The 2023 Icarian Lit Mag

Literary Magazine 2023
Naperville Central
THE ICARIAN

Ocean Depths
digital art by Kalani Staudacher, senior

The Icarian 2023
Naperville Central High School
Naperville, Illinois
First published in 1961, the NCHS literary magazine
integrated images and themes from the story of
Daedalus and his son, Icarus, to communicate both
discovery and struggle. This year, Icarus visits us once
again as we travel through the tragedy of his tale and
his flight.
The theme for this edition is "The Nature of Things",
represented by a variety of literary and artistic works
submitted by students at NCHS. The aim of these pages
is to explore our interior and external environments.
Within them lie reflections on the natural world and the
human psyche.
We are The Icarian, and we hope this magazine
inspires you to seek out all the wonders of the world.
After all, everyone is an artist by nature.

Table of Contents
Art
inside front cover...Ocean Depths, digital art by Kalani Staudacher, senior
2. Into the Unknown... photograph by Claire Yung, senior
3. Forest Find... photograph by John Hayward, staff
4. Reflection... photograph by Claire Yung, senior
5. Down in Door County... digital art by Athena Chen, junior
6. untitled... digital drawing by Jaden Yau, junior
7. Garden Greeter... photograph by John Hayward, staff
8-9. Down Below... photograph by Claire Yung, senior
10. Glistening Goldenrod... photograph by Julia Vanderbloemen, junior
11. Green... digital art by Isabella Ziemba, sophomore
12. Layers of Earth... photograph by Sarayu Suresh, senior
13. Flying On... photograph by Claire Yung, senior
14. Prarie Path... photograph by John Hayward, staff
14. When in Rome... photograph by Claire Yung, senior
15. untitled... digital art by Sofia Crittle, freshman
16. Rainbow... digital art by anonymous, freshman
17. Red Smoke... art by Mars Alvarado, sophomore
18. Snake Rib Cage... painting by Isabel Deer, junior
20. Flight... charcoal drawing by Cheryl Chang, sophomore
22. Venus de Milo... drawing by Lucille Buchheit, sophomore
23. untitled... jewelry by Jaden Yau, junior
23. untitled... mixed media by Sofia Crittle, freshman
25. Woman With Curly Hair... pen drawing by Daniella Peguero Gonzalez, freshman
27. Spiraling... photograph by Claire Yung, senior
29. Spark of Rage... photograph by Megan Donson, senior
32. Amorior Ergo Sum... digital art by Diego Jiménez, senior
33. Daphne... sculpture by Jaden Yau, junior
34. Car Chase... photograph by Bradley Anderson, sophomore
35. Staying Afloat... photograph by Kayla McNab, senior
36. Haunted House... digital art by Addison Wojcik, junior
37. Watched by the Eyes of Argus... digital drawing by Diego Jimenez, senior
38-39. Eyes... digital art by anonymous, freshman
42. Unexpected Caller... digital art by Deana Wilson, freshman
45. Spooky... digital art by anonymous, freshman
49. Tree of Life... photograph by Claire Yung, senior
50. Bitter and Haze... digital art by Izabella Ziemba, sophomore
53. Crying for My Mother... digital art by Diego Jimènez, senior
55. Trypophobia... photograph by Kailey Angelacos, senior
62. Trapped in Time... mixed media by Spencer Smolik, senior
63. My Head Is a Scary Place... digital art by Ava Rose, senior
inside back cover. Diurnal Reflection... drawing by Abby Abud, sophomore

Table of Contents
Writing
3. "still life"... poem by Jane Armstrong, senior
4. "Elysium"... poem by Daniela Peguero Gonzalez, freshman
5. "Soft Heart"... poem by Mia Stephens, senior
7. "essence"... poem by Mia Stephens, senior
10. "Aphrodite on Earth"... poem by Elaine Zhou, sophomore
13."A Firework Like No Other"... poem by Elaine Zhou, sophomore
14."Cyclical: A Collaborative Abecedarian Poem"... by Mr. Doman's 1st P. Honors English 2 Class
18-19. Serpent... poem by Milaine, junior
21. Icarus... poem by Elaine Zhou, sophomore
22-23. A Meditation on Grief... poems by M. Doman, staff
24-30. The Tale of Lacrimosa... short story by Mia Stephens, senior
31. Wicked Heart... poem by Mia Stephens & Elaine Zhou, senior and sophomore
33. Silvia... poem by Milaine, junior
34-35. Your Life: A Collaborative Abecedarian Poem... by Mr. Doman’s 2nd P. Honors English 2 Class
38. good talk, really... poem by Tené, junior
39. Stuffed Animal... poem by Peter Kroll, sophomore
40. I don't think I'll ever stop burning my tongue... poem by Maya Suliman, senior
41-48. The Death of Phoebe Thana... poem by Delaney Schretter, senior
49. The Two of Us... poem by Mia Stephens, senior
50. Two-person Lift... poem by Tené, junior
51-52. Naperville Summer, 2022... short story by Ellie Snyder, senior
54. PERSONIFICATION (ADHD)... short story by Maddie Davila, freshman
56-61. The Tragedy of the Arab-Muslim Slave Trade… essay by Chizurum Akubue, junior

2
Into the Unkown
photograph by Claire Yung, senior

still life
by Jane Armstrong, senior
life makes me write softly,
small moments resting
on the tongue, brushing the eyes
with a delicate intensity,
and, in my mind,
a slight breeze through the window
leads to the death of the moth
but the birth of a star,
a new hope riding
on the coattails of the sun
my heart aspires to have this,
to be as easy in waking
as it is in dreaming,
to be effortless, meaningful, honest,
to be self-sacrificial to a gold-plated knife
that’s too beautiful to take
unless death follows it
Forest Find
photograph
by John Hayward, staff
but your eyes took me elsewhere, unfortunately,
to a place where my body breathes deeply
but with difficulty, stones upon my lungs
in towers of jagged edges
now you shuffle past me slowly,
always heading to a home of darkened windows
where your soul is pierced by a song (my song)
and stormy skies of blue-black,
definite in their finality,
unlike your words.
3

Elysium
by Daniela Peguero Gonzalez, freshman
There is a place in Time called Elysium. It hides between the folds of space.
With its stardust-ridden hands, it grips the space-time continuum, peeking up
and over, looking, always looking. It looks for smiles - for a joy that could
jump out of hearts and leap across the clouds. It looks for tears -
a sadness so heavy one may feel they melt into the Earth.
Reflection
photograph by
Claire Yung,
senior
Once found, Elysium steals Time and tucks it away, deep into the void
of space. It dances in the sky, looking, always looking, ready for its next
recipient until they are found. From there, there is a moment hung fragile, in
light of a breath. A spark of emotion so strong it overflows - a feeling so pure
and real there is no possible way of hiding from it.
A feeling. When the air stands still and a moment in Time is kept.
When tears fall, until a knot in your throat forms, until you feel it may
explode. When something is so beautiful and real, when for a split second -
Time stops altogether. Elysium is a state of being immersed in everything.
Elysium is a place inside Time.
When Time itself wakes from the void, it steals Elysium - leaving a husk
of what was once before. A moment lost in memory. It spends its time
looking, always looking. Until then, Elysium stands still, waiting.
4

Soft Heart
by Mia Stephens, senior
It is not a bad thing to have a soft heart.
It means you are versatile, ever-changing.
When the strong winds blow,
we become the wind instead of being knocked down by its force.
When fire burns through everything in its path,
we become the flame, the smoke, and even the ash.
When the floods clear the land, drowning all in their sorrow,
we become the currents, allowing the water to take us where we need to be.
Being softhearted means you’re strong
You can weather the storm and still find beauty in its lightning
It takes strength to suffer and to love regardless
It is why mercy requires will
And slaughter requires a vessel.
My softhearted child, fear not your sensitivity.
It is your greatest gift.
Down in Door County
digital art by Athena Chen, junior
5

6
untitled
digital drawing by Jaden Yau, junior

Essence
Garden Greeter
photograph
by John Hayward, staff
by Mia Stephens, senior
you are a feeling,
a whisper in the wind
no one understood
you feel like healing -
a secret remedy
made from stars and honey
you are the golden notes,
played in the way the
sun dyes the sky as it rises
a gentle song
your ears don’t recognize,
yet your heart
has always known
so tender, so unearthly
so of the final frontier
that you’re home
7

8
Down Below

photograph by Claire Yung, senior
9

Aphrodite on Earth
by Elaine Zhou, sophomore
He might promise you fresh
flowers
bouquets of beauty
of evanescent bliss
of traced sunlight upon your
visage
or maybe even a promise of mortal
eternity.
But say you’ll refuse, darling,
for it has to be true.
Why would you settle
for something ephemeral
when I can gift you the stars
misaligned comets,
burning asteroids
where you can still feel
the warmth from my hand
after it’s long gone
while we watch the sunset
on Venus forever.
Glistening Goldenrod
photograph
by Julie Vanderbloemen, junior
(Golden Key Winner)
10

Green
digital art by Izabella Ziemba, sophomore
11

12
Layers of Earth
photograph by Sarayu Suresh, senior

A Firework Like No Other
by Elaine Zhou, sophomore
Their questions burn like my body
And I find myself asking the same thing
Did intend for a massacre?
For a tragedy no one romanticizes?
They ask
Could you see your
reflection in their eyes?
To have their last
memory of their loved
ones
Seared, burned, tarred,
gone
People often ask
If I meant for such a grand devastation
If I had it planned out
And if it was to wrought life or death
All by the fire that was you
All by the snow left in your
wake
Give us answers, give us
recollections
But I will reply with what I
always am
of tidal waves, of warfare
of scars, of fossils
The day I brought earth to its knees
Was a celestial event I couldn’t control
Flying On
photograph by
Claire Yung, senior
Although no one was alive to see
That I was simply a part of history
13

Cyclical: A Collaborative Abecedarian Poem
by Mr. Doman's 1st P. Honors English 2 class
Again you ask for it to stay,
But you can't always have your way.
Change is bound to happen so
Do not be so sad.
Everything comes back eventually.
Feelings of dread now relieved
Give life to what was dead, and
Healing those who do not bleed.
Illuminated skies mark a
Journey towards the warmth ahead.
Kissed by the sun shining through the trees;
Prairie Path
Loved by the warmth like a special hug;
photograph by John Hayward,
Moved by the breeze - it never fails to charm.
staff
Never look back on the cold and rainy past.
Oh, what a day to enjoy.
Pumpkin patches and corn mazes too quickly sprout,
Quartering the crisp morning fog.
Ringing school bells mark the
Start of major changes.
Temperate twilights dissolve into brumal dusks.
Under the veiled white snow lay
Vast, scarce, and barren fields without life, but
Warm embraces are waiting to envelop as
Xenial souls gather for the holidays,
Yearning for peace.
14
When in Rome
photograph by Claire Yung,
senior
Zealots rage against the perennial
changing of the climes.
How sad and aimless.
But just as summer follows spring,
Patience and trust will always prove one
indelible truth: everything comes back eventually.

untitled
digital art by Sofia Crittle, freshman
15

16
Rainbow
digital art by anonymous, freshman

Red Smoke
art by Mars Alvarado, sophomore
17

Serpent
Coiled
around my
heart, weaving
between my ribs
Is a green, shining
serpent. I don't
know how
it got there
by Milaine, junior
I just know
it's always
been there.
Love me, love
me said the boy
next door. Date me
hold me said the girl
on the dance floor.
Caress me, trust me said
the stranger from church.
I wanted to kiss them, but
the snake around my heart
hisses. It tightens, and it
bites. Venom runs through
me and suddenly, I feel
nothing. Where love should
be, I am numb. Where I
saw beauty, I now see none.
Am I the one lacking? Is
there something wrong?
This damn snake it
won't die - I burned
it and it survived.
Snake Rib Cage
painting by Isabel Deer, junior
18

Cut off its head with a date,
but it comes back and I'm alone.
While everyone feels the warmth
of their lover's blood, I feel the
cold scales.... All that's left is
a freezing husk. But it isn't
my fault, and now I know
I am not Frankenstein's
creation nor am I the
devil. My love exists,
just on a different level.
Though the snake bites
it bites to protect. It knows
my heart wasn't made for
this. So I won't bat an eye
at the boy next door. I'll
say a prayer for the stranger
at church and politely decline
the girl on the dance floor.
The serpent slithers on and
I am happy it protects me
though some say it's
a curse. I may be
cursed, but I am
content. There is
nothing I need
more. I have
the serpent
in my heart
and we'll
never
be torn
apart.
19

20
Flight
art by Cheryl Cheng, sophomore

Icarus
by Elaine Zhou, sophomore
How did the linoleum feel on your back,
after the fall?
With the weight of the world stuck to you
lying in a pool
of your melted wings and sins
Do you feel
the pounding of footsteps of those before you?
Do you feel yourself separated
like an egg yolk?
Do you feel humanity
on the supermarket floor?
Grime from Paris
cigarette burns from Tokyo
What about the pebbles from Kabul?
You can just barely make out the intercom.
Among the static
Cleanup on aisle six - no, seven
As you lie in your pool of mistakes,
Tell me,
Why do you wear a smile,
Shining brighter than the sun who destroyed you?
21

A Meditation on Grief in Five Short Poetic Forms
1. Denial (Sijo)
A cardinal, scarlet and swift,
lands gently near my
outstretched hands.
His eyes, familiar and
salutary, rest on me as he
sings.
My soul, faithful and
uncompromising, knows that
you are here.
by M. Doman
3. Bargaining (Nonet)
This will not stand! I won’t allow it!
There must be a way to restart.
Come on, play fairly with me.
What do you want? My blood?
My sweat? More tears? Done!
Where do I sign?
No take-backs.
No tricks.
Please?
2. Anger (Tricubes)
Fire and ice
Both can burn
Unquenched
Memories
So-called balms
Irritate
No one knows
Rife with ire
I seethe.
22
Venus de Milo
drawing by Lucille Buchheit, sophomore

4. Depression (Naani)
Raw and aching.
Sorry I missed your call.
Resting but sadly not asleep.
Hope your day is going well.
untitled
jewlery by Jaden Yau, junior
untitled
mixed media by Sofia Crittle, freshman
5. Acceptance (Tanka)
I’ve lost many things,
But none compare to you, none!
My best role model;
Steadfast and warm, you persist.
A daily light to guide me.
23

The Tale of Lacrimosa
by Mia Stephens, senior
Once upon a time, in a strange and antiquated world, an unnamed woman
was declared the most desirable in all of the land. She had been gifted beauty
at birth, but had been warned that it would be her demise by the midwife who
delivered her. She had a straight nose and warm olive-toned skin with full lips
and golden hair that fell in rich, voluminous curls to the small of her back.
Her limbs were curved and soft, as though she emerged from a painting. Her
melancholy sapphire eyes caught every shimmer, every glint of light - and like
the jewels they resembled, they were given a high price. She was, to all who
saw her, art with breath.
The woman had a name, but it was forgotten in the tides of fame and fortune
as a consequence of her discovery. Royalty from across the globe fell to their
knees for as simple as a glance. She was invited to their dances, their galas,
their auctions - operas, concerts, plays. She was afforded the most premium
seats and the finest quarters, so long as she gave the elites who funded her
existence her smile, conversation, and oftentimes herself.
It was a good life - a much better life than the one her parents would have
given her. Her mother and father were poor shop workers who could manage
food on the table but hardly anything else. Despite, the woman missed her old
life. Whilst she was served caviar and the finest of desserts, all she yearned for
was her father’s homemade stew. Although she spoke with the most powerful
people in the world, she wished only to speak with the other girls on the streets
who worked in the same clothing factory she once did. She had everything at
the utterance of a single word - and yet she was powerless.
So powerless in fact that she no longer owned her name. She was given it.
Lacrimosa. The woman who weeps.
24

Zooming By
Woman With Curly Hair
pen drawing by Daniela Peguero Gonzalez, freshman
25

Lacrimosa was not the same starstruck girl who entered the world stage with
fear and excitement. She was twenty five years of age now, and married an heir
of generational millions. Her mother and father died of lung cancer a year after
the marriage - a consequence of the poor living conditions they’d been exposed to.
Lacrimosa tried to save them, but not even the luxurious guest house, wholesome
foods, and ingenious doctors could stop the cancer. Her estranged older sister,
who’d married a carpenter at sixteen and left the family behind, turned rancid
from jealousy and vowed never to speak to Lacrimosa after the funeral. The
weeping woman was all alone, if not for the herbs she grew in the garden. Her
husband conversed with her, but the love they shared was dwindling. Soon, both
took to seeing others in private and only met to discuss business or threats to the
upper class. The conversation drained the weeping woman of any color - but she
had powder and blush to hide her instability.
It didn’t show, but Lacrimosa was changing.
Ever since the fateful day the prince called her gorgeous in front of the town,
Lacrimosa became porcelain. Polished, desired, valuable - a symbol of beauty and
luxury. A symbol of status. She was none but a possession to the rich; yet another
pretty item in a glass display case. But just like porcelain, she was bound to fall
apart. She was “bound to succumb to hysteria, as all women eventually do when
they awake to their inferior reality,” according to the physician her husband
brought her to when she wandered to the top of the mansion roof. In truth, she
was grieving. But emotion on a woman was insanity to the world. When condolences
were offered, it was only to her absent husband for having to live with her. Loss and
abuse formed cracks in her porcelain being, and split her million-dollar heart. The
midwife warned her that these cracks could break her soul.
They did.
All the emptiness the cracks left in their wake filled with poison. It turned her
bitter, cold, and her once honey-smooth words to venom. The problem with
Lacrimosa was that she’d been broken so finely that every inch of skin was coated
in toxins.
26

sSpiraling
photograph by Claire Yung, senior
27

She could no longer caress her unknown lovers or tend to her plants. For
though the poison had ridden her of the people who sought her and her
wretched husband (who gave her the mansion and had been overseas for a
year), it had also rid her of the people she, herself, sought. The doctors
claimed it was a mutation due to her once-polluted environment, as the
water she washed clothes in contained harsh chemicals. The church called
it a curse.
Condemned to solitude, embraced only by the shadows of the mansion
she isolated herself in, Lacrimosa at last lost her mind. The weeping woman
shattered mirrors and cut her hair to her shoulders with the shards, unable
to bear her reflection any longer. She began dreaming in blood - of blood
coating her milky hands and a mournful, ebbing symphony overtaking her
surroundings. Always beloved, but never loved. She didn’t need revenge.
She needed retribution.
On one fateful night, her loyal maidservant alerted her of an infamous
gala of art and political corruption being held that night by her ex-husband -
who’d returned to Europe with a mistress at his arm. It was the same gala
she’d been introduced to the world in all those years ago. It was the perfect
ending. So that night, armed with a smile and a laugh, she waltzed into the
event in a sapphire blue ball gown embellished with crystals. It exposed her
pale, supple arms and dainty fingers, coated in pearl dust.
It exposed her poison skin.
She danced with every person she could that fateful night. Every politician,
every heir. Every one of the people who took others as prizes and stripped
away their humanity for money. At first, they were delighted by her return
into high society. Even her ex-husband touched her shoulder and wished
to discuss all he learned in America, his mistress claiming her “divine”.
This gala was the height of Lacrimosa’s career - and it was its brutal end.
28

The people cried out, reaching for their throats as toxins absorbed into their
now polluted blood. Screams rippled across the marbled room, tearing through
the drunken air as the rich scrambled for escape. None of them ever made it to
the doors, for they all collapsed into piles of rare jewels and imported fabrics.
They twitched and writhed, still crying out, still hoping their voices could be
heard. The weeping woman stepped over the squirming masses, breathing in
terrified stares as she sauntered past. The people at last fell silent, life fleeting
their feeble, perfumed bodies like a drop of water into soil. Lacrimosa treated
the scene as a final gift to herself. She lounged upon a golden chaise that
overlooked the entire ballroom, sipping wine as red as the blood she spilt from
a chipped glass. The sweet working girl was none but an illusion, now. She, her
family, and her love had died. Lacrimosa, in her now sickened mind, believed
she was just for she committed no crime. She only avenged who was taken from
her.
Knowing she would find no peace with the living, the weeping woman used a
broken shard of glass and from her palm dropped scarlet blood into her glass.
She gave a final smile as she drank, and she, too, died from her poisoned soul.
Spark of Rage
photograph by Megan Donson, senior
29

When the police entered, all they saw was death. Bodies upon bodies
strewn across the floor, their lips shrouded in foam and their eyes red with
blood. Some officers vomited. Others lost their voices at the massacre. They
reported it as a “tragedy of the highest degree”. As for the perpetrator…they
found the woman. Ethereal even in death, her sapphire eyes reflected the
scene. Her lips were turned in the faintest smile, and silver tears streamed
down her face. She had died at peace, for the ones who poisoned her died
from their very own toxins. The only survivor was the mistress, huddled
behind curtains. When questioned if she knew the weeping woman, she said
only one word: “savior”.
The macabre scene was so artful that a terminally ill Wolfgang Amadeus
Mozart was influenced to compose a piece as gothic and as tragic as the
crime itself. He read of the dead woman’s life, her losses, her fame, her
insanity. And though he was inspired to write “Requiem” for his own death,
he was increasingly influenced by her story. After all, the woman existed as
art - and art is destined to outlive its creator. When Mozart finalized the
notes, he gave his masterpiece a second, perhaps less well-known name:
Lacrimosa.
30

Wicked Heart
by Mia Stephens and Elaine Zhou, senior and sophomore
Try to find the flame inside you
It'll keep your fingers from turning blue
Shiver, shudder but do not falter
This cold will never have a home for you
No matter the prayers on your altar
You shall not be married to winter
The snow glistens, but it blinds you
The ice is beautiful but it will find you
Black in the sky, speckled by light
Trying to find the porridge that seems just right
Build a home in this icy wild
Chase the lights, step bravely child
Don’t hide the fire that smolders
With your red riding hood set the blue night ablaze
If the pain hurts, the numbness will be worse
At least until the wolves meet your gaze
Distinguish between warmth and burns
With time in these trenches you will learn
That every match counts to survive
The wicked heart of the frozen night
31

32
Amorior Ergo Sum
(I love/die, therefore I am)
digital drawing by Diego Jiménez, senior

Silvia
by Milaine, junior
Lines on the gymnasium floors have faded and I can't remember where they
laid, but I know where your sneaker treads lead across the ghastly orange
floor.
They speed about in my mind, where you run all day.
Our story is a fairytale, love - you play the role of the princess in her
watchtower. I am the dashing criminal stealing you away. Pricking my
fingers,
bloody roses by the handful. You being watched,
how ironic by the undying curse that is I.
You, in all your glory, praised in golden sunlight
while the cold of the metal beneath me
stings my thighs and I seek your warmth.
Is your flesh as supple as it looks?
Does it feel as soft as silk, as soft as the linens
in which you toss and turn?
Your boyfriend doesn't deserve you.
He doesn't understand you, Silvia.
He doesn't need you, Silvia. Not like I do.
"I do, I do, I do."
Those are the words I want from you
when I fall to my knees, present this ring.
Mine is all you'll wish of being.
Don't run from me, Silvia
Daphne
- you owe me a dance. Give me a chance.
sculpture by Jaden Yau,
I carved you a throne, I sewed you a dress.
junior
Your mother's crying, she's happy for us.
Bow to our audience, my Juliet.
Silvia, Silvia, you're driving me insane.
I don't want to hurt you, but they found out my devotion to you.
I write your name on the cell walls. All I wanted was a dance.
You shouldn't have run from me, Silvia.
33

Your Life: A Collaborative Abecedarian Poem
by Mr. Doman’s 2nd Period Honors English 2 Class
Infancy
A remarkable innocence
Bursting with life.
Cared for and protected;
Doused in affection. You are
Enveloped by love.
Childhood
Friendships last forever and
Good times continue unimpeded.
Happiness never runs away, and if it tries,
it is not fast enough to break free from you.
Imagination fills the infinite space that exists
between your mind and heart.
Joy continues on and on.
Car Chase
photograph
by Bradley Anderson,
sophomore
Adolescence
Kindness is hidden - or all too often
forgotten and buried under new priorities.
Late bloomer, they say, but finding yourself takes time. Time that is
packed with
Maximum homework and minimal free time.
Nominal sleep blinds, and stress becomes a faithful companion. It is
Overwhelming how sweet but confusing it all is.
34

Adulthood
Patience is a virtue that takes a
lifetime to develop.
Qualified mentors have led the way,
but now it is time for you
to take the reins.
Reality strikes hard and fast;
be prepared.
Slowly aging and slowly discovering
what life is truly about,
There is no end to your learning.
Late Life
Underneath it all, you still possess
your childhood wonder.
Very soon, the outside withers,
but the heart remains strong.
Will your years be worthy of
remembrance?
Xenodochial is the way to be,
and while age may have taken so
much away,
Yet so much more awaits you.
Zillions of seconds shape a life, and
they are gone in the blink of an eye.
Staying Afloat
photograph by Kayla McNab, senior
35

36
Haunted House
digital art by Addison Wojcik, junior

Watched by the Eyes of Argus
digital drawing by Diego Jiménez, senior
37

good talk, really
by Tené, junior
You intend your words to hit me like large boulders
Fist pounding on the kitchen table
You mean it this time
No more
You build your argument one layer at a time
Crafted with the mortar of metaphor
You were never like this
At my age
You think your case is solid as you rise
To the full authority of your prosecution
Stone on stone
How should I plead?
Except I discover a weakness in your wall
Something that will bring it all
Tumbling down to nothing
Something you overlooked
What you are doing now at your own age
Shames the example I am to follow
There’s no impression of credibility
To my young mind
For what you build in boulders
Crumbles as it tries to stand
Sin damns your construction
Til’ all you spew is sand
38

Stuffed Animal
by Peter Kroll, sophomore
I like to talk to stuffed animals. They are very good listeners.
They never interrupt and they never break eye contact; they simply look up.
So considerate.
Eyes
digital art by anonymous,
freshman
Always stuck with the same smile on their face;
they seem interested in every detail of a story.
Very intelligent creatures, indeed.
No worries, no cares,
no problems.
Just a listener of stories.
So, I keep talking.
The words pile up in their head
as their skin slowly begins
to wear.
The softness once at their
fingertips
now turns to paper.
A worn down,
wrinkled piece of paper.
Paper I have already written on,
just sitting there.
I’m sorry my stuffed friends.
Maybe next time I’ll find someone better.
Someone else who can listen to my woes.
Someone not sanded down by my words.
If not, I’ll keep talking to myself. You can listen if you want,
just please don’t leave.
I’d still like to talk, even to paper.
39

i don't think i'll ever stop burning my tongue
by Maya Suliman, senior
my mother’s repeated cautions:
“be careful it’s hot,” she warns,
“it’s not good until it cools down”
mama, patience is not my virtue.
how could something so appetizing
ever cause me harm?
trust me as i gulp down the warmth of my craft.
don’t i deserve it?
so every time,
the outcome is the same.
i will brush caution off my conscience and drink.
though, not beyond a sip,
before i surrender to the nostalgic burn
that envelops my throat in regret.
i will never come to learn;
not everything that seems to
welcome me warmly,
is always truly in kind.
but it’s alright, i’ll revel in the impulsivity
that i hold so dear,
until caution leaves my side forever.
the day i wait for it to cool;
the day i take my mother’s advice;
the day i listen to caution;
will be the day i put myself first.
-hot chocolate
40

The Death of Phoebe Thana
by Delaney Schretter, senior
Phoebe wasn’t afraid of heights like I was. Phoebe always swung higher
than me on the playground. She always went down the tallest slides. And
I waited for her, like a dog on the wood chips, clapping for her and
chanting her name.
Everyone loved Phoebe, but no one loved her more than I did.
I went to every single one of her art shows where she was showing off her
photography. I cheered the loudest at her band concerts, and she would
smile at me from the trombone section. I made it to almost all of her track
meets so I could watch her pole vault. It amazed me how gracefully she
threw herself into the air and how she was never afraid to look down.
Phoebe was the closest thing to perfect you could get. So when I got a
call from Phoebe’s mom telling me that Phoebe had taken her own life,
I didn’t believe it.
Ms. Thana spoke between sobs. “I’m so sorry, Dalia.” She took a deep
breath. “I think she was thinking of you in her final moments, though.”
I spoke with a hushed tone, “Why do you think that?”
“Phoebe…” Ms. Thana seemed to be unable– or unwilling– to finish her
sentence. She took a shaky breath and continued, “ended her life right by
that bridge. The one by the lake, behind the elementary school.”
…
The dense trees covered the sun. It was so dark, but I wasn’t afraid
because my light-up sneakers were like a flashlight for me and Phoebe.
She was holding my hand and dragging me through the mud, weaving
through the trees. “We’re getting close,” Phoebe promised.
“Are you sure we’ll be back before recess is over?”
“I think so!” Before I could respond, Phoebe squealed and dropped my
hand. She ran toward this huge wooden bridge. It looked unstable and
old, but Phoebe insisted it was safe.
41

“Come play!” Phoebe shouted back at me.
“How do you play on a bridge? Just walk over it again and again?”
“No! Watch!”
Phoebe climbed on the bridge like a jungle gym and walked on the rail
like a balance beam.
“Come on!” Phoebe said. But I was afraid of heights.
...
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Thana. If you need anything, please–” Phoebe’s mom
said something that I couldn’t understand through her tears, and then
hung up the phone.
I stood there for a moment, frozen. Phoebe was dead. I was sweating,
shaking, and my heart began to beat so fast, it hurt. My arms and legs went
numb. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t believe that I was
just told that my best friend killed herself.
Unexpected Caller
digital art by Deana Wilson,
freshman
42

The wake was a few days later. It was a closed casket service.
Apparently, jumping off of a bridge face first onto a rock isn’t kind to
your body.
There were tables covered with pictures of her. Pictures from the
summer camp we went to. We snuck marshmallows into our cabin when
the counselors weren’t looking and told each other scary stories all night.
There were pictures of me and Phoebe every first day of school. We both
had no front teeth in our first grade picture. There was another picture
from freshman year. It made me giggle a little because I was wearing all
black with heavy eyeliner and Phoebe couldn’t have worn brighter clothes
if she wanted to. There was one more picture that really caught my eye.
Phoebe and I in our caps and gowns, holding a sign that read “NYU
HERE WE COME!” Since 6th grade, all Phoebe wanted was to go to
NYU. We planned on going together. She had just been accepted. And
now, she was laying lifeless in a casket a few feet away.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and jumped at the touch. I whipped my head
around to find Emmett, Phoebe’s former boyfriend, staring at me with
pain and intensity in his eyes that I had never seen before. His normally
dark brown irises looked almost red, like a monster in a cartoon. He
grabbed my arm and dragged me outside without a word. The hot summer
sun was multiplied by the amount of black I was wearing. I couldn’t tell if
I was sweating because of that or the anticipation of what Emmett was
going to say to me.
“Was there something going on that Phoebe wasn’t telling me?” Emmett
asked, quickly.
“What?” I questioned, surprised by the accusation. Phoebe was a lot of
things, but she was not untrustworthy.
“Did something bad happen between you two?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
“She wouldn’t just kill herself. People don’t just kill themselves. She just
graduated high school, she got into her dream school, she got a new cat,
I mean, she’s been the happiest I’ve ever seen her. So did something
happen?”
43

I hesitated, and then said, “Not that I know of.”
“Can I tell you what I think?” His eyes seemed to have gotten heavy,
like this sentence aged him years. “I don’t think Phoebe killed herself.”
My breathing got heavy and quick.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I think someone killed her.”
“I’m going back inside,” I said as I turned toward the door. Emmett
grabbed my arm tightly. Not aggressively. No, there was no malice, just
desperation. He was pleading with me.
“Dalia, I need your help. I need to figure out who killed her. I know
she didn’t do this to herself. Please, Dalia.”
Emmett and I weren’t close. We weren’t friends. The only reason we
would end up in the same place was if Phoebe was there, too. So the fact
that he was begging me for help meant he really meant everything he
said.
“Okay,” I said.
The next day, Emmett was banging on my front door. I opened it and
he pushed right past me, into my house. His eyes were dark and puffy.
He must not have slept last night.
“She has a journal,” Emmett announced.
“Yes…?” I said.
“She wrote in it every night.” I looked at him questioningly.
He explained, “If something happened, it will be in there. If not,
we'll know that she didn’t kill herself.”
“We can’t just take her journal,” I stammered.
“Why? It’s not like she’s gonna use it anymore.”
“It’s– it’s personal. It’s hers,” I protested.
“That’s why we need it.”
I couldn’t think of anything I could say to convince him that we
shouldn’t steal her journal.
“Fine.”
44

Spooky
digital art by anonymous, freshman
His brakes squealed as he pulled up in front of Phoebe’s house. I knew
that Ms.Thana was at work, so I got out of the car and punched in the
garage code. I said “hi” to her new cat and quickly made my way up the
stairs to her room. It was weird seeing her room so clean, like she had
never existed. I’d been in her room about a million times and it had never
felt so cold.
I rummaged through the drawers of her nightstand. I figured that’s
where she kept it because she always journaled in bed at night. Sure
enough, there it was. I lifted it out of the drawer and opened the brown
leather cover. Phoebe’s handwriting was huge, but neat and bubbly. I
flipped through the pages with my thumb and reached the last page with
writing. The day before her murder. I read that entry closely and I ripped
it out. I knew something that Emmett didn’t and I figured that that
information was something he was better off without. I shoved the paper
in my pocket and made my way back out to the car, journal in hand.
45

Emmett snatched it away from me before I could even get the door
shut. He flipped toward the back of the book and read a few entries.
He flipped the page furiously over and over again. Then, he stopped.
“There’s a page missing,” he said.
“What?”
“Someone ripped out a page.” He flipped to the next page and saw it
was blank. “Her last entry. It would have been the day before she died
and someone ripped it out.”
“It was probably her,” I said.
“She didn’t rip out any other pages. You think all of a sudden she
changed her mind on an entire entry and ripped it out 12 hours after
writing it? And isn’t it… I don’t know… suspicious that the one page
that’s been ripped out just happens to be the entry of the day before
she gets murdered?”
“I think you’re reading into it too much,” I said.
“I don’t think you’re reading into it enough!” he shouted. I could see
his face change, like he had connected the dots. “Dalia…” he trailed off,
accusing me.
“Oh, my God! Are you being serious right now?”
“You don’t seem to care that she died. And you didn’t question that
she ‘killed herself’ when she had everything she’s ever wanted. And you
were probably one of the only people to touch her journal in the past
week and now it’s missing a page. You can’t tell me that doesn’t raise
some red flags, Dalia.”
“Why the fuck would I kill my best friend?” I yelled.
Emmett just stared at me.
“Fuck you, Emmett.” I crossed my arms and sank into the faux
leather seats.
46

He said nothing for a long time. Then finally, he said, “I’m just… I’m
sad. And angry. I miss her, Dalia. I know she didn’t do this to herself,
I know it. I’m not going to stop until I figure out who did this to her.”
“Can you take me to the elementary school?” I asked after a while.
“What?”
“Take me to the elementary school. I want to show you something.”
Emmett responded by putting his car in drive.
He pulled into the empty parking lot of my and Phoebe’s old elementary
school. I got out of the car and motioned for him to follow me. It had just
started to drizzle and the air was hot and sticky against my skin. I led him
through the playground and through the dense trees. Big raindrops
collected on the leaves and landed on the top of my head as we walked.
“Dalia, what are we doing here?”
I didn’t answer him. Instead, I said, “Do you know what it was like being
best friends with Phoebe?” He opened his mouth to speak, but I didn’t let
him get a word out. “She was loud and funny and smart… and perfect.
She was perfect.”
We reached the bridge after a few minutes. It wasn’t as far as it had
seemed when we were little.
“Phoebe and I used to come play on this bridge during recess. And when
we got to middle school, we would walk here after school and do
homework up here when it was nice. In high school, we came here every
last day of school. Every time we came here, she would always try to get
me to climb up on the rail with her. But, I’m afraid of heights.”
Emmett just listened as I spoke.
“And now she’s gone. And I’ve never climbed up on these rails. It feels
wrong. Really, really, wrong. Can you – God, this sounds stupid.”
“No, I’m sure it doesn’t. What is it?”
“Can you sit up there with me?” I pleaded.
47

48
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
Emmett climbed up the same way Phoebe used to, with ease and grace.
He reminded me that it was stable and sturdy, just as Phoebe did.
Then, I climbed up, shakily, placing my hands and feet in the same place
I had watched Phoebe use over and over again. Next thing I knew, I was
sitting right next to Emmett, both our legs dangling above the base of the
bridge, our backs to the scenery.
We sat quietly for a minute, listening to the rain as it began to pour.
Then, I said, “You know how Phoebe and I were gonna go to NYU
together?” Emmett nodded. “Even if she was still alive, it wouldn’t have
worked out. I got denied.”
“Oh, I’m sorry–” he began.
“It’s just funny, you know. That’s kinda how it’s always been. Phoebe
gets everything she wants and I never do. You know, I tried out for the
track team and I got cut, but she went to fucking state. And I tried to take a
photography class but it was full. And guess who got the last spot. Phoebe.
She took everything from me and I was forced to ride her coattails and live
in her goddamn shadow and be ‘Phoebe’s friend,’ and not ‘Dalia’. And I
was sick of it.”
Emmett stared at me.
“Hey, Emmett?”
He stuttered, “Y-yes?”
“It’s a good thing you aren’t afraid of heights.”
I used all my strength to push his scrawny body over the edge of the
bridge. I didn’t watch, but I listened as his body hit the rocks and the
screaming stopped.
He did say that he wasn’t going to stop until he figured out what
happened to Phoebe. And isn’t the best way to learn… through experience?

The Two of Us
by Mia Stephens, senior
The night was cold
The sky was clear
Orion’s Belt was high in the heavens
Watching as I stepped out of the car
onto the pavement
The wind bit and stung
The trees rustled in the stillness
I found the old hill
Tree of Life
I could see the city in the distance
photograph by Claire Yung,
How lovely a view
senior
So lovely, even, that I would share it with you
Warm arms, warmer heart and a soft, soft jacket
Whispers and smiles and eyes full of messages
You don’t say anything out loud
You respect the sacred night, too
So we join hands and begin to move
Dancing in the January night
Alone but for the car radio and the elements
We should’ve been home two hours ago
The two of us and that January night
It was freezing, my throat was sore from a cold my classmate had given me
The two of us, that January night
You were exhausted, and you had homework to do
But I was your priority.
You didn’t say “I love you”, but I already knew.
That January night was your confession (and mine too)
Because with the entire world across every horizon on that old hill,
Time felt frozen around only the two of us.
49

Two-person Lift
by Tené, junior
That’s us at the store
selecting an art desk for your room
with the money your grandma gave you
because your parents don’t support
your creative ambitions
That’s you walking away
from the box on the bottom shelf
because you say it looks too heavy
even though this particular desk
has everything you say you needed
That’s when I notice
the big yellow sticker -
two figures
modeling proper form and cooperation
for a two-person lift
We could totally do this
The art desk could be yours
if you wanted to work for it
You aren’t even in the same aisle anymore
That’s me realizing that this box
is our relationship status:
it’s everything you say you wanted
but it’s not something
you’re committed to lifting together
One hand on the box
and the other on your phone
already looking for something better
5044
Bitter and Haze
digital art by Izabella Ziemba,
sophomore

Naperville Summer, 2022
by Ellie Snyder, senior
It’s 9:14 on a Friday night, and the line of people stretches out the door,
neverending. I’m serving a large group and the adults are unable to control
the six children they have with them, or maybe they are unwilling,
preferring to ignore their shouting in favor of shouting at me. I can barely
hear their orders above the noise, even though they yell. One scoop of
Marshmallow, one scoop of Strawberry, six half scoops of Superman. I wish
Superman wasn’t so popular with kids; it’s hard to scoop and always makes
my wrist ache for a while. One of the kids whines for sprinkles at the last
minute, and all of the children suddenly want sprinkles as well, pushing
their dishes back at me across the counter. One of the parents nods at me,
so I add sprinkles to all of them and pass them back. Someone will have to
get another container of sprinkles from upstairs soon; we’re almost out now.
I hope that person is me, but I know I’ll send one of the juniors up instead.
I’m the oldest person working tonight out of five, and at seventeen I am the
de facto leader of the store. There is no manager tonight. I feel infinitely old
and young at the same time, overwhelmed by the noise and the people and
the endlessness of this job, yet perfectly calm.
I stand at the register now, repeating standard dialogue on autopilot.
“Your total is $50.70, the machine is gonna ask you a quick question first.”
They don’t hear me the first time, because of the noise, and because they
aren’t listening. I repeat myself twice, louder each time. The din of the
crowd seems to get louder as I do, and the parents have to lean forward
as I point to the card reader, nearly shouting. My throat will be sore
tomorrow. I am not watching them as they finally pay. I don’t have to.
The machine beeps three times, signaling a successful transaction.
They leave before I can ask, “Would you like your receipt?” which doesn’t
bother me.
51

Friday nights are no place for pleasantries or any other sort of timewasting.
I move to reset the register and notice that they didn’t tip. Less
than half of customers do, but it still makes me bite the inside of my
mouth and take a deep breath. The noise of the store, of the dozens of
people crowding together, hides my groan as I taste copper. The taste helps
distract, a little, from the line, stretching out the door, now spilling onto
the sidewalk outside. There are four ice cream stores on this block and I
know that all of them are like this tonight. On hot Friday nights, everyone
wants ice cream.
The air conditioning is audible, an insistent hum that overlays the crowd,
but that is the only thing it seems to contribute. The store is hot, humid
from the bodies inside and the open door. My uniform is sticking to my
back and the fudge is starting to go soft. The ice cream is still solid though,
protected by the case it sits in. Leaning into the case to scoop is refreshing,
even though my neck and shoulders protest at the stretch. My muscles are
tight; I am calm, but I am not relaxed.
I will do this over and over and over again, serving families and couples
and groups of friends. There are people with dyed hair and tattoos, and
women with Louis Vuitton bags. There are people in turbans and hijabs,
cross necklaces or Star of David pins. There are people with all sorts of
accents speaking many languages that are not English. I am not allowed to
have an opinion on these things; every person that comes through this
store tonight is just their wallet. It seems fitting when I’m not a person to
them, that they aren’t people to me. It’s just another Friday night, and my
feet are aching.
52

Crying for My Mother
digital art by Diego Jimènez, senior
53

PERSONIFICATION (ADHD)
by Maddie Davila, freshman
I mess with the minds of the innocent, making them fidgety. The mind
of whom I mess with can never concentrate on a simple task; I make them
distracted and I make them hyper. But when the body gets caffeine, I
slowly fade into the back of the mind, in a cage surrounded by caffeine.
But wait, I see the light, I'm free!
I swim around in the mind distracting them, forcing them to do other
things; things that they shouldn't do. I'm just a personal demon floating
around doing anything, whenever I want. I could just disappear butttt....
I like messing with people's minds so I think I'm gonna stay.
I'll never go away. I'll be here waiting for the day that you find me.
Good gracious, you're here! You think my time is up, but here I stay,
lurking in your mind like a wolf stalking its prey. But for once, I'm in
control. Finally, you've given up. The war is over but is it really?
You continue to fight, even though you know you've lost. Just give up, fall
into the darkness and you'll be free!
No? Then I'll do this the hard way. I'll slowly consume your mind, eating
it away second by second, minute by minute, day by day, month by
month, until you give up. I'm not giving up, but you will give up in the
end. I don't care if you say you won't. I KNOW you will, so stop trying,
stop struggling, give in to my games.
You're annoying, you know that? Just let go of all your struggles because
I'll take over and you can rest. You won't have to deal with everything that
you have to deal with. You won't have to deal with my good friend
depression. I can make him leave FOREVER only if you give in. No?
Then good luck, my friend. You're gonna need it,
54
It's not like I'm going away anytime soon....

Trypophobia
photograph by Kailey Angelacos, senior
55

The Tragedy of the Arab-Muslim Slave Trade…
by Chizurum Akubue, junior
Usually, when people talk about the Black community and its history of
slavery, they default to the stories of the ever-infamous trans-Atlantic slave
trade that took enslaved Africans to the Americas. People are often
unaware, even oblivious to the fact that the trans-Atlantic slave trade was
just one of around three slave trades that have taken place on the
continent. The little-known Arab slave trade refers to a trade of sub-
Saharan African bodies to North Africa, the Middle East, and even as far
as India and Pakistan. It lasted more than 13 centuries, began in the early
seventh century, and continued in one form or another until the 1960s.
In Mauritania, slavery was officially outlawed only in August 2007.
The trade of Africans to the MENA/SWANA region had two main routes:
one was via the coast of East Africa and the Middle East through the sea,
and the second was land-based, through the Sahara. Arab raids were
common and impacted the Horn of Africa, East Africa, and the Great
Lakes region. Slaves were kidnapped during bloody operations and were
transported by sea from hubs on the eastern coast of the continent, near
today’s Somalia and Mozambique, to the shores of the Red Sea and the
Persian Gulf. The archipelago of Zanzibar, Tanzania would for centuries
be a bustling hub for this traffic.
In West Africa, the Arab slave trade encompassed a vast region from the
Niger Valley to the Gulf of Guinea. This traffic followed the trans-Saharan
roads and the path was notoriously brutal. The crossing could last up to
three months with a high mortality rate due to the dire conditions of the
trip. Inhumane practices resulted in a high death rate: six out of 10
enslaved Africans who were mutilated died from their wounds in
castration centers. The Arab slave trade also targeted African women and
girls, who were captured and deported for use as concubines. According to
the work of some historians, the Arab slave trade affected more than 17
million people. In the Saharan region alone, more than nine million
African captives were deported and two million died on the roads.
56

This despicable phenomenon was legitimized by Islam, as Christianity
would later condone the transatlantic slave trade. For example, the Tunisian
Arab historian Ibn Khaldun (1332–1406) wrote that “the only peoples to accept
slavery are the Negroes, because of their lower degree of humanity, their place
being closer to the animal stage.” This slave trade devastated African societies
and social development, with some areas being completely depopulated.
Welsh explorer Henry Morton Stanley (1841-1904) was a horrified witness of
this traffic. He wrote after the conquest of the Arab traffickers, that “the
black blood flows toward the north, [and] the equator smells corpses.”
The Arab slave trade also promoted the development of racialist and
essentialist theories that worked to view Black people as inferior by nature.
In many Arab countries, this racism still exists; for example, the same words
are used to describe Africans, Black people, and slaves in Arabic.
An article titled "Forgotten Slavery: The Arab-Muslim Slave Trade"
represents the following: “Scholars have christened it a veiled genocide,"
they write, “attributing the tagline to the most humiliating and near-death
experience slaves were subjected to, from capture in slave markets to labor
fields abroad and the harrowing journey in between.” New African Magazine
writes in an article about the slave trade's effect on modern-day Africa, “It is
a mistake to equate the bare survival of Africa with cultural or social or
economic stagnation, for the slave trade visited such panoply of tragically
interconnected disasters into the lives of every African for centuries, that they
have worked their way into the very “racial memory” of the continent and its
people, particularly females, that only with time and kindness can it be
expunged from the psyche of Africa.”
As one commentator puts it: “Could it be true that the corrosive effects of
four centuries of commerce in humans, with its temptation, its inbuilt
opportunism, its reduction of humans to a cash value, its cycles of revenge
and its inevitable physical brutality, have built lasting flaws into African
pattern of thought and action?”
57

…Led to the formation of Black Jewish and Black Arab communities in the
Middle East and North Africa…
Many people consider Black, Arab, and Jewish identities, cultures, and
religions to be mutually exclusive things: separate communities. Very
rarely do we acknowledge that all three of these identities can and do
coexist together and intersect in varying ways, outside of a traditional biracial
or multi-racial heritage. Afro-Arabs and Black Jewish people are
often forgotten and demeaned in spaces where Arab and/or Jewish identity
and issues are discussed; once in a blue moon do we see conversations
regarding the anti-Blackness that rears its ugly head time and time again
within Arab and Jewish communities.
For example, words and phrases like Al-Abd (Slave, pl. Al-Abeed), Al-
Khadem (Servant, pl. Al-Khadam), Al-Hartani (Freed black slave), and
Al-Azzi (roughly, somewhere in between negro and n*gger), Al-Kahlouch
(Blackie), and Wena Kahlouch? (And me, am I a Blackie?) are regularly
used throughout Arabic-speaking countries to refer to a Black person or
an African. Blackface, the use of make-up to imitate and portray the
appearance of a Black person is so common in popular Arab TV shows
and movies that it has reached a point of unsettling normalcy. It’s
considered a taboo topic in most Arab spaces to discuss anti-Blackness
and the history of slavery in the region.
In 2012, the Moroccan government denied an application to form an
association to combat anti-Black racism by claiming that the concept of
race does not apply to Moroccan society and therefore racism could not
exist in the country. Paradoxically, the culture in Morocco aims to
distance itself from Blackness by all means: whitening creams, facial
scrubs, and hair straighteners are common, and on a national scale,
careful construction of ethnic and cultural identity that excludes a large
part of its heritage through the subjugation of the tens of thousands of
sub-Saharan Africans brought to Morocco through the trans-Saharan
slave trade and via migration (King, “Ending Denial: Anti-Black Racism
in Morocco”).
58

The experiences of Afro-Arab people are frequently swept under the rug or
are not allowed to exist in both spaces at once; being Black somehow diminishes
the fact that you are Arab. British Sudanese artist Rayan El Nayal said in a piece
about anti-Blackness in the Arab World, “In every single Arab country, there’s
a community of Black people. I am Arab. And I am Black. Fighting for Black
people is fighting for Arab people…But I feel as though sometimes, in the
Middle East, if you are Afro and Arab, your Blackness kind of removes your
Arabness, in their eyes.”
One of my favorite sources when discussing this topic is an article by Scene
Arabia titled “Anti-Blackness in the Arab World: the Violence that Doesn’t Get
A Hashtag.” In it, the author goes on to highlight the diversity of Afro-Arab
people and their experiences. She writes the Arab world itself is by no means a
monolith. To think that Afro-Arabs in the Gulf are in the same position as Black
Egyptians, Tunisians, or Moroccans would be juvenile at best, intentionally
obtuse at worst.” She goes on to say, “Black Arabs, sub-Saharan refugees and
immigrants, and other Black people in the region have repeatedly told us about
the violence they face, our incessant ‘othering’ of their identities, and the
limited opportunities we allow them, again, and again, and again. We could have
and should have, listened by now.”
It’s a commonly held belief in the Middle East and North Africa that anti-
Blackness or just racism, in general, is something peculiar and limited to the
United States; that that way of thinking was “imported” by the U.S. and other
Western nations. However, it’s a lot more complex than that. As Tunisian Black
rights activist, Dr. Maha Abdelhamid writes: the events in the US are but the
fullest expression of what happens every single day in the Arab world, behind
closed doors. It’s true that while anti-Blackness is a global, systemic
phenomenon, its manifestations and practicalities can vary by context and
geographic region. The process of racialization, or the assigning a group of
people a race, can vary from place to place. This is because the concept of race
and its implementation is based entirely on pseudo-scientific concepts
championed (mainly) by Europeans during the era of the Atlantic slave trade,
and even by others way too long before and after that.
59

For example, in the United States, the Arab world is not typically
considered a “white” one. American thought generally doesn’t consider white
people an oppressed group, in both historical and contemporary contexts.
The article "Ending Denial: Anti-Black Racism in Morocco," however,
discusses the ethnic diversity of the region and mentions the Amazigh
(Berbers), who generally consider themselves to be white and to be the only
indigenous people in the country, make up a large percentage of the
Moroccan population and claim a history of discrimination. They go on to
write that beginning in the 1990s, Morocco has made significant progress in
recognizing Amazigh identity, as compared to the Afro-Moroccan
population. “Similar progress has not been made in recognizing Morocco’s
Black population, including the Black indigenous presence in the south and
the impact of the trans-Sahara slave trade.” they write.
…that are often the target of erasure, poverty, and anti-Black violence in their
communities and countries…
60
The Jewish community in the MENA (Middle East North Africa)/SWANA
region is already incredibly invisible in and of itself. Despite how diverse and
complex Jewish identity and culture(s) are, in the United States when one
talks of or refers to a Jewish person or of Jewish culture and heritage, they are
typically referring to the Ashkenazi Jewish diaspora and its culture, as
opposed to the other major Jewish diasporas: Sephardi (via Spain), Mizrahi
(via the MENA region), and the Ethiopian Jewish community, amongst many
other cultures, practices, peoples, and understandings of Jewish identity and
Judaism. Ashkenazi Jews make up the majority of the Jewish community in
the United States and trace their heritage to Central and Eastern Europe,
speak Yiddish, and follow customs accordingly. They are typically what the
average American would consider “Jewish”. Ashkenazi doesn’t equal white,
but the vast majority of Ashkenazi people are, in fact, white and White
Ashkenazi customs and heritage are typically centered in conversations
around Jewish identity, causing the rest of the Jewish world, particularly Jews
of color, to be rendered invisible. This situation is made exponentially worse
when we begin to talk about Black Mizrahi and Sephardi Jewish communities
in the MENA region.

The Arab slave trade brought millions of Black bodies into the Arab world,
where they were subject to brutal conditions and treatment by way of slavery.
This pervasive anti-Blackness has then naturally made its way into the cultures
and countries of the region. Through centuries of intermixing and
intermarrying, as well as cultural proximities, Mizrahi and Sephardi Jewish
people of Black African descent have formed throughout the region. These
communities are found across the MENA and its diaspora, with the largest
communities being in UAE, Yemen, Saudi Arabia, Oman, Mauritania, Algeria,
Egypt, and Morocco, with considerably long-established communities in Arab
states such as Palestine, Iraq, Syria, and Jordan. These communities, each with
their own unique and distinct cultural and even linguistic characteristics form
the cornerstones and birthplaces of current Black Arab, Black Mizrahi, and
Black Sephardi identities, cultures, and practices.
…and are left without access to outlets that enable their voices to be heard and
their plights to be addressed.
Works Consulted
“Afro-Arabs.” Wikipedia, 2 Feb. 2023, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Afro-Arabs.
“Ashkenormativity.” Wikipedia, 1 Feb. 2023, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ashkenormativity.
“Black and Arab: The Hidden Reality of Racism in Tunisia.” BBC, 10 Aug. 2022,
www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p0cs4kg8.
“Black Jewish Lives.” Jewish Renaissance, 13 June 2021, www.jewishrenaissance.org.uk/events/jewishblack-lives-matter.
King, J. Stephen. “Ending Denial: Anti-Black Racism in Morocco.” Arab Reform Initiative, 21 Sept. 2020,
www.arab-reform.net/publication/ending-denial-anti-black-racism-in-morocco.
Mitchell, Travis. “9. Race, Ethnicity, Heritage, and Immigration Among U.S. Jews.” Pew Research
Center’s Religion & Public Life Project, 6 Oct. 2022, www.pewresearch.org/religion/2021/05/11/raceethnicity-heritage-and-immigration-among-u-s-jews.
“Racial Discrimination and Anti-Blackness in the Middle East and North Africa.”
https://www.arabbarometer.org.
“Recalling Africa’s Harrowing Tale of Its First Slavers – the Arabs.” New African Magazine, 31 July 2018,
newafricanmagazine.com/16616.
61

Trapped in Time
mixed media by Spencer Smolik, senior
62

My Head Is a Scary Place
digital art by Ava Rose, senior
63

2023
Icarian Literary Magazine Staff
editor-in-chief: Kalani Staudacher
art editor: Cheryl Cheng
copy editors: Michael Liu, Ria Das, Meera Dullur
staff editors: Grace Beardsley, So Muszynski, Daniela Peguero Gonzalez, Renee
Roozeboom, Claire Mouton, Izabella Ziemba, Daniela Rozier, Maddie Davila
activity director: Mia Stephens
publicity and social media: Elaine Zhou
advisor: Mr. John Hayward
MISSION: To publish written and artistic works from any student or staff
member and to creatively design a reader-friendly, visually attractive magazine.
SELECTION POLICY: After collecting submissions year-round, we highlight
Naperville Central’s writing and artistic abilities by selecting the most original
and visionary pieces that we think will illustrate the quality and diversity of our
school community. We hope you enjoy this year's publication!
PROCESS: We collect art and written pieces through online submissions. At the
beginning of each school year, we get the word out through announcements,
posters, hallway television prompts, and social media to submit to the Lit Mag.
In February, staff editors sift through the written works looking for original,
mature, and skilled pieces of writing across genres. During layout, we design
pages with accompanying or independent works of art. We then head to the
printer in April with a draft and publish our final product in May to much
applause.
COLOPHON: In this edition, we used Kudryashev Display Sans for all titles,
and Radley for credits and text except for the front and back covers in
Artzisraelisns.

THANKS TO: Brian Doyle and Jim Hard at the Print Shop for expert guidance
and for publishing the final product… Cathy Bittner for maintaining our
account records… Lynne Nolan, Sam Szopinski, Shari Anderson, and Mike
Doman, for support throughout the process… and The Communication Arts
and Fine Arts departments at NCHS for encouraging stellar contributions and
for assisting in the final distribution.
Front cover art: Expecto Patronus digital art by Athena Chen, junior
Back cover art: Curiosity mixed media by Kailey Angelacos, senior
HOW CAN I FIND OUT MORE ABOUT YOUR PUBLICATION?
Contact us through Mr. Hayward at NCHS by phone: (630) 420-6807
or e-mail: nchslitmag@stu.naperville203.org
AND PLEASE VISIT OUR WEBSITE
sites.google.com/naperville203.org/nchslitmag/home
Diurnal Reflection
mixed media by Abby Abud,
sophomore

THE ICARIAN
Literary Magazine 2023
Naperville Central High School
Naperville, Illinois