students to use in the evening.

Three weeks later, on October 9, students returned to Stuyvesant.

Pictured: Principal Jie Zhang, 2012. Jie Zhang was appointed as the Interim Acting Principal of Stuyvesant in 2013, and became the school’s new principal in 2014. Prior to becoming principal, Zhang was the principal of the Queens High School of Science at York College, another specialized high school, and was the Network Leader of Stuyvesant.

She is also the proud mother of two Stuyvesant alumni.

Pictured: The TriBeCa Bridge, 2013. The TriBeCa Bridge was built in 1993 in order to ensure pedestrian safety while crossing West Street. In 2013, this 10 million dollar bridge became a subject of controversy following the safety hazards created by several snowstorms that winter, in addition to other student safety problems such as trespassers on the bridge.

Out!” The Voice handed out flyers persuading students not to enter the school building.

After picketing and protesting outside school, the crowd marched to the Board of Education headquarters in Brooklyn while chanting “No Coaches – No Classes,” and were eventually joined by several other schools.

A riot almost ensured despite the presence of around 100 policemen, as students from other schools attempted to rush the doors of the building.

Pictured: Excursion Day, 1979.

Stuyvesant used to hold an annual Excursion Day, a school-wide trip at the end of the year. The tradition originated in 1928 in order to combat student apathy, and

nearly 4,000 students participated in the first year. Excursion Day was often was often a trip to Bear Mountain, during which students would ride a boat up the Hudson River to the destination, where they could row, swim, play sports, or lie in the sun. The school faced problems in the mid-1980s when drug and alcohol abuse became common during the trip and state regulations on field trips became stricter.

Pictured: Four photos of students in the 1980s and 1990s.

Pictured: Technology, 1993.

Computer Science became a growing part of Stuyvesant’s curriculum during the 1990s. Beginning in 1995 with Michael

Zamansky’s career at Stuyvesant, computer classes were introduced to all students under the math department. An increase in interest and a demand for more classes ensued. At the same time, other technology classes like Photography and Shop went unnoticed. “Stuy historically was a school designed to produce architecture, drafting, or other vocational trade students, but became more recently a school promoting computing and programming,” Andy Woo (’96) recalled. The growing desire from students was appeased when the Computer Science department was created. Since then, Computer Science has become a required class. See more on page 24.

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Pictured: Senior SING!, 2014.

With a theme of prehistory, the seniors of 2014 took first place in Stuyvesant’s annual SING! production. The results of SING! 2014 also made history, as this was the first time since 2002 that the juniors lost to Soph-Frosh.

Pictured: Museum Room, 2014.

In an effort to preserve some of the history from the old Stuyvesant building, a classroom from the old location was taken and was installed on the second floor, complete with wooden desks and memorabilia from the past.

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Sports Athletes Fly Stuy High Over the Century

By CHRIS KIM A typical major accomplishment of a Stuyvesant alumnus would be a Nobel Prize in Physics, not a gold medal in the Olympic Games. But over the past century, at times, Stuyvesant was as dominant in athletics as it was in academics.

In fact, in the first issue of The Spectator in 1915, the entire front page was devoted to sports news. Many of Stuyvesant’s greatest athletic accomplishments were achieved in the old Stuyvesant building, which didn’t have a single swimming pool, baseball diamond, or outdoor field.

In 1904, Stuyvesant introduced football, baseball, track, basketball, tennis, and rifle (yes, you read correctly). Swimming and ice hockey were added in 1909, and gymnastics and fencing were included in 1911.

The beginning of the big Stuyvesant athletic accomplishments was the performance of Stuyvesant’s 1910 basketball team. The team not only went 18-0 in the regular season, but took the city championships and eventually won the East Coast Championships. They also managed to successfully compete at the

college level, beating the freshman basketball teams from Columbia, Yale, and CCNY. For the next fifty years, Stuyvesant was widely considered to be Columbia University’s farm team due to the number of Stuyvesant graduates who ended up playing there, including NBA player Jack Molinas (’49).

In the early 1920s, the football team took over as Stuyvesant’s most successful and popular team, culminating in two city championships in 1923 and 1924. Sportswriter Walter Camp, who played a significant role in developing the rules of football, wrote that the Peglegs were the best high school football team on the East Coast. A game was organized for the Peglegs to play the team that Camp determined to be the best on the West Coast, but New York City officials didn’t allow it because of the long-distance travel involved.

The spotlight, however, was quickly taken away by Stuyvesant track star Francis Hussey, who led the track team to several city titles in the early 1920s. When he helped team USA grab the gold medal in the 4 x 100m relay at the 1924 Olympics in Paris at 19 years of age,

Hussey made his name known internationally.

For a time being, baseball was also a strong suit of Stuyvesant athletics. Specifically, in 1930, Stuyvesant’s baseball team was so renowned that one day the New York Yankees came over to watch them play, and, after the game, Babe Ruth commented, “Stuyvesant sure has a slugging team.”

Basketball was brought again to the forefront of Stuyvesant sports when Charlie Scott enrolled in Stuyvesant. Although Scott was not allowed to play for the basketball team because the coach had a policy not to take freshmen, he went on to be drafted by the NBA’s Phoenix Suns after a successful career in the ABA. He was an all-star for three consecutive seasons, and even won a championship with the Boston Celtics in the 1975-1976 season, but still remembers Stuyvesant as influential in his life. “Stuyvesant just taught me to challenge myself in everything that I did in life, and it gave me confidence to go forward and do what I wanted to do,” Scott said.

Stuyvesant’s fencing team is considered as the strongest and most consistent in the city today, but they won a staggering 13 city championships between 1960 and 1975. Amazingly, a Stuyvesant alumnus has fenced in the majority of Summer Olympic games since 1928, from Albert Axelrod (’38), a bronze medalist in the 1960 foil competition, to Nzingha Prescod (’10), who competed at the most recent Olympic games.

While Stuyvesant certainly shouldn’t be known primarily for athletics, it is wrong to discredit Stuyvesant as a school without any athletic prowess. Even today, Stuyvesant showcases phenomenal athletes, such as New York City’s best lacrosse player, Noah Kramer (’14), and top fencer, Philip Shin (’14). Back in 1910, Stuyvesant students showed their strong support with their own school spirit song, “The Scarlet and The Blue.” We should look at the student body of over a century ago as a role model, and play a more active role in our sports community - one that has a successful and storied history.

Yuxin Wu / The Spectator

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Features The Elephant on the Keyboard

By DANIELLE EISENMAN

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Vahn Williams / The Spectator

helonious Monk was a distinguished jazz pianist and composer, amateur modern dancer, and bearer of an awesome name, who happened to go to Stuyvesant and own a few dozen cool hats. Throughout his musical career, he was, of course, often seen with a fairly standardlooking fedora or newsboy cap atop his head. However, it was not uncommon to catch him with a beret, mountain of black fur, or Chinese straw hat hugging his cranium. He even had a hat that looked like a cross between mint-chocolate chip ice cream and a lima bean vomiting. Surely, a man as eccentric as Monk needed a collection of hats that at least somewhat reflected his offbeat personality.

According to “Thelonious Monk: The Life and Times of an American Original” by Robin Kelley, Monk was born on October 10, 1917 in Rocky Mountain, North Carolina, to Thelonious Monk Sr. and Barbara Monk. He was the middle child in his family, with an older sister and a younger brother. When Monk was five, his family moved to San Juan Hill, a

1907

A fire damages the 23rd street school building on January 16. In September, the new Stuyvesant building opens on East 15th street at a cost of $1.25 million.

neighborhood on the west side of New York City around the sixties. San Juan Hill was a musical neighborhood, with the sounds gospel music being echoed throughout the streets.

In sync with this musical community, Monk began to learn to play the piano when he was six years old. He had admired his father’s piano and harmonica playing, and his sister’s piano playing, as well.

As a student, Monk seemed to be curious and eager to learn.

This attitude, however, did not reflect in his grades. In middle school, Monk maintained a C average. Captivated by his music classes, he consistently made A’s and B’s in this subject on his report cards.

Despite its vibrant music scene, San Juan Hill was not the greatest neighborhood. In the ‘30’s, it was the center of the heroin trade, and also a target of various drug raids. Monk’s mother, Barbara, was concerned for her son’s safety. She worked to get him into Stuyvesant High School, then located at 345 East 15th Street, far from the drugs and crime of San Juan Hill. She worked as a cleaner at Children’s Court, a juvenile detention center only a few blocks away from Stuyvesant. While Monk’s grades were pretty dismal, he got in on account of his exceptional performance in his middle school music classes, and a bit of lobbying on Barbara’s part. (Students were generally accepted based on academic achievement in elementary and middle school before the Specialized High School Admissions Exam existed.)

When Monk began high school, still green behind the ears, he was in high spirits, even motivated. In his first three semesters, he was absent 14 times and only late six times. In fact, he regularly attended school for all of freshman and sophomore year.

While his attendance was pretty good, his grades

were not fantastic. Most of them ranged from the mid-sixties to low-seventies, with technical drawing being an exception as he got an 86 in it first semester. He also showed an interest in English, where he wrote essays filled with a sense of cleverness and dry humor. In one assignment analyzing an article about scientists inventing a machine that revives hearts that have stopped beating, he says, “The theory is that the steady change in position and gravity will send the blood coursing through the veins and will start the heart beating. I think this will help save a lot of lives, providing it does what the inventor states.”

Stuyvesant, however, did not have a significant impact on Monk’s life. There were no important or lasting relationships that he had with any teachers or students. Monk also did not involve himself with music at school. He did not take any music classes, or play in any of the school’s bands.

(To be fair, this was before they had a jazz band.) He partook in absolutely no extracurricular activities associated with Stuyvesant. Instead, when the dismissal bell rang every day, he got on the subway back to San Juan Hill, where he spent his afternoons hanging out with his friends at the community center or playing and dancing to music in his living room. At the time, he listened to a lot of gospel and stride piano.

Stride piano was popular during the 20’s and 30’s on the east coast, and it was pioneered by James P. Johnson and Willie “the Lion” Smith. Songs like “Finger Buster”

by Smith show off the swingy feel and prominent use of the bass, use of the left hand, that are characteristic of stride piano.

As Monk immersed himself in music, he began to devote less time and effort to school. He was only present sixteen times in the first semester of his junior year, and somehow managed to maintain a zero average in every one of his subjects. Contrary to popular belief, he did not drop out of Stuyvesant, but instead was gently nudged out by the administration, to a less rigorous school for

TIMELINE: 100 Years of The Spectator, Stuyvesant, and the World 1910 1908 ARISTA is created as an honor society, requiring admitted students to have a 75 average and be approved by the Senate, which consists of faculty and other ARISTA members.

The swim team is formed.

1908

Orville Wright makes his longest airplane flight at 57 minutes and 31 seconds in Fort Myer, Virginia.

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students who were already working. Monk then decided that he didn’t need to finish high school.

He had started a jazz trio with his friends, trumpet player Charles Stewart and drummer Morris Simpson. The three of them had a relatively easy time becoming the neighborhood’s favorite, as they were all fairly talented. The trio found work playing at restaurants, dance halls, and rent parties (informal get-togethers popular in Harlem from the 20’s through the 40’s for socializing, seeing jazz or blues groups perform, and raising money.) It was not much, but the fact that they had some source of income during the Great Depression was reason enough to be satisfied.

They eventually landed Apollo Theater’s “Audition Night,” a show known for launching the music careers for the likes of Ella Fitzgerald and Thelma Carpenter.

After dropping out of high school, Monk studied at the Juilliard School of Music. His real teachers were older stride pianists like Johnson and Smith.

During this period, Monk was already a fairly well-known figure in his neighborhood’s music scene, even an acquaintance of the great Duke Ellington. Juilliard was inspiring, but Monk learned the most from the time he spent hanging out and playing music with these musicians in Harlem.

These influences are very apparent in the song, “Blue Monk.” Its swing feel and use of a heavy left hand and mobility throughout the entire keyboard are indicative of his stride inspiration.

Monk soon grew to develop his own musical style, and became, as he liked to call himself, a “modern” pianist. He developed a style that was unorthodox — he was not trying to please an audience. He took the use of dissonance (putting notes together that sound like they shouldn’t be put together) and offbeat playing that he learned from the stride pianists, and greatly amplified them. He played in a way that was percussive, more hard-hitting than graceful. Not everyone appreciated him—one critic described Monk as “the elephant on

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The basketball team wins the Eastern region championship.

The fencing club, golf club, hockey team, and chemistry club are formed.

Features the keyboard.”

One of his songs, “Epistrophy” demonstrates his style with a piano phrase that is very jagged. The pauses in between notes almost feel random, creating a feeling of tension. However, this phrase is played consistently, over and over again (“epistrophy” isn’t a word, but “epistrophe” is; it is defined by Merriam-Webster as “the repetition of a word or expression at the end of successive phrases, clauses, sentences, or verses especially for rhetorical or poetic effect.”) The repetition of this phrase contributes to a movement sensation, which, paired with tension, gives way to an overwhelmingly interesting listening experience.

Another example of Monk’s eclectic style is “Round Midnight,” which features an enchanting piano part that sounds

somewhat conventional, and feels fitting for a jazzy version of “Cinderella” (specifically, the part where she is at the ball and the clock strikes twelve o’clock.)

However, he plays it in a way that isn’t graceful or limber—he plays in his signature spasmodic style.

Because of this, it is beautiful in the most intriguing and refreshing way.

Monk’s style was not limited to piano, as he also liked to dance in his signature inelegant manner. At the most random moments (whether it was in the street or in the middle of a song), he would begin to spin in circles and/or move his body in ways described by many witnesses as “autistic.” While a few of Monk’s more worrisome eccentricities could be explained by his bouts of manic depression, he danced simply because he enjoyed it, and

as a way of conducting his group.

If a band member could not get the hang of a certain rhythm, all Monk had to do was express the beat with his body, and, more times than not, the musicians would be able to play the once difficult rhythm with ease.

The peculiarity of Monk’s music and persona were likely responsible for his wild success. His unique approach to jazz impacted, even molded the genre in a big way by encouraging the use of dissonant and angular melodies.

He was an unsuspected genius, much more talented and knowledgeable than he was perceived to be. He was seen as primitive by some, because he didn’t adhere to the rules set by other pianists at the time. This wasn’t because he wasn’t aware of them (he was well-educated in everything spanning from western classical

music to American pop songs at the time), but because he decided to break them. Monk was a real innovator; a strong and stubborn independent. It was no wonder that he was one of the five jazz musicians ever to be pictured on the cover of Time magazine.

What we can learn from Monk is that Stuyvesant may not be the right fit for all students, but it can be a breeding ground for talent.

Unfortunately, Monk may have been untouchable by Stuyvesant, but Stuyvesant was certainly touched and honored by his presence. This is represented by a permanent display case dedicated to Monk. It is located in the first floor hallway, by the lecture hall entrance at the back of the theater. Although Monk never formally graduated from Stuyvesant, it is certain that he will be recognized as an honorary alumnus.

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1913

Grand Central Terminal opens to the public on February 2 after ten years of construction.

TIMELINE: 100 Years of The Spectator, Stuyvesant, and the World 1915 1914

Caliper is named the best high school monthly publication in the country.

The Student General Organization is formed, which exists in every school and is centralized by the city council.

1914

Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria is shot on June 28, leading to the outbreak of World War I.

Alexander Graham Bell makes the first transcontinental phone call.

1915

The first issue of The Spectator is printed in February, with news of Stuyvesant’s football victory over Clinton above the fold on the front page. Copies cost two cents.

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1916

The first photograph appears in The Spectator.

1916

Jeannette Rankin becomes the first woman elected to Congress.

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Influential Teachers

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rom life lessons to newfound passions, teachers at Stuyvesant can be some of the most inspiring figures in a student’s life. We’re always complaining about the amount of homework we have each day, or grumbling about the lack of sleep we already see coming, but one thing The Spectator has realized is how we never take the time to say “thank you.” The spread below features a number of memoirs written about specific teachers, and the impacts they’ve left on each of our writers.

Dr.O’Malley

Ms.Pluchino SOPHOMORE YEAR: How many atoms in a guacamole? Avocado’s number

By TERESA CHEN The first day of class started with nervous smiles and a rather ominous question from Ms. Pluchino, who surveyed the class for aspiring chemists. When asked if I was even remotely interested in chemistry, I didn’t raise my hand, but I wasn’t alone, as a majority of the class didn’t move either.

However, Ms. Pluchino didn’t seem fazed and made it her goal to change our minds by the end of the semester.

And she slowly succeeded, not by giving us cookies of course (although she did bring in candy several times), but by making chemistry fun. Instead of punching in numbers on our calculators to convert moles to molecules, we celebrated Mole Day, a chemist’s favorite holiday, with grand fanfare on October 23rd by making s’mores with Bunsen burners. When lessons became bogged down by equations and concepts, Ms. Pluchino would throw in a chemistry joke to keep us interested or find an excuse to light something on fire (because why not?). And whenever possible, she would throw in some of her favorite songs to help us remember certain lessons, lip syncing to the music. To this day, I still remember the song about how a battery works: “We start at the anode, /Electrons are lost there…They enter the cathode…

And the anions go through the salt bridge back to where?”

What I loved most, however, were the supplementary labs we would complete in class. Although lab should’ve been the best part of class, the one highlight of every New York State lab seemed to be boiling water, and lab quickly became the slowest double period of the week. Realizing that, Ms. Pluchino created labs we would complete in class as groups, and this was the first time I felt like an actual scientist, with super cool lab goggles of course. Instead of following a set of instructions meticulously to reach the desired result, we were to figure it out on our own with a basic guideline and a couple of hints. These labs stumped even the best students in class as we flipped through our notes to find some way to connect the formulas and concepts we learned in class to the “low-budget materials” in front of us.

When we eventually reached this Eureka! moment, (sometimes through some snooping around the classroom for hints) it was worth the dead ends and the effort—and some of my proudest moments in this class were figuring out how titration works, and creating a mock airbag.

So when the end of the year rolled around and Ms. Pluchino asked us the very same questions from the first day, it came as no surprise that I raised my hand, finally identifying myself as a chemist. What I realized then was how misconstrued my perspective of learning really was. Prior to Ms. Pluchino’s class, I always thought that learning and fun were on two very different ends of the spectrum, that the two concepts were antonyms of each other. Learning, I thought, was all about memorizing facts and crunching numbers. Now, I know that effective learning means running up from the 4th floor to the 9th floor every day to beat the end bell, excited to see what the next class brings (even if it’s a pop quiz).

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JUNIOR YEAR: Without Orgo We’d All Be DiEthyl AzoDicarboxylate

By TERESA CHEN Myth number one about Organic chemistry: it is the notorious class that causes most students to drop out of Pre-Med. So it comes to no surprise that I walked into Room 837 with nervous thoughts and a twinge of regret for signing up (there was also the fact that I was one of the few juniors who were taking orgo chem, and my guidance counselor had given me a huge warning against taking the class). However, what first pushed me to take the course was reassurance that Dr. O’Malley was a great teacher, and a curiosity to see whether or not the hype surrounding orgo measured up to the hearsay.

Both proved to be true. Organic chemistry was HARD, but it easily became my favorite class. And this was largely because of Dr. O’Malley, who would find creative ways to keep us interested in orgo, and really learn to appreciate it. I used to think that orgo was a class that was just a requirement for pre-med majors and nothing more—and I’m sure I’m not alone. Once you finish orgo, most people never use it again, right?

It’s hard to imagine that orgo creates the basis for everything around you, and my own presumptions were proven wrong with our Friday presentations, when we would each take on a molecule and relate it to an everyday item—toothpaste, chocolate, glow sticks, etc. Who knew that the subtle differences in the R/S enantiomers of carvone would be the cause for the scents spearmint and caraway? And of course, it felt great to understand all the chemistry found in Breaking Bad…and it felt even greater to catch a chemistry mistake made on the show. Even though I was an Orgo Chem newbie, I felt as if I became a part of a community of people who shared insiders about the correct pronunciations of the Wittig and the Wacker reactions, and what chairs and boats REALLY were—I started to love orgo, which seems ridiculous in comparison to the number of pre med dropouts because of this class.

Myth number two: Passing organic chemistry is all about memorization. And while there were hundreds of reactions we had to know, Dr. O’Malley made it seem fun. With Flashcard Fridays every so often (proven effective by Dr. O himself during his college days!) to help us study and Jeopardy games to reinforce concepts, memorizing these reactions weren’t so bad. Stories from Dr. O’s researching days also helped me remember certain lessons, like how aldehydes are more reactive than ketones, and the unofficial catchphrase “Resonance is always the answer” drilled its importance into my mind. Memorization, however, isn’t the bulk of orgo, and Dr. O’Malley made that clear. Orgo is more about a problem solving technique—there are so many ways to approach a certain synthesis, and every reactant you add will lead you to a different path. And solving a problem backwards with a retro-synthesis is encouraged.

There came a time, however, when orgo became my enemy—there were way too many reactions to keep in mind, and I felt as if I was drowning in line structures. What Dr. O’Malley taught me was that it’s okay to ask for help when I needed it—whether it was a quick question after class, or extra reviewing for an upcoming test after school. And during these review sessions, I learned the key to studying, and I’m surprised it took me so long to realize it: it’s not just about flipping through notes and reading them through. Instead, it’s about going through practice problems, and actively reinforcing certain concepts. It was hard to catch up when I started to fall behind—and just as each synthesis required breaking the problem down into simpler pieces, so did understanding orgo.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

Anne Duncan / The Spectator

Alicia Chen / The Spectator Chemistry teachers Ms. Pluchino and Dr. O’Malley. *See page 10 for the pieces on Ms. Pluchino and Dr. O’Malley.

Math teacher Ms. Avigdor.

Ms.Avigdor An A for Avigdor

By Ariella Kahan

In eighth grade, math homework being organized meant that I would leave the smallest possible amount of empty space on my sheet of graph paper. Checking over my work meant that my eyes would flit over my homework while my mind was elsewhere. Copying problems word for word onto my homework was a waste of time, and studying only happened on the night before a test.

Now, it would be a lie to say that my whole work ethic changed on the day I stepped into Deena Avigdor’s Enriched Geometry class, as though her handout, a sheet of paper detailing the school supplies we needed (only see-through pencil cases would be allowed during tests) and exactly how our homework should be laid out, sprouted a lightning bolt that hit my head and changed my life. Rather, it was a gradual shift that took place as I noticed and embraced the various nuances of how Avigdor ran her class.

My transformation began on the first day when she spent two full minutes figuring out how to correctly pronounce Krzysztof Hochlewicz’s first name (it is something like “Shush-toff” for all of those who didn’t know), and continued throughout the year as she used oversized rulers to draw accurate diagrams on the board and brought in her own colored chalk to mark congruencies. Avigdor was stern, sometimes fussing over seemingly small details and taking off points on a test for incorrectly wording the definition of a line segment, but each student knew that it was for his or her own good. Avigdor’s style was not that of a teacher going through the motions of teaching geometry, but rather was of a teacher that never cut the corners and always went the extra mile, cramming an hour’s worth of work into our forty-one minute periods.

Throughout the ten months I spent in Avigdor’s class I came to love and adopt her whole outlook on working neatly and carefully. I began to carry around a ruler so that I could draw neat diagrams in my Geometry notes, but I soon found myself pulling out my ruler in the middle of Physics so that those diagrams too would be drawn nicely. In writing down assignments for all subjects in my planner I abandoned the typical “page 100 problems 1, 2, and 3” for the way Avigdor wrote down our homework on her portable white board: “100/1, 2, 3”.

I was focused while double-checking each of my two column proofs to make sure every definition was worded perfectly and with this, my susceptibility to careless mistakes decreased. For the first time in years my parents came home from parent teacher conferences without saying, “Well, [insert teacher’s name here] says you’re good at [insert subject] but you’d do a whole lot better if you stopped making careless mistakes.”

But my work ethic was not the only thing Avigdor had an affect on. She instilled in me a newfound love for geometry. Math became my favorite 41 minutes of the day, as while solving geometry problems I was never a robot, working mechanically without ever really thinking.

Instead, I was solving a riddle. In each proof, the “givens” were my starting point, and the congruency I was attempting to verify was my ending point. And, as I went through each possible path from start to end, I never felt like I was simply following an instruction booklet, but rather, I felt as if I were solving a miniature mathematical mystery. In June, after a year’s worth of riddling and smiling, my summer excitement dulled by the reluctance to leave behind my beloved trapezoids and two column proofs.

TIMELINE: 100 Years of The Spectator, Stuyvesant, and the World More than 100 faculty and students enter into service 1920 1924 during World War I, many of them from the Training Corps Club, which was initiated and officially recognized by the U.S. War Department; 19 die.

1917

After strengthening math and science courses offered at the school, admissions to Stuyvesant become restricted based on elementary school performance. To accommodate a large student population, classes are given in two sessions, each consisting of six periods; classes run from 8:00 a.m. to 12:35 p.m. or 12:40 p.m. to 5:20 p.m.

1920

American Women gain the right to vote thanks to the 19th Amendment.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

Francis Hussey, the track team captain, is a member of the record-breaking Olympic Gold Medal Relay Team.

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Mr.Strasser Oh, How the Tables Have Turned

By Maisha Kamal

The honor roll is created due to increasing academic competition.

1925

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love it, despite how much effort I had to put in to do well.

What enthralled me even more was the atmosphere of the class, not strictly academic but not so easygoing either. I still believe it was partly that ambience that helped me succeed—that I could talk to my friends and joke around as long as I finished the page of questions on centripetal acceleration in front of me. It was even better when Mr. Strasser participated in our antics; in fact, I’ll never forget how he constantly teased a certain student for falling asleep in class, or how he approached every query another student had with a notso-subtle hint of sass.

Above all, Mr. Strasser pushed me to my fullest potential, probably without realizing it. Soon, a 96 wasn’t enough for me. I needed to get that 100. If I failed one of his quizzes, I made sure to ace the next one. I began to actually care about my grade in a science class, suddenly motivated to do the best I possibly could. Though I ended the term with an 85, I was adequately prepared to tackle the next term. I wanted to do better, because I knew now that I had the ability. Lucky for me, Mr. Strasser was my teacher again for the spring semester, and that semester’s curriculum consisted of a lot more variety in regards to what we would learn. While the first semester focused solely on kinematics, we would do waves, sound, light, and even a little modern physics. I couldn’t wait, eager to prove myself given the chance.

Then I bombed the first test again. Yet, instead of being miserable, I made sure to improve. I stayed up late, drafted up my own study sheets, redid homework and worksheets, and completed his online lessons again and again. At parent-teacher conferences, he told my tutor (who went on behalf of my father) that he could tell I was trying, and the reassurance that yes, I could get above a 90, did it for me. I didn’t stop until I was confident I could excel at everything, and when final report cards were in, I saw that a big, fat 92 replaced the 85 I once had. I have never been so proud of a grade.

Mr. Strasser taught me to love a science class. He taught me how to think out of the box, how to go about solving a problem without relying on a sheet of formulas you got on the regents exam. He taught me how to work with what I had, think logically, and come up with an answer both conceptually and numerically. But most of all, he taught me that you don’t have to be some super genius like Einstein to be good at a science—you just have to try.

Anne Duncan / The Spectator

For as long as I can remember, I have hated all science-related subjects. Earth science in the eighth grade was a drag. Why did I need to know about all the planets when I lived on only one of them? Okay, Galileo was persecuted for his beliefs. Don’t we all suffer the same kind of judgment at a lesser degree? So Copernicus was a genius.

Good to know there’s someone out there far more skilled than I am.

Biology was even worse. After failing my first few tests I decided it was time to give bio the middle finger and forget about it—not like I was going to pursue a career in it anyway. I mean, did I really want to spend the rest of my life calculating the rate of respiration in microscopic bacteria I didn’t even know existed? Chemistry still gives me the shivers when I think about all the things I had to remember. Since when was it more than mixing things in beakers? There are formulas now? And I have to do math? When it came time for me to take physics, I expected nothing better than the scientific torture I had been enduring for years—another year of messy notes, dozing off, and a whole lot of failure.

Physics was my first class of the day during the winter semester.

On September 9th, I trudged up the stairs to Mr. Strasser’s classroom at the end of the eighth floor hallway. It was tucked into a corner you wouldn’t notice—unless you were heading towards the Chemistry teachers’ offices diagonally across—and it was exceptionally hot. I wasn’t looking forward to anything in particular that period, maybe just a way out. A senior I knew had told me many good things about him, but he taught physics. How great could he be? No way I was going to listen to her off the bat; I had to form an opinion myself.

Mr. Strasser introduced himself, went through the motions that any teacher would on the first day of school. He had an accent that I thought was Irish—I’m awful at accents—but learned (from the same senior who praised his teaching) it was Austrian. (Fun fact: When a student later asked him if he was Dutch, I raised my hand and “guessed” he was Austrian. I still wonder to this day if he thinks I’m exceptionally adept at accents.) We were told what we had to bring, what to expect in his class, and how to use his website.

Then he challenged our brains. Have you ever done a logical puzzle conjured up by Albert Einstein? How about in 30 minutes? Not likely. It was the decades-old question—who owns the fish?—and we had to find out the answer. I remember struggling immensely but also being ridiculously intrigued. Sure, Einstein was a physicist, but this riddle wasn’t physics. What was Mr. Strasser doing?

I would be asking myself that a lot in the coming months.

Much to my surprise, I discovered how fascinating physics could be through Mr. Strasser. For one, it was a lot more than equations and Isaac Newton. (It was atomic models and Ernest Rutherford.)

He made lessons engaging. Not by playing silly games or doing group activities—though he did his share of both—but through his manipulations of the resources Stuyvesant had to offer. He showed us videos and animations, created online lessons that were concise and easy to understand, and did in-class demonstrations whenever he could. He gave us multiple worksheets everyday, engraving the proper procedure for solving a physics problem into our heads. He had a huge red stamp that read UNITS!, pounded onto the beginning-of-class quizzes that had answers without them. He made us master concepts, not just formulas. In his class, it wasn’t enough to know that v=d/t; you had to know why. And if you didn’t, there was no extra credit to save you—extra credit was a taboo. We were learning how the world worked—why a rocket could fly as far as it did, the true definition of force, what angle was best for throwing projectiles—and I grew to

Physics teacher Mr. Strasser.

TIMELINE: 100 Years of The Spectator, Stuyvesant, and the World 1938 1934 1937 The second specialized

With the largest student population to date, Stuyvesant has over 5,000 registered students.

Admissions are now based The first full length animaton a standardized entrance ed Disney film, “Snow White exam. and the Seven Dwarfs,” is released.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

science high school in the city, Bronx Science, is founded; Bronx Science draws one-quarter of its faculty from Stuyvesant.

The General Organization (GO), the predecessor of our Student Union, introduces its first constitution, expanding its form of government. The Executive Council now includes the GO President, Vice President, and Secretary, the presidents of each grade, a clubs representative, and a publications representative.

Mr.Akhmedov “I will do everything in my power to fail you. And you will do everything in your power to pass.”

Great. 7th period of my first day of school and I was already faced with a teacher who wanted to fail me. Already I had envisioned a grand Einstein-like physics mastermind when I saw the sophisticated-sounding name Akhmedov next to 7th period physics..Naive, freshman me walked into room 833 that day not knowing what to expect. I was extremely eager to learn about complex theories and equations, but what I got instead that day was several worksheets on mere measurement.

Unlike my other teachers, Akhmedov didn’t spend too much time going over class basics.

He commanded an air of authority, and that was already clear enough from his desire to fail the class. To drive the final nail in the coffin, he sternly mentioned that he would drop our highest grade. Ten minutes into class and I had already begun to regret signing up for what seemed like a military academy.

As days morphed into weeks, my desire to learn more about physics gradually started to wane. We started by mowing through hordes of sig fig and units problems, which even bled into our homework, as Akhmedov often had us do question sets with over 100 problems at home. I was frustrated and didn’t get the point of what I was learning. On the third week however, it seemed that my prayers were answered. The aim that day was on the basics of one-dimensional motion. Akhmedov started off by defining terms such as position, displacement, and velocity. He not only gave us three different displacement formulas, but also started to graph all three of them! Immediately I was baffled; how is the graph of d=1/2(vf+vi)∆t both a triangle and a trapezoid at the same time? What did ∆d=v∆t have to do with rectangles? Was this the crux of physics?

A bunch of hopelessly confusing graphs? I, along with the rest of the class, puzzled over these questions. It wasn’t until many fruitless attempts at connecting the six graphs and formulas that Akhmedov revealed that all the formulas were, indeed, the same. This elicited a symphony of confused grunts, so he drew two pictures of an elephant to demonstrate. One was a side view and the other was a rear view.

He pointed out that what we learned that day were merely different representations of each other. As with the elephant’s different positions, those formulas had several ways of expressing their true meaning.

Although that concept was completely alien to me at first, the more I thought about it the more it made sense. Not only did that apply to just physics, but I noticed that this prin

James Cagney (‘18) wins an Oscar for Best Actor in “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

Physics teacher Mr. Akhmedov.

I sat at my desk thinking about what she said. I realized that I was weak willed. I had acted like I had all the bad luck in the world when the truth was that 60 other kids were faced with the same situation. It dawned upon me that I was the problem, not Akhmedov, and that I had already let him defeat me before I even took the test. All in all, I had defeated myself. I lost before I even took my first steps onto the gauntlet.

From that day on, I tried to mend my ways.

I conditioned myself to remain calm whenever I didn’t understand things. Now, when I feel that that things are hopeless, I think back to how Akhmedov used to mercilessly taunt quitters. I think back to that day when I gave up, and that first day when he told my class that he would try to fail us. I realize now that hardships cannot be avoided and that I must brace myself for them. Throughout my sophomore year, I reminisced with friends on how our former teacher invariably gave absurdly long and difficult exams on conference days, and how he always gave us the answer keys to his questions the night before his tests. We, along with his current freshmen, formed an Akhmedov-worshipping cult and fervently pay our respects to him with rabid bursts of #LordAkh after ranting about his supreme awesomeness. But now as I venture into my junior year, the thing that I carry the most from that physics class is the will of never giving up.

TIMELINE: 100 Years of The Spectator, Stuyvesant, and the World Spectator goes on a subscription 1948 1942 1945 The Stuyvesant is designated as a World War sales basis, previously costing five

1941

Japanese planes attack the United States Military base at Pearl Harbor on December 7, leading to the United States entering World War II.

1941

ciple applied to life as well. It reinforced the notion that all problems can be solved with wildly different methods.

As October rolled by, so did the topic of two-dimensional motion. For many, it was a foreign concept and many clueless students were mockingly told to go to Brooklyn Tech.

Those who were seemingly in a permanent status of confusion were even told to get a GED. Of course, nobody took these comments to heart, but it sure did lighten up the class.

It was both hilarious and embarrassing at the same time; the constant mockery quickly made Tech synonymous with quitting in addition to being our official punching bag, yet nobody felt particularly proud when given its directions. This was Akhmedov’s way of getting people to improve and become more resilient in the face of public mockery. When things got serious though, our treatment became so too. People who didn’t understand a certain problem were asked to do a similar one on the board. I was aghast at the prospect of making such a fool of myself in public. Despite how long it took for people to solve those problems on the board, Akhmedov wouldn’t let them go back to their seats and quit. He would try to make that person, along with the entire class, think in a certain way. If that person made a certain misstep, he would explain to the entire class why it was wrong. It was an extremely bitter medicine that we were all doomed to take, but in the end it worked its magic.

Eventually however, the stress of Stuyvesant began to take its toll on me. With every passing sleep-deprived day, my mentality was gradually being worn down by attrition. The novelty I once regarded the laws of motion were slowly turning into contempt. By November, we had moved onto Newton’s laws.

After a horrendously difficult exam on 2D motion in which the class average was a 56, I was desperate to move onto a new topic. However, I found this new topic just as intricate and hopelessly bewildering as the previous unit.

As I mindlessly constructed free body diagrams and applied different constants of friction, I felt like I was trying to catch a fly with my bare hands. Come the time of the next test, I was convinced that I would definitely fail. It was the Sunday night right before the test, and Akhmedov hadn’t sent out the answer key to his practice questions I was hopelessly lost and kept on tugging at my hair. Soon enough, my mom began to tire of my unceasing complaints and told me that I was a sick tiger without the will to fight. She told me that Akhmedov was right, that I should go to Brooklyn Tech because I’m not cut for Stuyvesant. It was a complete slap in the face. When she left,

Anne Duncan / The Spectator

∆kh=The Grand Duke Declassified

By Brian Dong

II Air Raid Shelter and students participate in drills. ARISTA puts tape over all windows facing the school hallways.

1942

A section of The Spectator called The Discator informs the student body about developments in the music world, including articles about Billie Holiday, Harry James, and Duke Ellington.

cents per copy.

1945

The Atomic Age Council is formed “to educate the student body to the dangers of atomic warfare and to the uses of atomic energy in peacetime.”

1945

The United Nations is established on October 24.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

Israel declares independence.

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Features The Right to Write: A History of the Disrespectator

By HAYOUNG AHN

“D

rug Abuse Soaring at New York Post: Insiders say.” spanned the front page of The Spectator’s April 1st issue this past year, right below the prominent newspaper flag labeling the so-called “March 32, 2048” edition of The Disrespectator. The year before that, the headline “Stuyvesant Team Name to be ‘Stuyvesant Stoners’” stretched across the front page in a large, bold, Comic Sans print. Just 16 years ago, publishing these types of articles in a school newspaper sparked so much controversy that afterwards, The Spectator was nearly not allowed to publish any content at all, jeopardizing the outlet through which the thoughts and voices of the student body are expressed.

Every year, staff members seize the opportunity to get a good laugh out of the students through the witty and amusing April Fools edition, dubbed The Disrespectator. In this annual issue, the students make jokes and parody articles involving the school escalators, drugs, teachers, students, clubs, and classes in Stuyvesant.

With the aid of photoshopped images, they demonstrate a comical aspect of Stuyvesant’s unique culture.

Throughout its history, The Spectator has interspersed humor into the paper. In the 1920s, a variety of short jokes were published in a column titled Peter Patter.

Beginning in the late 1930s, longer and more sophisticated satire was printed in The Spooktator, a column supposedly written by a ghost. Articles ranged from madeup, humorous narrative accounts of daily life at Stuyvesant to a list of the perils of being a summer camp counselor to much darker humor, such as an article describing a futuristic city in 1972 during the Atomic Age, when everything revolves around the atomic bomb.

Comedy in the newspaper took another step in the 1960s, when an entire section of satire, The Instigator, was inserted in last issue of every year, and, unlike the prior attempts at humor, writers began mocking school teachers, events, and rules. In a letter to the editor about The Instigator, one reader complained, “Stuyvesant is the best high school in New York City for both academic work and extracurricular activities. There is no reason why it should tarnish

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its reputation by these unthinking and rash acts.” Despite some opposition, however, the newspaper’s sense of humor was greatly appreciated by most students.

However, it wasn’t always fun and games. In April 1998, Micah Lasher (’99) published his first issue of The Spectator as editor-inchief. It featured a spoof edition containing articles that satirized faculty members and the college advisor, combined into what the editorial board under Lasher called The Defecator. The frontpage article charged that a French teacher had secretly given his students an advance copy of a final examination. Lasher’s own column targeted the teachers’ union policy by calling for the abolition of employment practices on the basis of seniority, which ignited a heated discussion among readers. The Defecator also included a satire article titled “Six Stuy Alums Indicted in Bathroom Arson Spree,” along with a yearbook photo of English teacher Daniel Coleman, a 1985 alumnus and the paper’s faculty advisor.

Immediately after the paper was distributed throughout the school, Principal Jinx Cozzi Perullo and the leaders of the teachers’ union held a meeting in which several teachers complained about the critical and inappropriate content of the April 1st issue. A week later, on April 9th, the student editors were startled to find the assistant principal of technology in The Spectator’s office, changing their computer passwords as well as the locks to their room. When they ran to the principal’s office in confusion, Perullo gave them a two-paragraph letter written for Coleman, informing him and the student editors that publication of The Spectator was officially suspended. The letter failed to explicitly state the specific reason for the shutdown, but Perullo did mention in the letter that The Spectator could not be published until a charter was established with, in Perullo’s words, “definitive guidelines and processes necessary to insure the publication of a quality newspaper” (sourced to the New York Times).

Lasher and other students felt that the sudden need for a charter seemed abrupt because the paper had been smoothly published for decades without one. “The educational response would have been to sit down and talk about how we could fix this and make a bet-

ter paper,” Lasher in an article on ourstrongband.com, a website dedicated to the endowment fund for Stuyvesant alumni. “Administrators defeat themselves and create controversies which arise not from the content of the coverage, but from the administrators’ censorship,” Lasher said.

In a New York Times article that was released shortly after the incident, titled “Student Journalists Without a Newspaper; School Halts Publication, Raising Question of First Amendment Rights,” Perullo justified her decision to suspend the publication by saying that the students on the editorial board had been arguing among themselves and with the faculty advisor for months. In fact, Coleman had previously asked Lasher to resign as editor-in-chief, but he declined. Additionally, many of the articles published under Lasher were not approved

by Coleman, though the editors believed that Coleman not active in advising them. To Perullo, it was not the actual content of The Defecator, but rather the internal conflicts among the editorial board, coupled with teachers’ complaints, that caused the shutdown. “I believe it’s the kids’ right to write about things that involve their lives, and teachers are a very large part of their lives,” Perullo said. She claimed support for the students’ decisions to write about what they wanted to, even though others believed that The Defecator itself had directly generated the newspaper shutdown.

Thus, the focus shifted from insulted teachers to a dispute over the constitutional rights of student journalists. In response to the proposal for a charter, Lasher acknowledged the idea. “There’s nothing wrong with having guidelines written down. But with the administration holding the publication hostage, we are not going to be able to negotiate a charter that is fair,” Lasher noted in the previously mentioned New York Times article. “It’s essentially blackmail,” he added.

Two weeks later, on April 24, Perullo lifted the suspension order when the students agreed to draft the charter. The principal had also received a petition signed by half of the school’s students, all opposing the shutdown of The Spectator. With the guidance of Tom Goldstein and Ed Sullivan, administrators at the Columbia School of Journalism, the editorial

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

board of The Spectator finally established a charter that outlined, among other internal functions, the process for choosing a new editor-in-chief in order to avoid arbitrary selection. Previously, the performance of the editorial board had followed an unwritten, sporadic style of governance, which only caused pressure between Coleman and the students, emphasizing the lack of democratic ideals present in the selection of the editor-in-chief.

More importantly, the new charter protected the rights of the writers by freeing the paper from review by all school administrators except the faculty advisor.

According to the charter, which is still enforced today, “the Editor in Chief, with the counsel of the Faculty Advisor, will make the final content decisions for The Spectator.” This gave the student journalists a unique sense of independence and self-sufficiency that had previously been uncommon in other high school newspapers.

“Because of [the charter’s] existence, we could print important and controversial material without first struggling with an administrator for consent,” Abbie Zamcheck (’03) said when asked to look back on his years as a writer on The Spectator. “These guidelines formed a concrete basis for our independence and a blueprint for our values. The charter represented The Spectator at its best.”

What started off as a humorous, satirical body of writing evolved into something much more valuable—the reinforcement of First Amendment rights and the power of the students’ voices in their school community.

Even after publication resumed, the May 5th issue continued to discuss more radical topics, such as the paper’s endorsement of a proposed Jewish history course that had reportedly worried faculty members that it would encourage ethnic discrimination.

Now, 16 years after the incident, Stuyvesant students look forward to leaving the school building every other week with the latest copy of The Spectator in their hands. The freedom of speech and press is a privilege that we often take for granted, but the story of our school newspaper’s struggle with censorship truly makes us appreciate our American rights.

By

PARENTS

the photography department

These are the people who raised us. We spend so much time focusing on the students of Stuyvesant, so to celebrate our 100 years of The Spectator, we want to give a shout out to the parents and guardians who raised us to be the students and journalists we are today.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

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By Jae Gardner, Founder of The Ivy Key There are thousands of colleges in the United States, but admission to the most acclaimed schools is growing ever-more competitive.

Harvard’s admission rate is down to 5.9%, and Yale’s and Princeton’s hover around 7%. These colleges are not just the top colleges in America—they’re among the top undergraduate institutions in the world. As more students from other nations apply to these universities, global competition becomes steeper for the limited spots in these colleges and for jobs in the global workforce upon graduation.

It’s undeniably tough for students trying to get into America’s top colleges—but as you start your college application process, there are ways you can better your chances and find your way through the admissions labyrinth.

Pick Your Targets Wisely Each top schools has something different to offer. Do your research—what programs stand out in terms of your intended major or future career plans? For instance, University of Pennsylvania has a top undergraduate business program at the Wharton School, and Stanford is known for excellence in IT or web entrepreneurship due to its proximity to Silicon Valley. To stand out, be specific in your application about why a particular school is a perfect match

4 Keys to Your College Career

for your goals and passions, and explain what you can accomplish at that school that you cannot do anywhere else. If you have any previous experience with a school (attending a summer pre-college program at Harvard or a student conference at MIT), discuss that too. While these strategies don’t guarantee admission, they can show admissions officers that you have a specific interest in their school.

Also, consider prestigious liberal arts schools Amherst, Williams, Swarthmore, or Wesleyan, whose admissions rates are slightly less cutthroat at 13–20%. The goal is to experience an extraordinary education and opportunities in an environment that works for you, so don’t fixate only on the Ivy League. A private college counselor like those at The Ivy Key will have a deeper knowledge of the college landscape and can help you build a strategic college list.

Stand Out Academically Admissions officers of top schools rarely take a second look at applicants without impeccable transcripts—there are too many other stellar applicants to consider.

However, not every 4.0 student will get into Harvard. Admissions officers know all Stuyvesant students are academically talented, so they’re looking for other ways that you stand out in the classroom. Ask a teacher who knows you both in and out of class to

write a recommendation letter— say, an AP physics teacher who also coached you on the debate team. The teacher will have seen you demonstrate excellence and intellectual curiosity in several settings, and you won’t be just another high GPA. Another way to stand out: choose your electives wisely, as this is the one chance to communicate individuality on your transcript. Pick subjects that challenge you and allow you to explore your individual talents and passions. An Ivy Key tutor or counselor can help guide you through some of the toughest courses in a wide range of subjects.

Select Test Scores Strategically It goes without saying that your standardized test scores must be top-notch. Although most top colleges still require SAT, the ACT is gaining in popularity. If possible, try taking both—if both scores are strong, you can always submit both, which only reflects well on you.

Be strategic in selecting what SAT Subject Tests to submit to schools. A score less than 700 is not worth submitting, so take tests only in your strongest subjects.

Take a subject test right after you have taken the subject at school, so it is fresh in your mind. Remember that you can take several and select only the best scores to submit. An Ivy Key tutor can provide you with the proper strategies to

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navigate the dynamic testing landscape.

Excel Outside the Classroom Prestigious universities used to look for the “well-rounded” student: good at many different things and with a broad range of extracurricular activities. Nowadays, they prize the “well-angled” or “pointy” student—one who has shown deep dedication and accomplishment in one or two areas, rather than a superficial interest in many. With an exceptional interest or talent, you can bring something to the campus that no one else can.

Especially in the latter half of high school, prioritize and excel in a few of your most significant extracurricular activities. There is no way to fake genuine passion, so pursue leadership and honors in the areas you most care about.

Application essays are the place tell the story of your unique extracurricular passions. An Ivy Key admissions counselor can help you use your essays to frame your accomplishments in the most compelling light.

Don’t Worry!

While the college admissions process today is very challenging, if you plan creatively about how to present yourself, you will find yourself on a college campus that is truly a great fit for you.

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1984 Computers Modernize School Programming: Benefits Questioned The goal right now of computerization is to make programming more efficient. In the long run, however, [Principal Abraham] Baumel wants “as total a computerized administrative package as possible.” This would keep track of attendance and lateness (i.e. cutting) as well as the permanent records of students. Mr. Baumel recalled that he had a terminal in his office at New Dorp through which he could summon any of these records and receive a hard copy within minutes. He said, “Our system doesn’t have the capabilities yet, but the Board of Education has promised a lot.”

Sheets were distributed in homerooms explaining how to read the computer-printed program cards. Teachers received lists of those students programmed for their classes. This will prevent “programming pirates”: students who change their programs illegally.

Mr. Teitel predicts, “Clerical work will be cut down quite a bit… in the end, I don’t think we made a mistake. Besides, I think that the Board of Education will eventually mandate computerization.” The computerization is being funded by the school’s budget and the Board of Education. Expense to the school will not make any cutbacks necessary for other activities.

Senior Harry Chernoff said, “I think that there will be less mistakes but it will be a lot harder to fix the mistakes that there are.”

“It’s going to be a mess,” said senior Vicki Hom, who has been checking programs by hand.

Junior Karen Zuckerman looks forward to computerization bringing “more order,” but fears that “in some cases programs may be unfair, because the computer isn’t human and it doesn’t know how it will affect the person.”

She points out, “If a student has two bad teachers for two terms in the same subject, and then has to take the Regents, what can you do?”

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Creative Writing

By MAISHA KAMAL The first three months were the hardest. They consisted of late nights at the pub drowned in alcoholic concoctions and his own personal sorrow, battling depression with so tight a grip that he had a difficult time remembering his name, forget where he was and who he’d spent the evening with. Mornings were a blur; he went through the motions until midday, when the October sun hit its highest point and the blinding light would stream in through his windows. He would groan then, snapping the curtains shut and retreating back to his couch at the corner of the room, sinking back in his seat for a couple of hours.

After witnessing this pattern for quite some time, his flatmate Joseph took it upon himself to pull the hopeless chap out of his rut, thrusting a bottle of ink and fountain pen at him, unrolling a piece of parchment and placing it on the wooden table that was home to an array of spirits and his daily rum.

“Write to someone,” Joseph demanded, hauling him towards the escape he longed for. “The world is at war, and for that reason you should write to someone.”

To that, his eyebrows furrowed and he blinked rapidly, remarking, “What good will that do?” He poured himself another glass of the absinthe in front of him and stifled a yawn, knowing his demeanor would further upset Joseph. “And how does that make any sense, anyway?”

“Give a shot, mate,” Joseph encouraged with a sad smile. “Anything but this is better.”

So, if only to please his comrade, that’s exactly what he did. Joseph left him after that; he remained still for a while, pondering, unsure of who to address the letter to and what to say.

He settled on Cordelia, and pleased with this decision, dipped the pen in ink and furiously scrawled away.

Dear Cordelia, It’s been ages since I left the house, but the last time I did so I passed by your favorite bookstore. I know you haven’t visited for long—in fact, you’d be surprised to hear the place is all boarded up now. There’s a sign on the door that reads Closed Indefinitely; the owner happens to be a part of the Navy. The entire street is rather gloomy, really. The quaint shops you loved so much are no longer in business, and outdated newspapers lie on the sidewalks bearing headlines I’d never paid much attention to. After returning from my service I’ve decided it’s not in my best interests to keep up, but I know the war has taken its toll on England for sure.

With that I’m reminded of what you once told me over dinner—how the war was pointless and no one would truly win in the end. To think that was three years ago…right when the war had begun; we were sent off like parcels, unaware of the peril we were about to face. Looking back, I should have agreed with you, as the words you spoke are even a metaphor for existence; we fight those who oppose us adamantly, strong and unwaver-

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To Cordelia, with Love

ing, but all that prevails is the shattered remnant of a life you’ve no way to bring back. And that is solely what the war did to me, I suppose—eradicate all that I had.

Best, T.

He stopped there and clenched his fists, a headache creeping into his skull. The sweet dullness that habitually followed the ingestion of liquor was fading, replaced by an intense throbbing pain—a pounding in intervals. He muttered to himself angrily and threw the pen across the room, folding up the blasted letter and tucking it into his pocket. Then he crawled back to his spot on the sofa. That was enough for now. He had done what Joseph had asked of him, though it provided no relief. Instead, he was overcome with more torment than before.

When Joseph appeared again, he had dozed off, woken by a light creaking of the floor that synchronized with pattering footsteps. He prayed Joseph would not approach him, not wanting to be bothered by unwarranted optimism. Joseph could continue to believe there was hope to be found in him, but he was weary of the subsistence of such. Hope was fleeting, as was much in his world.

His prayers were not answered.

I’m back,” Joseph whispered, shaggy blond hair standing in all directions. A strong wind blew through the room and the door slammed shut.

“How did it go?”

He opened one eye, squinting at the sight of his companion. Pulling out the letter, he said, “I tried.”

“I’m glad,” Joseph grinned, outwardly pleased.

He chuckled darkly, satisfied his lackluster attempt had amounted to something. *** At the start, he had no intentions of following through with Joseph’s proposition. But then it was December, and finding himself alone again in the chilly old house, nearly drained of whiskey, he realized there was nothing else to do. Unnerved by the silence, he turned on the radio; it was a hum in the background that aided his wandering thoughts.

Dear Cordelia, Sitting here in a home that is not my own, I gaze at walls that are carved with history—the cryptic stories of those who inhabited this place decades ago. I wonder what their concerns were, their dreams, what they loved and perhaps who they loved. Or if they ever loved at all.

People are intriguing; no two persons are the same. Take Joseph and I as an example. He is diligent, I am the incarnation of indolence. He has purpose and I am without a cause.

He is to marry soon and I am lost, immobilized in an unreachable past. He also prefers to socialize, and I never have—not for a while.

We had guests the week prior, and it was a “miracle I showed,” according to Joseph. His sister joined us for dinner, as did her sons and husband. Her children, named William and Louis, struck me rather similar to me and my own brother, both in manner and

expression. They bickered at the table and whispered jokes, pushing their food around their plates. Retiring to the den brought them joy—they had games to play and adults to elude.

The boys were fascinated at Joseph’s library of creased novels, poring over them though it was obvious they hadn’t been taught how to read. To all intents it was as if I had been gaping at a mirror, younger versions of my dear brother and I stuck in the reflection. That would be disastrous, however, if the children turned out to be like he and I. I wish that on no one.

See you soon, T. The room was still cold when he had finished, but a lingering content warmed him. Joseph would be proud, but more importantly, he had been distracted, forgetting for a few moments about the suffering that was his plague. The couch beckoned to him again, and he gladly slipped out of consciousness; it was a victory he was deserving of.

Joseph arrived back from the factory drenched in perspiration, noticing the letter that poked out from underneath the blankets that cocooned him.

“Have you written something?”

Joseph asked. He offered no response but a weak nod. “Have you written something?” Joseph asked. He offered no response but a weak nod.

“To whom?”

He beamed at the question, speaking slowly. “Cordelia.”

Joseph hesitated, wary in wording. “Don’t you think that…defeats the purpose?”

He shook his head. “Does it?” *** The next three months were obscure and slightly out of focus. He aimed to regain his strength, but there were occasions when he would abruptly go mute, engrossed in fond recollections. The kind of grief he was enduring was the death of a limb, a binding detachment from reality he wanted to conquer but was unable to.

Worse, alcohol didn’t solve the problem anymore; his tolerance for the substance was so heightened that it took more than a bottle to hasten the numbing process.

It was during these weeks that he resorted to the letters, victimized by blinding anger and vexation. He was cross and erratic, desperate to chase out the demons that had been gnawing at him. And so, on one particular late night in a drunken stupor he retrieved his pen and paper, convinced there was nothing else he could do—not anymore. They were rushed scribbles at best, but in the hours he struggled to find himself, the letters served as candles in the overbearing darkness.

Dear Cordelia, With the coming of the new year, I promised I would pull myself out of the depths of desolation. But as with most of my promises, the aspiration fell through. Furthermore, I’ve learned it’s in my best interests to not make promises at all—not to myself, and especially not to anyone else, unless they are keen on being

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

disheartened. I have deduced that if you dishearten the right amount of people, they distance themselves from you, and that may be the case for me. The truth is this: Friendship is the thinnest of threads, held together by commonalities. Regardless, with all friendships, there comes a time where that thread is so irrevocably strained that friendship morphs into reliance, and reliance translates into encumbrance. That is the turning point. The thread breaks, and all chances at compensation are destroyed. After that, similitude holds no substantial meaning. The oldest of friends become bitter strangers, shoving aside any glimmer of amity.

So, in short, if I were to forcibly make a promise, it would be this: I will not be a burden.

Because I cannot and will not lose anybody else.

T. His letters, much like his actions, were rash and impulsive, amorphous and outstanding in their peculiarity.

They were vague yet revealing, blunt and uncompromising, prying into the intimacies of his internal conflicts. Speckled with melancholy and doused with indignation, the letters were a manifestation of his hatred for himself, delving into the intricacies of what could only be dubbed a troubled man.

Dear Cordelia, I know not the number of men I have killed, but I remember the first.

It was in 1914 at a battle in Mons, a Belgian municipality. Though it was inevitable that the Germans would succeed, we put up a powerful fight, inflicting many casualties on the opposing side. The morning was wet and the air softened with mist as we took our positions along the canal. I recall the field marshal shouting commands; as much as we men didn’t want to listen, we had to, firing away into the void. The Germans were strategically superior but sporadically clumsy; it was during one of these missteps that a German patrol stumbled onto enemy lines. There were three of them, their deaths simply an addition to the everlasting list of fatalities. They were soldiers who may have had families or children, mothers and fathers. But that wasn’t a matter—it couldn’t be. I killed a man that day, watching as he convulsed on the ground, life snatched away from him, future demolished. I stared in shock at the paling corpse that was submerged in a thick, scarlet blood, having robbed him of his prospects as a bullet pierced his heart. I never knew his name, barely saw his face.

All I was sure of was that he was dead, and it was my fault. But I had to keep going.

Three years later when we traveled to Arras, I was still afraid of holding the rifle that I had been given— the calamity of Mons continued to beset me. This clash was disastrous and lengthy but demise was our profession; people were numbers and bodies were worthless. The trenches were our homes, and we went to sleep in dingy tents, not sure who would survive. It was in Arras that the fates caught up with me, compelling me

T

hough the mission statement of Stuyvesant High School claims that the school’s heritage is “deeply rooted in the tradition of Science, Mathematics, and Technology”, some might think that this statement should be revised to include the Humanities. As the home to many talented authors and poets, Stuyvesant also holds students who would rather study words than learn equations. To celebrate the creative writing talent of the student body, The Spectator compiled a collection of stories and poems written by your fellow classmates. Read on, and you might find out that the quiet girl that sat next to you in chemistry is a poet, or that the kid sitting behind you in math has a wild imagination and an incredible vocabulary.

to murder an old acquaintance. I had no choice, Cordelia, and images of his gory remains have engraved themselves in my haphazard thoughts.

Notwithstanding, my old friend was able to punish me in defense, firing at my shoulder before his collapse. It rendered me useless for the rest of the war, and I was sent to an infirmary to heal.

I have confidence you would tire of war tales, but I want someone to know that I’m not a monster—that I never meant to be, at least. I just did what I was told.

Sincerely, T. It was true; the war had scarred him beyond repair. The passing of time merely worsened his situation, the letters providing minimal solace as February rolled around. He feared he was going mad, wholly engulfed by a sorrow that threatened to ruin him.

His clothes were ragged, his hair unkempt; he seldom left his bedroom, which in itself was a source of chaos.

Battered books lay in a heap on top of his mattress and wine flasks were tossed in every direction, cracked glass a mosaic on the floor. The more he dug into his past the more it broke him, but he couldn’t stop. Numbness left him seeking for a feeling—any feeling—and if dejection was the only one available, he latched on tight, yearning to let his paralysis go.

Dear Cordelia, What do I miss? I asked myself this some days ago, when the weather was easing into the serenity of spring.

As a man of twenty I would have said not much, but now twenty-five my answers are extensive.

I miss sounds: the voices in hearty conversation that pause to sip their tea, gesticulating wildly about their passions. I miss sight: being able to see more than muddled spots in a necessary torpor, squinting at the brightness of the sun. I miss smells and tastes: apples in ciders and custards and creams, lounging in gluttony and actual hunger, not one suppressed by intoxication. I miss feeling, but then again, now I fear I feel too much.

I miss the whispers of adolescence, innocence and discovery. I miss human contact, but only from the ones I love. I miss phone calls and correspondence—a desire for them, too. I miss happiness, which is a lot more than what I once believed. And foremost I miss the value of life, because for me there no longer is one, ripped away by what I have seen and what I have done.

Among others, T. When March made its grand entrance, approximately fifteen letters had been written, many torn at the edges in his fits of rage and misery. On the ides the count was twenty, and at half past three when the joints in his right hand tightened from overexertion, he reclined in his seat, reaching for the alcohol that rested on a ledge.

The liquor swished at the bottom of the magnum, a murky red that provided a burst of color in his otherwise somber bedroom. He fiddled for a glass, and then ogling at the liquid for some moments, set it back down.

He no longer needed the haze, he realized. Because, despite the pain it brought him, the option of composing these letters to Cordelia was far more enticing, as if it was a magnet and he made of iron. His musings were a flood, soaking the crinkled sheets of paper with a hint of tortured emotions that had once been caged.

So it was with that he continued to write, coming to suppositions that may have gone unnoticed if it wasn’t for Cordelia.

Dear Cordelia, It is with remorse that I admit I am a catastrophe, a bomb on the verge of detonation. Conceivably, there are more pleasant terms that would address my condition, but who would that be fooling?

A few days ago I abandoned drinking out of tedium, and it is safe to say that withdrawal is much more harrowing than inebriation. The neuralgia is sickening, violent and persistent. Survival is a ruse, or so it seems.

I am earnestly trying to better myself, slowly inching towards recovery, but such efforts are futile. And for a long while I have been pretending—locking away any traces of emotion and embracing immobilization—but now I am sinking, slipping further into a greedy obscurity. The hours merge into an endless day, clouded by equivocation. Something must be fixed, and I know it; the real question is, how? And is it worth it at all?

In reverie, T. Amidst his mental anguish and pondering there was one revelation: many parts of him had died but his heart was still alive, pining for the life he had left behind. He assured himself it was within reach, but only if changes were made. At last in control of something, he fought for convalescence. *** The subsequent three months were a renewal. The letters started to collect in a drawer, a pile of sentiment smudged in the heat of an approaching summer. Each paragraph was an exchange, encapsulating despair for fulfilling jubilation. A recluse no more, he ventured outside and into the arms of those he had spent months evading, family and friends who had worried boundlessly about him. Then in the evening he would come back home and become a scribe again. The letters varied in length but never lacked detail, his innermost contemplations in the form of wrinkled pages. He told Cordelia everything in great depth, and it was what he should have always done, he fathomed. It was the only way.

Dear Cordelia, Some ages ago, time was at a miserable standstill. It neither progressed nor receded, stuck in a loop that practiced ruthless authority. I was a different man then. The sentence is trite but candid, unvarnished and sincere. It is the whole truth, as the tables have turned and the situation has become something new—a solution was found. My hope is that this it how it stays; that would be fortunate, and though I have not been in luck’s good graces, I pray there is an exception now.

Forever in your debt, T. At the end of June, flowers bloomed audaciously, flaunting their splendor in the rays of a glorified sun.

He was overwhelmed by a newfound joy and brightness, basking in the magnificence of trees that danced without partners, birds that chirped at dawn, the lilting fragrance of fresh pastries. Nevertheless, he was heedful. It wouldn’t take much to utterly devastate him in his rebirth. He was still raw and vulnerable, his elation a façade that had to be attended to, built up slowly as to prevent desiccation.

Joseph, understandably suspicious, questioned him on a rather uncharacteristically cloudy afternoon. It was shortly after their lunch at an old diner, when they had finished smoking cigarettes and were strolling down the street aimlessly. He laughed at the query, and explained that, though hard to achieve, his exuberance had always been attainable; it was a gem that had been buried under layers of lamentation. At this, the men continued walking in quiet, until he gathered the courage to reveal to Joseph an idea he had been toying with.

“I think,” he began, “I might move elsewhere. Search for a vocation. Give myself some time to figure things out—once and for all.” He wrung his hands and stretched, uneasy movements that Joseph always recognized as nervous anticipation.

“What for?” was all Joseph asked.

“Something new,” he sighed. “I need something new.” They crossed the road in swift steps.

Joseph nodded, compliant. “All right then.” He let out a heavy breath of relief, letting the tension evaporate as his friend continued to speak. “But, as your most faithfully ally,” Joseph added dramatically with a chortle, “I shall remind you: come what may, you are welcome here.”

The men shook hands. “Thank you for everything,” he said. He didn’t want to admit it aloud, but he owed a lot to Joseph. Friendship was simple, he realized then. And to Joseph, a firm grip was enough reassurance of all his appreciation. *** There was not a three month period after that. He got everything in order the early weeks of July; there was a cheap flat for sale in Kent, and he was due to settle there by August.

In his nine months post discharge he had learned much: seclusion was ineffectual, people will fret, and the taste of seared cod was far more appealing than brandy.

On his final night in Joseph’s home, he gathered his ink and parchment again, glanced at the untouched cider still shelved—haunted by those first few months. Closing the door, he leaned back against his desk chair, writing for what would be the last occasion.

Dear Cordelia, I will be okay.

Yours, T.

commissioned back when he had money of his own. The wooden floors gleamed, polished and rid of the dust that had accumulated throughout his despondency. Save for the mattress, the entire space was empty. Or so he presumed.

He glimpsed at the windowsill, the faint sparkle of something gold catching his eye. How had he missed it before? Curious as to what it was, he scooped it up in his hands. There was a striking familiarity about it, one he couldn’t place.

It was a round locket missing a chain, scratched and worn. He opened it unsurely, unable to put together where he had seen such an object.

Inside was the frayed profile of a beautiful girl, blonde hair falling in perfect curls far below her shoulders.

With porcelain skin and a teasing smile, she was radiant. He felt a pang of longing for the girl, and then suddenly the memories came rushing back, jabbing stabs at the corners of his heart. A flash of white teeth, serene green eyes. Secret rendezvous and picnics in the park, countless conversations he had tried so hard to etch out of his mind.

His breaths grew shallow, her name on the edge of his lips. Cordelia. The only woman he had ever loved, the only one he would ever love for all the years to come. The woman he had let slip away with his recklessness, who he had strived to let go. But looking at her portrait…Seeing the fine lines of her face and the mischief in her gaze submerged him in guilt, a hard push into the October he thought he had vanquished. It tore him apart.

What had he done to deserve this?

Body shaking uncontrollably, he fetched the letters from a bag, rumpled papers that bled with agony.

It was time to send them. *** The cemetery was damp and dark, saturated with London drizzle.

He trudged up the cobblestone path, recalling his last visit. Ten months ago, and not a day since. The letters were in an envelope, sealed shut and concealed under his arm. Dewy grass brushed against the sole of his shoe, an eerie silence giving him no consolation.

The tombstone was already cracking. He sat beside it, clutching a bottle of ale to his chest. He could hear Cordelia’s disappointed tone scolding him: Didn’t you abandon that wretched habit?

Without a second thought, he put the envelope in front of the grave.

To Cordelia, with Love He took a swig of the alcohol, swallowing the burning sensation that ran down his throat. The skies burst open and rain poured. Vengeful droplets collided hard against him, dimming the vehemence of his sorrow. There he remained, the vermouth stripping his nerves of their purpose.

Oblivion was near.

Thomas could feel it.

The walls of his room were bare now, no longer covered with photographs and the painting he had

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Writing Excerpts

The following are excerpts of pieces that we enjoyed reading. You can read the full text online at stuyspec.com.

The Awakening

By PIERRE THEO KLEIN I tried to raise my head from the pillow. Twenty pound weights hung from my ears and pulled my body back into the bed. A distorted sound rang somewhere that felt like 20 miles away. Five more minutes, Theo. My eyelids were glued to each other, and no matter how much I tried to open them with my muscles, nothing could unstick them.

My head sank into my pillow. I felt for the covers and pulled them over my lifeless body. My sheets tangled themselves around my legs and ran up to my neck, like a vine gripping the trunk of a willow tree. All I could feel was darkness and the dark stench that filled my room each morning. A sharp screech awoke me suddenly. I could see a large vulture loop over my head and clasp onto my ear. The wings flapped and its claws grasped at my face, all the while it whispered into my ear. “Get up. This will be the third time this week. Are you really that tired?,” it said. The vulture’s breath

Say Hi to Hell’s New Barber Shop of Doom

punctured my skin in the same way my father’s knife peeled away the skin on my morning orange. The thought of getting up and having to listen to professors drudge on about why the Germans fell into a crisis in the ‘30s and how parabolas could be graphed easily made the weights hanging off my ears twice as heavy. The distorted sound rang out once more, telling me another 10 minutes had gone by. That must’ve made it 7:50 a.m. by now.

If I could get these weights off my ears and unglue my eyes and shake off the vines strapping me to my bed, I would be 15 minutes late to class. I thought the best of it, since it was barely even feasible. “And what would going to school give me?” I questioned. I couldn’t come up with an answer. So instead, I sank deeper and deeper until a new artificial darkness seeped through my mind.

Nothing felt better than the black ooze voiding my mind of thought.

Secondhand

By MUNAWAR RAHMAN I peek at my watch.

7:31 p.m.

I reach into my pocket and pluck a little orb amidst the lint. It wasn’t unlike the maroon marble I cherished in second grade, which had swirls and tiny glass bubbles. But there were no imperfections in what I held, it was solid, in all meaning of the word. As I stared, and as others on the sidewalk glared at me, I felt as if I were gazing into my own dark pupil, but with no reflection.

7:32 p.m.

Not too long now, I think, as I rub the jewel between my fingers. The others continued to glare, but I did not mind, for they could not pass judgment. How would one have the capacity to think, or feel, or blame when all the traffic in their minds stop, and their entire body stops beating in unison? No need to fear, of course, at least no need to fear me, I did not kill them. Another rub of the orb, and they’ll be on their way home, sitting in their couches, sipping tea and pondering the strange man on the sidewalk.

I take a step, and it thunders. I wince, and shut my ears to shield myself from the sound of my own discomfort, but it felt as if two proboxers aimed their finest jabs at the sides of my head. Silly me, I think, but my own thought deafens. No matter how many times I put the orb into effect, I always, always

forget. No person has ever lived in complete silence, some would like to think so, but even the tiniest of particles buzz, and little waves one-millionth the size of ants are audible. What people seek in solitude is not absolute quiet, but the comforting ambience of nature. But now that even the universe refuses to utter a word, I am left to my own thoughts and heartbeats.

7:32 p.m.

I’m not alone in this soundless, motionless world. Every three seconds, or what I believe to be three seconds, as seconds don’t pass when the orb is in effect, there is an audible tick. I presume it comes from the orb, but hell, it might as well be a roach in my brain. It reminds me of when I attempt to fall asleep in dusk and all I hear is the perpetual ticking of my two wall clocks, out of sync, but both adequate reminders of the time that was passing.

Of course, in my world, the clocks no longer tick, no clock will ever tick again until I give the word. This fact consoles me a little, and I cross the street, each step corresponding with a pulse. I always get used to the shattering cries of my own organs, but it takes a little while to get in touch. The entire way to my destination I look down, not eager to catch a glimpse of any person I knew or any person I didn’t know or had no intention of ever knowing.

By BRIAN DONG 7th Circle Hell - For the umpteenth millennia, sentient life forms with vile hairdos have yet again terrorized our sacred planet and spread bad hairdo-itis through annoying commercials and slogans. Hell’s newest torture workshop, the Barber Shop of Doom, was built just to contain criminals whose hair is violent to all eyes. Located in the seventh circle, it occupies its own freshly excavated ring.

On the order of none other than Supreme Hell Master Hades 3000, all current residents of Heaven who are guilty of this heinous act are to be immediately transported to Hell’s 7th Circle, where they will spend the rest of eternity rotting away in this newly opened horror institution.

“There I was, just basking in my own awesomeness as usual, when three thugs with black ski masks jumped out of nowhere and chucked me into an old potato sack. The pungent stench was so strong that I immediately passed out,” said former world martial arts champion Hercule Satan. “When I woke up, some disco guy from the 1980’s was clipping my luscious afro here in this barber shop. And now, they’ve decided to punish me even more by forcing me to stand outside this infernal hair-slaughter house while dressed in a torn hairbrush costume like a total loser!”

Satan then took the liberty of showing me around Hell’s newest torture facility. I have to say, Hades had really outdone himself. It was a nightmarish funhouse inside.

Cracked carnival mirrors lined the walls and trapped doors were scattered in every direction. Seven-foot tall jack-in-the-boxes eerily stared at the shop’s occupants. Left and right, there were countless souls wailing in despair as lanky disco dancers voraciously lopped off clumps of their hair. Worst of all, the song “Friday,” widely considered to the worst song of all time, was being played in endless loops.

One of the first unfortunate occupants to catch my eye was none other than Kim Jong Il, former-emperor of the Supreme Intergalactic Empire of North Korea.

The disco sidekick from “Gangnam Style” was busy clipping his hair into the shape of a nuclear missile. Il was then transported a few feet away to a rusty, old sink, where the yellow-suited monstrosity proceeded to scrub the former leader’s abominable hair with sulfuric acid.

To the right of Il squirmed none other than Squidward Tentacles. The barber tending him was continuously stitching Squilliam Fancyson’s world-famous unibrow to his forehead and tearing it off. Meanwhile, Spongebob Squarepants was merrily babbling about a rare jellyfish he caught the other day while hacking away at the poor squid’s unfashionable wig with a rusty, pocket-sized twinheaded axe.

Pythagoras, on the other hand, was vigorously scratching in an extremely complicated formula onto the wall. I approached him and inquired him on what he was doing in such a dismal place.

“Why must this current generation be so blatantly ignorant?

As you probably know, I conceived the acclaimed Pythagorean Theorem. In the process, I became so immersed into my work that I failed to properly maintain the divine aesthetics of my thinking chin hair,” mused Pythagoras. “Unwilling to further corrupt it from its natural state, I continued to let my beard take its natural course, and soon enough it drooped down to my feet. Unfortunately, I was oblivious to the fact that facial hair is indeed a sentient life form, albeit quite a silent one. My old, wizened beard soon began experiencing a highly complex and fluctuating emotion. In modern terms, it thought I “friendzoned” it. Now, my beard has sprung to life and attacks me when I have a mathematical or philosophical train of thought. Indeed, it is...”

Before long, the sage’s outline started to distort into fuzzy blobs that constantly changed height.

Multiple copies oscillated around him in a circular fashion like a Ferris wheel and soon darkness consumed both my vision and senses.

When I regained consciousness, I was sitting in the manager’s office.

In front of me was a note. Out of curiosity, I opened it.

Hope you enjoyed yourself! Please come back another time!

Say hi to Cerberus for me!

XOXO, Medusa I have to say, the Barber Shop of Doom does look very promising. It really spices things up and is much more interesting than that boring fire pit. The verdict? Nine out of 10.

1950

TIMELINE: 100 Years of The Spectator, Stuyvesant, and the World 1951 1955 1954

1950

1954

The Spectator comes out eight times per term as opposed to once per month.

Norman Amaker becomes the first black student-elected GO President.

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Joseph Mankiewicz (‘24) wins his second consecutive Oscar for Best Director for his movie, All About Eve.

The Stuyvesant High School Alumni Association is established.

Brown v. Board of Education ends racial segregation in U.S. public schools.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

The Box Seat, a sports magazine, is founded.

Hands

Rule, Britannia!

By TIMON LUO The war had gone on for little over a year. With the Americans out, Western Europe began to fall, city by city. By Christmas, the Royal Navy was all but annihilated, and the French Army fought bloodily in the Ruhr, supporting what remained of their German allies. By the end of January, German resistance had collapsed; northern France and Belgium were overrun. The French president and his government fled to Versailles, capital of the old kings.

Pockets of French units were trapped along the northern coast and destroyed wholesale.

The French president, in a meeting with the Prime Minister that month, made it abundantly clear -- with troubled, brooding eyes and the face of an old man, the once youthful leader grasped the hand of his British friend and spoke as if already dead: “I will not last.

This is the end of me.”

On the day the Versailles government surrendered, the Prime Minister gave a fiery speech from the balcony of Buckingham Palace, overlooking the massive crowd of three thousand Londoners and

television crews assembled to hear him speak. Millions of eyes across the United Kingdom lasered his every movement, hanging on to his every word, every motion. Any signs of weakness would be captured instantly, so he gave them none. Standing tall by the elderly Queen, he waved his fist in the air and shouted his finishing words into the microphone, “We shall be victorious!”

The crowd cheered in unison as the Prime Minister waved and retreated from the balcony into the darkness of the palace.

In a few seconds, three thousand Londoners broke into a chorus: “When Britain first, at Heaven’s command Arose from out the azure main; This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sang this strain: Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.

Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.”

Evanescent Oblivion

If I took jagged glass And let it writhe in a blistering flame It would transmute around the edges Expunging ghosts of the past As they glisten Hoping for a second chance Glowing red Until dust is all that remains of the extinct And a saccharinely immaculate Slice of the original is crafted.

At nights when he stumbled home, he would remember her. He would remember how she would sing him to sleep, delicately caressing his ears with a soft melody. He remembered her lips, how she would taste like cinnamon and toffee.

He remembered the way her hips would move in time with the music; watching her dance was like slipping into a meditative trance.

His heart still fluttered every time he pictured her.

By JULIA HOU i thought i would grow up to be a word-collector the expert on rhythmic symmetry i polished the ones i found most beautiful i polished them four times a day and the others collapsed in dust when i walked into my word-room the breathtaking shine of the words dazzled my eyes, and my friends who had the privilege of access to the room assured me i was ideal for the job of creator spider-mother of word-webs somehow i thought i possessed the talent one fine crinkle-cut day i returned to my word-room, my store-room i took all my words out and laid them end to end they sparkled like pigeons’ eyes, dewdrops, rubies i stitched them together with the care of a master seamstress

If I took a luminescent diamond And threw it against the gravel Arms swinging with a tumultuous pull It would tumble amongst the dirt Undefeated in its audacious undertaking Buried beneath the adulterated earth Fighting for a way out Only to bellow into oblivion.

A cafeteria and library are built as part of the major renovations to the school building.

A curriculum comprising a wider range of electives and more rigorous graduation requirements is introduced. A single session schedule from 8:40 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. replaces the double session schedule.

He was the ripped seams from hand-me-down clothes too small to fit. He drank away his sorrows every evening at the Irish bar a little way down from his apartment, downing shots of amber brown whiskey. The liquid scalded his throat, but he was already so used to the caustic burn. It almost felt good now; it felt familiar, comfortable.

Word Collector

By TINA JIANG If I took a crumb of sugar And put it against my tongue To savor the ephemeral taste It would only be seconds Before the sweetness is imbibed And a piece of nature Created through the miniscule interweaving Of an inscrutable enigma Evanesces Coming to naught.

1957

By AIMEE LI He was rough and tanned, skin stretched thin over prominent bones. He was dexterous under the hot orange sun, body performing efficiently. He was a machine.

In the winters, he was as dry as sandpaper, skin flaking off with each callous touch. He spent each winter wrapped neatly in thick wool. But he was no model—no, he lacked the refined elegance characteristic of models these days.

it is only in the world of words where a jeweled necklace can be worth nothing

POEMS The Child is a Survivor

By LIEZL GAMBOA From your first second on Earth, You were born in beauty, Cloaked in love.

And in that moment, your heart shone bright.

A child of three minutes learning to smile.

You knew no sadness.

Three years later, your smile still shows.

Running around with bright, yellow shoes, Tripping over too-long laces, but getting up right after.

The scratches on your knees won’t bother you, That wouldn’t bother a child born in beauty and cloaked in love.

Still learning the way the world turns, You still know no sadness.

At the age of seven, your smile is duller.

Jeans worn from overuse.

Too-big sweater hides swollen skin.

You walk with your head down, scared of looking up.

A child born in beauty and cloaked in love shouldn’t know this pain.

Not truly understanding how the world turns, You face sadness.

At fifteen, your smile is gone.

Black sweatpants stained inside with red, Too-long sleeves hide the marks of a survivor.

At 2 AM, you walk around your neighborhood, Just to get away from home.

The child born in beauty and cloaked in love is missing. . . .

You come home at 5 a.m.

Three hours gone, three hours safe.

Stepping over the wooden boards you know will creak, Slipping under the gaze of your tormentor, You walk into your bedroom and lock the doors.

Too-hot tears escaped your shielded emotions.

Taking off your dirty sweater, you feel the rough wounds of healing scars.

The child born in beauty is marred.

The child cloaked in love is hated.

Knowing exactly how the world turns, The child is gone.

In its place is a survivor.

TIMELINE: 100 Years of The Spectator , Stuyvesant, and the World 1961 1967 1963 1958 Former President Harry S. Truman visits the school and speaks about the importance of education in the sciences.

He is interviewed by Spectator reporters.

Spacewar!, one of the first video games, is invented

The Spectator’s editorial policy strongly backs the Civil Rights Movement.

1963

Martin Luther King, Jr., delivers the “I Have a Dream” speech in Washington D.C. President John Kennedy is assassinated in Dallas, Texas.

Congress passes the Equal Pay Act in an effort to eliminate the gender wage gap.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

Despite passing the SHSAT, Alice de Rivera is denied admission into Stuyvesant High School due to her gender. She takes the case to court and wins, but chooses not to attend Stuyvesant.

1968

Shirley Chisholm becomes the first African-American woman in Congress.

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How to Hack Yourself a Class

By MARIYA GEDRICH, KACHUN LEUNG, and STELLA MA

I

Luna Oiwa / The Spectator

magine Stuyvesant without a computer science program.

Aspire to pursue a career in software development? Nope, but perhaps you could go into the ever-lucrative handmade telescope business after taking a telescope assembly class. Want to explore all the features of your laptop?

Well, that’s probably not happening at school. Want to take Advanced Placement (AP) Computer Science? Good luck getting into that one class taught by that one teacher. If this seems like a hassle to you, it was definitely a problem 20 years ago when this was the reality.

Today, every Stuyvesant student is expected to graduate with at least one semester of Introductory Computer Science, and for those who are interested in continuing with the course, there are plenty of classes offered. In fact, AP Computer Science is one of the most sought after classes every year. Last year, around 400 students applied to take the class, and an extra section had to be added to accommodate the disappointed students who did not get in. In 1994, however, Stuyvesant had only a few classes dedicated to the use and study of computers. There was no official computer science program other than one AP Computer Science

class taught by a math teacher who was much more passionate about teaching math than about teaching computers.

A new math teacher at the time, Michael Zamansky, was teaching geometry. Zamansky, felt out of place teaching a math class. “I’m not a mathematician, I’m a computer scientist,” Zamansky explained. Before long, it was clear that the switch was inevitable. Zamansky enthusiastically recalls the day he was taken out of a class to talk to math chairman Richard Rothenberg: The previous teacher said, “‘Richie, I don’t want to teach computer science—Mike does.’”

And that was when the ball started rolling.

In the fall of 1994, Zamansky started teaching the AP Computer Science class. In turn, enrollment skyrocketed as there was now an enthusiastic and passionate teacher. Juniors and seniors filled four sections of the class, more than ever before.

The classes fostered a new interest in computer science among students. Feeling that there was much more to be done with this new enthusiasm, Zamansky asked his class if they’d like to have a spring class in Systems Programming, a class in which students would learn about memory organization, interrupts, and computer representation of numbers. Although both his students and the administration approved of this idea, Zamansky was unable to fit the class into the students’ 8-period schedules, especially since they had other commitments like math team in the morning. The solution came when students volunteered to stay an extra period after school, making Systems Programming a ninth period class. Students readily signed up; Zamansky was now staying after school every day with a group of students eager to learn. Noticing how popular the Systems Programming class was, Zamansky decided to create a fall semester supplementary course in Advanced Computer Graphics, in which he taught students how to use C and Pascal. Because of the popularity of these classes,

Tong Wan / The Spectator

Features

the electives were incorporated into the schedule and staying after school was no longer necessary by the fall of 1995.

The classes proved to be a massive success. Computer science students were getting involved in international competitions, claiming top spots wherever they went. The result of the newly formed computer science classes was a very close-knit subculture. All of his students shared a common interest and now had a venue for developing it. “That cohort from Mike’s first class really bonded as a group,” recalled alumnus Yu Ping Hu (’95) in an e-mail interview. “I remember cutting all my classes for days on end to spend time in the lab with other kids in the class to work on our projects and hang out (and Mike kicking us out when he found out about it, not that it stopped us from doing it again when he wasn’t in the room).” In addition, “Hackers,” a film about a young boy who was arrested for writing a computer virus, was filmed at Stuyvesant, and a real life hacking incident took place. These events helped create traditions and lore for that community, according to Hu. Zamansky also helped foster a community by teaching with a fun, playful attitude. According to former computer science teacher and alumnus Boris Granovskiy, students and teachers constantly played pranks on

each other. “I definitely remember one day when there were several bake sales at Stuy, and so Mr. Zamansky and some of my friends bought up a bunch of pies and ambushed me when I got to the classroom, leading to a chase around the classroom and a lot of flying pastry,” he recalled. The annual Halloween tradition of all the computer science teachers dressing up and performing skits for their classes has its roots in Zamansky’s enthusiasm for dressing up in an elaborate costume.

“The first year I taught, Mr. Zamansky and I dressed up as Hans and Franz from Saturday Night Live and walked around trying to teach in character the entire day,” Granovskiy recalls. The following year they both dressed up as the Hulk and had to somehow teach by only using grunting noises.

Even though a vibrant culture had formed around the classes, only a small portion of the student body was a part of it. “A lot of kids won’t even think about computer science,” Zamansky explained. The ones who did, however, often fell in love with it. Alumnus and computer software developer Anita Verma remembers how she originally took Zamansky’s Introduction to Computer Science (Intro) class when it was an elective during her sophomore year. “I had heard great things about Mr. Zamansky, and I always loved computers, so I was very excited to take his

1969

TIMELINE: 100 Years of The Spectator, Stuyvesant, and the World 1972 1970 1971 Students demonstrate against the Vietnam War and the killings at Kent

1969

1970 The Spectator begins distribution to the entire student body, as op-

Fourteen girls are admitted to the school in a segregated State University on 15th street in May, missing 10 days of school in the process. homeroom.

223 girls are admitted to the school after the gender quota is abolished.

Astronauts Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, Jr., land on the Moon.

The Internet is invented.

posed to a select group of subscribers.

1970

The first Lesbian Gay Bisexual and Transgender pride parade is held in New York City.

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Students protest the invasion of Laos and the Vietnam War by refusing to go to class.

Student Prevention of Addiction through Rehabilitation and Knowledge (SPARK) is founded.

Students are allowed to go outside for lunch for the first time.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

State legislature designates Stuyvesant, Bronx Science, Brooklyn Tech, and LaGuardia High Schools as specialized high schools.

The first female students graduate from Stuyvesant, including GO President Abbey Smith. Coincidentally, in same month Title IX of the Education Amendments requires that “No person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in...any education program.”

Features class,” she said in an email interview. Although computer science was new to her, she quickly became fond of the class. “Classes never felt like a grind, like most of my other classes did. Looking back at these classes now, I understand that this is what learning is supposed to feel like, when you find something that you are passionate about,” she said. “I retained everything I learned in those classes, and used that as the foundation of the computer science education I would receive at college and in the workplace.”

Verma is just one of many of Zamansky’s students who have gone on to have jobs in the tech industry, with some working at Google and others at the National Security Agency. “When one of my students got his doctorate, he gave me a copy of [it], and he’s a good friend of mine now...when another student wrote a book, I’m in the acknowledgments,” he said. “So I know these guys appreciate me but I’m like, ‘can’t I do more?’”

That was when Zamansky decided to pursue a required Intro class for all students by what he considered “hacking” the school’s system. He started working on his idea for this program in 1997, but did not get the chance to make it a reality until 2002, when drafting teacher Timothy Pon left Stuyvesant. Since Pon left behind a drafting class, Zamansky was able to swoop in and substitute one of his Intro classes for the drafting class as a graduation requirement, a move that pleased a large portion of the student body. “Students began to say, ‘Hey, this is ridiculous.

Computer science is so much more valuable,’ since the whole idea was that we want to give you the basic tools to inspire you and get you to think like a computer scientist,” Zamansky said.

The additional Intro class added yet another teacher to the computer science faculty, Boris Granovskiy. It was the students in Granovskiy’s class who were allowed get a graduation credit for their Intro class to replace the drafting requirement. Students, however, began to complain that it was unfair for only one Intro class to satisfy the graduation requirement. “If you were in my class you didn’t get credit because

it was only for this one substitute,” Zamansky explained. After the complaints increased, the administration caved in and allowed all Intro classes to get credit.

ing and evaluating teachers and transferring students between classes. Furthermore, some of the computer science teachers are also math teachers, which causes

“We had investors who wanted to invest in our student projects before they graduated. That doesn’t happen anywhere…. So we’ve got this very special thing that nowhere else in the country has, there’s really nothing comparable to it.”

—Michael Zamansky, Computer Science Coordinator Once a single semester of Introduction to Computer Science (MKS21) was officially a graduation requirement, Zamansky began to work on creating a second semester class for his intro program, MKS22. “The whole idea behind Intro to Computer Science is that during MKS21, the first half, you learn to think like a computer scientist. But in MKS22, you’re gonna use real stuff. We do data analysis...and this is something that no matter what field you’re going to go into, they’re gonna help you,” he explained. Finally with the success of creating a whole year of Intro, Zamansky was able to achieve his goal of teaching computer science to the whole student body.

Although the wide array of computer science classes has grown into one of the most popular programs in Stuyvesant, it still faces several obstacles. The most prominent of these problems is that this program is not classified as a separate department because there is not a separate licensing for computer science teachers.

Since the computer science programs are classified as math, it leads to several conflicts of interest, namely the daily functions of the program. This includes hir-

problems when creating schedules each year. Assistant Principal of Mathematics Maryann Ferrara in particular has to deal with these problems; while hiring teachers, she has to find a fair way to allocate money for teachers between both the math department and the computer science program, according to Zamansky.

Even though Zamansky and

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The Stuyvesant Voice is founded, becoming one of the most successful and longest-lasting “underground” publications in the school’s history.

The first SING! production is performed at Stuyvesant High School.

The girls’ volleyball team becomes the school’s first female athletic team.

1973 Roe v. Wade rules that state bans on abortion are unconstitutional.

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TIMELINE: 100 Years of The Spectator, Stuyvesant, and the World 1978 1976

1973 The Student Union replaces the General Organization and the Senate,

his program have faced problems to this day, he continues to take pride in what he has done with it. During his interview, he joyfully recounted memories of his students and their achievements of working for companies like Electronic Arts, Google, and Facebook. Besides the individual student accomplishments, the program has grown beyond the walls of Stuyvesant to include an organization called Computer Science and Technology for Urban Youth, a computer science program at St. Joseph’s College that pioneered this summer.

Taught by several of Stuyvesant’s computer science teachers including JonAlf Dyrland-Weaver and Samuel Konstatinovich, the goal of the program is the same as it was in the beginning: to expose more students to computer science and to give them a venue to develop their skills.

And so, from a single section of AP Computer Science taught by a single teacher in 1994, Stuyvesant’s computer science program has grown into a sophisticated program that is one of a kind.

“We had investors who wanted to invest in our student projects before they graduated. That doesn’t happen anywhere. We’ve got this very special thing that is nowhere else in the country,” Zamansky said. “There’s really nothing comparable to it.”

Junior Jeff Trachtman sues the Board of Education for disallowing publication of a sex survey in The Voice. Trachtman wins the case at the district court level, then loses on a Board of Education appeal taken to the Federal Court of Appeals.

Euretha Jones becomes the first black female to be elected SU President, and the Senate falls one vote short of organizing a strike to protest budget cuts made by the Board of Education.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

Colin Chan becomes the first Asian-American to be elected SU President and is the first SU President to revise the constitution.

1979

2,000 Stuyvesant students boycott class on October 2 to protest the pay cuts the Board of Education imposed on the Public School Athletic League.

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Arts and Entertainment The Stuyvesant experience extends beyond its walls, from enjoying the sun in Rockefeller Park to avoiding (or not) the slush puddles on Chambers in the winter. Integral to daily life at Stuyvesant are the places we get our food and drink from, which often also double as the places we hang out at.

Just in time for a brand-new term of lunch periods, here are the best places to get your sustenance within a five-minute walking distance of Stuy.

Some are staples of daily life, others are little-known dives that you might like to check out. We also touch on the eternal question: Terry’s or Ferry’s?

From coffee to burgers, we present the best food and drink around Stuy.

Whole Foods, at 270 Greenwich Street, both serves prepared food for each meal and sells a selection of groceries.

Whole Foods

Cornerstone

Shake Shack

By SHAHRUZ GHAEMI The next time you go down Chambers Street, making a left before crossing Greenwich Street will take you to a whole new area rarely visited

by Stuyvesant students. This would be the locale where commercial buildings first became artist lofts, and then apartments selling for millions of dollars (Jay-Z and Beyonce live in one). Most of the eateries to the north of Chambers Street are upscale restaurants ill-suited for Stuyvesant students, but there are a couple that lean towards the affordable side. One such hole-in-the-wall is Tribeca’s Cornerstone Grill, a comfort food joint so small you might assume it to be part of the liquor store next door.

Cornerstone is by no measure a fancy place— the tiling makes it look like a cafeteria. Space is limited to the few square feet necessary to sidle up to the counter and order; it’s a grab-and-go kind of place. However, the cheap and juicy fried chicken mark it as a place to come back to. For $5.75 you can get three pieces of chicken, and most items on the menu don’t top $6. The menu also includes chicken fingers, burgers, chicken noodle soup, and even baked potatoes. I would stay away from the salads, but I recommend the pita bread; every order of fried chicken comes with it, and even the burgers are made with it.

This is not always a boon—the bread is sometimes less than fresh, and the fried chicken is not by any means a masterpiece of the technique. In addition, service can take more than a few minutes if your meat has to be breaded and fried from scratch. Still, it’s juicy fried chicken for a better price than Dirty Bird, and the venue is memorable enough to garner it recognition.

Cornerstone is a good place to visit when you’re looking for alternatives, but be prepared to take your meal somewhere else to eat.

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By SHAHRUZ GHAEMI Perhaps it is really the food that conjures up such an exciting, lively vision of Shack Shack in my head. Perhaps it is the sheer classy aesthetic of the place. Perhaps it is the lingering hype from the old coupons in the Spectator. Perhaps its all that, and more which accounts for how Stuyvesant students love this branch of the chain, which started as a hot-dog cart in Madison Square Park.

Though the titular shakes are decent (a little too thick and creamy, though), the burgers and fries are the main attraction. Luckily, their menu is simple, with their Shackburger ($4.75 for a single cheeseburger patty, $7.35 for a double) making up the backbone. Everything about the burger seems suspiciously intense: the green of the lettuce, the red of the tomato, the bun’s crispness, the patty’s juiciness—but the quality ingredients make every bite notable. It is overpriced Shake Shack, located at 215 Murray Street, for a small-sized burger, but that’s the nature of serves a variety of burgers, hotdogs, fries, a place that combines high-end techniques with custards and beverages for the residents the roadside burger joint. The Shroomburger of Tribeca and nearby Stuyvesant High patty, a vegetarian variant on the Shackburger, is School students.

Shake Shack’s soup dumpling: a deep-fried Portobello mushroom pocket that oozes with cheesy sauce, visually unappealing but bursting with flavor.

For years, critics have targeted the fries as soggy and limp. While Shake Shack has switched from pre-frozen to store-prepared fries, and from zig-zag to straight-cut, the fries have merely become shriveled husks that lack much potato.

The décor is an appealing melange; some of the pastel-colored tables could have been plucked from a kindergarten classroom, whereas the metal, wood, and glass aesthetic of the rest of the room and the outdoor seating seems sleek and adult.

Speaking of adults, Shake Shack—like just about every popular joint reviewed here—is thronged with businesspeople, local residents, and students alike. Having a smaller floorspace than Whole Foods, Shake Shack gets filled pretty quickly on, say, a Friday afternoon. But students rarely take advantage of Shake Shack for lunch, which is surprising since the lines at Ferry’s are often longer. Excepting fourth period (when it is sadly closed), you can usually add Shake Shack to your list of lunch destinations.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

Nancy Cao / The Spectator

Andrew Fischer / The Spectator

By SHAHRUZ GHAEMI The Tribeca location of Whole Foods deserves a mention because it is so central to everything we do as Stuyvesant students—eating, socializing, and studying. The free Wi-Fi, coffee bar, and extensive seating space on the upper floor make it an attractive area for these activities. But be warned, packed lunch and pre-finals rushes can make this space (like Barnes and Noble) occasionally more trouble than it’s worth, especially since students must share the space with white-collar professionals and Tribeca nannies. However, it is still a convenient landmark and meeting place.

The brain is a hungry organ, so be sure to get something to eat while you study here. Everyone knows the bars on the first floor that stock soups and Indian cuisine year-round, where you can scoop up your preferred helping of Chicken Tikka Masala and bolt, but the best food actually comes from the prepared food counters. To be fair, they are usually surrounded by adult patrons with more lunch time and money to spare, but the pizza and sandwich stations carry excellent selections.

The food offered at each station varies from day to day, but it is made with fresh natural ingredients.

The Roast Beef Watercress sandwich is a constant winner, made with greasy and flavorful roast beef on crunchy ciabatta bread, topped off with watercress and melted cheese. As for the pizzas, they are made in long, elliptical shapes with a chewy, flat crust that makes a slice seem more like an open-top sandwich (while still being delicious, of course).

Pricing can be a problem for teenagers on a budget, but there are ways around that: the ridiculously low-priced Whole Foods-brand drinks (less than $1 for water or soda) or the personal price control of packing your own lunch at the food bars. The lines can also be a problem; if all your items are pricetagged, you can go to the coffee bar and pay there, or at the Warren Street registers. It’s guaranteed to be a shorter wait.

Whole Foods is simultaneously a supermarket, food court, and café, and its convenience in bringing these all together is what makes it so popular with students.

Arts and Entertainment

By SHAHRUZ GHAEMI This little bagel shop ought to be a fixture on your mental map of Chambers Street; whether going to school or coming back, Zucker’s is a perfect place to stop by. The five-minute walk from here to Stuy is just enough time to down a small cup of orZucker’s has a variety of bagel options, as well as ganic coffee before your first class, and more than enough soups and sandwiches and other deli options. time if you prefer iced coffee.

Selling hand-rolled kettle-boiled bagels, Zucker’s meets New York standards. Its bagels are just as dense and chewy as they need to be. Each bite begins with a fleeting, soft crunchiness, followed by the flavors of whatever you take your bagel with. Zucker’s also has a huge selection of bagels that can’t be rivaled, from the classic cinnamon raisin bagel to more unique flavors such as the pumpernickel bagel or the salt bagel. For a smaller breakfast, you could also opt for a chocolate croissant or muffin from Zucker’s excellent pastry selection.

The sheer number of cream cheeses, lox, and toppings available means that you can construct your perfect bagel for breakfast, lunch, or an afternoon snack. Zucker’s also puts its bagels to use as the starch in most of their sandwiches. One of their best, the Traditional, riffs off of the bagel’s natural crunchiness by adding red onions and fresh lettuce. Liberal helpings of cream cheese (a requirement for any Zucker’s sandwich is that the main filling takes up as much space as physically possible), smoked lox, and capers create a springy, earthy taste. On a rainy day, try the hearty chicken noodle soup. The prices might be higher than those of delis in the neighborhood such as Terrys and Ferrys, but the taste is worth it. Also be sure to take advantage of the 15 percent discount given to students in the area.

Zucker’s has seating for about twenty in a tight, café-like area, but the line can lengthen around lunchtime. That’s no problem though; you will still have time to take your meal down to the Wall for an open-air repast.

Sabrina Chan / The Spectator

Zucker’s

Bahn mi

By ANNE DUNCAN Banh Mi, a relatively unknown Vietnamese sandwich shop at 73 Banh Mi, a Vietnamese sandwich shop on West Broadway, offers a wide selection of snacks in ad- West Broadway, dition to Vietnamese sandwiches and bubble teas. is one of the few authentic Asian cuisine options around Stuyvesant. A wide selection of Vietnamese sandwiches, including all the classic ingredients from pate to carrots, is accompanied by satisfying bubble teas, bottled drinks, and a number of packaged snacks, such as Sun Chips.

Students looking to satisfy their cravings for Asian snacks like shrimp crackers and Pocky, as well as those who are tired of eating pizza bagels for lunch, can look no further. I recommend the classic banh mi. For $6.50, this pate sandwich makes for a filling lunch: layers of pickled carrots and cucumbers add a tangy and satisfying crunch, the pate takes the highlight of the meal, and a sprig of cilantro tops it off with a refreshing kick. And although it’s great to experiment with bubble tea flavors, I recommend sticking to the classic here, as the fruity options at Banh Mi are made from artificial drink mixes.

While Banh Mi offers great food and drink, it is lacking in ambiance. In a cramped setting, there are only a few wooden tables that will seat around 15 people. Banh Mi is mostly meant for express customers, so I recommend taking your food to go and eating your meal on the wall or in Battery Park.

Terry’s or Ferry’s?

Terry’s offers a salad bar and sandwiches, along with various dried food.

By SHAHRUZ GHAEMI Like South and North Korea, you can’t mention one of these without dragging the other into the discussion; they only exist relative to each other. The Deli Duo, the Pizza Bagel War and its successor conflict, the Chicken Pizza Bagel War; these two establishments have presided over an era of unprecedented partisanship and legislative gridlock in the Student Union.

Okay, that’s an overstatement, but Terry’s and Ferry’s (a.k.a. “Fake Terry’s” or “Gourmet Market”) have always competed for the dollars, stomachs, and hearts of Stuyvesant students. They therefore deserve a spe-

The Gourmet Market on North End Ave. is known for their delicious sandwiches and friendly service.

cial mention in any list of this type.

First of all, Terry’s and Ferry’s are physically very different spaces, with different atmospheres. Terry’s is smaller, but it is also cozier thanks to its wood-paneled walls and antiquated coffee grinders. With the waterfront right there, a trip to Terry’s lends itself naturally to lunch in Rockefeller Park. Terry’s seems to be as conscious of the white-collar residents of the luxury apartment building above it as it is of the Stuyvesant clientele right next door.

By contrast, Ferry’s has wholeheartedly embraced its role as the grand watering hole for kids from Stuy and P.S. 89; it is here that you will find fistfuls of candy for sale right by the cashier. Ferry’s has a larger floor space, but that comes with larger crowds. Unless you get there in the first few minutes of your lunch period, you’ll spend most of your time waiting in line. The crush of hungry kids got so bad that they recently demarcated a line for ordering and paying. Generally, Ferry’s prices are a dollar or fifty cents lower than those for comparable items at Terry’s.

Both serve the standard New York deli fare—basically any combination of bacon, eggs, and cheese on a bagel—but they each have their own specialties. Ferry’s has its treasured basket of onigiri, the Japanese rice-balls, and the shrink-wrapped paninis which, though as greasy as just about everything else in Ferry’s, do make for a tasty and filling lunch. Terry’s on the other hand specializes in cheap (around $6) sandwiches made with healthier ingredients, like the Turkey, Brie, Avocado, and Sun-dried Tomato sandwich. It’s certainly easier to find lettuce on any roll coming out of Terry’s. Customers on Yelp! also praise their gourmet salads, which seem to only come with low-fat dressings.

For the real question of the day: let’s face it, the pizza bagels at Ferry’s are simply the superior ones. While they both use the same spongy, flat bagels, Ferry’s boasts zestier tomato sauce and more palatable cheese. At a cheaper price as well, Ferry’s clearly wins out. Terry’s does have a quieter and more wholesome vibe going for it, but I’ll leave you with this: I’ll pass on their soggy, bland pizza bagels any day.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

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Nicole Rosengurt / The Spectator

Nicole Rosengurt / The Spectator

Alicia Chen / The Spectator

Best food ...

Arts and Entertainment

. . . and drink

Blue Spoon, at 76 Chambers Street, offers a tasty selection of coffee, tea, and snacks.

Julie Chan / The Spectator

By JONGYOUL LEE Here in Kaffe 1668, bookscases are filled with toy sheep, sheep stickers can be found as memorabilia in a cup next to the cream and sugar, sheep drawings decorate the storefront—the list goes on. It is impossible to miss the strange obsession with sheep in this quaint coffee shop. When I asked about the excessive amount of sheep in the room, the waitress only offered a toy sheep for $85 dollars and a smile for an answer. My question about the name of the café, however, was clearly answered: 1668 is the year that coffee became New York’s favorate breakfast beverage.

It goes without saying that coffee Kaffe 1668, located on Greenwich has become Stuyvesant’s unofficial Street, has a relaxed and peaceful drink, and Kaffe 1668 is a great place ambience that is perfect for studyfor students who need a caffeine kick, ing or hanging out with friends. but aren’t a big fan of Starbucks. Decorated in a distinctly Scandinavian style, with birch wood furniture, communal tables and candles, the dimly lit store is often frequented by local artists and writers, creating the vibe of a Greenwich Village café.

Kaffe 1668 prides itself on its variety of coffee, tea, and juice, as well as its snacks such as Swedish Cave Cookies, scones, gingerbread, and brownies. The price of coffee ranges from $2.30-$5.97, and comes in 12oz paper cups. Coffee here is brewed from the harvests of individual farms from coffee-growing regions around the world and no brew is a blend of different beans; hence, single-origin direct-trade coffee.

Each cup is made individually right after an order, to maintain a freshly brewed taste in every sip. Some of the popular coffees are the Brazilian Sitio da Torre, the Burundian Nemba, and the Columbian Rio Chiquito.

The Rio Chiquito is my personal favorite; the fruity yet slightly chocolaty aromas are balanced perfectly to make an enticing and unique drink. All the coffees are served at the ideal temperature, a result of individual brewing.

With plenty of seats on the lower floor and free wifi access, Kaffe 1668 becomes a nice afterschool study space, in addition to an ideal hangout spot for students. An idea for your next hangout: keep your eye out for Kaffe 1668’s next cinema night, as it sometimes projects movies onto the wall behind the counter.

By SHAHRUZ GHAEMI Coffee is great for that test you have to take next period, but what about a relaxing cup of tea? Dedicated tea shops are making a comeback in New York, featuring vast selections of gourmet tea, but you’ll have to look pretty hard to find Tribeca’s tea boutique.

Located at 5 Harrison Street, a side lane tiny even in Tribeca’s warren of small roads, it would be an understatement to call Kanlo hard to find. The decoration is not altogether comforting: mostly hard, bare white plastic, looking more towards a knockoff of the future than backwards to a wood-paneled tea lounge. Still, wide windows let in the light and walls stocked with tins upon tins of tea make up a somewhat cozy atmosphere. Sipping a cup of tea on this recently restored cobblestone street, quiet but not godforsaken, certainly feels a world away from the bustle of Chambers Street.

Kanlo tea itself is mostly sourced from Sri Lanka, although they like to refer to it by its outdated name, Ceylon. Like any good tea parlor, they stock black, white, green, oolong, and herbal teas, as well as a South African red tea, rooibos. Also like many other tea boutiques, Kanlo invents and innovates with its tea.

You could have a nice, smooth Earl Grey, sure, but why not try an herbal tea blend of chamomile, spearmint, lavender flowers, and Australian lemon myrtle? With blends named Coconut Delight, Victorian Rose, and Jasmine Pearls, the choices can be dizzying.

Luckily the staff is very knowledgeable and helpful. They can assist you in picking out a good blend and whip you up a cup, hot or iced. Their current special, the Mango Ceylon, is a light black tea blend that isn’t too sweet or too strong. Kanlo also sells the related brand of Tarlton teas, which dabble in the more mainstream flavors of English Breakfast, Peach, and Blueberry.

A cup of tea is a little over three dollars, and a small tin of tea costs $11. In addition, the only food sold here is maybe a couple of cookies. This isn’t a place to come to for lunch, but rather for a warm and novel-tasting “cuppa” after a long day.

Blue Spoon

Christopher Liang / The Spectator

By ANNE DUNCAN Whenever I recommend Blue Spoon to a friend, I have to describe exactly where it is on Chambers Street – you know, across from Checkers, near City Hall Park. Admittedly, it’s easy to walk past without notice, but now I can’t walk down Chambers Street without thinking of it.

Inside, Blue Spoon is a homey nook, if tightly packed. It has 12 total seats squashed into the small space, around which hang original modern art by one of the baristas. Blue Spoon fosters a community of coffee lovers, where customers get to know the staff and each other. One aspect of this unique community is the daily question found at the cash register such as “Have you ever driven across the country?” or “Are you a Dog or Cat person?” with two buckets for tips based on your answer. Heather got the idea for the question of the day from a friend who saw a similar setup in another café.

The menu offers a wide variety of tea, coffee, and espresso drinks, all part of the direct-trade Intelligentsia brand, and all equally fragrant. If you’re looking for something different to try, the baristas also make to order and sometimes will even create something new for you to try. While I often go to Blue Spoon for a breakfast of one of their delicious muffins, scones, or bagels, there is also a wide selection of fresh soups and sandwiches that make a perfect home-style meal.

Blue Spoon closes before dinnertime, but whether you go for breakfast or lunch, or just a quick coffee, you will be tempted by the chatty staff, comfy booth and free WiFi to sit around awhile.

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The Spectator Centennial Magazine

Derrick Lui / The Spectator

Kanlo Tea

Kaffe 1668

Quizzes WHERE SHOULD YOU EAT TODAY?

By MICHELLE CHAN, LON YIN CHAN, AND WEI HOU WU DO YOU FEEL LIKE WALKING MUCH TODAY? Haha nope, I’m feeling lazy today.

Yes! I really need to work those legs.

TAKE OUT YOUR WALLET. HOW MUCH MONEY DO YOU HAVE?

Less than $5

Oh please, no Definitely! I have one has time to to look good for care about that. the cute guy in my spanish class.

WHAT KIND OF SNACK DESCRIBES YOUR DAY SO FAR:

CAFE AMORE

(pizza place)

Sweet, great, awsome (like Nutella!)

FERRY’S

More than $5

Yes

BUT DON’T YOU HAVE A TEST TO STUDY FOR?

DO YOU CARE ABOUT YOUR FIGURE FOR TODAY?

Greasy, bland, and just plain bad (like chips maybe)

IS TEN BUCKS TOO MUCH?

Oh yes, I almost forgot

SCHOOL LUNCH

DOES THE QUALITY OF FOOD MATTER WHEN IT COMES TO HEALTH?

As long as it’s not school food. protein bar from

SMOKE SHOP

I’ll just eat a salad.

TERRY’S

No

WHAT DO YOU CRAVE TODAY?

DO YOU MIND LONG LINES?

Psh, what test?

HALAL FOOD CART

FERRY’S

Veggies are Acciimportant! dentally And lettuce forgot it. gives a nice crunch.

Salty

SUBWAY

SHAKE SHACK

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

Something warm

DO YOU MIND BEING A BIT MESSY TODAY?

WHEN PILING A HAMBURGER, DO YOU PUT ANY LETTUCE IN IT?

SWEET OR SALTY?

Sweet

Something cold

I live in NY, Patience I’m a native is a virtue NY-rker.

I have No waiting.

I live to be messy.

No way! I want to be neat.

CHIPOTLE

SHAKE SHACK

Yes. I want a little bit of everything.

WHOLE FOODS

ARE YOU FEELING INDECISIVE TODAY?

Maybe. I’m pretty indecisive. But I’m also not.

TERRY’S

ZUCKER’S

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Mandy Wong Discuss your current interests—academic or extracurricular pursuits, personal passions, summer experiences, etc.—and how you will build upon them here.

“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” – Michelangelo In true Renaissance fashion, Michelangelo was a master of many trades. A sculptor, painter, architect, engineer, and poet, he was the ultimate symbol of the era. Although infinitely less artistically gifted, I can relate to this 15th Century Florentine artist. His message resonates strongly with me: artists do not create, rather, they liberate. I am the marble slate that my interests chisel away at, liberating my inner soul. After all, a wasting marble is a growing statue.

I don’t think every one of my interest needs to be changing the world. I pursue them simply because it makes me happy.

It’s not about the endgame; it’s about the journey because that’s when discoveries and lessons are learned through trial and error.

I have had the fortunate opportunity to explore my interest and chisel away parts of the marble to reveal who I am. I conducted research on sleep in fruit flies at the NYU Neuroscience Institute over the course of a year, where I studied both adult brains and neuromuscular junctions in larvae. I even got the chance to attend the prestigious Lasker Awards, where I met Nobel laureates like Thomas Sudhof and philanthropists like Bill Gates. This internship made it clear to me that science was something I had to pursue. I joined Stuyvesant’s Model UN team as a meek wallflower, and now I am the outspoken Secretary-General. I got to travel and debate about world issues and simulate historical events. I became confident in myself, in my own voice, and in my own ideas. I even got the chance to start TEDxStuyvesantHS, a licensed TEDx event hosted in our high school – the first of its kind. I got to flex a creative muscle I didn’t even think I had. It was thrilling to see something go from being an idea on paper to reality.

I want to turn these interests into lifelong passions – and I know I will be able to do that at Johns Hopkins. When I came across the major history of science on the university website, everything fell into place. I love going to museums and reading about the curious histories behind many of science’s greatest achievements and history of science is about the story behind discoveries.

While there are many other universities that offer that major, and I can very well see myself attending them, I cannot imagine myself not being a Blue Jay. Each time I visit Hopkins, I fall in love with it even more. The pursuit of knowledge that Hopkins advocates is inviting; I can imagine myself studying abroad, researching at a professor’s lab, helping to organize TEDxHopkins and JHUMUNC, or interning at a museum in Baltimore or in D.C. At Hopkins, I can be the angel in the marble that Michelangelo sets free.

ESSAY TWO Areté was the first Greek word I learned in high school and it has been my favorite ever since. It roughly translates to excellence, but it means more than that – it is living up to your potential and being the best that you can be. In Homer’s Odyssey, areté describes the heroes, the gods, Odysseus, and his wife Penelope. While some people strive for perfection, I strive for areté.

The concept of areté teaches one very important lesson: do not compare yourself to others. I attend a very competitive high school where getting a 100 isn’t enough if the kid next to me gets a 105. There will always be somebody who gets higher test scores than me, who scores more hoops than me, writes better essays than me; if I pegged myself to those people, I would always be sulking in a corner. Too much time would be spent mulling over not being good enough than trying to become more than good enough.

When mistakes are made, I learn from them. This take-thebull-by-the-horn approach has helped me escape relatively unscathed from the pressures that many of my peers faced. After failing a French exam, I studied every day to ace the next one.

Education is not beating yourself up over a bad test score; it is acquiring knowledge and always improving. I have strived to become a better me, not better than the person next to me, and it has made me all the wiser.

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COLLEGE Edric huang

Common Application When I was seven, my parents constantly asked one another, “Why is Edric always walking on his bed?” And for good reason: I would run atop my Pokemon-spotted sheets without a care for the dust bunnies clinging to my feet. Flailing my arms with the ebbs and flows of my imagined dialogue, I sashayed across one-foot-long, six-inch-tall mountains formed by my crumpled cerulean blanket. At first, I would holler as I charged into battles against psychic puppeteers, but my imagined conflicts quickly transformed as I grew up. I still wanted to live in self-directed Miyazaki movies, though now adapted with more complex treacheries of biological warfare. But beyond these adventures—which spilled off my bed and onto the sleek wooden flooring—are better reflections of the everyday. I use my daydreams to teleport myself into the stories of dysfunctional families told with a Chuck Palahniuk narrator’s scathing honesty or into the solitary, secret romances formerly imagined by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

My bed—twin-sized, flanked by mahogany posts, raised like a stage—is the birthplace of the restless voice narrating these stories. As a kid, I wouldn’t miss a single gasp or dramatic pause in my oral chronicles. Now, those jangly, never-ending sound effects follow me around via a different medium as well. When reworking my written-at-3-a.m. essays or editing the week’s twenty articles for the school newspaper, I have a nagging need to read everything aloud with some theatrics. The words on a page become seven-year-old Edric, the syntax and descriptions marching around the blanket until I stop them with the power of seventeen-year-old Edric, understanding their voices better and urging them to tell their stories as I told mine. I’d often try to dance with those words. In fact, I spend more time out of my seat than in it when writing and editing, waltzing away from whatever it is trying to steal those voices and images from my imagination.

But during the last student election season, I felt as though I had lost my voice—physically, but also narratively—to my coEditor-in-Chief. His brother had just been disqualified from the race, and while I was convinced he was using the paper toward a political agenda, he seemed untroubled. As I saw it, he rushed to publish pieces he had solicited, printing fervent opinions under the guise of the paper’s authority. I had started off as a news reporter to hear and project everyone’s story. Steps up in the hierarchy, though, I felt more powerless than ever to preserve the raw power of a story’s truth. His voice dominated, while others’— mine included, at the slightest mention of a conflict of interest—were crushed. The result: history involuntarily filtered such that the jangly sound effects were erased from record.

Fearful of the shouts I imagined booming from my co-Editor-in-Chief’s side of the chat-box, I often just retreated into the comfort I find in editing with MSWord’s track changes. Within those edits hides a sanctuary where my guiding voice can find solace in its black-inked counterparts, freely frolicking and conversing with existing words. When I became Editor-in-Chief of the school newspaper, my predecessors told my partner and me: “Don’t change the writer’s voice. It’ll just lead to trouble.”

Consequently, though articles and cutlines rarely pass by me without becoming drenched in red track changes, never have I given an ultimatum with those edits.

And ultimatums don’t necessarily work beyond the page either. I want to tell, write, and edit each story as if its perfection are all that matter. But in any story or situation, there are simply too many voices to expect each one to sashay this way or that.

Who am I to demand that? I ought to understand them, understand and listen to my co-Editor-in-Chief’s, because there’s little more satisfying than harmonizing every voice in this worldly chorus—even if by adding on one at a time.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

Essays

Nicole Senderovich college essays from recent stuy graduates

Arina Bykadorova

Common Application: Homeland Security The symbol of the United States, inscribed in gold on my new passport, is a bald eagle. I lay it next to my Russian passport, which is red and worn. It also sports an eagle, but the two-headed eagle of tsarist Russia, a throwback to pre-Soviet times – an ancient symbol.

I admire the American passport. It has taken twelve years of living in the U.S. for my family to become citizens, and this little blue book has been a long time coming. It makes me wonder: if the number of heads is the only difference between the two symbols, is naturalization a kind of chopping off of a head for us Russians? Cast the east-facing head off of the red eagle, throw its crown to the ground, and the two birds are indistinguishable.

Though the metaphor is bloody, the execution is not torturous. In New York City, where I have lived with my family since we left Moscow, becoming a New Yorker takes only a few months. Get comfortable with the subway system, learn to walk fast while drinking coffee, stop taking pictures in front of tourist attractions, and you’re as good as a native.

In Moscow, on the other hand, you can live for years and slave away for the city but still never be a Muscovite. If you don’t look Slavic you’ll always be stopped by police officers who will check your papers. Even if you do, the uncertainty of the law, of the cost of living, and of the atmosphere itself will not allow you to feel like you belong. It is not a place structured to make newcomers feel welcome. Though I was born there, I feel its cold shoulder, too.

The truth is, I live suspended between the two cities. Brooklyn is my home hands-down, but Moscow has its rights, like a biological father who has lost his kid to the stepdad years ago. Every year I am obliged to return to Russia to visit relatives, to pay my respects at the cemeteries, and to snap photos in front of the Kremlin. Even as I grow older and pare down my annual trip from two months to two weeks, the pull from my home to my homeland is strong, and often sickening.

This is how I explain that nausea: if New York is the city of anything-can-happen, Moscow is the city of anything-can-not-happen.

Anything can be banned; any protest can be put down, and any marriage can end in divorce. The best intentions and wisest plans can suffocate from the perpetual gray days and the government’s corruption.

And yet once a year, I must visit that biological father, no matter what I think of him.

My immigrant story is a typical one. I share the immigrant’s dream – I want to get an education, lead a successful career, start a family, and live in a big house. Without knowing the reality of my mother country, it would be easy to lose myself in the quest for these things. But along with its miseries, Russia grants me valuable perspective: it tempers my dreams and aspirations; it drags them out into the light. It reminds me that I cannot squander my glorious blue passport because the wealth and the freedoms of this country are not my birthright; they have been given to me as a gift. The only way to use this gift well is to, in turn, give those wealth and freedoms to others – to be New York and not Moscow to the individuals around me. This is the burden and the boost of my decapitated eagle. Life is better for me with just one head, but the scar that remains reminds me always what it means to have two.

Common Application

Which skills are inherently adult? Whether it’s making independent decisions, taking responsibility for one’s actions, or achieving a heightened degree of maturity, the mindset of an adult becomes difficult to categorize if we look to society for answers; perhaps the point at which adulthood’s reached by an individual cannot be pinpointed. What’s clear, however, is that the beginning of adulthood represents a major transition; it’s a milestone that gives birth to autonomy. To suggest that a single accomplishment could initiate the paramount change from childhood to adulthood is to, in my opinion, make an implausible claim. A more conceivable theory may be that a gradual series of events matures an individual. I’ve never accomplished anything that singly marked my transition from childhood to adulthood because such a transformation’s ongoing and thus, ill-suited for subjective analysis.

To illustrate, during the summer of 2013 I achieved metamorphosis that encompassed two distinct beats. The first in this series was the death of my awe-inspiring, beloved grandmother. Mourning the tragedy of her passing permanently altered my prospective outlook. That is, the cessation of a life so dear to me brought about a reconfigured awareness of what it means to be fortunate and quite simply, alive; I became a more humble and optimistic person by accepting my grandmother’s absence.

I spent much of that same substantive summer assisting with a Neuroscience project at Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory in Syosset, New York. At the lab, I executed complex tasks.

I trained animals to demonstrate complicated behaviors and built devices which monitor neuron activity in the brain’s auditory cortex; these proved to be the most advanced and fulfilling extra-curricular activities of my young adult life.

Participation in the internship, which exposed me to the unfamiliar world of working scientists, shifted my basic frame of reference; I now wonder about everyday activities from a particularly clinical angle, whereas prior to working with neuroscientists, the way in which the brain interprets auditory signals had never provoked in me much investigative thought.

So, I find that the practice of specifically identifying one’s shift from childhood to adulthood is, in the end, an exercise in futility. After all, the label of “adult,” and most other labels of social rank, strike me as short-sighted. To split the whole of an individual’s life into two sections - childhood and adulthood - is to undermine the way in which a person spends an entire existence evolving into countless forms of character. For instance, an occurrence which may typically be considered acute, such as a train delay, can in fact completely alter someone’s life, and consequently, perspective. That is, if a given train delay causes one to arrive late for work, and if this delay sets into motion a series of increasingly devastating delays and related mishaps, then one might ultimately discover that the unpredictable nature of public transportation isn’t something which should be blindly accepted, but instead, carefully considered. Hence, rather than delineating between only two phases of my development, I opt to consider the segue into maturation as ongoing; representational, yes, but never absolute.

Shannon Daniels What matters most to you and why?

My family is a blend of roast pork with rice, corned-beef, and cabbage: we consume culture just as much as food. We visit relatives for Christmas dinners as well as honor the Buddhist tradition of laying out a picnic beneath a loved one’s tombstone. Of all the things that matter to me, the single thing that has affected me most is simple: cooking.

I listen to stories about my grandparents while sautéing vegetables, my birth while brewing tea, and my mother’s childhood while carving cantaloupe. Every recipe is a narrative and every kitchen a laboratory, a garden, a designer workroom, and dozens of countries at once. The most intimate way I’ve learned about my amalgam of cultures, and any culture or language, is by tasting it. I’ve learned to be resourceful when we’ve run out of an ingredient, researched the origins of some of our oldest recipes, and added pinches of words in foreign languages to my vocabulary. Everything I’ve learned from a kitchen, I’ve applied to my writing and all of my creative pursuits. I add and subtract the lines of a poem judiciously, like spicing a soup. I collaborate with other writers the way my cousins and I bake on Thanksgiving together.

I thrive in an environment where connections such as these – cooking and culture, language and stories – aren’t just appreciated, but encouraged. I’d bring to the table my enthusiasm for learning across disciplines and experimenting with style and structure – sharing my recipes.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

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The Spectator Centennial Magazine

Quizzes

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HOW

STUY ARE YOU?

By MICHELLE CHAN, LON YIN CHAN, AND WEI HOU WU Directions: Check off each that apply to you.

Disclaimer: No matter what score you get, you’re still a wonderful Stuy student.

Driving School

 You’ve read The Spectator. (You better!)  You hate the New York Post.  You’ve spent an ungodly amount of time trying to figure out the right trashcan for your trash.  You’ve memorized all the college stats from student tools.  You’ve gotten kicked off the half floor for being too noisy.  You’ve tried the delicious Lychee candy in Ms. Zhang’s office.  You’ve had perfect high school attendance. (You must be God.)  You’ve taken a nap in the nurses’ office.  You’d go to class in the midst of a snowstorm.  You’ve found your graduating class’s Stuy Cube.  You’ve watched Acapella sing Christmas Carols on the 2nd floor.  You’ve played the Stuyvesant version of 2048.  You’ve broken the escalator.  If a non-senior, you’ve sat on the senior bar and seen how long you last before they notice.  You’ve never (ever) left Chambers street but plan to one day explore Tribeca.  You’ve seen the senior conga line at the end of the school year.  You’ve danced to the song that plays when you swipe in on your birthday.  You’ve stayed after school so late that the bridge entrance is closed.  You’ve imitated the Student Announcer and wondered who he/she was.  You’ve uncovered some of Stuy’s hidden places: the darkroom, the catwalks, the rooftop garden!  You’ve successfully gotten past the security guards with a cup of coffee in hand (or in bag).  You’ve complained about the goggle marks left on your face after lab.  You’ve participated in/watched SING!  You’ve fearlessly trekked through the puddles that appear outside of Stuy on snowy days.  You’ve been on a Stuy escalator that suddenly came to a stop (or started going backwards).  You’ve thought that the name next to your lunch period was the actual name of a teacher.  You’ve gone to at least one Open Mic.  You’ve let out your inner teenage rebel and slid down the escalator.  You’ve taken a selfie with your good friend who puts up with you every day (literally): the Tribeca Bridge.  You’ve said to yourself, “I hate Stuy,” but deep down, you know you love it.

NOW COUNT HOW MANY OF THESE YOU’VE CHECKED OFF!

Rates $50 per hour 5 hour prelicensing class $50 Call us now at (212) 802-1469 to schedule an appointment.

0-5 Do you go here?

6-11 There’s a pool on the roof.

11-17 You’re pretty decent!

18-23 You’re awesome!

24-30 You’ve been at Stuy for way too long.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine www.drivetrainnyc.com

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Arts and Entertainment Behind the Changing Curtain

By Frances Dodin

P

erformance has always given Stuyvesant that little extra something that makes it more than just a math and science school. Over the last century, this element of Stuy has blossomed into a wonderful community of talented artists, but the 1904 boysonly Stuyvesant had nothing more than a Glee Club and Dramatic Society to its performing name. Because the school was still small, in population as well as building size, and male-homogenized, athletics dominated the school’s social repertoire.

A year before Stuyvesant’s 1907 move from the initial East 23rd street building to the actual “Old Stuyvesant” building on East 15th Street, a school orchestra was formed to expand the students’ musical interests. The orchestra accompanied school plays, the first of which was performed in 1909. The next 60 years comprised an extravaganza of athletic, scientific, and mathematic accolades which left insufficient territory for the performing arts as extracurricular activities. The school also had a heavy manual training and construction workshop emphasis because of its male student body, which allowed for the creation of a backstage “techies” group, which would work on some school productions.

Teachers also heavily aided the development of the arts, especially when, in 1957, English teacher Sara R. Baron started the “Theatre English Class” to educate boys on the history and culture of theatre and allow them to put on their own performances. In the Students are accused of grand larceny for stealing 22 combination bus/subway passes worth 350 dollars each.

1983 34

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1984

600 alumni celebrate at the school’s 80th anniversary event.

The SU issues photo IDs.

1960s, the Student-Faculty Talent Show began, which encompassed students’ personal writing, acting, and singing with some faculty participation. In 1973, performance took a swing at an event that would become an annual phenomenon; the inter-grade theatre competition, SING!. At first, SING! was disliked by most performing students because it replaced the StudentFaculty Talent Show. The seniors were so opposed the new show that they reportedly got drunk during the night of the performance, causing them to come in last place. Eventually, however, the small event grew into the monster of school spirit and friendly competition that has overwhelmed the hallways of Stuyvesant every February since. Essentially, the production involves each competing group - Seniors, Juniors, and “Soph-frosh” (composed of the sophomore and freshman classes) - writing, directing, performing, lighting, designing, and costuming an hour-long themed musical.

After a month’s time, each team is pitted against the others during three days of performing. Alumni judges grade each performance in categories which include script, acting, dance, costumes, and technical aspects.

In the early years, it was a loosely structured and less competitive event that heavy relied on its singing and dancing, and although humor and satire were always included, the scripts were originally more censored because teachers were closely involved in the productions. Furthermore, plots were usually set entirely at Stuyvesant. Through many changes, the event found mediation between plot, singing, and dancing, and, in 1995, a fifty-minute time limit was imposed on productions, grade directors were added to improve organization, and heckling during shows was disallowed. Rules came and went, but SING! remains a unique, enjoyable experience for students. In reminiscence of his SING! participation, Daniel Fleishman (’10) said, “SING! was the one time of year

when the whole school came together. In a city where school spirit is virtually non-existent, SING! was a refreshing reminder that we are all Stuy.”

Along with the success of SING!, the Stuyvesant Theatre Community became the go-to club for theatre geeks. The STC has become the center of performance at Stuyvesant because of the way in which it creates a true sense of community. “Most of my friends have been involved in the STC. Working that closely with people for a hectic month and seeing it pay off really brings everyone together. I get to do something that I love to do with people I enjoy spending time with. We all have our own ways of relaxing and methods of reducing stress.

Mine just happens to be a rather large time commitment,” senior Jasmine Thomas said about her experiences with the STC. The exceedingly welcoming community allows any student interested in theatre to find a home in whichever performance they join. Conventionally, the STC puts on three performances every year: a musical, a drama, and a comedy.

In the early 2000s, The STC also produced “One Acts” Festivals, which were biannual week-long performance fests of short plays written and performed by Stuyvesant students. In the late 2000s the One-Acts began to interfere with several school events, which caused them to be moved around and shortened. Soon, they were cut completely from the school’s repertoire. Even though they are no longer active, former writer Wes Schierenbeck (’10) said, “Writing and producing original content was so incredibly satisfying because you could see how your original work stacked up to other students’ pieces as well as professionally written shows.”

In the early 2000s, the Stuyvesant social continued to dabble in a variety of different performing activities. For instance, the 2003-2004 school year featured a fall fashion show, which was run by Elle Girl magazine, as well

as a spring fashion/talent show that was produced by the SU and Stuyvesant’s own Fashion Club.

There was a serious fluctuation in audience attendance, but soon the dance side of performing arts found its ground with Stuy Squad.

This annual event allows the dancers of Stuyvesant High School to showcase their talents in a variety of styles. “What I like most about Stuy Squad is the fact that most of the crews don’t have cuts so it allows everyone to try dancing without the pressure of having to be the best,” junior participant Regina Weng said.

Also, in 2013, Stuyvesant’s Project Love began their now annual celebration of life and survival with their Stuyvesant Outlet Showcase. SOS allows a means of expression for anyone interested to raise awareness towards social and personal issues: a talent show of sorts. Project Love’s goal is to spread the word about the existence of psychological and emotional problems and create an environment where any performer is accepted and appreciated for his/her talents. One of the leaders of Project Love, junior Nicole Litvitsky said, “It’s performance for the sake of performing and, hopefully, inspirational. The goal of SOS is to inspire others to find their passion, whether they’re good at it or not, and be able to relieve their stress with that.”

Thus, performing arts have left a notable print on the history of this math and science high school. “I always expected [Stuyvesant’s] academic side, but that alone would’ve been less memorable,” Tasso Bountouvas (’10) said. “Theatre and performing offered the opportunity to participate in something slightly less expected.” After a century of developments that helped build and grow Stuyvesant’s performing community, the school is home to more artistic exhibitions than ever, as students continue finding new forms of self-expression through performance.

TIMELINE: 100 Years of The Spectator , Stuyvesant, and the World Planning for An orientation pro1988 a new school gram, including Big The Spectator sends reporters undercover to take the SAT and Achievement Tests building begins.

1986

Sibs, is launched to ease the transition into Stuyvesant.

1987

under assumed identities, exposing flaws and security weaknesses in the system; the reporters are featured on the Today Show.

1988 Stuyvesant sets the record for the most semifinalists in the Westinghouse Science Talent Search with 47 students.

1988

In Hazelwood School District v. Kuhlmeier, the Supreme Court decides on January 13 that schools are justified in censoring student journalists in an effort to promote the “the shared values of a civilized social order.”

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

Arts and Entertainment Alumni Artists and Entertainers

By Emma McIntosh and Nicole Rosengurt Stuyvesant is known for being a fantastic school for aspiring mathematicians, scientists, or engineers, but an astounding number of graduates have gone on to become successful in the arts as well. Below are a few alumni who became successful in careers that can be classified under arts and/or entertainment, along with their graduating year and their achievements.

S

heldon Leonard (1925) Commonly a supporting actor in American film and television, Sheldon Leonard was cast in films such as “It’s a Wonderful Life” and “Guys and Dolls.” He also became a voice actor for multiple radio shows and produced several popular television series, including “The Andy Griffith Show” and “The Dick Van Dyke Show.” After graduating from Stuyvesant High School and, later on, Syracuse University, Leonard managed to make his mark on the film, radio, and television industries.

T

helonious Monk (1936) Thelonious Monk was one of the most notable bop musicians, as well as a jazz pianist and composer. His signature style was improvisational, full of dissonance and percussive play of the piano. He had his first job touring as an accompanist to an evangelist. Monk attended Stuyvesant High School, but did not graduate. In the 1940s, Monk played at Minton’s Playhouse, a nightclub, where he met many other leading musicians of bebop. He was initially regarded as an eccentric and inferior pianist, but eventually people began to appreciate his style of jazz. Some of Thelonious Monk’s most famous songs include “Round Midnight,” “Straight No Chaser,” “52nd Street Theme,” and “Blue Monk.” (See more on page 8.)

W

illiam Greaves (1944) William Greaves was a documentary filmmaker and one of the pioneers of African American filmmaking. During the Civil Rights Movement, he worked for the government and made documentaries.

Soon after, he produced and won an Emmy for the show “Black Journal,” a news series by African Americans, for African Americans, and about African Americans. Greaves also created a meta-documentary featuring “a documentary, a documentary about a documentary, and a documentary documenting a documentary about a documentary” called “Symbiopsychotaxiplasm.” He was inducted into the Black Filmmakers Hall of Fame in 1980.

N

ed Vizzini (1999) Writer Ned Vizzini used his experience at Stuyvesant High School as inspiration for much of his work. He wrote a lot about depression and mental illnesses, which he himself suffered from. His novel “It’s Kind of a Funny Story,” which went on to become a movie, was very closely adapted from his own life. His writing has also been published in “The New York Times,” as well as the “New York Times Magazine,” and he has authored several other novels of varying genres.

K

ate Schellenbach (1983) Kate Schellenbach was a drummer for The Beastie Boys from 1981 to 1984. She also drummed for Luscious Jackson until the group’s breakup in 2000 and again for its reunion in 2011. Schellenbach was also the drummer for the New York all-girl punk band, the Lunachicks. Other notable achievements include producing work for “Lopez Tonight” and “The Ellen DeGeneres Show,” as well as participating in LGBT activism.

The logical reasoning section is added to the SHSAT. Ronald Grabe (‘62) goes to space aboard the Atlantis, bringing a Stuyvesant banner with him.

1989

A

sher Lack (2001) and Rebecca Rossi (2003) Along with their bandmates, Asher Lack and Rebecca Rossi formed the band “Ravens and Chimes” in 2005 while studying music and film at New York University. Lack is the singer and principal songwriter of the band. He is also currently a substitute teacher at Stuyvesant High School, while Rossi is a piano teacher.

H

eather Juergensen (1987) Heather Juergensen started her career in writing and performing for stage in both New York and LA. At an acting and writing workshop in New York’s Ensemble Studio Theater, she and Jennifer Westfeldt wrote an Off-Broadway play, “Lipschtick,” which eventually was adapted into the award-winning film, “Kissing Jessica Stein.” She has written screenplays/teleplays for Miramax, Warner Brothers, ABC, and CBS, and has also directed, written, and starred in many short films and plays. She contributed to the book “The May Queen,” a collection of essays exploring issues and experiences relevant to women in their thirties.

L

ucy Liu (1986) Probably one of the most famous alums of Stuyvesant, Lucy Liu is an actress best known for her roles in the TV series “Ally McBeal,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Kill Bill,” and “Elementary.” Liu, who is an artist in multiple mediums, has had several gallery shows showcasing her collages, paintings, and photography. Liu frequently donates and fundraises for Unicef, and she is also the spokeswoman for The Heinz Micronutrient Campaign to help malnourished children and infants.

TIMELINE: 100 Years of The Spectator, Stuyvesant, and the World 1994 The Tribeca Bridge is completed 1992 Stuyvesant relocates to its current tenstory building at 345 Chambers Street.

and the Murray Kahn Theater hosts its first performance, the Winter Concert.

Hackers, a film featuring Jonny Lee Miller and Angelina Jolie, is filmed at Stuyvesant.

1993

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

LIFE magazine runs a feature on Stuyvesant titled “Is This the Best High School in America?” on October 1, discussing Stuyvesant’s curriculum, admissions procedure, demographics, pressure faced by students, and academic achievements.

Advanced Computer Graphics and Systems Programming are introduced as electives.

Students receive computerized ID cards.

1995

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37

Quizzes

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HOW

STUY ARE YOU?

By MICHELLE CHAN, LON YIN CHAN, AND WEI HOU WU Directions: Check off each that apply to you.

Disclaimer: No matter what score you get, you’re still a wonderful Stuy student.

Driving School

 You’ve read The Spectator. (You better!)  You hate the New York Post.  You’ve spent an ungodly amount of time trying to figure out the right trashcan for your trash.  You’ve memorized all the college stats from student tools.  You’ve gotten kicked off the half floor for being too noisy.  You’ve tried the delicious Lychee candy in Ms. Zhang’s office.  You’ve had perfect high school attendance. (You must be God.)  You’ve taken a nap in the nurses’ office.  You’d go to class in the midst of a snowstorm.  You’ve found your graduating class’s Stuy Cube.  You’ve watched Acapella sing Christmas Carols on the 2nd floor.  You’ve played the Stuyvesant version of 2048.  You’ve broken the escalator.  If a non-senior, you’ve sat on the senior bar and seen how long you last before they notice.  You’ve never (ever) left Chambers street but plan to one day explore Tribeca.  You’ve seen the senior conga line at the end of the school year.  You’ve danced to the song that plays when you swipe in on your birthday.  You’ve stayed after school so late that the bridge entrance is closed.  You’ve imitated the Student Announcer and wondered who he/she was.  You’ve uncovered some of Stuy’s hidden places: the darkroom, the catwalks, the rooftop garden!  You’ve successfully gotten past the security guards with a cup of coffee in hand (or in bag).  You’ve complained about the goggle marks left on your face after lab.  You’ve participated in/watched SING!  You’ve fearlessly trekked through the puddles that appear outside of Stuy on snowy days.  You’ve been on a Stuy escalator that suddenly came to a stop (or started going backwards).  You’ve thought that the name next to your lunch period was the actual name of a teacher.  You’ve gone to at least one Open Mic.  You’ve let out your inner teenage rebel and slid down the escalator.  You’ve taken a selfie with your good friend who puts up with you every day (literally): the Tribeca Bridge.  You’ve said to yourself, “I hate Stuy,” but deep down, you know you love it.

NOW COUNT HOW MANY OF THESE YOU’VE CHECKED OFF!

Rates $50 per hour 5 hour prelicensing class $50 Call us now at (212) 802-1469 to schedule an appointment.

0-5 Do you go here?

6-11 There’s a pool on the roof.

11-17 You’re pretty decent!

18-23 You’re awesome!

24-30 You’ve been at Stuy for way too long.

The Spectator Centennial Magazine www.drivetrainnyc.com

S

33

Anne Duncan / The Spectator

For Israel, Two Roads Diverge

By DANIEL KODSI The World Is On Fire

“S

o I was watching the news the other day,” says one of the characters in a recent webcomic. “…And?” asks his buddy.

“I wouldn’t recommend it, to be honest.”

This summer has been bloody and violent. From the downing of MH17 in the Donetsk Oblast to Ferguson’s shooting and subsequent riots, there has seemingly been no end to the catastrophes.

Tens of thousands continue to die in Syria’s civil war; the Islamic State is attempting genocide in Iraq, beheading American journalists and torching cultural sites as it goes.

Yet, the event that generated by far the most news coverage and sparked an international, fiercely polarized debate was the renewal of the war between Hamas and Israel, a struggle that claimed over 2,000 lives. Even if one were to have avoided all news sources for the past two months, it would still have been impossible to miss, with protests (almost all against Israel) springing up in Montreal and Karachi, the Brooklyn Bridge and Cape Town.

At the commencement of Israel’s Operation Protective Edge, I was in as fierce support of Israel as might have been expected—I have been raised in a culturally Jewish home; had my Bar Mitzvah at the Western Wall; and it’s probably telling that the first history I read of the Palestine-Israel conflict was Alan Dershowitz’s The Case for Israel. Early reports of Hamas’s use of human shields and Israel’s home warning protocol further cemented my stance.

As the death toll mounted and I was bombarded with horror stories in The New York Times about the calamities befalling Palestinian civilians, however, I began to question the Israeli government’s actions and the steps it took dealing with Hamas’s operations. As a distant observer, it has been hard to stomach the bombing of a United Nations school and the errant missiles that have decimated innocent lives. In an after-dinner discussion amongst my mother’s friends, someone suggested, “While of course I support Israel, I think the question a lot of us are asking is ‘Couldn’t they have shown some restraint?’”

More broadly, I have found myself taking issue with the path upon which the Israeli government has set itself. From the growing West Bank settlements, long a point of disagreement for me and other Jews in the Diaspora (as well as much of the Israeli public), to policies making it through the Knesset that repress Israeli Arabs, and finally to a military campaign that has earned Israel immense international opprobrium for its seeming disregard for Palestinian life, Israel needs a paradigm shift to ensure the reconciliation of Zionism and liberalism, and the long-term prosperity of the Jewish state.

But First, a Defense

B

efore I explore Israel’s faults, however, I believe it is important to dismiss any potential link between criticism of Israel and lack of support for Israel. I stand as firm a Zionist as ever, and will defend to the hilt anything from Israel’s right to exist (which should not be in question) to its right to selfdefense, especially when terrorists indiscriminately lob missiles at its population centers hoping to hit

its civilians. While I do not attribute 100 percent of the blame for the violence on Hamas, as many do, it is not only ludicrous but also morally reprehensible to deny its culpability in beginning and subsequently prolonging the recently ended conflict.

As Senator Charles Schumer wrote in mid-July, there is no moral equivalency between Israel and Hamas. Positing such legitimizes the latter’s flagrant breaches of international law and continued acts of terrorism, dating from its inception. Indeed, the very first paragraph of Hamas’s charter declares that “Israel will rise and will remain erect until Islam eliminates it as it had eliminated its predecessors,” and the text later includes, “Muslims will fight the Jews (and kill them); until the Jews hide behind rocks and trees, which will cry: O Muslim! There is a Jew hiding behind me, come on and kill him!”

Hamas is committed not just to the destruction of Israel, but the genocide of the entire Jewish race.

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has said, “We’re using missile defense to protect our civilians, and they’re using their civilians to protect their missiles,” and he’s right. While Israel has invested billions in its bomb shelters and Iron Dome defense technology, among other defense capabilities, Hamas has consistently diverted Israeli and international aid from its citizens and into building rockets and an intricate tunnel system.

For example, according to Bloomberg News, “Militants have poured an estimated 600,000 tons of cement and other materials into the ground at a cost of around $30 million to build the three dozen underground passages found so far.”

There has been enormous human cost, too. As the Institute for Palestine Studies, a Beirut-based thinktank, reports “At least 160 children have been killed in the tunnels, according to Hamas officials.” While the latter statistic refers to the total cost of the tunnels, including the ones going into Egypt used for smuggling and not waging war, it is horrifying nonetheless—Hamas is willing to sacrifice the lives of Palestinian youth for the express purpose of attempting murder.

Moreover, the building of rockets and tunnels is a key reason for the continued blockade on the Gaza Strip. While this is a complicated issue, those who vilify Israel or justify Hamas because of it ignore the explicit reason for its existence: preventing material that could be used to attack Israel from reaching

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Opinions

Hamas and similar groups in Gaza.

Since Hamas evidently uses the resources and supplies it receives in order to improve its military capabilities, why would Israel lift the blockade and allow more material to reach an enemy with the avowed aim of Israel’s destruction?

It is worth looking also at the short-term origins of the Israeli offensive. The first catalyst was the June 12 kidnapping and killing of three Israeli teenagers. This is where some blame must be pointed at the Israeli government. It immediately accused Hamas of the killings (recent evidence indicates a lone Hamas cell was responsible, not the parent organization) and began a crackdown in the West Bank; both actions exacerbated tension and helped provoke anger on both sides.

However, it was Hamas that let fly the first salvo on July 7, the day before the launch of Operation Protective Edge. As the BBC explains, there was strong motivation for Hamas to instigate a new bloodbath. Increasingly isolated, with the loss of Egypt as an ally and Syria in no position to help, Hamas was in dire straits strategically, as well as financially, following the fall of Morsi’s government and the closure of 95 percent of the tunnels running from Gaza to Egypt. An escalation of hostilities was the best way for Hamas to force concessions from the Israeli and Egyptian governments.

Similarly, it was Hamas that repeatedly extended the violence.

By my count, it rejected or violated eight ceasefires, from July 15 to August 19. By having been unwilling for so long to accept a longterm truce before it was given the political concessions it so craved, Hamas decisively proved its callous disregard for those dying within its borders.

In the same vein, it is truly fundamental to understand that Hamas’s strategy is to evoke sympathy from the media and the international community through the deaths of Palestinian civilians.

As The Atlantic’s Jeffrey Goldberg explains, “[Hamas] knows that it advances its own (perverse) narrative even more when it induces Israel to kill Palestinian civilians,” than when it kills Jews. Its overwhelming success is well evidenced by the growing revilement of Israel around the world and the vicious anti-Semitic demonstrations across Europe, new calls for BDS (Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions) and

continued on page 40

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Opinions

For Israel, Two Roads Diverge

continued from page 39 how Hamas’s recognition on the international stage has reached a zenith. Ignoring its motives and granting Hamas legitimacy proves that terrorism works.

Even noting the above, the last and most important item to explore is the high civilian death toll in Palestine. I would be derelict in my defense not to point out that Hamas hides its weaponry in locations such as homes, UNRWA schools, and mosques, creating de facto human shields. This has been so extensively covered it scarce needs repeating. For Israel to destroy Hamas’s missile stockpiles, it tragically needed to target those densely populated areas.

There is a more insidious force at play, too. The casualty statistic most quoted—the one the United Nations supplies—is itself supplied to the United Nations by the Hamas-run Palestinian Health Ministry, hardly an unbiased source. Additionally, Bret Stephens of the Wall Street Journal points out, “When minutely exact statistics are provided in chaotic circumstances, it suggests the statistics are garbage.”

Contrast this with the story offered by The Meir Amit Intelligence and Terrorism Intelligence Center (ITIC). According to the center, which even the New York Times called “impressive in its documentation, using photographs and Internet tributes,” of the 448 names it had been able to analyze by August 17, 208 were militants while 240 were civilians.

This figure is a world away from the numbers usually used, which show a noncombatant death rate of more than 75 percent. While they might well not be (considering that the center has calculated less than a quarter of total casualties), if ITIC’s calculations are accurate then the entire narrative of the conflict would be drastically altered: it would cease to be a story of Israel’s wanton slaying of women and children, but one in which Israel has carefully rooted out a terrorist organization.

The Downward Spiral

I

t is now time to return to the question of restraint. Even assuming the (albeit unlikely) best case, a near 1:1 civilian to militant fatality ratio, over a thousand innocents still lie dead. While I hope I have shown Israel’s justifications, the conflict still marks a turning point. Never before

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has any Israeli operation against Hamas continued so long, nor have so many died.

Golda Meir once said, “Peace will come when Arabs love their children more than they hate us,” and it has become a familiar refrain. For a long time, it was true—Israel was willing to make peace while its enemies were not.

It was true through the Arab-Israeli wars, which were each and every one Arab-provoked. It was true at the Oslo Accords in 1993 and 1995, and at the Camp David talks in 2000, when Israel indisputably proved its desire to exchange land for peace. It was still true, it seemed, in 2006, when Ariel Sharon seemed posed to unilaterally withdraw from most of the West Bank. There was even hope at Annapolis in 2007 with Ehud Olmert at the helm.

But Ehud Barak and Ariel Sharon are no longer the leaders of Israel. Instead there is Benjamin Netanyahu, conservative enough himself, who has been forced further right in order to maintain control of his government.

There is Netanyahu’s oft-reviled foreign minister Avigdor Lieberman, who has called for boycotts of Arab businesses that closed to protest the Israeli campaign—a grave infringement on freedom of speech—and otherwise denigrated the Arabs living in Israel. And there is his economy minister Naftali Bennett, the popular leader of the Jewish Home party, who has stated “I will do everything in my power to make sure [the Palestinians] never get a state.”

It seems like Mr. Bennett might get his way. On August 31, following the end of hostilities, Israel claimed 1,000 acres of land near Bethlehem in the West Bank, a move the New York Times insightfully deemed as “expos[ing] the contradictory visions in the Israeli government that hamper the prospects of any broader IsraeliPalestinian peace process.”

Ezra Klein says it best in Vox, “The excuse used to be that Israel did not have a partner for peace, and that was true. But it’s clear today that Israel itself is not much of a partner for peace, either.” Now, peace would not come even if the Arabs were to lay down their arms—not, to be fair, that they ever would. The lack of restraint carried out by the Israeli Defense Force during Operation Protective Edge is emblematic of this shift.

Klein is one of the many liberal Jews to have declared his growing lack of faith in Israel’s government,

and in that number are countless columnists for prominent publications.

Reverberating through all their writing is the clear sense of pain and loss in being forced to distance themselves from Israel on humanistic and liberal grounds.

As The Guardian’s Jonathan Freedland writes, “If there is no prospect of two states, then liberal Zionists will have to do something they resist with all their might. They will have to decide which of their political identities matters more, whether they are first a liberal or first a Zionist. And that is a choice they don’t want to make.”

It is easy to see why some Israelis are electing politicians willing to give up on the two-state solution given the unending threats to the very existence of their home and enemies utterly unwilling to compromise.

It is easy to see how they have become disillusioned with the international community, with double standards held against Israel from day one. (The examples of such are plentiful and grievous, but to point out just one: In 2013, according to UN Watch, the United Nations General Assembly “adopted a total of 21 resolutions singling out Israel for criticism.”

Against any country in the rest of the world combined? Just four.)

And it is easy to see how the savage cycle—they attack us, we defend ourselves by killing them, they hate us more, rinse and repeat—could foster Islamophobic or otherwise anti-Arab sentiment.

After all, Israelis are no more infallible than Americans, for instance, and look where our politics has gotten us (the Iraq Body Count project counts between 127,000 and 143,000 civilians dead in Iraq).

After all, Israel is a democracy and that means it has all of democracy’s pitfalls as well.

The political situation in Israel is mired in the present. Now that the battle is over, Israel must focus on the greater war. It cannot exist in a void, drawing condemnation from any and all. Some Israeli politicians boast that Israel could do without any aid, not even American. And perhaps for the moment, that is the case.

But over the decades, an Israel delegitimized and isolated entirely from the international community would be extraordinarily vulnerable to extremist attack. And while there is no excuse for anti-Semitism, the same way there is no excuse for any other racism, the grim reality is that the vitriol against Is-

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

rael has unleashed anti-Semitism across many parts of the world. In sum, an Israel on its current path means a more dangerous environment for Jews—antithetical to the nation’s founding purpose.

The Camp David talks were a source of good will for a long time; so would be withdrawing from at least parts of the West Bank, or providing a concrete roadmap for Palestinian independence. Fortunately, popular support for the West Bank settlements is on the decline; though the politics behind their continued growth are complex, an end must come soon.

As Goldberg wrote on July 27, “The Palestinians must go free, because there is no other way.”

In the mean time, there are other steps for Israel to take.

Foremost is helping to rebuild Gaza’s infrastructure (a process estimated to cost up to $6 billion) and providing food and medical supplies for those in need. Israel should also seize opportunities to create wealth in the West Bank, because doing so is the only way to show a genuine desire to alleviate suffering. Internal politics must change too, away from those of Avigdor Lieberman—treating an entire race as second-class is indefensible.

Even given the obstinacy, virulent anti-Semitism and refusal to cooperate of its enemies, it is Israel’s duty to take unilateral action to regain its old reputation. Is this a double standard? Absolutely.

But as Aharon Barak, former President of the Israeli Supreme Court, wrote in a 1999 decision banning torture, even at the expense of civilian lives: Although a democracy must often fight with one hand tied behind its back, it nonetheless has the upper hand. Preserving the Rule of Law and recognition of an individual’s liberty constitutes an important component in its understanding of security. At the end of the day, they strengthen its spirit and its strength and allow it to overcome its difficulties.

Israel was founded on a lofty ideal: that of an enlightened, free Jewish democracy. By most definitions, it has succeeded, becoming a prosperous nation with a vibrant, competitive political system despite decades of strife and being surrounded by enemies on all sides. Israelis must continue to hold themselves to such a high standard. If they can, Israel’s future will be as blindingly bright as its past.

By Evelyn Gotlieb A beloved grandmother is informed by her doctor she has leukemia. Amidst thoughts of denial and worry, the first question she asks is: “It’s treatable, right?” Her doctors assure her it is. However, because this woman is well into her seventies, they may have doubts about pursuing any treatment at all.

Ageism, discrimination because of age, is not prevalent in the United States, but in the United Kingdom, studies have shown that older patients are less likely to receive cancer treatments like chemotherapy, radiation, and surgery.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing—deterring older patients from seeking treatment could provide them with a higher quality of life than their treatment-seeking counterparts, because older patients are more likely to have medical issues that preclude relief. Objectively speaking, ageists present a very strong case.

Following the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, The Spectator creates a 24-page color magazine featuring students’ reflections on the tragic events. The magazine is distributed in 830,000 copies of the New York Times throughout the city.

2001

This summer, I was an intern for a bone marrow transplant physician.

Though I knew the inside of a hospital from visiting hours and my relatives’ cancer stories, I didn’t know what it was like to be on the other side, treating the disease. I saw cancer defeat, but I also watched as it was defeated.

Most importantly I learned what it takes to be a cancer patient: strength, hope, and perseverance.

I watched as patients tried to grasp the complex processes surrounding transplants for hematological cancers as well as the effects cancer had on them as individuals. It was only after I had seen patients struggle with their cancer—on their best and worst days—that I truly understood the case against ageism. I confirmed, once and for all, that when doctors make literal life or death decisions, holding assumptions about a patient’s abilities to tolerate the aftermath of cancer therapy based solely on age is impossible to justify.

On my first day, I read the patient handbook; in just a few pages, it was made crystal clear that treatment, especially for blood cancer, is extensive. Treatment includes chemotherapy, radiation, countless medications, and follow-up visits, and if the cancer relapses, a bone marrow transplant. A lot to take in on paper, it is even worse to watch as the words transform into expressions on a patient’s face.

Daily, I would shadow the doctor as he visited patients recovering from their transplants. Suffering from infections and fluctuating blood cell counts was the norm. It was easy to think that cancer treatment isn’t worth the struggle. Ageists seemed to have a point: treatment is a painful experience, especially for older patients.

But that’s what cancer is.

It is tough and unrelenting— but so are patients, no matter their age. For instance, I once saw a woman too depressed to eat conversing happily with her husband as he stood by her bedside the next day.

Though this was a small stepping-stone for them, a smile on the woman’s face far outshined the hospital’s much more frequent frowns.

Though work in the hospital revived my hope in treatment, the undesirable truth is that even in youth, successful treatment is never a guarantee. In the case of one young woman, the bone marrow transplant worked.

However, she developed a form of graft-versus-host

disease and depression after treatment; she was left in a state of helplessness, with her children worried that she couldn’t enjoy her life. Despite this patient’s youth, she was unable to overcome the harsh side effects of transplants. Results like this aren’t uncommon either; cancer treatment’s success can range anywhere from what this woman experienced to fifteen cancer-free years, like it did for my great-grandmother.

This summer I saw a capacity for strength greater than I ever knew existed. It takes a lot to fight cancer, but a certain age certainly isn’t one of the criterions. And after observing the prevalence of cancer-related depression, I also discovered just how important support was in the decision-making process.

When faced with the question ‘to treat, or not to treat,’ our response shouldn’t be a number. Patients should never feel discouraged because of their age. From what I’ve seen, it is not a deciding factor. Successful treatment stems from hope.

Lydia Wu / The Spectator

Stephanie Chan / The Spectator

An Age-Old Issue

Opinions

TIMELINE: 100 Years of The Spectator, Stuyvesant, and the World Apple releases the The Regents exam Principal Teitel makes 2011 first iPhone. cheating scandal ocAIS tutoring mandatory 2008

for failing students. Teitel also starts a new initiative called Writing Across the Curriculum to improve students’ writing. The SU launches their website.

The Spectator’s Humor department is founded.

curs. Assistant Principal of Organization Randi Damesek is fired as a result.

Jie Zhang is appointed principal.

2013

2012

2010 The Spectator Centennial Magazine

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Features

Finding the Foundation

By TINA JIANG

I

t is 6:00 p.m. and the security guards at Stuyvesant are telling students to leave the building. In The Spectator office in the SU suite, a group of students shut off the lights, attempting to hide from the guards. Minutes pass, and once no sounds can be heard, the students allow the lights to flicker back on. They return to the warm glow of their computers, typing away behind glazed eyes, determined to make sure The Spectator is published on time. This is only one example of the dedication of the past editorial staff of The Spectator. While states, and in some cases, continents, separate these alumni, they are all still held together by the journalistic spirit this paper instilled in them. In commemoration of their contributions in building the foundation of The Spectator, this article is dedicated to remembering their time on the paper and what they have accomplished since then.

Mark Schapiro (Sports Editor, Editor-in-Chief 1988-1990) When Mark Schapiro was the Editor-in-Chief of The Spectator, devastating news hit the Stuyvesant community; a student had been shot in gang crossfire in Queens. Feeling a responsibility to report on this tragedy, the editorial staff of The Spectator sent a reporter to cover what happened.

The student was able to discover which gangs were involved and some of the members in the gangs.

The student’s discoveries put her life on the line as she started to receive death threats, making her afraid to publish the story. Feeling as if he owed it to the deceased student to get the truth out, Schapiro decided to publish the article under the editorial board with no byline, meaning any blame would fall on him. A few days later, a police officer escorted Schapiro out of the school to safeguard him from potential threats from the gangs.

The situation was soon fixed as the police became convinced that Schapiro was not in danger, but not before he got his first real lesson in responsibility. In addition to teaching Schapiro lessons, The Spectator also served as his second home. “The paper created a community, a family I guess,” he said in an e-mail interview.

After graduating from Stuyvesant, Schapiro went on to study political science at Brown University. At Brown, Schapiro continued to be involved in journalism, but in the form of television as opposed to print. Looking back at this decision, Schapiro has some doubts. “Sometimes I think about the great days at Spec and wonder if I should have stayed with newspaper in college,” Schapiro said.

After college, Schapiro worked for the Maury Povich Show, continuing a media career that had begun with The Spectator. The experience he had was quite different from what he had envisioned.

“I came in to the show all idealistic, wanting to change the world,

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and the first show I had to work on was about sex addicts,” Schapiro said. Left dissatisfied, Schapiro quit and went to graduate school at the London School of Economics.

After graduate school, Schapiro spent a few winters teaching skiing in Switzerland, and taught sports and languages to kids from all over the world at the International Summer Camp Montana in Switzerland for the rest of the year.

The camp, filled with children and staff from around 55 different countries, inspired Schapiro to take the Foreign Service Officer exam, an exam candidates must take to become a United States diplomat. After passing, Schapiro joined the State Department in the spring of 2000. Schapiro has been a U.S. diplomat ever since then. His choice of assignment in the first years of his career was public diplomacy, with a heavy focus on engaging the Arab media from Syria and Pakistan.

Currently, Schapiro is based in Washington where he is coordinating United States policy with Turkey. Most recently, he has dealt with Turkey’s presidential election and coordinated the two countries’ actions regarding northern Iraq and Syria.

Though Schapiro has drifted far from journalism, many of the lessons he learned from working on the Spectator remain with him to this day. “Filtering is critical, because there is so much out there that is interesting, but not a lot that is actually important. I like to think that this idea came in some small part from my experience editing the Spec, figuring out what was important, how much space we had, and asking myself always why people should care to read what we put out there,” Schapiro said.

Susie Poppick (Features Editor 2002-2003) Murder is typically a taboo subject, but in journalism, “murdering my darlings” is a phrase used to describe taking away sec-

tions that you’ve worked hard on, but still need to be cut. Susie Poppick, former Features editor, was first introduced to this concept and the surprising satisfaction it left her with while writing for The Spectator. “The result is always much crisper and it provides the same kind of satisfaction as cleaning my whole house,” she said.

Poppick continued to “murder her darlings” at Yale University, where she wrote for Yale’s newspaper, the Yale Daily News.

Poppick’s experience with The Spectator was a key component of her eventual climb to news editor of the Yale Daily News.

“Many of the lessons The Spectator taught me about ethics, teamwork, story construction, reporting technique, and even copy editing covered most of the bases I would later learn, or relearn, in college and then in my graduate journalism program. In short, it laid the groundwork for me to love and succeed at journalism,” Poppick said. Poppick’s experience working for both papers involved many late nights during which she bonding with her classmates. “There were many similarities, though the lack of faculty oversight in college meant I had to learn self-sufficiency. But in college, just like in high school, I learned a ton from the experience, made great friends, and got further bitten by the journalism bug,” she said.

Along with writing for Yale’s newspaper, Poppick interned at the Dow Jones Newswires and wrote pieces for the Wall Street Journal, in Brussels, Belgium, where she covered financial news.

Poppick’s success overseas convinced her to work in financial consulting after graduating from Yale. After some time in this career, Poppick decided that she was unsatisfied with her position.

“It turns out working directly in a field, and this field in particular, is sometimes far less fulfilling than writing about it,” she said. Poppick decided to quit her job and teach biology in China for two years. Looking back, this was a very scary choice for Poppick to make but the end result was more than satisfactory. “It was actually very scary for me to quit that first job out of college, but I’m glad and proud that I did because it allowed me to move forward right away into more interesting experiences and eventually the right

The Spectator Centennial Magazine

career path,” she said.

Poppick soon missed both writing and her home, so she came back to the United States to attend Columbia University for a Masters degree in Journalism. After graduate school Poppick took a job at Money Magazine, writing about investing, behavioral economics, and tax. The first cover story Poppick wrote for Money Magazine, “Make Your Money Safer…and Still Get a Sweet Return,” was an idea she pitched after reading economist Robert Haugen’s work on how less volatile stocks could produce higher returns. The article, which started out as a small idea, dove into how decreasing risk could still get you a good return, and became a success. Over time she also started getting more involved in leading data-driven projects like mutual funds reports and the magazine’s “Best Places to Live” franchise.

That work, along with the features and cover stories Poppick wrote got her promoted last year to senior reporter and this year to associate editor for the magazine’s brand new website, Money.com.

It seems that the journalism bug Poppick was bitten by in high school will continue to drive her for years to come. Despite the wobbles in between Poppick is confident she has made the right decisions. “If I had just followed my fears, I might still be stuck in a job that made me unhappy deep down, just because it paid well and looked good on paper,” Poppick said.

Sarah Outhwaite (Opinions Editor 2003-2005) Entering high school at a time when the September 11th attacks had just occurred, Sarah Outhwaite was heavily influenced by the political talks regarding the controversy surrounding the air quality in lower Manhattan. Wishing to tell the world about her opinions, Outhwaite joined The Spectator as an Opinions writer and began to write pieces about the ambivalence of the air quality reports of the time and her belief

Features that contrary to the popular opinion, the air quality was actually dangerous. The Opinions pieces Outhwaite wrote focused on the horrendous air quality, and contradicted news articles with titles like “An A for Air Quality” being published at the time. Outhwaite’s article prevailed; during her senior year reports came out that supported her Opinions pieces rather than the News articles.

Outhwaite’s love for journalism carried on into her career, when after graduating from Princeton University, she moved to Cambodia to freelance as an Arts and Culture writer for the country’s largest English newspaper, The Phnom Penh Post. Outhwaite eventually moved back to New York City where she continued her love for theater and the performing arts, begun at Stuyvesant, by working on creative projects and collaborating with directors and actors.

Outhwaite would eventually help coordinate social media pages for a revival of Rogers and Hammerstein’s musical “The Sound of Music.” This marked a change in which she would begin to gravitate towards the video and new media aspect of art.

Currently, Outhwaite is working in Digital Media at the Guggenheim Museum. Simultaneously, Outhwaite is assisting in the creation of a documentary called Basetrack as a video designer. Basetrack contains interviews with marines coming back from Afghanistan and documents their transition to civilian life. This project has allowed Outhwaite to bring together her work in the performing arts and her work in journalism. “The first time I opened documentary footage, I had a crazy moment where I experienced the sense of stress I used to get when interviewing people for The Spectator. These people were speaking and entrusting their lives to me,” she said.

Jeff Orlowski (Photo Editor, Editor-in-Chief 2002-2003) Traveling around the world is an item that most people are unable to check off their bucket lists. Jeff Orlowski, former Editorin-Chief and Photo editor of The Spectator, has had the opportunity to do so while directing documentaries. Orlowski’s interest in filming first started on The Spectator where he was a photographer. “The Spectator had a profound impact on my life and it transformed the way I looked at the world. Instead of seeing Stuyvesant through the lens of an average student, I saw it through

the lens of a journalist. Now, as a filmmaker, so many of the principles of journalism have carried over into my life. The only difference is that instead of telling a story through stationary photos, I am now telling a story through a series of photos weaved together into a film,” Orlowski said.

Orlowski’s interest in photography stayed with him at Stanford University, where he studied anthropology while working with seasoned photographers and volunteering to do professional shoots. The nature of the shoots eventually changed, almost unnoticeably, from photography to film, more specifically filming documentaries.

When Orlowski decided to start on a documentary called “Chasing Ice,” he drew on some of his studies in anthropology and decided to detail the effects of climate change in an effort to convince readers that global warming was real. Orlowski documents the work of a photographer attempting to capture the melting of glaciers through a series of photographs, infusing the film with personal struggles of the photographer, such as a knee problem that prevented him from hiking.

Orlowski’s film has been called “Stunning…Timely…” by The New York Times and “Hauntingly beautiful” by The Huffington Post.

Orlowski’s experience filming and directing in Antarctica has left him with the adventure of a lifetime where flying in helicopters, living in the freezing cold, riding sleds, living with wolves, and repairing broken bones became daily occurrences.

Currently Orlowski is working on another feature documentary similarly focused on how the planet is changing. This time, instead of depicting the change through ice, Orlowski has decided to depict the change through the coral reefs of the ocean.

Orlowski’s journey has taken him to seven different continents where he is doing the same work he did on The Spectator, with only a slight variation. Orlowski’s hectic work schedule has made him into something of a workaholic.

“I’m almost always doing something related to work,” he said.

“I’m simply grateful that I am able to do what I do and still be able to pay the bills and live in a reality that always has an unpredictable factor to it.”

Post as a features writer, her love for both came together.

Receiving the request for an article at 10 a.m., Kaplan had minimal time to prepare an article about the series of cupcake shops in Washington D.C. that were closing. Kaplan went through all the cupcake shops, interviewing owners, and even talking to a food trend expert. Her story would eventually be read by many, even resulting in an interview with a radio station. Despite the readership, Kaplan surprisingly enough, did not know much about cupcakes before writing the article.

“The fun thing about being a journalist is that people don’t know you don’t know. You become an expert over the course of creating an article, writing about new issues every day,” Kaplan said.

Kaplan’s success as a journalist would not have been possible without her first experience with journalism on The Spectator. “Being on The Spectator is definitely a one-of-a-kind experience. I loved being able to write and being able to get inside knowledge of Stuyvesant. It was an awesome community of really smart talented people. The feeling of teamwork, the adrenaline rushes, and overwhelming feeling of putting a

paper together are unparalleled,” Kaplan said.

Kaplan would later continue to write, but for Georgetown University’s newspaper, The Hoya.

“The Spectator and Hoya were very similar in terms of the excitement, professionalism, and camaraderie. The Hoya, however, was twice-weekly so it became almost like a full time job, a job that I loved,” Kaplan said.

Kaplan is continuing to chase her dreams as a journalist today on The Washington Post, accepting that life doesn’t always go as planned. “I think that the sort of thing I struggled a lot with coming out of Stuyvesant was that I was so used to planning everything. I would later realize that it’s the experiences that you don’t plan that end up being the things that are the most meaningful and important. Be open to Plan B. You might not appreciate it at first, but you’ll come to like the unexpected twists and turns of life,” Kaplan said.

PHOTO CREDITS Mark Schapiro Courtesy of Mark Schapiro Susie Poppick Courtesy of Peter Ou Sarah Outhwaite Courtesy of Sarah Outhwaite Jeff Orlowski Courtesy of The New York Times Sarah Kaplan Courtesy of Sarah Kaplan

EDITORIAL BOARDS By

the photography department

Sarah Kaplan (Features Editor, 2008-2009) Cupcakes and running typically don’t go together, but when former features editor Sarah Kaplan was hired by the Washington

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