A-Z FILES 2014
Selected Works for the Allen-Stevenson Archives
FILES The Allen-Stevenson School 132 E 78th Street New York, NY
The A-Z Files is founded in memory of Zach Levy (1985-2011), Class of 2000. All those who knew Zach came away smiling. He was warm, charismatic, and fiercely witty. He had a big heart and is remembered well for his generosity. Between his lifelong passion for writing and love of kids, heâ€™d be happy to see this publication born in his honor. We all miss him very much.
Dedicated to Laurence B Smith â€˜00 1984-2013
EDITORS Kerim Eken ‘00 Scott Handwerker ‘00 Jonathan Klebanoff ‘00
TYPOGRAPHY + DESIGN Caitlin Mulcahy
FACULTY ADVISOR Peter Haarmann David Kersey h’98
ALUMNI DIRECTOR Anthony Kapp
STUDENT REPRESENTATIVE Luca Matts ‘16 Isaac Parlin ‘16
SELECTION COMMITTEE Adam Levy ‘97 Michael Levy Jonathan Klebanoff ‘00 Scott Handwerker ‘00 COVER ART Matteo Ragusa ‘17
Helen Levy Kerim Eken ‘00 Peter Haarmann
INSIDE COVER ART Luca Matts ‘16 Isaac Parlin ‘16
Copyright 2014 © The Allen-Stevenson School Produced by Action Graphics, Inc. 800 365 6687
TABLE OF CONTENTS A Blinding Light Matteo de Donato ’16 pg 8
Foreword Christine Schutt P’94,’96 pg 10 Ghost City Felix Schloendorff ‘16 pg 12 NYC Masa Shiiki ‘17 pg 13
Tribute to Music Leo Rose ‘17 pg 14 Cool Kids Jordan Woods ‘17 pg 15
Life And Death Isaac Parlin ‘16 pg 17 Butterfly Love Leo Rose ‘17 pg 18
Cynatope Matteo de Donato ‘16 pg 19
Unititled Caleb Dando-Haenish ‘17 pg 20 Love is a Crazy Feeling Bernard von Simson ‘17, James Benacerraf ‘17 pg 21
Glacier Matteo de Donato ‘16 pg 22 To Build A Fire
Matteo Ragusa ‘17 pg 23
Spring Masa Shiiki ‘17 pg 25
The Lonely Troll Leo Rose ‘17, Alexander Chin ‘17 pg 26 Man Felix Schloendorff ‘16 pg 27
It’s A Nice View Matteo de Donato ‘16 pg 29 Untitled Jackson Sohn ‘17 pg 31
Paved Paradise Isaac Parlin ‘16 pg 32
One In One Thousand Matteo de Donato ‘16 pg 35 Bumper Sticker Car
Felix Schloendorff ‘16 pg 41
An Aid Matteo de Donato ‘16 pg 45 Reed Matteo de Donato ‘16 pg 49 Venice Guggenheim
Philip M. Harder ‘35 pg 50
Acknowledgements pg 52 Donors pg 53
A Blinding Light Matteo de Donatoâ€˜16
“Life is a lot like Jazz... it’s best when you improvise.” -George Gershwin
FOREWORD Christine Schutt P‘94,‘96
ost writers when asked why they write have an answer that if not self-deprecating—Because I can’t do anything else—admits of the art’s elusive nature and arduous demands. William Faulkner once described the novelist as a one-armed carpenter trying to build a chicken coop in a hurricane. Alongside the word novelist write poet and playwright, essayist and short story writer because any occupation to do with the imaginative use of language, our own or others’, calls for heroic action. The writers in this issue of the A–Z FILES display just such heroism. Here are creative submissions by turns funny and sad, risky and serious, proof positive that wisdom is not exclusive to adult writers. The young writers between the covers of this journal make some pretty smart observations on what it is to be alive in the world: A fitting tribute to Zachary Levy, AllenStevenson Class of 2000, and himself a wordsmith in whose memory this journal was created.
Described as a prodigious writer, Zachary Levy wrote in all genres with heart and humor. I imagine his own response to the question Why write as one joyously made: Why not?
Christine Schutt is the author of five works of fiction. Her most recent novel, Prosperous Friends, is now available in paperback. More importantly, she is a past parent to Nicholas Schutt ’94 and Will Schutt ’96, as well as wife to David Kersey h’98.
Ghost City Felix Schloendorff â€˜16
NYC Masa Shiiki ‘17
The sun shining on me I smell the hot dog and the kebab What pleasant smells The trees grow, reaching the clouds We grow taller too The blossoms fall into my hand as if they are alive Water dripping down my shirt I scream, “I need water! I need water!” I run to the fountain Cold as ice, the water goes down my throat Oh, it’s been a pleasant summer’s day.
TRIBUTE TO MUSIC Leo Rose ‘17
Music! Submerged in a deep tub of sound Music! Diverged from the rest Freedom! Music cries “Open the door!” “Come in!” I bade for it is my friend “Come in! Come in! Why art thou tired?” “I am constantly running!” Told music “From whom?” I ask “To whom!” Corrects music, for he is constantly running to every door, to bring happiness to the world
COOL KIDS Jordan Woods â€˜17
Greased black hair. Leather jacket Trotting around school. Looking so cool. Shiny smile. Slick hair. Perfect face. He comes in first place. Girls go ga-ga. Boys go ma-ma Teachers go A-plus Put school on a hiatus He is the cool kid.
LIFE AND DEATH Isaac Parlinâ€˜16
We all emerge Into the world. We blink, We laugh, We sigh. We undergo Another birth And shrink And stoop And die.
BUTTERFLY LOVE Leo Rose â€˜17
Two lovers in a grassy plain a butterfly in view What would this butterfly think? Or do? Would he fly away to give them peace? Would he stay and learn to love? Would he be inspired to love again? A butterfly flies and goes away, stopping at every tree. A butterfly flies, but breaks his wing, as a couple argues and love is lost.
Cynatope Matteo de Donatoâ€˜16
UNTITLED Caleb Dando-Haenisch â€˜17
Long, spindly needles Bright, fluorescent green Seeds in the pinecone for our feathered friends, Colors and lines bursting forth like fireworks on July 4th.
LOVE IS A CRAZY FEELING Bernard von Simson ‘17 James Benacerraf ‘17
Love is a crazy feeling, Sometimes it is unappealing, Sometimes it makes you cry, and you don’t even know why. With a dazzling chill, Love will make you fall, still. Love is a mischievous sensation.
Glacier Matteo de Donatoâ€˜16
TO BUILD A FIRE Leo Rose â€˜17
There seemed an intangible pall over things There was no sun or hint of sun Where a dim and little-traveled trail led eastward A dark hairline that curved and twisted This dark hairline was the trail- the main trail Colder than fifty below zero The trail was faint Colder than sixty below, then seventy below The curves and bends and timber-jams It was seventy-five below zero Fine powder of frost But all this The mysterious, far reaching hairline trail The tremendous cold The absence of sun from the sky The strangeness and weirdness of it all Furrow of the old sled trail Springs that bubbled out from the hillsides The ice Crackle of a snow-hidden ice-skin A sunken, candied appearance Traps The tremendous cold
TO BUILD A FIRE
Cold Cold of space smote the unprotected tip of the planet Tiniest dry twigs Wisps of dry grass Foundation Small shred of birch bark Young flame A success The fire, snapping and crackling The leafless aspens Each bough was fully freighted Avalanche A mantle of fresh and disordered snow Cheerful orb, due south A certain fear of death Under the stars that leaped and danced The tremendous cold The absence of sun in the sky The brief daylight drew to a close in a long, slow twilight
SPRING Masa Shiiki‘17
Five o’clock in the morning I wear my jacket; it’s so cold On the ground snow was melting Roots growing little by little Look at the ground; it’s all green as a grass tennis court The cold war’s over Tulips and Sun arising No gloves needed, Neither do we need jackets Everyone’s screaming, “Winter’s over! Winter’s over!” All I need is warmth to come back
THE LONELY TROLL Leo Rose ‘17 Alexander Chin ‘17
I am a troll- a lonely troll, Just a heavy rock that likes to roll Groovy green dreadlocks flow from my head Only green- not blue, or red “Hello,” says a troll “H’lo,” I say back, “how do you feel being all alone?” “It’s great,” the troll says, “but I’m never alone, For I have you, and the trees, and the world for my home!”
Man Felix Schloendorff â€˜16
It’s a Nice VIew Matteo de Donato ‘16
Jackson Sohn ‘17
Jackson Sohn â€˜17
What is a leaf, A leaf is connected to a branch, A branch is connected to a tree, A tree is connected to the earth, The earth is connected to the galaxy, The galaxy is connected to the universe, So a leaf is the universe.
PAVED PARADISE Isaac Parlin ‘16
rong way, you idiot!” Neal sighed, then flipped the key. “Much better,” it said smugly as it slipped into the lock. “Can’t tell you how much it gets on my nerves when your owner tries to jam you in the wrong—hey! Easy! Bet you’ve never been twisted in a lock before!” Neal sighed again and turned the grumpy key more slowly, removing it from the lock as gently as he could. “Unbelievable,” the key grumbled under its breath as he hung it on the hook next to the door. “Your feet smell,” complained his left shoe. “Tell me about it,” added the right. Neal rubbed his eyes and tried to ignore his indignant footwear as he slipped his shoes off and placed them on the rack that stood at the entrance to his small apartment. I’ve got to do something about this, he thought. I mean, if college isn’t draining enough... Trying to think about something else, he wandered into the kitchen for a quick bite before he began his work. While a can of soup sat heating in the microwave, he took out leftovers from the fridge—a bit 32
of steak he had ordered for delivery the night before. He then set out a bowl and a plate and began gathering his silverware. “Oh, boy,” grumbled the spoon. “Here we go again,” agreed the fork. “Yup,” said the knife. Once the soup was ready, he put the steak in the microwave and sat down to eat. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute, wait a minute!” Neal paused with the spoon raised in his hand. “First,” it said haughtily, “tell me what you’re dunking me in this time.” He paused. “Soup.” The spoon snorted. “Now, hold it right there, mister. You are not making me go into that stuff even if you think—” “Yes, I am,” Neal said wearily, and the spoon’s complaints were cut off as it was submerged in the soup. He tentatively took a bite. The spoon came out coughing and sputtering. “The human mouth is a disgusting thing!” it spat. “Don’t get me started,” piped the knife. “Right,” sniffed the fork. “Like you’ve ever been inside someone’s mouth. All you do is cut the food.” Hey, it’s harder than you think!” “Well, what I think is that you should just—” “Stop!” Neal couldn’t take it anymore. 33
“Please. You’re giving me a headache.” “Like we care,” smirked the spoon. This can’t continue. “Okay, fine. You can have your way.” Neal resignedly put the spoon in the dishwasher and returned the unused fork and knife to their drawer. He then slurped what remained of the soup straight out of the bowl and decided that the steak could wait for another night. And I still have so much work... Neal grabbed his backpack, which he had left by the door, and made his way to his bedroom. Turning on a lamp that stood in the corner, he laid his backpack beside his desk and sat in the chair. “Gross! Get your behind off of me!” Neal groaned but ignored the chair’s protests. Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out his math textbook and set it onto his desk with a thump. “Ouch! Watch it!” cried the desk. “Humans are so insensitive,” agreed the chair. The desk sniffled. “My wood could have cracked. I’ll be bruised for weeks!” “At least you don’t have to get sat on every day.” Pulling out a sheet of graph paper, his calculator, and a pencil, Neal set to work. “Lazy human. Why do you make me do all the work?” the calculator whined as Neal punched in the numbers. “Do it yourself.” Neal continued his work, writing carefully 34
One in One Thousand Matteo de Donato â€˜16
on the paper. “Oh, no! I’m getting shorter and shorter!” the pencil gasped. “And my beautiful point— dull!” Neal considered the pencil. It could use a little sharpening. He pushed it into the electric sharpener that sat on the right of his desk. The pencil began to wail. “No! Please! Stop! Stop!” If only Neal could be a little more callous. But, he had to admit to himself, he was a sympathetic guy. Great when it came to interacting with other people, but a terrible nuisance in the face of grumpy, manipulative household items. Neal sighed, removing the pencil from the sharpener and apologizing to the sobbing writing utensil. “It’ll be okay, Pencil,” said the desk in a comforting tone. “Yeah!” the chair added accusingly to Neal. “Pick on someone your own size!” “But no one here is my own size!” Neal protested. “I am,” said the bed in a slow, baritone voice. Everybody looked toward the back of the room. The bed glanced nervously from side to side, embarrassed. “Uh... Sorry. I’ll be quiet now.” “Thank you,” Neal said appreciatively. 36
“All right. I’m sorry, Pencil.” He returned the small yellow thing to its place inside the desk and rummaged through it for a pen. “Oh, dear! Not me!” it yelped. Neal paused. He couldn’t do his Math homework with a pen, but maybe . . . He searched through his backpack until he found Hamlet. Surely the English teacher wouldn’t mind if he did his annotations in ink. He began reading through the text until a passage caught his eye. “What a piece of work is man,” he read, engrossed, underlining the words. “How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty. In form and moving how express and—” The pen began to cry. “My ink, my ink!” it shrieked. “My precious ink! Gone forever!” Great sobs racked the small blue writing utensil. “Gone!” “What did I just tell you?” demanded the chair. “Leave the poor thing alone!” Neal sighed and put his elbows on the desk. “Hey! Get your arms off!” the desk complained. Can I do anything right? he wondered. He needed a break. His work would have to wait. Standing, he moved to his bed and slumped onto it, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. “Finally!” scoffed the chair. “You’ve 37
got one sweaty rear end!” Neal felt the bed rumble beneath him as it spoke in its slow, deep voice. “It’s okay, Neal. You can always lie on me.” Neal frowned. Why was the bed so kind to him when everything else was so curmudgeonly? Still pondering the thought, he reached over to turn on the radio. Jarring pop music sprang from the speakers, and he quickly changed the channel. More grating music. Could it even be called music? More like... noise. Neal switched the channel again, and again, until the radio had had enough. “Will you please just stay on one program? I’m tired of switched back and forth, and back and forth. Can’t stand it any more!” However, Neal hardly noticed what the radio was saying, for something else had caught his attention. A familiar song was playing, muffled by static. Neal thought, frowning, trying to place where he had heard it. It was only when the chorus returned that he remembered. “Don’t it always seem to go, That you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til its gone. They paved paradise, And put up a parking lot.” The song was “Big Yellow Taxi,” by Joni Mitchell. It had always been a favorite of his mother’s, though she called it simply “Paved Paradise.” The tune was catchy, and 38
he did enjoy the song, but right now he was focused on something else. Turning off the radio, he went over the lyrics in his head. “... you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone...” Too true, as he had come to realize. But at the moment, his thoughts were far less philosophical. He had it. All the complaining, the grumbling, the groaning, and the melodramatic wailing from pens, pencils, chairs, desks, forks, knives, spoons, shoes, and even keys was just too much. But they would stop all right. Because you don’t know what you’ve got ‘till it’s gone. The household items were holding a meeting. The room was completely dark but for the faint moonlight streaking in through the window. They spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones, glancing every so often at the sleeping form of Neal. “It’s outrageous,” the chair began. The other members of the meeting nodded in assent. “I mean—it’s just so unexpected,” the left shoe said. “But the question we must ask ourselves is why,” the desk put forth solemnly. The members exchanged uneasy glances. The stillness lingered. Finally, it was the fork who broke the silence. “He uses... he uses a plastic fork now,” it sniffled, on the verge of tears. 39
Bumper Sticker Car Felix Schloendorff â€˜16
“And a plastic knife,” added the knife. “And a plastic spoon,” agreed the spoon. “He had me copied by a locksmith,” said the key. “And now all I do is hang on that hook all day.” “He bought new loafers,” sobbed the right shoe. “And now all I do is sit on that shoe rack all day.” “He... he bought mechanical pencils,” the pencil whimpered. “And he uses ballpoint pens,” squeaked the pen. “He sits on the floor now,” sighed the chair. “And works there, too,” said the desk. “For five full days, he hasn’t used any of us at all!” finished the radio. The pencil consoled the pen as its friend began to weep, and the members of the meeting settled into a grave silence. At last, after a long moment, the chair voiced the thought that was on everyone’s mind. “In a strange way, I kind of...” The chair flushed, lowering its eyes. “I almost... miss him.” “Yeah,” piped the spoon. “I suppose the soup wasn’t that bad...” “I’ll admit that I did like having a sharp point,” the pencil squeaked. “I guess it was kind of nice having him work on me,” added the desk. “Maybe I could get used to being in his mouth,” admitted the fork. 42
“And I could use a good cutting sometime soon,” said the knife. “He wasn’t so rough with me, I suppose,” agreed the key. “And...I miss walking around the streets,” chirped the left shoe. “I mean, he didn’t smell that bad,” the right chimed in. “I miss listening to my own music,” the radio sighed, “but I can’t turn on all by myself.” “I feel...almost empty without his familiar weight,” said the chair. The pen, who had now recovered from its tears, spoke last. “I suppose I could give away some of my ink if it meant just being...held again.” “Yes,” sighed the desk. “We must be true to ourselves. We miss doing that which we were made to do.” “And that means,” said the key, “that we mustn’t complain, protest or grumble any more.” “Agreed?” the knife asked, looking around at the group of household items. “Agreed,” they spoke in unison. “Hey,” said the pencil, “why hasn’t the bed said anything?” They paused, considering the question. “He can’t talk, of course, or he’ll wake up Neal,” the chair said dismissively. “No,” the desk slowly replied. “I think 43
not. If you’ve noticed, he is the only one of us that Neal has used.” “He was always nice to Neal,” the left shoe admitted. “And we were not,” added the right. “And so the bed continued to be used,” finished the spoon. “What was that song Neal was listening to before this all happened?” asked the key. “I think he called it ‘Paved Paradise,’” piped the pen. “What were the lyrics?” said the pencil. The radio closed its eyes in thought, and then began to sing softly: “Don’t it always seem to go, That you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til its gone. They paved paradise, And put up a parking lot.” “Ah,” said the desk. “I think I may have answered the question that I myself put forth earlier. Why did he stop using us five days ago? Replacing us with crude replicas of ourselves? I believe our friend Neal may have been trying to tell us something. It’s hard to appreciate what you have— that is, until you have it no longer. We should be thankful of the smallest things in life. Things like...being turned in a lock, right, Key? Or slicing through a piece of meat, Knife. If you were to wake
An Aid Matteo de Donato â€˜16
up blind tomorrow, do you think you would have appreciated the sight you had well enough?” The members of the meeting shook their heads in shame. “And so, I think that our good friend Neal was telling us this. Be grateful when he sits on you, Chair. Or when he turns you on, Radio, and changes the channel once or twice. We should all be thankful for what we have.” Everybody nodded in agreement, and the meeting was adjourned. Neal was getting worried. It was the sixth day since he had stopped using the items in his house. So far, they had simply remained silent as he ignored the comfort that they offered, instead eating with disposable utensils, sitting and working on floors, and wearing new shoes. And so, as he turned into his bedroom to begin this evening’s work, he set his backpack on the ground and made to sit down next to it. He almost did, when a hesitant, quiet voice spoke up. “Um...you can sit on me if you want to, Neal.” It was the chair. Neal smiled. Aha! he thought. So it had worked after all. “I would love to,” he replied.
“And you can work on me, too!” said the desk eagerly. Neal grinned as he opened his desk and took out the pencil. “Wait, take me out, too!” squeaked an indignant pen. “Hey, Neal! Maybe you want to listen to something before you start working?” called the radio from the other side of the room. Neal shook his head in wonder. The lyrics to that song were so true. When he was younger, he had caught strep, his throat stabbing like a dagger every time he swallowed. When he was better, he never again took for granted easy swallowing. Or when he had broken his arm, he realized what a blessing it was to have one that worked. He hadn’t known what he’d had until it was gone. It was natural. How could he fully appreciate hearing when he had never been deaf? Youth when he had never been old? Or life when he hadn’t yet died? How could the items in his apartment appreciate simply being used when they had never been left alone? And so, following the radio’s advice, he crossed the room and turned it on. Somehow, he was not surprised by what was playing. “Don’t it always seem to go, That you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til its gone. They paved paradise, And put up a parking lot.” 47
Reed Matteo de Donato â€˜16
VENICE GUGGENHEIM Philip M. Harder‘35
here merchants first stored grain, Then princes lied and stabbed their ways Amassing amphorae of mothers milk And precious other things, Fortunes reaching out to India And back, if winds were right, Lives Peg A-spending money on a horse Ridden by a bothered man, And on the damn’dest things you ever saw: A seal so smooth your hands feel rough; A polished brass propeller blade Shaped better than a girl; And paintings full of devils, modern type, Platypus-like noses resting On a long horizon Flanked by hopeless eyes; A plethora of breasts; Trees with bellies, Welded wizard shapes Inviting your fingers in And leaving them, unless they’re eels, With no way out. And by it all the Grand Canal Waiting to receive the lot.
The seal will swim, The blade will find its way, The shapes will case themselves in mud, The canvasses will undulate down-tide And peg will say “Instead of breeding I had these And quite a bit of fun beside.”
Philip M. Harder ‘35, a Banker, Sailor, Pilot and Poet, was born in New York City, and grew up in and around New England, attending Allen-Stevenson. Rather than going to college, he joined the Merchant Marines, earned his third mate’s license, and honed his maritime skills while pursuing a lifelong love of the sea. During World War II he enlisted in the Coast Guard as a seaman, rising to the rank of lieutenant, after which he began his career as a stockbroker. His desire to expand his knowledge of sailing and flying was a catalyst in cultivating a love of poetry, which first surfaced during his youth. His son said of his poetry, “It was a meaningful part of his persona and I know he would be pleased to share with your students.”
n addition to our donors, weâ€™d like to give special acknowledgment to the A-S English teachers who go above and beyond to make this a reality. Pete Haarmann, our champion who spearheads the effort throughout the year, is joined by the wonderful support of Susan Lukas, Steven Cohen, Carol Mahida, and McCartney Wilkins. A big thank you to all!
Zachary P. Levy ‘00 Memorial Fund
NOBEL SOCIETY Michael & Helen Levy, Lawrence D. Hite, Richard & Denise Mulcahy PULITZER CIRCLE Zeynep Eken, Helen & Howard Freedman PEN/FAULKNER FELLOW Ayse & Necdet Bezmen, Meredith Blank, Joan & Charles Blanksteen, Nermin Esen, The Ken Pollak Family, Fran Lippa & Rick Rohn, Beth & Bob Sheehan MAN BOOKER BOARD Josh Aghravi, Dan Friedman & Michelle Andelman, Anonymous, Virginia Volante Appel, Berin Bezmen, Jonathan Blanksteen ‘00, Lauren & Ryan Borg, Joshua Chaffee, Anne Chellas, Ian M. Dana ‘97, Maya Deshmukh, Matthew Dresher, Jess Eisen, Kerim Eken ‘00, Allison Feldman, Ginevra Figg, Alex Friedman, Alex Funk ‘00, Lara & Adam Gillman, Jordan Gillman, Paul & Renee Haas, Steven Handwerker ‘03, Scott Handwerker ‘00, Debbie Cooper & Kevin Handwerker, Arielle Haves, 53
Tim Howell, Dana, Jeff & Matt Hynick, Lauren Wood & Conor Izzett, Tim Kirby ‘00, Jon Klebanoff ‘00, Susan Hirschhorn & Arthur Klebanoff, Brian Lamb, Izzie Lerer, Ethan Levy, Adam Levy ‘97, Erin Levy, Jacqui & Ron Liberman, Caitlin Mulcahy, John Murray, John Rosen, Rachel Rosenberg, Emily Rudman, Benjy Sarlin ‘00, Kate Schlosstein, Megan & Midhat Serbagi ‘97, Will Sheehan, Dillon K. Springer ‘00, Joshua Steinberg, Christopher Stone, Deborah Forte & Peter Stone, Nicholas Tapert ‘00, Cameron Tung, Kevin VanLandingham, Melissa Wilner, Rachel & Jared Zolna NEWBURY CLUB Anonymous, Anonymous, Jamie Bass, John Benedetto, Talin Bezmen, Jamie Neuthaler & Aaron Books, Lauren Appel & Karyn Brownson, Jordan Cerf, Katy Cheng, Susan Crile, Serra Eken, Lauren Freedman, Louise & Howie Freilich, Elaine & Arthur Friedman, Claire Friedman, Mike Fung, Lauren & Brian Koffler, Ben Krauss, Abby Leber, Josh Levy, McFly Levy, Ben Lewis, Tal Madanes, Lisa Ray, Katie Robin, Alex Rosario ‘00, Samantha Steinberg, Carter Stone, Damian VanCamp ‘00, Jas Wagstaff, Jeff Warren, Melissa & Jared Weil, Jessica Zanan 54
SUPPORTERS Jonathan Aghravi, Beth Appel, Guillermo Artiles, Jessica Barrett, Cliff Bayer, Caitlin & Eric Bitzegaio, Ari Bornstein, David Braily, Jay Caretsky, Ben Carron Greg Cayne, Brook Cohen, Sarah Claspell, Leila Cohan-Miccio, Matt Cutler, Andrew L. Daidone, Ashley Eisenstadt, Matt Elkin ‘99, Adam Fields, Zach Fox, Jack Germain, Lindsey Goodman, Pete Haarmann, Alex Ingram ‘03, Derek Jacobs, Tommy Kahn, Brian Kennedy, Alex Klein, Prescott Loveland, Andrea Lusso Matt Moskovciak, Jack Pesin ‘97, Josephine Porco, Sarah Ruel-Bergeron, Mike Schutzer, Becca Skolnick, Laurence Smith ‘00, Ashley Springer ‘97, Hadley Springer, Maria Sternfeld, Gilmar Valencia, Paul Welsh, Alex Whitman
THE ALLEN-STEVENSON SCHOOL 2014