Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY)
- Class of 1969
Page 1 of 128
Pages 6 - 7
Pages 10 - 11
Pages 14 - 15
Pages 8 - 9
Pages 12 - 13
Pages 16 - 17
Text from Pages 1 - 128 of the 1969 volume:
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to capture, the rapturous
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closed eye of night.
ART STAFF Mr. Richard Johnson. Faculty Art Adviser.
Karen Pikanowski, Marlene Kaplan, Lynn Kudelka, Art Direc-
tors. Marlene Arnaiz, Valerie Mele, George Hom, Associate
Art Directors. STAFF: Daniel Haskett, Warren Westbo, Martin
Golding, George Moy, Matthew Rosenzweig, Roni Eisenberg,
Hedy Wolfe, George Abagnalo, Tom Kostro, Don Ellison,
Stephen Marchesi, Claudia Schwalb,
PHOTOGRAPHY STAFF Anthony Armato, Sharon Newborn,
.Iill Pulis, Helene Grossman, Denis Fay, David Lopez.
COVER DESIGN: Barbara Silverman
LITERARY STAFF Daisy Aldan, Faculty Literary Adviser.
Adele Geraghty, Editor-in Chief. STAFF: Alexandra Reyes,
Sandy Greenberg, Leona Seutert, Brenda Branch, Helene
Grossman, Marci Compton, Lani Mysak, Tina Ladas, Judith
Pfetfer, Dierdre Wolownick, Roxanne Rivera, Lorraine Brooks,
Miriam Jiminez, Hope Singer, Gail Debel, Carolyn McComl3s,
Caryn Ward, Daniel Haskett, Mario Sotolongo.
CONTRIBUTORS: Beth Irwin, Vicki Nanos, Bill Mantlo, Jo
Amy Shulman, Claudia Schwalb, Barbara Escoffery, Lance
Lovelace, Glor Brown, Ellen LaSpalluto.
THE BOARD OF EDUCATION OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK
HIGH SCHOOL OF ART AND DESIGN 1075 SECOND AVENUE NEW YORK, N.Y. 10022
Mr. Jacob H. Raphael, Principal
Mr. Walter Welsh, Acting Principal '
HIGH SCHOOL UF ART AND DESIGN 1959
Administration 6 LITERARY REFLECTIONS
Dimensions of Our Spectrum
SENIORS Prism 3a
The Mask 5a
Architecture 20 Characterizations 7a
Cartooning 24 Emotions lla
COSU-Ime Design 23 Concrete Poems 13a
Fashion Illustration 34 Fable 133
illustration and Advertising Art 38 The city 283
PGCIKGEC Design 50 The "B" Poems 29a
Phofogfavhv 52 The Bridge aaa
Modding 56 The Seasons 38a
Theatre Arts 58
Advertising Production Workshop 60
To the Graduating Class of i969
Dear Girls and Boys:
A prism is a transparent, optical instrument, usually of glass, triangular
in shape, having two refracting surfaces, and making an angle with one another.
When sunlight passes through the prism, the rays of light so retracted produce
the beautiful band of rainbow colors called the solar spectrum. -
The rainbow itself presents a panoramic view of the spectrum when the
sunlight is broken up into spectral bands of color by drops of rain in the sky, which
act as tiny prisms. The spectroscope is a sophisticated form of prism and is widely
used in science and in Industry for determining the purity of metals, for identify-
ing the composition of unknown obiects, for conducting research into outer space.
Perhaps it would be fruitful to view life itself as a prism, breaking up the
rays of the sun from Infra-red to ultra-violet, determining purity, identifying the
unknown, proiecting our visions and ideas beyond the tangible and the material.
lt is my hope and prayer that the prism of life will diffuse the sunshine into
brilliant, radiant colors for each of you, and that athwart the inevitable defeats
and tragedies that must afflict all of us at times, there will always arch the rain-
bow of God's eternal promise.
I commend to your thought on this graduation day the words of the poet:
"High is our calling, Friend- Creative Art
fWhether the instrument of words she use,
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal huesl
Demands the service ofa mind and heart
Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part
Your friend and principal,
Jacob Howard Raphael
June 23, l969.
MR. WALTER WELSH
Acting Principal-Spring Term
MRS. EDNA STONE
Acting Assistant Principal
MR. SOL STILLMAN
MISS PAULINE CIVARELLI
MR. WILLIAM RYAN
MR. JACOB BIEGELEISEN
Chairman, Art Department
MR. JACK SOME
MRS. BETTY BASKIN
MR. BENJAMIN CLEMENTS MRS. HISAKO GLICKSMAN
Chairman, Art Department Acting Chairman, Art Department
MR. SAMUEL SCHAEFFER
MR. CHARLES ALLEN
Acting Chairman, Art Department
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DR. ADOLPH STONE
Social Studies, Langvoge MRS. BERNICE EINSTEIN
MR. LEON KANTOR
Supervisor, G.O. Store
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MR. CHARLES COLES
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MRS. MILDRED BRussEL-SMITH - - I A
Acting Chairman, Social Studies, Language
MR. DAVID UMLAS
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DR. ERWIN MULLER
Chairman, Architectural Arts
MR. DAVID ROSENFELD
Chairman, Photography Department
MR. MARTIN SPENCER
Acfing Chairman, Mafh, Science
MRS. SONDRA NOBEL
MISS ROSE HOFFMAN
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MR. GEORGE DYSON
MRS. ELIZABETH KLEIN
MR. CHARLES FERGUSON
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MRS. MATILDA HOFFMAN
MRS. BARBARA CHRISTEN
MRS. HARRIET ATKIN
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MR. JULIUS SAROFF
Chairman, Healih Educafion, Music
MISS EMILY MANNO
MRS. MINA COHEN
DR. WILLIAM FRIEDMAN
Mr. Ansel L. Jacobi
Mr. Domenic lJiBernardo
Miss Gladys Gazarian
Mrs. Virginia Trainor
Mr. Arthur Granit
Mr. Benedict Tatti
Mrs. Shelby Schmidt
Mrs. Helen Obey
Miss Margaret Shea
Mr. John Teppich
Mr. Jay Lederman
Mrs. Marjorie Mannion
Miss Regina Adler
Mr. Frank Eliscu
Mr. Rudy DeZan
Mr. Joseph DiGemma
Mrs. Elizabeth McNally
Miss Sheila Geist
Miss Jean Fraser
Mr. Andrew Planding
Mr. Nathan Teller
Mr. Sam Weissman
Mr. Seymore Snyder
Miss Deirdre Dundon
Mr. Albert Seymore
Mrs. Hana Lieberman
Miss Pearl Kleinberg
Miss Rachel Fashena
Mrs. Jacqueline Bodelin
Mr. Alvin Hollingsworth
Miss Daisy Aldan
Mr. Abraham Switkin
Mr. Donald Vogel
Mr. Raymond DeSantis
Mr. Harvey Richardt
Mr. Harold Frater
Miss Roslyn Schumer
Miss Olga Petrolt
Mr. Morris Greenbaum
Miss Margy Trauerman
Miss Rochelle Braunstein
Mr. Melvin Saltzman
Mrs. Ruth Rublowsky
Miss Joyce Blake
Mr. Aaron Spevak
Mrs. Lily Bokhair
Dr. Jerome Starr
Mr. Albert Ireland
Mr. Albert Vanier
Mrs. Norma Rasumny
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Mrs.Sara Fuchs Q., N ,
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Mr. Max Ginsburg
Mr. Milton Whelpley
Mr. Charles Lavigne
Mr. Justin Mandelbaum
Mrs. Lynette Schaye
Mr. Erik Marcus
Mr. Bernard Krigslein
Miss Marilyn Millikin
Miss Olivia Sala
Miss Marjorie Halprin
Mr. Richard Taylor
Mrs. Mabel Podolefsky
Mr. Harold Toledo
Mrs. Renee Spitz
Mr. Edwin Doree
Miss Bela Rosenkranz
Mr. Martyn Kenton
Mrs. Edna Margolis
Mr. Anthony Masi
Mr. Richard Johnson
Miss Anne McGuire
Mrs. Priscilla Farmer
Mr. Jules Golden
Mr, Umberto Gonzales
Mr. Bert Lester
Mr. Harold Krisel
Mr. Milton Bellin
Mr. Joseph Messina
Miss Burmah Burris
Mr. Gustave Bonadio
Miss Edna Rose
Mrs, Ellen Kagan
Mr. Whitney Martin
Mrs. Frances Marsina
Mrs. Marie Gentile
Mr. Harry Fiealt
Mrs. Adele Mantay
Mr. Herman Wernon
Mrs. Jessie Blackston
Mrs. Irene Egan
Mrs, Alda Kolenik
Mrs. Madeline Rhenos
Mrs. Betty Catalano
Mr. Eddie Neumers
Mr. Clifton Pettie
Mr. Peter Schiano
Mr. Joaquin Uones
Mrs. Lilia Lomoriello
Mr. Max Friedman
Mr. Thomas Naegele
Mr. Myron Sosnow
Mr. Myron Strauss
Mrs. Mary Jean Clarence
Miss Darol Lipson
Mrs, Alyce Knight
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At the beginning, there was the Word. The Word, soft and melodious, sang
into space and created the light. The light, beaming gloriously, shines upon a
prism, there to be imprisoned and converted to soft yellow greens or shocking,
bleeding reds. We are prisms. We talk, we act, we live and die, reflecting that
heavenly light-glowing within us, and it is the intensity of our lives that deter-
mines the colors of our rainbow.
It is up to us to interpret the Divine message! To place on our young
shoulders the most significant and heaviest load that can be offered,-the future
of humanity! To slowly move up to the front lines and take the controls of our
families, our society, our country-our world! To be responsible, through our
knowledge, experience and strength, to guide our descendants and deliver them
safely. This, if not the most responsible task, is certainly the most noble: for what
nobler act could we do than to make this cynical world a Utopia, where truly all
men are equal, all men can laugh freely, and all members of mankind can love
The world, society, and perhaps even our families, are found today under
a strong decaying process-decadent and corruptive. On one side, men go to
wars and slaughter one another, like savage beasts, without even knowing their
opponents: they bomb innocent families, permit degradation and inhumanity to
grow, for their own comfort and benefit. On the other hand, the movements to
stop this insanity, behave iust as demented by falling into the same inhuman
abyss. They search for something better-if that's what they truly want-with
fires, lootings, riots, rocks, and heckling, never stopping to realize that fire is
not fought with gasoline, that hatred is fought with love, war with peace, and
lunacy with rationality. These two confronting sides are iust as blasphemous and
culpable under God's eyes, who teaches us peace and love!
The life ofa prism is to reflect the light and so too, should our lives. We
should be the instrument through which God walks on earth, the light upon the
stone. It is up to us to keep ever present in mind Martin Luther King, Robert Ken-
nedy, Mahatma Gandhi and all the great men before us: not to forget what they
stood for: what God stands for! lt is up to us to remember the Divine teachings!
'DO UNTO OTHERS AS YOU WOULD HAVE THEM DO UNTO YOUl'
'WE ARE ALL SONS OF GOD: THEREFORE EQUAL UNDER HIS EYESI'
It is up to us, as both hope and future, to keep ourselves above the crowd,
closer to our destiny, not to putrify in the spider's web. To realize that we have
at our disposal, the master key that could open the door to heaven, to a paradise
on earth. We have the power to make men free, to turn enemies into friends,
war into peace, hatred into love, slums into resorts! We possess this key, iust
as the ones before us had it.
Let us, therefore, not follow in their footsteps but let us transform, like
the worthy prism, and light our own paths, roads, highways and let them all lead
to love, humanity and peace.
MESSAGE FROM THE
SENIOR CLASS PRESIDENT
An Artist is the innovator, social critic,
idealistic wave of the future, holder ot golden
impulses leading mankind away from "dreary
cities" to Life. As our arrival becomes reality, we
see imprinted on our still academic soul, the key
to the future as unity of Science with Imagination.
We see the distant Artist in our selves that can,
perhaps, carry a little life in this manner. The
rainbow hued spangle is stretched before us,
there is an Angel at the end. This is the Artist-
unbound but bound to Truth, This is the pot of
gold: yellow-light, inspirationp orange-flame,
red-love: purple-future, science, indigo-depth,
silence, blue-soul, green-health, balance. Reach-
ing to achieve a spectrum within our selves, to
arrive at the Angel, we learn to emerge slowly,
to be patient, to be honest, to be human.
We, united, like light to enter the prism of
high school, now shatter gleaming, friend, and
"Face Forward, Voyager!"
Back: Pedro Lopez, President: Mr. Somers Coordinator of Student Activities
Front: Ellen LaSpalluto, Secretary, Jeanne Van Slckel Vice President
Rosemarie Tortorello, Treasurer
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We, the Graduates of 1969, being of sound body
and mlnd f???j, do hereby bequeath the following
heirlooms to our dearly beloved mentors, in this,
our LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT.
MR. DiGEMMA: Fifty new blazor rades
MRS. KAGIN: El Exige'nte
MR. KRIGSTEIN: A new phonograph
MR. KANTOR: A bankruptcy at the G.O. store
MR. IRELAND: The right to declare World War Ill
MISS LEDERMAN: A clean locker room and one
class that follows instructions
MRS. ROSENKRANTZ: Gildenstern
MRS. WINKLER: A ten cent coupon on a box of
MR. MARCUS: A primer in Freudian psychology
MR. BIEGELEISEN: Best wishes for a successful
new-type face book
MR. FERGUSON: A fresh supply of rubber cement
and an ideal official class
MR. DOREE: A first class guided tour of a Cretan
MR. NAEGELE: A lifetime membership to the Na-
tional Wildlife Club and American
MRS. BASKIN: A waiting room and private secre-
MR. WERNON2 A welcome mat
MR. BERNADIO: A fireproof hat
MR. SCHAEFFER: All our problems...unsolved
MISS BRAUNSTEIN: A Maxi skirt
MRS. BRUSSEL-SMITH: Escargots
MR. DYSON: A reserved seat at the White Tower
MRS. ASHLEY: The Bridge of San Luis Rey
MISS SCHNEIDER: Half of Mrs. Winkler's Nicoban
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MRS. KASSON: A can of 'liquid paper'
MRS. KELLY: AMini skit
MRS. McNALLY: A Pan-Am Mexican flight ticket
MRS. LANCE: A Mini parachute
MR. KENTON: The Botanical Gardens
MR. HOFFMAN: Sandie Greenberg and many
MR. HOLLINGSWORTH: '...some other reason-
MR. GINSBERG: Beethoven, Bach, and Dylan
MR. RICHARDT: A pre-recorded cafeteria an-
MISS SHEA: A shamrockg and skilled library help
MISS ALDAN: A Eurythmy class of her very own
MRS. SCHMIDT: A pair of Jeffersonian boots
MR. SWITKIN: Lorraine Craig
MR. SHINE: Seventy-six trombones
MR. SORETSKY: A iar of 'white paint' so he can
always 'make things beautiful'
MR. LAVIGNE: Weight watcher's praise on a iob
MRS. CLARENCE: A field of cabbages in Key
THE FACULTY: 'Love...Hope...Thanksl'
Editors: Adele Geraghty
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"...AND THE DARKNESS
COMPREHENDETH IT NOT."
Man has burst forth from His womb, im-
posing himself upon his galaxy, claiming the uni-
verse as his birthright.
"ln the beginning there was..." nothing.
From the infinite reaches of time came, a dim
memory...Man is born. His skeleton raises him
above his contemporaries. His opposing thumb
liberates him from the earth.
"ln the beginning was the Word, and Word
was in God, and the Word was God." Man found
his God. He looked to the sky, for a God must
reign from above all men, iust beyond his reach...
He looked, but he did not see: he searched, but
"The light shineth in darkness: and the
darkness comprehendeth it not."
lf only he could reach into the unreachable
domains of the birdsl Maybe then he would find
what he sought. And man tried, and failed, and
tried again. And again, his intellect liberated him
from the earth, to soar, and to search. But as
man reached further, his God became more
elusive. Still, iust beyond his reach...He looked,
but he did not see: he searched, but remained
"The light shineth in darkness: and the
darkness comprehendeth it not."
If only he could scour the stars, bombard
the heavens, conquer the celestial barriers...
Man's spirit struggled once more. Again he sought
to loose himself from his shackling earth. He
tried, and failed, and tried again.
"And God saw that it was good."
Again triumphant, man soared to the hea-
vens, challenging the suns. ln his infinitesimal
anger, he dared the universe to reiect him. Man
progressed, and man reached: and his God be-
came more elusive. Man learned, and sought
"The light shineth in darkness: and the
darkness comprehendeth it not."
Perhaps it is his purgatory, this eternal
search .... or his hell. Perhaps man will find his
God. But then, what could he want more? Most
likely, he will try, and fail, and try again...Futilely?
...God knows: is it for us to know also?
"The light shineth in darkness:
and the darkness
comprehendeth it not."
We dare not speak our hearts and minds for fear of
exposing ourselves, - to ourselves.
We often fail to listen to our own advice to others.
Live by the "next times", and not the "if onlysf'
The independent man says that ten fingers are your own
two hands. The dependent man doesn't know.
Faith is but the truth and knowledge of oneself.
He who sees life as hopeless is blind. He should look
no further than himself.
He who only regards the traffic light, but not the
traffic, will one day feel the sting of wheels.
A fool imitates but a wise man innovates.
Knowledge is not attained by the desire
to gain it, but by the patience to achieve it.
YEAR BOOK LITERARY STAFF
YEAR BOOK ART STAFF
YEAR BOOK PHOTOGRAPHY STAFF
SENIOR EXECUTIVE COUNCIL
ART STAFF Chari Dean Sharpton Valerie Mele LITERARY STAFF Alexandra Reyes
Roni Eisenberg On Floor: Caryn Ward
Back ROW: Karen Pikanowski Matthew Rosensweig BUCK ROWS Carolyn McCombs
Marie De Oro
Miss Daisy Aldan
SENIOR EXECUTIVE COUNCIL
Standing: Renee Drucker Jill Pulis Miss Gail Lederman lChairman, Senior Activitiesl
Adele Geraghty Sandra Kaplan David Lopez Lynn Jarvis fSenior Presidentj
Betty Hom Naomi Rosado Sharon Newborn Jose Gonzales lSenior Vice Presidentj
Lynn Kudelka Karen Ward Denis Fay Mrs. Edna Margolis lFaculty Adviserj
THE RIGHT TO DISSENT
The right to dissent is a direct offspring of
the gift of thinking. Man is endowed with the
ability of logic and reason. Through this ability,
he is able to weigh and iudge situations as they
stand. And if he finds the status quo an evil, or the
"unacceptable" is good, he has the right to voice
his opinion, to attempt to sway public opinion,
to bring about change.
To debate and reason is a birthright that
no one should have the power to give or take
away. Some, however, feel that this right extends
beyond peaceful negotiations. They will tread
upon the rights of others to have their opinions
dominate. They will harm and abuse those who
stand in their way. They will not allow for dis-
sention on their views, once they have won their
battle. These are the haters of the world, the
dictators, the totalitarians.
Once violence is employed, the entire con-
cept of dissent becomes warped and twisted.
The use of logic is tossed aside in favor of power.
The "might makes right" ideology, which may
become popular, is a dangerous one.
If the powers that be, whether they are
political, social, literary or economic, prove to
be impractical, irrational or archaic, the public,
maiority or minority, has the right to attempt to
alter them. But with this change must go the
knowledge that the substitute must be superior
in order to succeed.
THE WIND WILL BREAK THOSE
WHO CANNOT BEND
We are each a flower growing in a garden
whose future comfort and happiness depend
only upon the suppleness of our stems, and Na-
ture's whims. And the wind will break those who
Those with hard, brittle bodies will crack
at the first sign of a storm, unable to keep up
with its growing momentum. Those who are flex-
ible and mellow, will gracefully sway, and adapt
themseleves to Nature's many faces.
The man who cannot compromise, who
cannot forgive, who cannot adiust himself to each
day's problems, will surely break with the effort
of standing so tall and straight. If we were meant
always to be upright, we would not have joints.
Jo AMY si-IULMAN
My entire life, up to this point, has been a
iigsaw puzzle of images and people. I am still
trying to put all of these puzzle pieces together
so that I can understand each sequence, each
face, because I know that each small detail has
been but a layer added to the moulding of my
My entire existence has been destroyed
and rebuilt. Destroyed and rebuilt like the needle-
work of man's own existence. I find myself an-
alyzing that person inside of me like a stranger
is probed with suspicion by villagers.
My art and my poetry are my mirrors re-
flecting outward. But the storm of confusion with-
in me erupts continually and clouds my line of
aesthetic thoughts. I have been swept along with
the tides of worldly exasperations and delusions.
I am now beginning to grasp the moulding
clay of my life and have now become the sculptor
and the critic.
To be aware is to be alive. This statement
expresses a definite necessity of life. Aware-
nessl A person must be conscious of all that goes
on in the world, in order to be alive. Otherwise,
he is only existing, a vegetable that goes on day
to day, interested only in his minute section of
Knowledge of many subiects broadens a
person's outlook on life and enables him to live
it more fully. Being aware of others' feelings,
faults, and attributes provides a basis for meet-
ing people from many walks of lite.
Those people who are not conscious of the
world and its people, become very shallow and
are to be pitiedp pitied because they do not have
The maturity to look at the world with searching
eyes, and to forget about themselves.
The sad part of this philosophy is that those
who follow it are in the minority, and Tend to be
shut out of The world of The unaware. These
people have now become The observers.
One cannot take full credit for one's ac-
complishments in lite unless one also takes the
blame for one's failures. It is always easy to label
one's foibles neuroses caused by a neglecttul
parent or an unsympathetic teacher. But it would
then follow that any good that came of one's
life was a result of valuable training or assis-
tance by a parent or teacher. Thus the individual
dwindles to a passive instrument of his environ-
ment and the people he comes in contact with,
unless he assumes responsibility for all of his
STAINED GLASS WINDOW
Welcome, Students and Faculty of the H.S.
of Art and Design...So you're a Freshman...Late-
nesses are not excused...It's like a long drink of
water...you walk to the seventh floor...that's
two doors left from the gym after you have made
a right Turn...Only on Friday...if you pay your
dues...The escalators might work today...No.
They only go up...What? Your T-square is caught
in the...leaking water fountain on the seventh
floor...If only we had air...The terrace is now
open...No we don't have student lounges...Would
you like to buy a ticket tothe eight floor pool?
Welcome back...No we do not give psy-
chiatric counseling...go see the dean...What?
You're a Soph?... I OOCX, ...Saw Rosenkranz is alive
and well... in Bio test tubes you...don'T drop him
...Sil.95 for a portfoliol...Who's Charly?...A-
portfolio...What?...He rides a bike to school...
only when it rains it leaks...A special assembly
on drugs will be held... when the G.O. store opens
So now you're a Junior...Where were you
during the strike?...in the infirmary...You must
take the PSAT...Don't forget to take home your
dirty socks...From A to Z in the cafeteria...The
deadline is tomorrow...l don't care if you were
asleep...go back for a pass...List your shop...
O.K. Who has the radio playing?...Now don't for-
get to anchor your bandages by...pulling the arms
up...or you get into shock and your body...will
need a portfolio to graduate...Do I hear any vol-
unteers?...As of today you are suspended...
What? Hamburgers againl...rows nine and one
...no you can't wear shorts...Report to Mrs. Ein-
stein...your transcripts show that you lack...a
T-Square...And now the Star Spangled Banner will
be sung by.
Your Senior president would like to have
a word...That's great...You're a Senior...Senior
dues?...a 23" T-square...H.A.?...It's a course
for Seniors...to play hooky at least once during
school...puts you in the 90th percentiIe...Due to
the heavy snowfall...the cafeteria..is closed..
Paints..Palettes..please pose and hold still...
don't sneeze on the camera..because you failed
your twelfth year Math...5Ol class rank...who's
number one?...number two?...tried harder...
SAT...when's Senior Day?...at the end of the
Prom...two months to the deadline...one month
...four days..."You extend your right hand, dum-
my"...Regents?...What a yearl...We are gathered
here...No more schooll...Diplomas are now being
disTributed...Good Luck...Made itl
, ,, 7.
b y 13113
we 'll never forget when:
We took our entrance exams for A8-D.
We met our first friend.
We bought a ticket for the swimming pool
on the seventh floor.
An escalator stopped while we were riding on it
We collided "Up the Down Staircase."
We ate our first delicious, well-balanced
We did exercises in the Girl's Gym to the tune
of Chicken Fat.
We indulged in Friday "socials" between the
boys and girls in the gym.
We held conversations on the desk tops.
The Transit strike.
We sat in the gym listening to Peter Yarrow sing.
Murray the K and his K girls visited our school.
Mr. Shine's symphony orchestra performed during
the snow storm in the auditorium.
Mr. Marcus and Mrs. Lance performed as Batman
Rain gently fell upon our head from the
Harvey screaming through the halls.
White Tower was off-limits because of kids
We turned into a screaming mob of kids when
Oleg Cassini and Igor visited our school.
The setting of trends for men's fashions by
We were excused for being late due to a stalled
train we were not on.
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FQ' ' Our sorrow at the death of Yolanda Cross.
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The assassination of Martin Luther King.
The assassination of Robert Kennedy.
Sadie Hawkins Day broke loose in A81D.
The girl's victory to wear pants in school.
Boys were being thrown out of school for wearing
Some friends of ours were busted for smoking
maraiuana in the Boy's room.
Harvey went screaming through the halls again.
Pedro made his famous unauthorized speech for
James Boyle ran across the stage dressed as a
girl during the l968 Spring Festival.
The members of ballet company stuck their
tongues out at the A8fD audience.
Roddy McDowell, Roy Doty, and Betsy Johnson
The Charlie Brown Christmas production was
performed by the graduates of 1968.
The girls' locker room was flooded.
The unfortunate death of Rosendo Bello.
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The fuel strike "f L W'
A8-D students held demonstrations against the
45 fforty-fivel minute extension day.
Harvey is screaming through the halls.
Our sorrow at the loss of Roland Jones.
We received our college acceptance letters.
Our graduation from the High School of
Art 8. Design.
I'll never forget my fellow artists and friends
of A 8- D.
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Seated: Adele Geraghty, Judith Daniel, Tish Mulcay, Pat Cleveland, Nancy Friedlander, Valerie Tryon, Phyllis Marano
Standing: Pedro Lopez, James Boyle, Val Ramirez, Sergio Arena, Harvey Fierstein.
A Prism Parade of Images
MOST POPULAR GIRLS
Phyllis Marono, Nancy Friedlander
.....togetherp you give the colors needed to form
a rainbow of unity
Pedro Lopez MOST POPULAR BOY
.....Like a storm emerging, in the calm ofa
Valerie Tryon MOST ORIGINALLY DRESSED GIRL
Your clothes are woven from mirrors reflecting
Mgrggre1'CQi0IQ BEST LOOKING GIRL
.....And so, like magic, your beauty transcends:
the collage is complete
Val Ramirez BEST DRESSED BOY
.....And you, Val, are like the infinite prism, your
clothes are a complement to your soul
Tish Mulcay BEST AcTREss
.....And like a chameleon, the actress plays a
myriad role in the sequence
James Boyle BEST ACTOR
.....What powers do you possess that capture
audiences ata second's glance?
Adele Geraghty CLASS POET
.....The writer as poet transforms the beauty of the
mind into a vocal Renaissance
Sergio Arena BEST LOOKING BOY
.....The soul has a beauty, threefold, that of the
Beth Irwin BEST DANCER
.....Dance the songs of your soul Dancer....in the
beginning God created the Dancer
Harvey Fierstein CLASS PROPHET
.....And what do prophets do when the fortune
cards reverse their vengeance?
Elaine Jasper BEST SINGER
.....the voice of the singer is the music of the
MOST LIKELY TO SUCCEED
Pat Cleveland, Judith Danielle
.....The reign of success is infinite...and beautiful
Harvey Fierstein CLASS COMEDIAN
.....The iester is an intrinsic part of the prism
when the iester leaves, the prism dies
ARCHITECTURE is: organization. An idea made three dimensional
lt's a slide rule. An adiustable triangle. A t-square. A friendly word of
advice. lt's the knowledge of yesterday. Experiments for tomorrow.
A search for a better tomorrow. lt's a floor plan. A blue print. An idea
that iustmight work. lt's thinking. Discussing. lt's understanding
people. Architecture is the future.
Francisco Acevedo Gayle MichelleAllsop
Mitchel L. Azzolin
Barberro Robert P. Castaldi
Patricia Kay Fields Laurie Friedman John Galindez David Goldman
William G. Hudson Jr. Nevenka Jurcic James Klovach Kalervo M. Laine
Joseph Luis Gonzalez
Harry Leopold Leora Yael Lewin Raymond Lopez
Enzo Vito Marchetta George John Marino Richard Ong Thomas Leslie Reed Jaime A- Rivera
Jerry G. Servito Steve Follett Smith Kai C. Tong Beniamin Velez Pablo Emilio Vengoechea
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CARTOONING is: the meeting ofthe imagination and pencil.
It's a laugh, a chuckle, or maybe iust a grin. It's a funny little figure.
A character with an irregular nose. It's a creation. The imagination.
It's odd-shaped people. A daydream set on paper. It's lite made simple.
It's living in an animated world. Hope your characters are accepted.
It's' becoming a new Walt Disney. It's creating your own Miss Peach.
.Mark Steven Agoado
Adele Celeste Geraghty
Lorraine Cheryl Brooks Freddie Burris Gary Stephen Dorlman Feliks Andrew Gailitis
Martin Garth Golding Samuel Gonzalez Daniel Andrew Haskett Steven Eric Jones
Robert N. LOSapi0 Louis Marek Ralph Montalvo Michael Nix
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COSTUME DESIGN is: a world of colors, fabrics and silhouettes.
It's trying to make that distorted figure like a human. It's forever
glancing through Woman's Wear Daily. A constant search for ideas. It's
understanding why people dress the way they do. Analyzing the modes of
dress. It's the proud, raise-your-head-high feeling you get when your work
is complimented. It's frustration. It's inspiration.
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llana Adelstein Patrice Elaine Alexander Charlene Avellino Susan Joy
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Doris Alicia Cordero Emil R. Delgado Boni Lynne Fine
Johnniedean Bracy Dawnette Branson
Patricia Ann Cleveland Wilma Clark
Francis Patricia Louise Fraser
Vickie Gail Goodson Sandra Gilman Patricia Griffin Fern Suzanne Grossman Wanda Hagans
James Hanley Lydia Harris Beatrice Heller Carole Marie Hinkley Elaine Huang
Esther Huie Cynthia Anne Jones Susan Jung Gail Kenney Melissa Jay Kessler
Ellen Jane Laspalluto Debbie Agnes Letai Carolyn S. McCombs JOHIHI Milano Elba lris Montero
Doris Frieda Neubauer
Jacqueline Veronica Sanguy
Marita Anita Neumann
Catherine Anne Rebstock
Leona Margaret Seufert
Starzetta Diniticia Newsome Marie Yvonne Parke Judith Ptefter
Amy Joyce Rosenberg Melinda Phyllis Rosenzwelg Erica Rose Sajowitz
Karin S. Sollich Helayne Robin Spivak Lisa Suri Steinberg
Rita Tilas Nancy Ann Tom Ann Marie Torres
Sharon Bonnie Wohl
Janet Marie Wagner
Sheri Weiss Lauralee Wrckens Adrrane Wrrshborn
Ellen Barbara Yankowitz Marina Youssrs Susanne Glock
John D. Arlequin
Regina E. Cooper
Ruth Celeste Felix
Ricardo M. Gomez
LaVon Denise Leak
Nora T. Mendez
Belinda C. Morris
Jaen Doris Patton
Linda Lorraine Rodriguez
Andrea R. Schwartz
Jo Amy Shulman
Maria Elena Vasquez
Elizabeth Mary Ward
Dorothy Anne Welsh
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FASHION ILLUSTRATION is: creating an emotion on illustration board.
The look of Vogue, Bazaar, Elle. It's stylied rendering. lt is interpreting
a pose or a photograph in your own way. It's the spirit in you...your
imagination intertwined with the execution. It's informal critiques...
interchange of ideas. It's penrlines, Japanese brush lines, charcoal pencils.
It is weaving the real with fantasy. It's alive, vibrant, moving.
It's today. It's tomorrow.
Alexandrina Eleanor Barreiro
Gail Ellen Debel
Gloria Adams Helen Argenziano Marlene Mary Arnaiz
Nora Beckerman Leslie Carol Bradley Yolanda Cedo Sue Chin
Karen Yolanda Clarke Joanne Marie Corrado Linda Cortazzo Judith Maria Daniele
Joyce Lynn Doerrlamm Renee Drucker Celeste Sharon Ericsson Karen Farber
Diane Lee Ganci Elizabeth Ann Gimpel Carmen Justina Gonzalez 1 Violene Diane Hall Betty Hom
Susan Hovnan Delcina Dorothy Jones Marlene R. Kaplan
?f3MQLXt5yn Susan Levitan 4 Kathie Sue Longariello
Giovanna Victoria Mantovani
Ellen Joyce Pearlstein Despina Peratsakis Sharyn Pincus 435 Dianna Marie Popp Forest Ray
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Liisa Ingrid Ripatti Gerald L. Robinson Lourdes Rodriguez Arlene Schwartz
James A. Salerno Maria Luisa Savino Patricia Ellen Singelton Barbara Stamatopoulos
Rosemary Thomasine Steele Dolores A. Toto Valerie Tryon
Tina Yvonne Utsey Caryn H. Wailxdix, In ucy Weitzman
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ADVERTISING ART is: a rare moment contemplating blank space.
The weaving at minds and ideas. A deeply motivated desire to accomplish
lt's heavy portfolios. Broken ink bottles staining your books. Empty
pockets robbed by art supplies. The Monday to Friday mad dash to clean
up. The banging of drawing board, clinking ot t-squares. lt's spilling
paint. lt's a ruling pen with a mind all its own. lt's creation ot colors
that span an age. lt's creating. lt's advertising Art.
Vicci Abel Lois Sergio Alvarado
Tom Austin Christopher Alexander Austopchuk Lisa Corinne Bacchus
Helen Behar Agnes Berry Larraine Grace Bonomo
Andrew James Anderson
Curtis Myles Bailey
James Aloysius Boyle Brenda Branch
Dalton Brown f Bernhard Byer Margaret Caiola AI Joseph Camillo Jr. Andrew Caputo Jf
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Peter Rocco Carella
Beverly Karen Crisciullo
h Karen Clemensen
Barbara Ann Daley
Angel M. Diaz
Salvatore Anthony Coppola
Barbara Ellen Dametrick
Felix L. Disla
Robert l. Catalano
Linda Chiariello K
Rod Joseph Correa Jr.
Gregory Lamonte Daniels
Thomas Lowman Dula Roberta E. Edelson Donald Ellison Emily Emmi Christine Rebecca Eng
Jack E. Fenn Angela Denise Ferrari Harvey Forbes Fierstein Harold James Finley Diane Fisher
Nanci Friedlander Vicki Friedlander ' Janet Fay Friedman Henry Galiano Virginia Louise Gee
oanrerJ.Geragmy Lisa Angela Ginnie Andrea s.RQQr5Qki9j , 'BMrdoGittingS navecrafencecrenn
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Rosalind Leah Glick
Sandie Aileen Greenberg
Fred Harry Goldberg
Lora Goldstein Sherry Goldstein
Paul David Greenwald Madeline Grossman
Gilda Grunbaum A Gary L. Gulston Freddie Gutierrez Carlos J. Guzman
ldelle A. Hammond Jeanne A. Hank Allan Hayes Julio A. Hazim
Janet Lynn Gordon
Martha Anne Grossman
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Elsie Helen Holmes George Hom Robert Hom Earl Brown Ingram Carl G. Jaeger
Douglas Richard Jetter Miriam E. Jimenez Irene Kai A ,X km, A x Q A ,G Lois Kasner Margaret Katona
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Erna L. Kevelier Paul Killian Lisa Klinghoffer , Tho
Lynn Marie Kudelka Jane Lahie Christine Ladas Judith Anne Lee Madeline Lempert
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Andrea Marsha Levy
William Timothy Mantlo
Debra Anita Mayer
Alex Mercado Yolanda Mercado John A. M. Meriave
Lance Lovelace Eva Luise Stela Mandel
Phyllis Marano Stephen.AF.T.lMarchesi James Mason . -A
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Cheryl E. Mayes fl La Carlos A. Maynard Russell McCollin
Medrano Antonio McPherson
Leo Anthony Minor
Joan Regina Moniot
Pamela S. Nadeau
Kenneth James Pagliuca
Claudio Alfred Montefiori Susan Moszenherg George Yun San Moy Tlsh Marie Mulcay
Ernan Muniz Rosita Murray Melanie Mysak Daniel
WTRAnnette Nappi Mark F. Oliva Lynn Carol Olsen
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Chris Emil Peterson
Alan George Rodriquez
Alexandra Maria Reyes
Richard Lewis Pilone Randi L. Pincus Valerie Poulos
George ReederJr. Celeste Reid
Roxanne Rivera Clement A. Roach Andre George Rodrigue
Zitamarina Rodriquez Naomi Rosado
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Barry Lee Schaeffer
Cheryl Suzanne Rothberg
Sharlene E. Spingler
Paul Rubino Robertdadon Ryan Juan Santiago
Judy Sciurba Charles Johnson Scott Chari Dean Sharpton
Amanda Smith Lawrence David Smith Richard L. Smithson
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Alan RohertSpivack Janet'tDleborahStern ffl MarcAlan Stern
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Anda Stipins John Stockton
Doranne F. Thomson Yvonne Thompson
Robert Vitale Gail Vrana
Wilford Walter Watts Shelley Gail Weiss
Steven Craig Stubbs
Thomas M. Tweddle
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Diana Lee Tanlinger George James Tatay
Peter Vazquez 1 olia, A Anthony Vita
Randolph Walker Yvonne Washington
Mason Wilder Madelyn Williams
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PACKAGE DESIGN is: expressiveness in design. The psychology of
people...what they like and why. Hours spent laboring over a drawing
board. The T.F. book propped up in front of you. It is diligently trying
to recreate the letters staring back at you. It's the pursuit of precision.
It is being told a "W" is not really an upside-down It's a lot of
patience and perspiration and a great deal of relief when someone
says, "I like that one best."
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David Baker Elyse Arnow Nanne M. Carroll Roni Jane Eisenberg
Steven Lawrence Feinberg
Karen A. Pikanowski
Angela Regina Trerotola Marina M. Valcarcel Ronald Leon West Hedy Wolfe
Michele Sue Kay Doris J. Lee Nancy Rose Leo Larry Alonzo Nesbitt
Nathaniel Riddles Fern Rosenbaum Barbara Silverman Y. B. Simpson
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PHOTOGRAPHY is: running madly around the studio getting lights,
making layouts, taking exposure readings with light meters. Being in a
small darkroom all alone. The thrill of seeing a positive print
emerge from a blank piece of photographic paper. It's the development of
shadows, moods and shapes. It's knowing you control what your camera says
It's a dark world...a bright world...a world of sudden changes.
Photography is humanity in its truest form. It's magic. lt's reality.
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Howard Molefsky Sergio Arena Anthony Paul Armato Michael L. Armstrong
David Bellaflores Angel Bigio Pat Bolte Alice Alves Cardoso Robert Dlugokenski
Gloria Regena Faison Denis James Fay Richard Feldman Artie Joseph Gonzalez Frederick S. Greenspan
,ri ,,Carol Grossm n Lynn Jarvis Shirley Curtisse King Jeremy Joel Knaster Howard Kriedter
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Vicki Lefcourt Cheryl Ann Lewis David Lopez Pedro Lopez Joyce Machiavelli
Joseph y Annette M. Manco Bonnie Milne Susan Maria Nargi Beverly A. Nelson
Sharon Yvette Newborn Betty Usin Jill Pulis Ingrid Roze Stanley Seanscott Scherer
Janet Siegelman Susan Caryl Tindall Carol Susan White Peter M. Wong Allan Steven Weitz
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MODELING is: the feelings and sensitivity ofthe artist. lt is
working in three-dimensional design, in media rough as metals, clay and
wood. It's the outsider's first impression of ease and fun in the
ceramic shop. It is carving, cutting, hammering, sanding, gouging,
wedging, modeling. It is the tired clay, the polished stone. It is the
artistic atmosphere, the absorption in emerging forms. It's the green
stone sculpture almost too heavy to lug home on the subway.
Lynette Joy Brown Frances Elizabeth Campbell Robyn Cohen
Marci Compton Ann L. Deblinger Deborah Anne Finch Nancy Lynne Green Karen C. Jonassen
Susan Hedy Lane Janet Anne Moniot Dennis J. Novick Susan Pillsbury
Hope Singer Donie Gene Williams
THEATRE ARTS is: a balance of hilarious fun and nervous anxiety.
lt's the smell of freshly cut lumber, paint cans littering the shop, V
huge canvas flats sprawling into the hall, giants of papier-mache. lt's a
deafening iig-saw and the steady beat of the hammer. It is a chilly, bare
stage and a broiling, dusty catwalk. lt's serious planning and loud
'angry criticism. lt's a crew working as one in a headlong chase to
meet a deadline. lt's wondering if it was worth it all.
lt's deciding it was.
Constance Initia Caldwell
Judith Bernarda Safiron
Lorraine D. Craig Francis Edward Forth Karin Peers
Bruce Joseph Silverstein U0r0IhY S00
ADVERTISING PRODUCTION WORKSHOP is: copywriting, typesetting
proofreading. lt's rubber cement, pasting up proofs, rubber cement
thinner, taking apart proofs. lt's scaling, cutting, stretching, shrinking,
checking, rechecking, redoing. lt's deadlines, bylines, delivery time.
lt's talking up to art directors, having them talk down to you.
But mainly it's ulcers and headaches. lt's various individuals working
as one. lt's a yearbook called Prism. lt's a iob well done.
Mark Alan Abraham Hella Freitag Usvaldo C. Garcia
Bobby Gene Hall Jr. Kenneth John Krutick
DISPLAY HEADING FOR PRISM SET BY
ADVERTISING PRODUCTION WORKSHOP
a mirror in the girl's bathroom.
a mirror in the boy's bathroom.
an early dismissal because of snow.
excused lateness because of snow.
all the teachers out with the Hong Kong Flu.
an unexpected substitute.
an unexpected assembly.
a smoke filled girl's bathroom.
an optional Christmas and Easter Vacation.
passing your History regents.
the teacher you love smiling back at you.
being accepted to one of six colleges you applied to
an absent teacher, first period.
an absent teacher, ninth period.
the basement door unguarded.
a pad of blank early excuse pcsses.
being able to forge Mr. Ryan's signature.
being able to forge your parent's signature.
getting Mr. S. Hoffman for Economics.
having a class on the second floor, last period.
getting home when it is still light out.
no homework in any subiect.
finding toilet paper in the girl's bathroom.
finishing your cigarette before the teacher
comes into the bathroom.
sitting next to someone who brings his
art supplies every day.
coffee served in the cafeteria.
passing a test you didn't study for.
having a iob you spent eight hours on, displayed.
a gym teacher who can't touch her toes.
carrying your coat all day and not getting caught.
sitting next to your best friend in every class,
and writing notes all day.
being first on the lunch line.
Mr. Dyson in dungarees, a turtleneck and Afro hair.
the first day of your summer vacation.
looking at your yearbook twenty years from now
and remembering all of the happiness.
SANDY GREENBERG: Editor
q I I I 5 h BEYOND THE FOREST-Pedros hair
I COOL HAND LUKE-Pedro Lopez
I WAIT UNTIL DARK usual time A 8. D students get home
. ' WEEKEND-Thank God!
57 P ' SEE HOW WE COME AND GO-A81 DSeniors
HEAD-typical A 81 D graduate
THOSE WERE THE DAYS-what we'Il be saying next year f???j
I I g ft ' - THE COMEDIANS-Harvey Fierstein and Allan Weitz
I 1 I I ,
ALEXANDRA REYES2 Editor
EIGHT ON THE LAM-starring the A 8. D faculty
in alphabetical order
THE FIXER-Mr. Ahearn
THE SUBJECT WAS' ROSES-Miss Aldan
THE WIZARD OF OZ-Mr. Bonadio
CHITTY CHITTY BANG BANG-Mr. DiGemma
RED BEARD-Mr. Doree
THE DETECTIVE-Mr. Dyson
DOCTOR DOOLITTLE-Dr. Freeman
TO SIR WITH LOVE-Mr. Raphael
THE ENTERTAINER-Mr. Spivak
THE MUSIC MAN-Mr. Shine I
FIDDLER ON THE ROOF-Mr. Tatti
YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT-Mr. Teppich
ROMEO AND JULIET-Mr. Vanier and Miss Petrotf
VILLAGE OF THE DAMNED-1075 Second Avenue
featuring Art and Design
UP TIGHT-the girl's bathroom in the cafeteria
CORRUPTION-the boy's bathroom in the cafeteria
FANTASTIC VOYAGE-a ride on the A 8. D escalator
ENTER LAUGHING-the A 8. D band
THE SOUND OF MUSIC-l'?j the A8.D orchestra
YOURS, MINE AND OURS-community art supplies
THE NIGHT THEY RAIDED MINSKY'S-Spring Festival
ICE STATION ZEBRA-the girl's gym
NEGATIVES-10th year rotational photo lab
ONE MILLION YEARS B. C.-copyright date in our textbooks
SECRET CEREMONY-the G.O. meetings
THE NIGHT OF THE GENERALS-open school night
CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE-the front doors at 3:10
lust for life
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On the other hand..." -Miss Adler
What is your problem?" -Mrs. Baskin
Turn it up loud to wake up the class." -Mrs. Clarence
The rell is bringing." -Mr. DiGemma
I am the sovereign dictator here." -Mr. Hollingsworth
Buy my book." -Mrs. Einstein
Are you coming to class on Friday?" -Mr. Gaydos
Shaaaaa ........ " -Mr. Doree
Read the Peculiar Institution by tomorrow."
"Empty barrels make the most noise." -Mr. Greenbaum
"If I were a rich man..." -Mr. Tatti
"Have a nice summer." -Mr. Kenton
"All right people..." -Miss Orgel
"Water for my plantsI" -Dr. Starr
"Fly down from the cat walk and land on your feet on I
stagep will you pIease?" -Mr. Salzman
"Let's go, men!" -Miss Schneider
"When I say it is night, it is night even if the
sun is shining." -Mr. Eliscu
"kkk ii kkk ii ppp kip" -Miss Kasson
"DNFI " -Mr. Schaeffer
"May I have your attention please! This is essential." Z Q
-Mr. S. Hoffman ee Z?
"Any more guestions,-ask my art director and vs
asst. director." -Mr. Toledo ,QR -N I, 4-' A
"I never hit a girl in my life." -Mr. Ireland v . O
"And then there was this guyg he was a kindergarten A 9
dropout." -Mr. Spivak
"Please rise for the flag ritual." -Mr. Raphael
"Smell these dead roses. Write a poem about '
their beautiful fragrance." -Miss Aldon 4
"Asi es Ia vida..." -Mrs. Kagan V rx
SLEEPING, AND UPON AWAKENING-
Thoughts entered my mind from the moon,
to try to understand my presence, to try even as
G dying man may fight to live: so strong is the
force for life, that in the depths of the fearful
abyss, I may find a feeling of being eneveloped
by...Something that has come to lead my un-
worthy soul through the channels of experience,
of strength, of purity.
I have wondered if ever, I can begin to
walk on land. It seemed as if I was truly in the
womb of the earth. I did not understand what I
was searching for, or why I wanted it. I can re-
member only a feeling of intense loneliness,
of longing, of frustrationg and a strange, un-
defined feeling of presence-that is comparable
to an imagination of swallowing stars that flash
into the depth of my being.
The train ierked to a sudden stop, and a
mass of people entered, rushing about like ants
for a seat. Some faces seemed friendly, warm...
they know something. I forced myself to think
important thoughts. Why am I trampled by my
dreams? I want to do so much, and yet, I am de-
feated before I begin.
The ocean has sung to me during the
eclipse, and the moonlight on the water looked
like fire. The whole world seemed to breathe with
life, moving, not through physical forces, but, iust
slightly waving, pulsing with being. What is it
trying to tell me? Positive and negative life cycles,
unity, timelessness. Those were huge things to
think about. The sand that I was walking on has
been here for eons, seen pilgrims wandering,
searching. The sand must be very wise. I think
the sand knows.
Something...someone seemed to float
through my body, and I felt as if I was walking
only because of a strange, invisible force...The
door slammed behind me. It is all impossible.
It was late when I finished my work, and
I felt better, knowing that it was done.
I don't recall whether l was awake or
asleep. It was dark, midnight, and my eyelids
were closed to soothe my eyes from the scorch-
ing tears. My body reverted to its position in the
womb, and was sinking deeply into a pile of soft
I was moving upward-not through any
power, or force, of myself, but like a rush of flutes,
trumpets exalted on a rising arpeggio of flashing
light. I felt as if my arms were outstretched be-
hind me, and my heart led sky-ward. Unbelievable
wonder, beauty, tearful ioy replaced my sorrow.
I cannot explain further what "yes" feels like to
say to the Absolute. I was overwhelmed and
trembling with ioy, with tears...
It was then that I knew.
THE HUMANITY OF MAN
Man, as has often been said, is the highest
rank of being, elevated from the order of animal
by the possession of that quality which Iiberates
Man from animal mores, the soul.
This unique attribute, the soul, has been
defined and explored both religiously and philo-
sophically, and though there are technical dif-
ferences of definition, all men, more or less, agree
that the soul is what allows Man to act from
stimuli other than instinct or need, as is the case
with lower animals.
Taking for granted this conception ofa soul,
it follows that in order to completely liberate
oneself from the shackles of barbarism and same-
ness, one must develop one's soul to its utmost
capacity of appreciation for beauty, in whatever
shape it might assume. In the case of lower forms
of life, creatures that exist from instinct and habit
see but an infinitesimal portion of Nature's
beauty, limited perhaps to the attractiveness of
a mate, or the dearness of its young ones. Man,
onthe other hand, has the ability and the aware-
ness to see, to observe, to breathe in beauty, to
choose what is beautiful and to immortalize it,
he can react to instinctive stimuli, like an animal,
or he can rise above himself and react from emo-
tion and logic, choosing rather than accepting.
It is Man's duty to his Creator, and to his
fellow man as well as himself, to develop this
awareness and appreciation, for by observing
and appreciating this natural beauty, one also
becomes aware of the beauty of Man, and once
this awareness is reached, the greatest barrier
to self-understanding and self-improvement has
been hurdled. This plateau of understanding, the
knowledge of oneself, extolled and preached by
philosophers since time immemorial, is the key
to a peaceful and happy existence with one's fel-
low. The appreciation, understanding and sharing
of all nature's beauty is what keeps Man social,
and what makes him and keeps him worthy to
have been created in the image of Him who
created all things. DIERDRE WOLONKIK
SENIOR COUNCIL HONOR SOCIETY EXECUTIVES
AFR0'AMER'CAN CLUB FUTURE TEACHERS CLUB
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VARSITY BOWLING CLUB
GIRLS TENNIS CLUB
VARSITY HANDBALL TEAM
VARSITY BASKETBALL TEAM
VOLLEYBALL TEAM '
LIBRARY STAFF -
SERVICE SQUAD AUDIO VISUAL SQUAD
LITERARY CLUB VARSITY TENNIS TEAM
HIGHLIGHTS STAFFI THEATER ARTS
youth is that period when you try on all
the faces until you find your own.
I can safely say that if I had known what
sixteen-going-on-seventeen would have been
like when I was six-going-on-seven, I would have
had serious doubts as to the wisdom of growing
up. The turmoil and indecision that we go through
each day can be understood only by another teen-
ager, for once you have passed this puzzling
period, you suffer a mysterious lapse of memory.
Strangely enough, if our sometimes peculiar be-
havior is an enigma to our peers, it is utter com-
plexity, and without definition to us.
In every direction, we are instructed on
how to be good, honest, intelligent, considerate,
ambitious. We are faced with a dozen ways we
should be and no explanation as to why we are
the way we are. As a result, every day is an ex-
periment in practice. Today we are complete
honesty-Result: confusion. Next day we are
quiet and terribly reserved:-Result: confusion.
We decide to be sticky sweet, and we are con-
fronted with puzzled queries as to why you are
acting so strangel Each new mask is put on,
tested, and finally disposed of. But, oh those days,
weeks, years, of tryingl Those horrible questions:
Just who am I?
Actually, the only thing that keeps us going
is the knowledge that in a few years, we too can
forget what we went through. We try not to real-
ize that any stage is the difficult stage.
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WE ARE NOW EMERGING
We are now emergingg light is thrown
upon our faces, and we see. We are no longer
in the womb that has nursed and protected us.
Yet do you find yourself withdrawing, boring
back into the past security? It is gone.
Baptism of your Self, you stand in chimer-
ical sanctity. Look beneath you, and you will fall,
fall into the reality that you are as erroneous
Be an individual,-unique, but in harmony.
There is no antonym for symphonies when you
are one, complete, and free.
Leave now this elementary consciousness
and raise yourself from out your crib of ignorance.
Yet a word of warning, I give: Don't throw your
Self into the stream of knowledge, lest you drown.
Emerge, emerge butterfly, from your sun-
tight cocoon, and worship the light descending
upon you. Make an Exodus from your bondage,
animal of burden, and ease your weary muscles,
but always know work.
Birth is not a simple procedure, but once
born, you are an individual and very much on
your own ..... Go forth and conquer.
So I can
Where there is hope opening
like warm rain to drench the sky
in glory ............................... a
Span of the Sun's wings
flooding the earth with Light
are the eyes of HIS initiated
i f' 6 X MARCI compress
I ' Q k l-a prism, a crystal honeycomb
Q Q madeto catch, imprism
Q and turn itto rainbows
Q49 n A I sunsiigrii
D By night l am a jeweled prison
d to capture, the rapturous
HIGH sciinul nr Am Ann nfsinri 1959 m00""5 'lgmf in the
Dimensions of Our Spectrum 2a
The Mask 5a
Concrete Poems 13a
The City 28a
The "B" Poems 29a
The Bridge 32a
The Seasons 38a
ART STAFF Mr. Richard Johnson. Faculty Art Adviser.
Karen Pikanowskl, Marlene Kaplan, Lynn Kudelka, Art Dirac-
tors. Marlene Arnaiz, Valerie Mele, George Hom, Associate
Art Directors. STAFF: Daniel Haskett, Warren Westbo, Martin
Golding, George Moy, Matthew Rosenzweig, Roni Eisenberg,
Hedy Wolfe, George Abagnalo, Tom Kostro, Don Ellison,
Stephen Marchesi, Claudia Schwalb.
PHOTOGRAPHY STAFF Anthony Armato, Sharon Newborn,
Jill Pulls, Helene Grossman, Denis Fay, David Lopez.
COVER DESIGN: Barbara Silverman
LITERARY STAFF Daisy Aldan, Faculty Literary Adviser.
Adele Geraghty, Editor-in Chiel. STAFF: Alexandra Reyes,
Sandy Greenberg, Leona Seufert, Brenda Branch, Helene
Grossman, Marci Compton, Lani Mysak, Tina Ladas, Judith
Pfeffer, Dierdre Wolownick, Roxanne Rivera, Lorraine Brooks,
Miriam Jiminez, Hope Singer, Gail Debel, Carolyn McCombs,
Caryn Ward, Daniel Haskett, Mario Sotolongo.
CONTRIBUTORS. Beth Irwin, Vicki Nanos, Bill Mantlo, Jo
Amy Shulman, Claudia Schwalb, Barbara Escoffery Lance
Lovelace, Glor Brown, Ellen LaSpalluto.
THE BOARD OF EDUCATION OF THE CITY OF N. Y.
HIGH SCHOOL OF ART AND DESIGN
1075 SECOND AVENUE
NEW YORK 10022
Mr. Jacob H. Raphael, Prlnclpal
Mr. Walter Welsh, Acting Prlnclpal
closed eye of night.
DIMENSIONS OF OUR SPECTRUM
We are the love generation.
We are the war generation.
We represent the emergeance of man from the shell of denial
to the utmost in awareness.
We are unafraid to face reality.
We are the think generation.
We are more introspective than ever before.
We have expanded our minds and broadened our outlooks.
We are great discoverers, probing the field of creativity, constantly.
We are greatly pressured by complex problems, but we try
to solve them.
We have an optimism no other age has: unique in itself.
We will find ourselves faster than others our age because we know what
to look for!
We strove to equal others and we have surpassed.
We have won the battle!
We have suffered through drought and flood and have blossomed into
We have questioned ourselves and searched our souls.
We have explored the regions of life's mysteries.
We have questioned others, but learned to accept.
We have learned to shake the hand of defeat, rather than bear a grudge.
We have estimated our own worth and learned how to increase it.
We have seen that life is cruel and wonderful at the same time.
We have ridden the waves of trying times, emerging victorious.
We have learned to appreciate what is worthwhile and can discern
what is not.
We have chosen our goals and are about to enter the realm of realizing
We are about to enter a new Renaissance in living and thought.
We are about to enter a revolution in life, as independent individuals.
We are no longer allowed to grasp onto childhood as an excuse, for
we are making our debut into the world of the adult.
We are being graduated into a new phase of life.
We will use the skills we have learned to enter the phase gracefully.
We will be prepared to roll across the ocean of time without mutiny
on the part of life,
without being stifled,
to be what we are
a color that is gray,
that is snow - is filth
in sight, and is swept
away to fall another
day hated and unwanted.
is a bilious sun, not
the sunlight's pale
cast, but bellowing
cheap fractions of
the reflecting source
an electric light.
is not the fire in sun-
set, is not the glories
of dawn. is a chintz scarf
lost in a gutter, blow-
ing flutter mixing with
is shining, is the nause-
ating gloss of the subway
car's paint, the subway
car's tainted tint all
slashed and lashed with
is the hidden one, is
the forgotten one, -
the buildings are the
sky! Blue is the old
man's shirt, a soiled
is twilight's hue - is
the commuters greeting
light after climbing from
the depths of the city's
subways, lt foretells the
end of the weary days, al-
is a pool of wet city sweat
or better known as puddles
of pollution, the city's
rain. After the fall is tamed
in the burning intensity of the yellow sunrise
a golden bird spreads his wings in victory.
strength emanates from the celestial glow, giving power
to the winged god of the morning light.
he flies freely, leaving me behind.
his wings were once bound by the magic ropes tied to
the sun has transmitted its energy to his system.
causing him to rip my binding and fly with all
of his strength towards the sun of freedom.
REFLECTIONS OF INDIGO
Reflection of the somber moodiness of
the recesses of a reflective mind. -
White - hot pinpoints herald the doom of day,
As the cool blue ceiling of evening caresses
the earth with relief from the
The deep, melancholy blue soothes eyes, raw from
it envelops the senses in a womb
of comforting, lonely space.
Dark, mute swans glide like ephemeral shadows over
the swift waters of the musical Blue Danube:
its water glistens in countless gems of ultramarine
melding with the midnight blue sky. . .
Somewhere in a cool veridian forest,
sapphire feline eyes glint in the negative moonlight,
glimmering like multi-faceted blue-black coals.
Timeand Space are Blue.
A cobalt sky underlies a velvet-black eternity
of colors yet unseen.
BLUE is beautiful and limitless.
knowing only the infinite boundaries of
"Blue is one of the darker colors of the spectrum , . . '
- a minute part of what is,
an encompassing part of what we see.
My spirit is blue,
alive through color:
The color of a probing, searching intellect.
at peace and at odds with his universe.
The universe of blue space.
GREY IS THE COLOR OF DESTINY
In the cold grey light of morning a small group of
men had gathered for a ceremony. One man lifted a brick
from the pile, laid it down in the mortar, and said,
"lt has begun!"
The city was built of brick and stone.
The builders are dead
And their names are unknown.
The years went by, and dirt streets were
eventually covered with black asphalt and tar.
Bricks and stones gave way to steel and glass.
The city progressed.
Retrogression and progression.
Man has outgrown his toys.
Oldfthings, new things
But no everlasting joys.
Dark grey avenues lined with bars and jails and
whorehouses soiled the city's soul. The inhabitants
had only one desire -to live life fully while it lasts. The
city became another Sodom and Gomorrah and the lofty
skyscrapers shouted out:
"We are the epitome
Of your materialistic society,
The mirror image of your soul.
The city survived the ravages of time. Its denizens
thought themselves to be invincible.
"Here is our fortress," they yelled, "It is
impregnable: We are invulnerable. Nothing can harm
us!" To this, the stoic steel edifices replied:
"We were conceived in your childhood.
We then grew to manhood,
While you remained the immature child."
No one ever conquered the city, and the people
thought themselves secure. They recounted to each other
how they had withstood outsider's attacks, bragging
more about their greatness each day.
"Not even nature would be able to destroy us.
We are the mighty ones!" To this the stoic structures
made no reply.
The Black Death came and took with itself the
entire population of the great city. Now only the
glass and steel buildings remained. The spark
of human life had vanishedg decay has set in.
"Yes, we are the great cities
that have protected you for centuries
But in the end we all turn to dust."
You entered my life from the black geometric
shadows cast upon bare walls.
Your face glowed like streaming light from
Your stoical existence left permanent stains
lcould never tell you how Ireally felt.
You lit fires that spread through the dry night like
the rushing tides upon heated sand.
You burned entire cities.
And as the blackness disappears at dawn, you
Disappeared like the black storm clouds at the return
lstood in the fields of green sea
Casting my eyes upward. lcaptured the firmaments above:
The sky is a flowing jigsaw puzzle, a flowing
Conglomeration of flowing colors into flowing shapes. My
fingers flee with the fleeting ocean overhead
The strokes of my brush rapidly race against the luminous
lgrasp the delicacy of dancing fleece
My body is like soft foam,
My eyes become delicate fog, my fingers are like wavelets
The rays of my mind dissolve the suspended threads of my body
lfloat into pools of neon lace
The easel in the field is like an empty hourglass
Slowly the crowd diminishes, until she is
left alone in the room, a small figure standing
straight with self-preoccupation.
The slam of the door reverberates dullyg
the dry ice mask begins to crack, leaving her
face paler, her mouth more childlike. As the
mauve-veined eyelids are slowly raised, I see
that her shy black pupils are as wide and deep
as paneless windows. Painful windows ....
Slowly, intently, she begins to move. At
first her gestures are angular, constrained, as
though the sharp fragments of the shattered mask
still pricked her painfully.
The light changes, warming the room, and
I see that she is dancing, performing an ancient,
wistful ritual to .... to what?
Does she know?
No, now she is aware of nothing but the
primitive need to relieve her emotions, to im-
merse herself in the hypnotizing rhythm that
heals the inside wounds of indignity gathered
afresh each day.
The dance has become soft and benevolent,
now, it is almost finished. She knows this, and is
savouring the last caressing flutters, a faint smile
pervading her body.
In the deepest well of the night, I hear a
desperate, smothered soundt- She is crying, the
eternal sobs of being less then perfect.
I should not be watching her, for if she
knew that I was here, the briny streams would
be abruptly cut off. She'd lie on her stomach,
no longer writhing, but every fiber of her body
stretched to the utmost. Not breathing. Press-
ing herself into the mattress with all her frenzied
strength, there would suddenly be a convulsive
relaxation. Then she'd turn to me, tiredly, and
look at me questioningly, frustration showing
only in the pinched marble iaw. I could only turn
around and leave, ashamed not of my eaves-
dropping, but because I have no answer to her
I want so much to be understood and ac-
cepted: to be able to reach out and have you
realize what an infinite amount of beauty there
is in the truth.
You used to be truth itself-so brave, and
fearlessly strong, and so beautiful. It was as if
you were a flower, with your stem growing
straight, and your petals so honestly outstretched,
fully understanding the hardship of rain, but real-
izing the beauty of the fresh air after the storm.
There is so much hurt, and pain, compas-
sion, and strength, in the truth. You were truth.
You stood with your head held high, meeting the
future with no defenses raised. Your mouth was
partly open, in contemplation of a beautiful thing,
like two sores burning, pressed together, begging
to be pulled apart. You understood life, and were
willing to stand tall through its ups and downs.
Your eyes were constantly open, as if you were a
watchdog, always ready to protect his master.
Your master was the truth.
Without even knowing you, a person could
tell how beautiful you were. Was it the way you
stood, so open and forthright, or the way you
walked, reaching the corner as quickly as the man
who had to run? Perhaps it was the firm, con-
fident, and yet tender way in which you looked
at a person-a look of deep understanding.
Why did you ever begin to run, and cut
corners, and not think of the other person? When
did you begin to lie and put an outer covering
around yourself, so that no pain could reach you?
Didn't you see that that shield blocked beauty
too? When did you lose your depth, and iust be-
come a flat surface painted a pretty color? Wasn't
it obvious that the paint would soon start to chip
and ugliness would begin to show through.
I want to be understood, and I want to be
accepted, but neither is important, for now I am
I have danced myself
invaded with feelings
Dancing so fast, l
To reassure a soul:
A self, is to man
As blood is to a forest,
Or a bleeding heart,
Carried by the wind
Upon a leaf.
I never stop to rest,
Nor does the sky,
Nor the earth
For one robin said
the earth was round.
The spark of madness
Swept inside of me, lvvlga
A current of unfound lj y
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SAINT FRANCIS FED THE SQUIRRELS
We had taken a walk through Central Park
that day. There was nothing unusual about it all,
the strike was on and the three of us, Laura, Leona
and I, had come there to nibble on fresh bologna
sandwiches. We washed them down with thin
orange drink that we had bought from a vendor.
I can't remember whether we had ridden
the carousel that day, but on other days during
the time we were out of school, I became quite
familiar with itg her old pumping, grinding giant
music box filling the air with circus tunes. If I
was lucky, they would play 'A LITTLE BIT OF
HEAVEN' and then I could sing along with it.
We had made our way leisurely from the
carousel to the zoo, and turned the winding, sun-
drenched road around the red brick building
planted in the heart of the zoo.
As we turned the corner, I saw a little man
standing by the entrance to the children's zoo. In
his right hand, he held a bag of peanuts. His left
arm was raised and crooked half way in front of
him and perched on his forearm sat a squirrel,
busily chewing the peanuts as fast as the little
man could draw them from the bag.
I stopped my two companions, and we
stood watching the little man. His face was plain,
his clothes. non-exceptional. He resembled no
less than a dozen men you could see every day
in a subway, street or bus.
But his face was very calm and quiet and
he neither laughed nor frowned, coaxed nor
teased the little animal that sat clinging to his
Patiently, he drew the peanuts, one at a
timep sometimes breaking them, sometimes leav-
ing it to the squirrel to do.
The little rodent iumped back and forth
from a litter basket to the grass and back again
to his arm.
Children who passed into the zoo with their
parents, stood and gaped at himg the children
shrieking wildly, the parent's eyes wide, their
faces, with beaming smiles.
The little man didn't seem to notice. He
seemed oblivious to the fact that there were
other people in the park. He was totally absorbed
in keeping his little friend well fed.
What other friends does he have?I thought.
Was he a soldier in World War One? Did
he drink warm English beer in musty old pubs
and make love with the village girls? Was he a
sailor? Was he disabled one night in an enemy
attack and have to be shipped back to the States?
I noticed he wore a hearing aid.
I wondered if he wore a red poppy on
But most of all, I wondered if the only
friends he had in the world were the frisky
squirrels that scampered at his feet.
I had friends. There had been many times
when I couldn't say that I could reach out and
grasp someone's hand.
I knew people who never let themselves
reach out. They offer their hands saying,
'Here I am if you ever need a quick lift up...
but don't grasp it too tightly, and don't pull me
down with you. l'll know you, but l'll never be
obligated to you, and then you can never hurt
me. You see, I want the world to think I'm strong,
then they won't question me. But you'll never
know me and l'll never feel for you and l'll never
I thought about it. I wasn't one of these
people. I gave myself too quickly.
It is a well known fact to me, as well as
to those who know me, that after being with a
person five minutes, I grow very 'attached to him.
My fondest aim in life is to gather people to me.
People are the life source of creativity in me.
It could never spring to life by itself. People are
what keep me going. Friendship is the common
denominator in everything I strive for: To please
people, to make them laugh when no one else
can, to put them at ease in time of trouble, and
most of all, to form lasting friendships that can
I knew I would always be hurt because I
gave too much of myself. I knew I was the type
of person that would say,
'Here is my hand: take it if you need help.
I don't mind helping you. And if I am ever hurt,
I will be sorry, but I will be a little bit better and
a little bit wiser for knowing you.'
I could never be sorry for making relation-
ships a foremost thing in my life. I love harmony.
My creativity needed god-parents. I knew that no
matter how many hurts should spring up, there
would always be too many good friendships to
I was still staring at the little man. He
moved unconsciously, except for his eyes. They
were alive with the knowledge that these ani-
mals needed him, looked forward to what must
be his daily coming, and the friendly gesture he
made with his arm to beckon them to dinner.
Suddenly, I wanted more than anything
else to cry. I wanted to take the little man and
never let anyone laugh at him or stare at him or
hurt his precious squirrels.
I wanted his placid face to break in a
thousand grey old lines and a thousand tears to
flow down the square planes of his face: Whether
for ioy or sorrow or both, I don't know. I wanted
to cry out:
'Cry Little Manl Never mind the rest of the
worldl Cry, cry, Little Manl Feed your little ani-
mals, St. Francisl Feed your friendsl Feed your
damned lice and flea infested squirrels with their
dirty feet and rat-matted fur and pus-streaked
eyesl Feed your friends, for God's sake St. Francisl
Love them and feed them and cryl Oh please cry,
my Little Manl And thank God that there's a park
for you to walk in and tiny animals to bestow your
love uponl Who would think, Little Man, that you
could love! Have a good cry St. Francis. No one
will see you. They're too busy looking at them-
selvesl Get yourself stoned St. Francis! Who would
think that you could love...'
A very slight smile, so faint it was almost
unnoticeable, slipped across his face as the
squirrel plucked another nut from his fingers.
I let out a gasp and dove into my pocket-
book, crammed with iunk. Pulling out a pad, I
scribbled as I said out loud,
"Saint Francis fed the squirrels."
Both Laura and Leona looked at each other
and smiled a somewhat knowing smile.
"I want to write a story about him," I said,
"He's like something from another era."
We left the park laughing.
Fool that I aml I am the little man and the
squirrels, and the people that watch himl I can't
help hoping he won't die iust yet.
When he does, I hope he dies in his sleep.
LEMMING - MY MOTHER
Lemmings are small, attractive rodent-
like creatures who inhabit the Arctic Tundra re-
gion. They are nomadic animals who travel end-
Iessly in search for food. Rather than change
their course, bands of Iemmings have been known
to swim across rivers, where more than half
drown. No barriers can hinder their progress
because of their great determination to move
on. They are famous for their quixotic courage,
demonstrated in their willingness to fight for
their young. Unfortunately, large predators find
the brave lemming easy game.
I know only one person who possesses the
virtues of this animal. She has searched endlessly
for the food called kindness and understanding,
and she still searches, finding only enough crumbs
to keep her from dying of starvation. Mountains
of apathy, rivers of fear and deserts of hopeless-
ness confronted her in her iourneys, but in her
desperation, she managed to move on. When she
thought she had found her sustenance, a gro-
tesque animal called CRUELTY chased her away
from happiness, devouring her spirit again and
again, until almost all her willingness to live had
been ingested into its black interior. Unceasingly,
she searched, being led into spider webs of pain,
hypnotized into security, then being allowed
to fall into a pit of reality by the sneering laugh
of deception. The little progress she had made in
life had been envied by other Iemmings who con-
spired to stop her from gaining any more. They
bit her and clawed at her soul until blood and
tears drenched her shabby gray rags. One reason
for existence then saved her from dying. She
sheltered it, nursed it and made it grow. Only
then was she able to seem complete. But is she
complete? Even now I sense that she searches
for food. Will she regain what she has unwillingly
lost, or has half of her drowned in the seas of
JUST A SIMPLE JACK-ASS
I told her from the first to be careful. She
wouldn't listen. I can still remember the massive
shoulders shrugging away my advice. Even then,
I marveled at the similarity between her and the
mule she called, Angel.
We met on a lonely road, quite by accident.
I was desperately lost and she was passing by.
I watched for a while before speaking and let-
ting my presence be known to her. She was a
big girl, with long, brown hair, pulled back into
a messy pony-tail. Her skin was a deep tan,
from the long exposure to the sun and her feet
were bare. Her arm rested on a small mule who
refused to move. With her hands pulling on his
rope, she finally got it to move a few steps only
to give up as the mule once more stood still. She
went and sat under a tree, and I approached her.
I thought her to be an uneducated farm girl
and so I spoke to her in the Spanish dialect spoken
in the region. She noticed my clumsiness and with
-a smile spoke to me in a hesitant English. I told
her my name and how I was lost and she offered
to take me to the town as soon as her mule de-
cided he was ready,-she did not want to trouble
him. It was a full ten minutes before he rose from
his hind-quarters and started to walk down the
road. It was another hour before we reached
the town, and the public water pump.
After getting Angel a iug of water which
she spilled into her hand while he drank, she
went to the pump where I was drinking. She
drank. It was not until they began to shout their
insults that I noticed the boys standing nearby.
She paid no attention to their taunts, only con-
tinued to drink her water. I was furious in the
face of her calmness. I could not think what to
do and so moved towards the source of the shout-
ing. She stopped me, not speaking a word, and
I could only stare at her in disbelief, in confusion.
I continued to watch her as she unstrapped the
bag from her mule's back, slung it over her
shoulder and walked towards the church yard.
I followed, unwilling to let her out of my sight.
She placed the bag by the door and without a
word, went back to her mule. She walked slowly
with even steps, each falling squarely on the
ground. When we reached the mule, she looked
up, smiled her kind, knowing smile and said good-
by. I looked around me to make certain we were
"It should not matter who your parents were.
The product is what is of importance. It should
bhe patted her Angel's head, "After all,
he is iust a simple iack-ass."
His dark skin and strong legs were always
seen among his goats. Alone in the isolated val-
ley, sleeping with them, eating with them, their
world became his.
At the time the sun came up, he went to
his long journey with his flock to find pasture.
They glided down mountains, a black wild river,
and he with them, skipping upon the rocks with
his curved, hairy legs, and always holding, like
a single horn, a huge oak stick. Alone.
At sunset when the sun colored the trees
with pastel tender colors, he returned to the cave.
Here, on his wooden bed, covered with hard
goats' skins, he watched his goats when their
wild desire rose: he watched them making their
coarse love on the stained ground.
His unsatisfied desire was then rising in-
side him, wild and powerful. His hoof-like hands
would grasp something in the air, until the pale
dawn came ....
He tried to get deeper and deeper into the
valley. To escapel To forgetl
He tried to concentrate his life, his
thoughts, on the goats, staying with them in the
cold winter, helping them to give birth to their
young, and yet they feared him. Sometimes he
would become cruel all of a sudden, trying to
hurt them, and they would see death in his eyes.
Blood. His cracky voice would hang like a wild
eagle in space, above them, threatening.
Sometimes he would stand for hours on a
peak, the wind blowing against his dark, hairy
chest: his sharp eyes searching the distances
below. Something vague, ungrasped would begin
to wrestle inside his simple brain. What was it?
One time in one of his iourneys he met a
group of children. Their pure eyes looked, won-
dering, at him. They feared this dark, sweat-
smelling figure in a goat-skin.
"What is your name?"
Long forgotten cords of something unde-
fined rang inside him. But he could only draw
distorted, childish forms on the ground, and call
THE WANDERING ALBATROSS
He came from the sea to puzzle us, like a
wandering albatross. He had traveled many life-
times and seen more than he told of before he
came to us to choose his mate.
He was fine-boned and handsome beneath
his curls of soft down, and as the albatross is
clothed in thick feathers to shield him from the
wind, so was our albatross enveloped in his own
shield of fantasies to guard him from the sober-
ness of the world around him.
We doubted him and knew too little of his
mysteries, iust as the sailors hadalways held this
unusual bird in wonder.
Like the albatross, he seemed never to
sleep. His eyes remained open in rest, as if he
sought to see great distances in his dreams.
He seemed to fear us, for he never fully
landed in our midst, always hovering lust out of
touch, not wanting to leave us, but afraid to give
up his wandering life and put his wings to rest
forever, not wanting to be soiled by our human
frailties, and not wanting to recognize his own.
He was a sea bird and a strange bird, and
his goats. His legs then iumped lightly upon the
rocks, and he disappeared. A free, wild figure.
But something was missing in his mind,
something he wanted and knew not. Something
which could never be fulfilled.
he came to us to find a mate.
He found her in the summer and took her
to the sea. The courting customs of the albatross
are peculiar to us. Male and female waddle to-
ward each other with a dignified step and bow
ceremoniously. After some strutting, they cross
bills and seem to fence like swordsmen, mean-
while uttering strange cries.
The pattern of their relationship bore a
startling likeness to that of the albatross.
lt was an odd and unearthly love, nour-
ished on the sea, and always he hovered above
her, not wanting to close his eyes to his dreams
of wanderings past and wanderings to come:
afraid to let her touch his vulnerable soul, and
always afraid of losing his wings.
The summer came and went, and few of
us succeeded in truly understanding our albatross.
When the sea froze, so did the love of our
albatross. It seemed to be covered with a shell
of transparent ice that promised to melt in the
spring, and at the peak of the lonely winter the
albatross stood at the shore of reality and spread
his wings in the rain.
'iz'-: N r
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QXXXS: 1 n
51 , 5 1 ' l W T' '
Sunshine. Yellow-gold shining in my hair.
Life is beautiful. Flowers are blooming. Birds
are singing. The world is full of light. My hap-
piness radiates from my eyes. A song bubbles
forth with a will of its own. I can't control my
feet from dancing up the walk. The house looks
different today. Brighter. Homier. The phone
rings. An ominous ring. Threatening in its sim-
plicity. I try to close my ears. I will it to stop, but
it keeps on. I hesitantly pick it up. "Hello." My
voice quivers. My hands shake. I hear the faceless
voice on the other end telling me goodbye for-
ever. The click in my ear tells me the conversa-
tion has ended, but my hand is clamped tightly
around the phone. My fingers turn white. The
veins grow taut. The phone burns into my palm
like white coals. I drop it. The house is dull and
suffocating. It chokes off my breath, and I run
out. Outside, it's grown cold. The fog has started
to roll in, and has turned the sun black. I run.
I can't stop running. The wind whips my hair into
my vacant eyes. Finally, I collapse on a bed of
rock. The screams are ripped from my throat with
a will of their own. The salt of my tears burn my
eyes. Drained finally of emotion, I walk home,
and calmly rip the pictures off the wall.
You stretched your hand out in an offering.
An invitation for a short time stay.
With great uncertainty, I wondered if
Ishould not stop to hear your music played.
To hesitate would be a faulted move.
And yet, where e'er I turn, Icannot see.
The water now has blinded reasoning
In me. I long to find your manhood now.
Across the seas of time unreal we reach
Each other's fingertips. And with that touch
I wonder if all innocence is gone.
Ido not wish to cleanse my hands - in fear.
To stroke your face must satisfy me now
For, "Thou shall not covet what is thy neighbors!"
I won 't try to watch the stars breathe
Or to listen, as the death drums have
they are quietly beating
beneath the roads of our evolution, over
darl-r covered rocks, pouring forth tears
to spirit, pacing the path . . .
But the hazy love glow returns
to reshadow the past with regret, turned to
Where we once flew together exalted
like birds in the free grey sl-ty.
Voyages where we vaulted
into the patterned past
There is warmth
Nowlam wrapped in a soft brown
by the reassuring cloud substance to
the cold and windy hilltop
where I will
Erect this daybrealf
in the form of an Altar.
AND WHAT A BIZARRE RELATIONSHIP
A tear fell and wet my lip. It must have
been the millionth shed. With all the strength I
possessed, I lashed out-I struck, I beat, I
wounded. I cut as deep as I could. Yet she re-
mained there, unmoved. She would simply stare
in astonishment. All my words were incompre-
hensible and senseless. I struggled within:-why
can she not understand? Why can she not? Why?
There was a time we walked along the
shore together, she and I. We spoke in gentle
tones of comprehending each other. We sat on
the grey, broken rocks and watched the waves
try to escape,-and we giggled, almost mali-
ciously, because we both knew that Mother Sea
would always reclaim them. There was some-
thing ironic about us witnessing the water trying
to leave the ocean,-of one trying to break away
The beach and the sea were great comforts
to both of us. We claimed to be indigenous to it
and swore that when death came, it would em-
brace us there.
But,-we fought constantly. Every day,
a civil war, and there was no victor-because
there never is in warl We wanted so desperately
to loin together-to be one. And very often we
did come close to it. Then, in one fell swoop, the
magic would be gone.
The day had come. The end was near. We
both sensed it, at the same moment, as usual. I
couldn't imagine life without her.
That evening, we sat in my room as we had
so many, many times before.
She asked me why I was not sensitiveg
and then why I was not creative: and why not
good? These words, I had heard them so many
times before from her, suddenly took on a new
twist. More questions on the trueness of my spirit,
on the honesty of my soul. We two players
smashed that ball of hate with our paddles with
vigor before unknown.
She knew of my idealistic-no-simple
minded search, and used that to lacerate.
"A Diogenes," she screamed, "a cynical
fool with a lamp. And what are you looking for?"
"Do you think yourself a sculptor, your
soul C piece of clay you can mold and shape and
twist-to make yourself that soft, wholesome,
beautiful creature you are forever reaching for?"
The warm tears flowed to the floor and quickly
we found ourselves swimming, lest we drown.
The flood lasted for forty days and forty nights.
Lightning ravaged the skies. The turbulent water
cast me to shores unknown. When the sun came
up at the dawn of the forty-first day, I knew a
renaissance was coming. I prayed for a clear light.
And when the water left and the ground dried, I
gazed across the land and found I had not been
taken away ot all.
She was still there.
I know now she always w
ill be there-
for how can one lose her own reflection in the
mirror of her own heart?
RETURN OF MIDNIGHT
Midnight came to fair Claudina
Images returned in mist
Ghost of fatal cavern boulders
From the moulding rotting crypt.
Calling for her but in vain
Hands extended, eyes aflame
"Fair Claudina, I've come for you
Trust in me, you'll feel no pain.
You can't feel me touch your hair
Tresses wildly strewn about you
You cant hear my longing verses
Staring blankly into space.
Only now you rise from slumber
Only now you rise in fear
Fearing an unearthly presence
Knowing somehow I am near.
Sweet Claudina can you feel my
Longing hands caress your hair?
Can you see me, see me now
Tell me that you know I'm here."
"lt is strange in midst of slumber
Arms feel wrapped around my soul."
"It is I, my raven beauty
Tell me that you see me now,"
"Why on such a summer night
Have I chills that paralyze?"
"Sweet Claudine It is I,
Look unto my longing eyes."
"Iohn, my love, Idream of you
Iohn, oh Cod, can it be true?
Flames of blue that sparked your eyes
Hold my breath and stop my heart?"
"Yes, Claudina, oh my beauty,
Let my heart fly, come with me
Ican feel your heartbeat quicken,
Can you feel the life in me?"
Windows parted, doors blew open
Wind had carried in the storm.
Clocks stopped ticking, curtains rested,
But the music box played on.
LE CYGNE SQUIRREL
So Boy, these New
grace- York City squirrels - ain't afraid
ful, you o' nothin' .... little experienced
dance upon beggars that they are - lthink they
the water, put us on sometimes -they have a
gliding so effort- racket goin' - these little guys put
lessly over the on such a great show of
reflecting tiny rodent timidity that
pool. . . lbelieve they deserve some
Your kind of award for their performance.
sparkling mirrors. You flutter
- After all, they do receive a sort of
applause - for example, - such cries as:
"C'mon .... c'mon, a little closer. . . .
....c'mon" - or - "Look, look
your saintly pure wings like a silken
flame, growing in a pale sky. With your
ceptively strong beak, you rearrange your faery
down, to an even more perfect symmetry.
With an unearthly display of beauty,
you unfold your snowy pinions in a prayer
to the heavens, Then, with a flurry of down, -
you glide upwards like a billowy cloud . . .
proceeding your prayer, like a phoenix
from the muddy water. -
he's coming toward me." - or - "Take
it .... take it .... oh, c'mon, take it!" -
or - "Hey, Ithink he likes me!"
Poor fools, - he doesnt care one
way or the other about you ....
He just sees you his way ....
. . .perhaps as you really are
- - - a big nut.
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Elba Montero 170
THE TIGER AND THE ZEBRA
One afternoon, in the brilliance of the
African sun, a zebra trod an unfamiliar path
through the underbrush. lncautious and unwary,
the striped beast fell into a deep hole, dug by
the natives to capture prey. Through the day and
deep into the night, the cowering creature lay,
alone and frightened. The hole was too high to
climb out of. Then, midway through the blackness
of the hot evening, a passing tiger chanced to
stumble and fall into the same hole.
Upon seeing him the zebra cried: "Listen
my friend, this pit is too high for one to climb
out, but I have a plan which may provide for the
escape of two. If you were to stand erect against
the wall of the pit, and I were to climb upon your
massive furry shoulders, l should be able to reach
the top. Once out of this accursed pit, l would
devise a means by which you could be rescued
The tiger, ravenous and greedy, thought
not of the ingenious plan the zebra had proposed.
He thought only of the tender and succulent meal
the beast would make. Without further hesitation,
he leapt savagely upon his captive companion
and swallowed him whole. In the morning, the
natives found him, alone and trapped in their pit.
Moral: Indulgence leads to disaster: it is far
better to exercise self-constraint.
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bursting from the blue
THE BALLET SHOES
Pale, glowing pink, like Chopinic bleeding
bleeding moons, the toe shoes hang on the de-
serted bar. They move ever so faintly, swinging
on their frail, luminescent ribbons, as if still ani-
mated by their wearer's movements of a moment
They beckon to you, the rose-touched
breaths of a sunrise zephyr's calling. You slowly
raise your fingers: they are daring you to touch
them, mocking you like field butterflies, flitting
mirrors of the sunbeams. You blush at your hesi-
tation, but like a young girl faltering at her first
kiss, there is an awe, an uncertainty of their real-
ity in your world, and your validity in theirs that
holds you back. Now they seem only refractions
of the slanting sunlight on the dancing column
of dust that you used to grab at with both hands
as a child.
Finally, with the sudden determination of
a sharply inhaled breath, you touch them. One
trembling finger slowly, gently contacts the silken
Ahhhl Like the velvet skin of a blooming
rose, like a young egrette's snowflake feathers,
But look! Several dusty marks here and
here, and there. The tips are quite well worn,
revealing a stiff and coarsely woven white fabric.
Where the ribbons are sewn, the downy silk has
started ravelling, and the lining of the heel is
striped with band-aid adhesive. A rusty nail peeps
up like a pistol barrel through the narrow sole.
Deep inside the toe-is that dull stain-
More rust? Or-no, it couldn't be!
Blood? Do such delicate, pale, tender things
Icy blue skies contrast white frozen seas.
As Children of Light walk among the
thrones, purified to view the Virgin
receiving the Sun,
A sun burst of dead umber, bursting,
alive in yellow hue
Iof soft melting cosmic light!
And trees in white slumber wade
through a brewing snow as
winter baubles bounce from
cold branches . . . and fingers
Gently pushing, prodding the warmth,
plugging in and keeping into its
frozen state . . . a warmth.
And Fatherly winds tell Motherly tales
and icicles fall from my arms.
To see the light between the darkness,
to give birth to new times. . . new days
Of frosted branches deadened by winter's
chill, and white ducks still. . .
on the frozen lake
fwithin the frosted branches of time.j
Being borne up
Being drawn out-down
New as morning - as in morning
As dew - as flower - as winter crystal
As sun -
Child born -
thriving. . .
. . . It is from your goodness, that l am born.
BETH IRWIN Those sounds within the passing tide, and by winter solstice,
your birth, Imight pass through its time, in love again
. . . with icy blue skies contrasting
, g .,., white frozen seas.
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X ' X 'Nr Jgspflf. NOTE: The above is a communal poem, by
'Z V "-"'7"- the Creative Writing class, each line written
. -U j f, by a different person, who has not seen the
' L - previous line, or any other part of the poem,
but only knows the title.
I HAD TO CHOOSE
I ioined them and hoped that in doing so
I would discover if this was the action I should
take. I wanted to know how they felt cmd thought
about the issue. So I took up a sign and marched
with them. I began to believe that they were iusti-
fied in leaving school, in protesting.
I read their leaflets and heard them voice
their opinions on what should and should not
have been done-I sided with them.
So I picketed but still I could not merge
with them. I was not submerged in their fervor:
I could only observe. As time passed and they
began to shout their slogans, I shouted too, but
not from deep down as they did, only from the
surface. It was more as an experiment to dis-
cover what it was like, than really an emotional
outburst. I voiced words but remained impassive.
As time went on, the words and their repe-
titions pounded into my brain and began to take
hold of me. I associated them with what I be-
lieved, and shouted louderg but I felt disturbedp
something was amiss.
I watched the reporters come, and dwelt
on what it would be like to be on camera. I saw
the picketers swarm around the reporter: they
wanted a moment of glory. On I walked. The
shouting had momentarily subsided, and I began
to think. Why did they feel so strongly over this
cause? Was the iniustice done to them really so
great? But soon I was dragged into a sea of
swarming bodies. Another reporter had arrived.
I found myself in front of a camera, and many
bodies pushing down on top of me. I wanted to
say, "Get off me," but knew that the cameras
would see me. So instead I mustered all my con-
trol and held up my sign. Inside, I hated every
moment of it. This was not my type of glory.
Now we were to march through the streets,
and the whole mile of bodies and shouts to
resume as before. I remembered a peace march
that I had once participated in and I wondered
if this would be as peaceful.
The reporters followed us, and we soon
received a police escort. I was tired and hot, for
two hours of picketing had already passed. My
throat ached from shouting meaningless words.
But those around me shouted stronger than be-
fore and the concrete canyons echoed their angry
voices. I was silent.
I thought, "Did anger and loud voices ever
bring about change: the desired change, or did it
bring about havoc?"
The answer did not come.
We arrived at our destination and all at
once, there was an uproar. My crowd had sighted
another. Before I could comprehend the proceed-
ings I was swept along with the rest. Those about
me screamed as they ran, but I iust ran. I feared
that stopping would result in my being run over
by this insane crowd. My portfolio dragged
heavily on me, and anger at the foolishness of
the situation rose up in me. I iust wanted to stop
and drop to the ground: I was tired of the entire
procedure. But I kept on, I had to see what was
going to happen.
Everyone finally halted. I wished that this
would come to an end. Police were appearing in
greater numbers and barricades were being
placed around us. I wondered what would happen
Some students spoke and defined the pur-
pose of this rally. I stood and stared, my mind
beginning to make associations. They spoke
words that I had heard many times before, and I
was afraid of what I concluded, afraid of what
The atmosphere calmed down and every-
one milled around, sat down or smoked. I asked
one of the leaders what was going to occur. He
answered in ci vague tone.
"We are waiting for the others."
I knew that my conclusions would be cor-
I was confused, but I knew what I had to
do. They were not to get a hold on me cis they
had on others. The crowd was not going to drag
me down into its depths of irrationalities. So I
I walked on and on down into Manhattan,
feeling alone and guilty of deserting the others.
But soon my mind cleared. I knew that I had to
do what I had thought was right, and not let mis-
guided emotions of loyalty and anger govern me.
I knew very well what could happen to a crowd
without competent leaders. For me, leaving had
been the one and only logical solution. I didn't
want to be a part of this disaster.
That night I heard what I was afraid to
hear. I saw my thoughts and fears come to life
on the very television screen that everyone had
wanted to be on this past morning. The anger
and hate had been spilled. They had rallied, all
right, and they had generated within themselves
uncontrollable rage. They had put into motion
a small riot. They had destroyed what they had
so greatly wanted.
I had always wanted to belong, to get in-
volved in a cause, but now I came to the conclu-
sion that it this was the result of believing and
belonging so strongly to a cause, that reason and
right were discarded, I would rather walk alone
for the rest of my life than be a part in such an
irrational rally of destruction.
Dedicated to Miss Aldan . . .
As lfall into place
the silent forms drift before
And the Voice of Radio whimpers
as though set upon and shaken from
It moans and screams as the forms
move in silence
weaving a silent song
that is louder and stronger
than the disgusting whimpers
it mercifully drowns out.
The Voice of Radio dies unnoticed
its miserable dying squeak covered
by the beautiful silent song,
A song more magnificent than a symphony.
Imarvel at the Ultimate Power,
at the Ultimate Song.
Clashing waves, angry skies, prominent clods of earth:
A proud sight, a euphoria to any naturalist:
On calm humility rolls the dawn:
Pale the shore line, glistening with nature's bliss:
Gifts of life - from the sea
I, the beholder of such beauty.
Feel the warmth of the sun.
Bathed by nature's own breath
Sifting through turbulent rushes.
I AM the SEA.
THE GREAT ETERNAL SUNBURST
lrise in the morning amidst clouds of uncertainty:
The air is dark and moist.
Eternity has not yet awakened to the cowardly entrance
of the priestly sun.
lt is delinquent.
lt will come with unknown grandeur.
And paralyze our eyes.
The orange globe sinks from oblivion
And reveals its splendor to all who disbelieve.
Crimson and vibrant it yields such illumination.
Orange shadows cover the world
In a blanket of love
Without which all worlds would surely die.
In the opaque prism of the universe,
We forget all that is about us.
We tend to take for granted that which is natural.
The omnipotent Sol reaches down with hands of coral
And touches our pained souls.
And lights our dark future.
And heals our sick and diseased.
And gives hope to the poor and needy.
And gladdens the sorrowful.
And like a trance
lt spreads over us and engulfs us in its mystery.
Leaving us only as ignorant as we began.
Coral and crimson and shades of topaze
Gleam over the sea.
Shadowy fire reflects in the mirrors of our ego.
Perhaps we do not or cannot fathom such a Godly universe
Where time and air and earth and grass and fire and smoke
and life and death and love and war and blood and
tears and fear and vengeance and hate and
disgust and dignity and unworthiness and hearts
and souls and passion and indifference
Can all be one and the same.
Can be ignored and pushed aside
Like rotten fruit.
Surely in this neon world of boundless and uncensored emotions
We should see the futility of our blood
The uselessness of our sweat!
And the grime of our tears!
But we come again to the great orange ball
Without which we would not exist.
The great eternal sunburst.
The great universal premier.
The great eternal sunburst.
0 Violen Hall
James Salerno Gail Debel
Karen Clarke Forest Ray
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Harvey Fierstein Allen Davis
Your people hover
In the grayness and solitude of their homes
Your streets bustle with
Rainy facesg cleansed of individualism
In the beauty of night and still of the morning
You resound with the noises of nothing
And with all you have to offer
You give but nothing
Your reservoir of hope
Has become a draughty hole
And your people who were once people
Are now pebbles
Being ground to nothing
With all due respect to you city
I regret to inform you
Iwill not be engulfed in your madness
I will remain a rock
ON EITHER SIDE OF THE
The broken bits of beer bottles were scat-
tered along the sidewalks. Their stale stench
combined with the various unpleasant odors
of putrid food, dirt and the decaying bodies of
dead cats. The stains on the sidewalks started to
bubble and boil, turning into a hardened lava.
The garbage cans overflowing with the discarded
articles, slowly grew grotesque, ugly, symbolic
of all the trash and dirt that bred and lingered
behind the locked doors with loose hinges and
between the steps of the chipping paint of the
fire escapes ascending higher and higher, reach-
ing the roofs and then graded and blending into
the sky in the dark billowy clouds that rose from
The people sat at the windows with placid
expressions like hungry vultures ready for prey.
Their mouths foamed and watered for the sight
of a victim to become captured in the webs of
their disfigured minds. Their words were pre-
planned coming out in shrilled voices travelling
over from alley to alley trying to be discreet but
knowing how to hurt.
The pack of wolves lurked about the cor-
ners dressed in black shiny leather, tough to the
exterior, impenetrable on the interior. The venom
of evils and sins seeped in through their pores
and surrounded the walls of their hearts. They
lingered and attacked, but with panic in their
eyes they ran, scared at the sound of a police
The little children inscribed various ob-
scenities on the streets and marred the gutters.
They played cops and robbers, shooting at each
other, killing each other, fighting and knifing
each other in play, so affected by life. Will they
ever play happy games?
A group of Rabbis walked along the streets
on their way to the synagogue, dressed in their
uniforms, their long bristly beards flowing along
with their somber black robes. They walked ser-
iously and peacefully. In the eyes of the others,
they were ridiculed, labeled with the words of
the preiudiced, tortured with names. A young
boy throws a rotten egg from a window, cracking
on one of their hats, dripping down in a syrupy
gooey liquid. But they keep walking, constantly
keeping a steady pace.
Cross over the railroad tracks and observe.
The contrast is unbelievable.
The rows of tall maiestic-like apartment
houses glisten in the morning sun. A landlord
sweeps slowly a few specks of dust on the clean
A young man slowly shines his car, apply-
ing the last coat of liquid and searching to see
his own reflection in the vinyl finish. The rows
of trees begin to blossom in the early Spring air,
reaching out in grandeur, and sheltering the
streets from the evils so near.
The school children run down the streets
laughing, smiling, their cheeks flushed pink with
excitement and exuberance. They pile into the
vacant bus and create life inside the still vehicle,
A middle-aged woman walks her dog and
greets everyone, "Hello." Her French poodle is
dressed in a stunning outfit, complete with
There is a peaceful stillness and calm in
the streets. People are living humanly, not like
animals hungry and desperate in low poverty con-
either side of the railroad tracks. There is no
barbed wire, no fence, no walls, but for the people
living on the poor side, it is practically impossible
to break through.
There are two distinct worlds lying on
THE "B" POEMS
LOVE'S BIRTH A FOOL'S PRAYER
Bursting... Bacchus.. .. . .
' beyond its boundaries. god of Wine,
Breathing... b U hl b bl, b b l
within the being of its harbor. aptlzet IS um mg 3 8 mm your
LOVE is abundant in its beneficence bacchanalian rites.
and Icome before you bare faced and bland.
Boundless now in its beauty. I
Worse than a bumpkinq
CAROLYN MC COMES Barren of frivolity, beaten, broken
HBH Bathe me. . . in your bitter, blinding waters.
Bury my carcass under the ruins of Babel.
Barren land Buy me .,........................,.......... Ibid you.
betrayed and bombed FB.ee this SOUL from inhibitions.
by the bozjb b , BIRTH Anew your blazing waters bring.
Brazen bulls an all arm' blithe spirits Bold, Blustering in Baritone voices,
brandishing brimming with quick wit and skills.
bladgg Blame me not for binding my spirit to you
blazfflgbzvfflg iicivow NO OTHEH WAY
Blood A fool'
l blackened bound to the magic troubadours' ballads caused
and bubbling by your brew.
benegillnt BAHBAHIC FooL, . .
and battered a blundering, babbling
Tower OfBHbe1f ALEXANDRA REYES
the agony and the ecstas
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THE BALLAD OF THE MAN ON THE BRIDGE
He stood and he watched,
Never moving he stared,
Down the abyss of hell
His shadowed eyes glared.
The wind whipped at his face, tossing his
hair out behind him in a golden contrast to the
starless black sky. Rain lashed his naked form as
he stood, unmoving, on the obsidian bridge that
spanned the gulf between life and infinity. Like
a statue of gold, he faced the unknown. He held
himself proud, and death was in his eyes.
And he knew as he looked
-The last Man of Men-
He would die the real death
And come never again.
And all about him stretched the cold, bar-
ren wastes that had once been a world known for
its life. Where once had rolled the green hills of
Earth, there was now nothing but heaps of charred
slag and frozen waves of molten sand. All was
pitted and scarred like an anguished body being
eaten by leprosy. Where once -cool breezes had
blown, there was only the cooling remnants of
atomic fire. Where once the songs of nature had
rung out in the air, there was only the emptiness
of a vacuum whose atmosphere had long since
departed. He stood on the bridge, afraid of him-
self and alone with his tears.
He who had called the death
From the skyl
Who had screamed like the thunder,
Like the thunder he'd die.
The death that had come at his sign, at his call,
Killing and burning, destroying them all,
Snuffing out light in a mushroom of shade,
Like a portrait of Death sitting, laughing,
They had screamed and died by the thou-
sands and millions. Young men holding their
women and raging at their helplessness. Old men
running about in the confusion of age to have
their ancient skin burned from their dry-tinder
bones. Mothers desperately sheltering their chil-
dren and screaming in pain. Children trying to
suckle again. From ashes they had come and to
ashes they went, taking with them their thoughts,
beliefs, and way of life. All the generations had
become like the fine black dust that now covered
the dead crust that remainedl That always re-
mained. And he stood filled with sadness that the
glory of man had died out like a fire and was
covered with sand.
No pains of glory, no moans of defeat,
ln silence he'd die,
With surrender he'd meet,
The G-d who had made him
The Man that he was,
And he'd finally learned the G-d's name,
It was love.
He was the last, all the others were gone.
lt had taken the end of a world to start his race
over again. But this time they would start right,
start with Truth and Beauty and Faith and Love.
For he had learned the truth. And if he could
always worship it, then the race would be re-
membered. Mankind would live on. For the G-d
called Love was also known as Mercy and For-
giveness. And this man, while he would always
remember his sin in shame, he would have a
second chance, a chance to erase them.
For the G-d was not hate,
The idols he'd praised,
He'd learned his mistake
And to G-d Man was raised.
He was washed of his sins,
But remembered his shame,
For G-d in His wisdom,
Had left man His name.
I awoke, seeing the soft, red-orange sky
slowly diffusing before my eyes. It was dawn.
The last trailer truck had passed over my yawn-
ing, gray asphalt, and I knew that the city would
soon awaken to greet me.
I slowly stretched myself thoroughly,
stretching every cable, every girder, every coil,
making sure that I was completely primed and
ready for the morning onslaught of the city. At
the usual time, about 6:45 A.M., the first brigade
of cars came in. Each morning, I said a silent
prayer of thanks that there was only a bare mini-
mum of cars on the road, because at 6:45 in the
morning, one does not drive that well. Perhaps
the fact that one is still half-asleep at this time
has something to do with it. At that time there are
no such things as lanes: or, for that matter, no
such things as steering wheels. I could iust
imagine the 8:45 group like this. When I do, I
simultaneously detest the thought of having
chrome-plated trash swept off of me every day.
At about 7:00 A.M., my cables stretch
slightly as a larger, more wide-awake group
comes in. These poor devils have had at least
five minutes for a cup of coffee before entering
their gas-buggies. These are the alert, defensive
drivers you hear so much about. They are orderly,
drive at a moderate speed, and comfortable to
my asphalt. But, alas, they aren't very interest-
ing to talk about. There is, however, a group
that is more interesting, the hardy, robust walk-
ers. This band of troopers, obviously young men,
get their morning exercise this way. Wait till
they get in the army .... they'll get lots of exer-
cise that way ....
You'd be surprised how many athletes
abound in the city, deeply breathing the polluted
air. Now, 7:00 has become 'log-in time on my
concrete. Sometimes it tickles. The ioggers and
those drivers who watch out for the other guy
are slowly replaced by the wild ones.
The time is 8:00 A.M.g the actual onslaught
is hitting its peak. Cables and coils stretched,
here's an outline of what I am supporting: a multi-
tude of drivers and cyclists lmanual and motor-
MULTITIDE OF DRIVERS-primarily made up of
forty-five year-olds who must have
had ci secret desire to be iet jockeys.
Their only reason for being on the
road is to experiment on new ways
to pass their little friends on my now
MANUAL CYCLISTS-I never knew bicycles were
so popular. They're the only things
that soothe my concrete. But the
smooth, gentle rolling of bike tires
is quite unlike their relatives, the
MOTORIZED CYCLES-whose iagged, burning
treads feel like an avalanche of peb-
bles, and glass all wrapped up in a
ball of heavy-grained sandpaper.
Why is it when they cross me they
begin to roar and spit cracks of vio-
lent ignition like cherry bombs in a
trashcan? They NEVER seem to do
it on any other kind of road. Why
me?...why is it always me?
Before I describe my guests for this
period, I must ask a question. What
makes people honk their horns
when they know that the only way
a car ahead of them can move would
be to float above the traffic on a
cushion of air?
NORTHBOUND TIP-those who are disgusted
with themselves for being late. They
figure that they're late anyway so
they might as well take it easy.
NEAR MIDDLE GROUP-"Hey, come on you guys,
I'm late enough already."
MIDDLE GROUP-"Who the hell's up there caus-
NEAR END GROUP fhorn-honkersl-spend their
time doing two things: staring at
their watches, and honking.
SOUTHBOUND CENDJ TIP fhorn-honkersj-mutter
dark oaths I don't wish to repeat.
At IO:0O, I iust sag from exhaustion ,... and
I ponder over the questions .... How come we
can't just skip from 4:30 to 6:30 P.M., and elimi-
nate the demon in between?
DEBORAH AND ME
At the tender age of twelve, one is innocent
enough to defy society, yet vulnerable enough to
be scarred by it.
I entered the vast schoolyard of Winthrop
Junior High School, with eyes wide and hands
trembling. I swallowed hard and stepped across
the threshold into a new world of new friends
and new ideas. New, strange, the building, the
faces, oh, the faces, so many. I walked slowly
through the faces, past the faces, between the
faces, my eyes swallowing each one, checking
each detail, establishing an opinion of each in
my mind. I walked among the endless lines of
faces, looking for my own. I saw a girl, an older
girl, with makeup on her face and soft, smooth
hair, holding a sign reading a few numbers and
letters. I glanced down at my clumsy pocketbook
and pulled outa postcard, whose corners I care-
fully straightened and pressed, and then I read
my class section on it. I looked once more at the
markings on the girl's sign, and upon finding it
identical with the one on my card, I latched onto
the line, sighed a deep sigh of relief, and half-
smiled nervously as I felt my face grow red. I
stood quietly on the line, glancing about as
casually as I could, and nibbling on my lower
lip. After what seemed to be quite a while, but
was probably two minutes, a bell sounded and
the lines began to shuffle along slowly toward
the building. I watched the alien structure en-
velop the stream of figures, and my heart began
to pound. I don't know what I expected to be
inside, but to my surprise, it looked much like
my elementary school, only larger and older.
The room we entered had "grown-up" desks and
a large blackboard with a name and a room and
that same class section written on it. I took a
seat and eyed the one next to me. It was empty,
and I glanced nervously at each passing figure,
wondering who would sit next to me, why they
would, and why the others weren't. Finally, a
climax was reached when a tall, stocky girl
plopped herself down in the neighboring seat.
I peered out of the corners of my eyes and saw
her assembling her books and things on the desk.
She looked at me openly and my eyes quickly
darted downward. She smiled and said, "Hi," and
I smiled weakly and murmured the same. I did
look at her though and I saw before me a tallish
girl with large wet, gleaming brown eyes framed
with long curly eyelashes, shiny, neatly assembled
hair, chestnut brown skin, and wide lips and nose.
Deborah's eyes were laughingly inviting and I
rather felt myself grow less conscious of my be-
ing, and more involved in hers. I was no longer
stiff and scared, but instead enchanted by the
energetic, adventurous spirit in my new friend.
Deborah took me under her wing, I, a year
younger and somewhat less courageous than she.
We laughed every day, every minute. School was
of no matter to either of us, and it was only on
report card days that we could be seen trudging
home, sniffling and consoling and uttering snide
remarks about this teacher or that. But those
were the only tears between Deborah and me for
the rest of it was laughter. I remember the time
we hiked up to Woolworths and invested our last
dollar in a variety of iunky makeup which we
both hid until safely in the school bathroom,
where we would transform ourselves into two
painted dolls. It was horrible, and messy, but it
was prohibited and we wore it with a proud de-
fiance. Deborah and I weren't delinquents, only
two carefree irresponsible kids whose person-
alities merged and submerged.
It wasn't too far into the term when I de-
cided to invite Deborah to my house. I did, and
we enioyed ourselves as usual. My parents told
me that they thought Deborah was a sweet,
friendly girl. Things were fine I thought, and
Deborah's friendship and mine thrived. Until I
made a tragic mistake: I called Deborah when
her mother was home. The words, those words,
burned in my ears.
l'You'd better not call Deborah any more, be-
cause her father's a policeman and you will be in
a lot of trouble."
The tears blurred my vision, the salt stung
my tongue, I felt a lump growing hard in my
throat. I told my parents of this phone conversa-
tion I had with Deborah's mother and I watched
them look at each other, nervously, knowingly.
They began to explain gently about how they
knew of the problems that might arise from our
friendship and how it wasn't only what mattered
to me or my parents. I nodded although I didn'1
understand, and later wept bitterly over my feel-
ings of desperation and confusion. The next day
Deborah and I talked, she telling me to call and
apologize for calling on a school night and I re-
fusing out of fear of a repetition of my anguish.
The subiect was dropped and our friendship re-
sumed to normal, except that I had special hours
in which I was allowed to call, and that when
Deborah came over she would tell her mother she
was going to a school committee meeting. My
parents sighed but in spite of it all, welcomed
Deborah in our house. Once in a while, I could
go to Deborah's house, when she was sure her
mother wouldn't be home for a while. We en-
dured, however, and these problems were in-
significant to us, non-existent almost. We were
known throughout the school by teachers and
students alike. The former would tsk at us sadly
because we never applied ourselves in our school-
work, but deep inside they smiled down on us.
The kids, well, they saw us as two laughing,
friendly faces and thought of nothing more.
A summer passed, and so did letters be-
tween us, and school resumed. Deborah and I
changed little, and we still were two crazy,
irresponsible kids. Never home on time, she and
I would stop at the old Carvel stand, covered up
with stickers, and others above those indicating
the age of the bottom ones by a price change.
We would buy frozen brown bonnets, a tangy
milky vanilla custard cone, covered and inter-
mingled with a sweet sticky dark chocolate. Fro-
zen, yes, and difficult to bite, and later we hoped
it would melt and soften. But it didn't have to
for Deborah and me, for we digested it quite well
in its original state.
I guess it was toward the winter, when the
Carvel stand closed and the wind becomes biting,
that my parents announced that they had found
the house into which we were moving. Although
it wasn't that far from my present neighborhood,
it was a much newer, more expensive neighbor-
hood with long, modern schools and neat, orderly
lawns. I guess it was Deborah who faced it first
when she asked me if it was an all white neighbor-
hood. I swallowed my overdone gaiety and ex-
citement abruptly, and nodded quietly, and
Deborah nodded back quickly in recognition.
Time and events went on quickly from
then, my marks getting a little better, I guess
hers too. The spring shot up around us, and the
days until school would close became less and
less. Finally, the last day came, my last day in
Winthrop, in this neighborhood, and my last day
with Deborah. It was a dry, sticky, sunny day,
the excitement of summer bubbled within the
hearts of everyone, everyone but Deborah and
me. By the time we trudged quietly down the
monotonous stairs, the yard was empty of scream-
ing, shouting, running kids, who made it their
business to get away from the stately old build-
ing. Deborah and I were two small figures, heads
down, casting long willowy shadows in the vacant,
sticky yard, which seemed as large somehow as
it did on my first day there. We passed the Carvel
stand, and approached the bus stop where Deb-
orah got her bus. We stood mumbling words,
dumb, silly words that weren't really what we
wanted to say. Only seconds passed when the
bus appeared before us, sneezing loudly and
opening its doors. Deborah and I smiled sheep-
ishly at each other, and said, "Well, goodbye,
and keep in touch", and stuff like that, when
suddenly I flung my arms around the girl I had
leaned on for two years, the one whose nervy
courage offered me protection from the tough
kids in the school, and whose adventurous spirit
had become a part of me. Tears flooded her eyes
and mine, and Deborah stepped on the bus, her
shining eyes looking into mine, both our cheeks
stained with salty tears. The bus pulled away,
and Deborah waved violently, smiling and weep-
ing. I stood frozen, sobbing out loud, and through
my tears I saw the uncrossable bridge between
her parents and mine, the one we ourselves
walked cautiously to the middle of, where we
exchanged packages of friendship in a fleeting
minute. Hurry, hurry before the bridge parts and
lets society pass between!
At the tender age of twelve, one is innocent
enough to defy society, yet vulnerable enough
to be scarred by it ....
Isaw the new green birth, fed and nourished
by the sun's secretions, push through the hard,
frozen, winter earth like the birth of
a new child. . .
Isaw them dance in the gentle wind by day
and pray to their pagan Moon God in the
night. . .
Isaw flowers at dawn, whose colors poured
across the meadow and reminded me of
the stained glass window, where I. alone, was,
knowing that God was angry, and the thunder
lit up the church and sent the colors
streaming across the floor, and lon my
hands and knees, trying to pick them
up . . .
lsaw the dead squirrel, fthe rotten odorl, who
had died on his sacred journey to the next
season, lying beneath the huge, old oak
tree which has stood here forever like
a bent old man who walks slowly with a
cane, awaiting the vision of the Angel
THE SALT WATER CACOON
Iam emerging from my madness
in the Spring of creation and l
am seeing with newborn eyes
the world, as tears and gladness
ln the Park, the lovers waft
on sullen brown waves beneath
the shell they sit in and they
feel the brightness illuminated after
the shedding of a saltwater cacoon.
lfeel the brightness refracted
from tears of winter stillness
and the open air cafes along
the streets of happinessi reflected
in my visions.
Vendors sweep the sidewalk
with hot dog stands and
Madison Ave. displays its
latest output for the columnists talk.
And lstroll with burning feet,
scarcely noticing, for the salt tears
are gone and Iam immersed in
the brilliance of the after-death
and the reborn: the awakeningg the new
and lam sharing my wealth with
othersg but I long to know if what
they feel is the same and not scarce or
in the worldg by the Lake. lt is very
beautiful to be alone, when cherry blossoms
fall with over-ladened heads.
lt is very nice to dream.
It is very nice to be alone: and quite
beautiful but not in Spring: only when
cherry blossoms fall: not when souls feel
unity and seek it and vagueness of
my eyes discolor the unexceptional
and Close out all ldo not wish to See,
when there is no sight.
ADELE GERAGH TY
RITES OF A NATIVE SPRING
Sprout, bloom, spurt,
Snuff out the idiots!
Blades of fresh green grass stab,
My dripping mind,
Bursting the dam of icy water-dreams thawing.
Cascades, white foam churning, cool, clear, refreshing.
Dewy eyes giddy,
Showers of sights.
PLUCK THE DAISY MAN.
Light slipping around silhouetted trees, shadow people,
Sneak, hide and go seek.
A game for twinkle-toed elephants.
Stab me again,
Laugh at the sight of your own eyes skinned of
Open the lid on your glass covered head.
Ears, like cabbage leaves pasted on an erupting
Observe the scarlet flowers popping open.
Why are they called tulips?
Golden red drops of autumn fall from the royal
blue sky and fill my bucket with the sounds
of golden coins.
Moonbeams and orange sunsets give light to my world.
The black cat has disappeared. from my doorstep . . .
Together we eat ripe pumpkins and dance with the falling
The earth cracked open
and from its depths
emerged a shivering naked spring.
The clouds weighed heavy
on my shoulders
and pushed me down
into breathing emerald grass.
across the world of green sponge
catching and keeping
stars in my mouth.
The birds joined forces
in the tremulous strains
of an aerial opera
and the branches shook.
While crowds dressed in rags
hid in the shadows
throwing rain in my face
and trying to bring me down.
Calling me didn't help
because I breathed only giring
and heard only those
that lived in my head.
You are born
like a candle in the darkness
leaves from highest tree tops. You glgw
like the reflection of the sun
We slay the fire dragons with our swords. You burn
like the consummation of your Self
We walk through brittle forests and collect the You die
winter flowers that wait for us. like eternity unexplained.
TINA LADAS HELENE GROSSMAN
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I WILL REMEMBER
Everything had changed: I entered difficult and interesting. fl study
an unknown sphere to master meth on yellow paper because
what will I IYHOWI WIWGI math, like light, bears the color yellowj
will I have to know:
-as a child I watched my idols-
fthe teenagersl now I
-am one of them. The halls are dark
with lost shadows. I fumble
I like to feel important. I marched
in my first demonstration. Or when
a teacher depends on you because
you have proved yourself responsible.
fl am beginningl to
-at attempts to form a pattern from this, as move into myselfg to
new colts will try to run.
I am the new colt, the tiny stream among
barren boulders, trailing
crispy green vegetation, however.
l0th Year It is easier to laugh lout loudl. I have
gotten used to being here. But my interest
in art keeps me apart from ideals
I had of high school-with lockers
I carry my locker in a portfolio
and myself in the mirror of time.
I ith Year I am drawn into political discussions
and I now can form opinions. But
It is interesting. Everything is
fill the roomy void.
12th Year I have seen a great deal, yet I am
convinced I am blind: blindly drawing
-I had been a seed, expecting to blossom
but only before I die, will my life
form a frail word, toward THE WORD
like a blue petal? This I have learned:
That to believe one truly
knows nothing at all is
itself wisdom, beginning...
I am reaching for the tallest rainbow
of eternity, to sprinkle
, light on the stream, myself.
I7 ,W MARCI COMPTON
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FOR BEST RESULTS
B N B R I D G E 66The General Organization
wishes to express
H72 smooth' '80 Medium' H69 Rough best wishes and congratulations
A N D
DRAWING BRISTOLS tothe gfadualmg
Illustration Boards - Drawing Bristols class Of
Mounting Boards ' Show Card Boards ' Mat Boards
CHARLES T. BAlNBRIDGE'S SONS
BROOKLYN, N. Y. 11205
20 CUMBERLAND STREET
CHAQM5 in JCSIQH
rnonuss and quality
YOUR CLASS JEWELER
DIEGES 81 CLUST
199 loricho Turnpike, Floral Park, L.I., New York 11001
Bloomfield, N.l. Providence
any All Polymer
painting styles are Anow possible
' ' Professional
.1 1 Polymer
muck runs A BW'
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ROBERT SIMMONS Inc
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for hgavy lmpasto 5. I
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PARENTS ASSOCIATION OF
THE HIGH SCHOOL OF
ART AND DESIGN
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