Throughout their senior year, I encourage my Broadcast Journalism seniors to be a megaphone for the school. We use our video cameras to capture the pep rallies and the assemblies, but I get most excited when they profile students outside our program. Teenagers have a knack for getting other teenagers to spill the beans. Through the years they’ve discovered some deeply evocative stories including a trans kid who initiated the fight for gender neutral bathrooms, and an adoptee who traveled to Colombia to meet her real parents for the first time, and a kid who used his lifeguard training to rescue a little girl who fell in Lake Michigan. 

Journalists are trained to be skilled listeners, but who was listening to my students?

I bring these examples up and entreat my students to seek out such powerful profiles. “Think about it,” I say. “Without your expert reporting all those stories go unheard.” 

One April afternoon, Jabari raises his hand. “We’re always reporting on everybody else. When’s someone going to do a story about us?” 

My 99-mile-per-hour mind readies platitudes about the heroic sacrifices journalists make for the greater good. But I pause. Journalists are trained to be skilled listeners, but who was listening to my students? 

Jabari, a hard-headed Southsider full of bluster, has experienced plenty. I imagine his frustration in silencing his backstory for the sake of objective reporting. Over my 24 years of teaching I’ve learned to occasionally stop the presses and go off script. 

Since no one at our school is going to report on the reporters, I figure we’ll create an event where we get to celebrate ourselves. Each kid will get 5-10 minutes to tell a beneath the iceberg story about their life, and we’ll serve up pizza and soda for the audience. Can we pull this off in three weeks?  

Tomorrow I will open with a challenge. Team, you’ve already run a marathon this year. Let’s finish with a dance. A celebration of who we are and where we came from.  

Who? Let’s Meet the Squad! 

What sort of volume might erupt from a megaphone placed before a megaphone?

Located on the northside of Chicago, our high school is represented by over 60 nations, including significant migrant and refugee populations. I teach the neighborhood kids, most of whom live below the poverty line and struggle with traditional classroom environments. I assume I know them and their stories. But do I? Does anyone at our school? My 16 seniors may be “famous” on-air personalities, but that’s all exterior. What might emerge when they put down the cameras and stand on the stage? What sort of volume might erupt from a megaphone placed before a megaphone?

Chantana arrived at our school as a refugee from Thailand, leaving most of her family behind. She emails her relatives every video she makes for our class. But what’s it like to know there’s a pretty good chance she’ll never see them again in person? 

Geordie hardly said a word for the first two years I taught him. Senior year he began conducting person-on-the-street interviews cloaked in a head-to-toe green screen suit that left his interviewees dumbfounded. 

Angel, famous for her no BS interview questions, stares daggers at anyone who crosses her. What truth does she keep tucked away? 

What could Marco teach us about hustle? He’s been flipping sneakers for crazy profit since sophomore year. 

Kai, a neurodivergent nonbinary student, hasn’t appeared on camera all year, having instead created an avatar of their likeness. 

And there was me. Excited, but a little nervous about all this. Usually I could tweak any mistakes in post-production, but this event would be live and unprecedented.

What? Finding Our Stories

On day one, I try out a little analogy to bring some life to the event. “Sorry for the vegetarians in the room, but let’s consider one of Chicago’s most famous foods—the Italian sausage. You’ve all got tough exteriors, but it’s time to let the audience sink their teeth into your stories. They’re juicy, a little spicy, and will keep the audience wanting more.” 

I could tell the metaphor didn’t land. They were too nervous. And they had questions. 

“Who’s going to be there?” 

“I don’t know. Teachers, students, the custodian. Anybody who wants to buy a ticket and come by Room 115. They’ll get pizza and a show.” 

“And we just tell a story?” 

“Yes, but it’s more than that. You’re crafting a narrative. Sort of like we do when we profile a student. But the building blocks of your story are your personal experiences.” 

Chicago has an epic history of storytelling: The Moth, spoken word at the Green Mill, StorySlam, and a friend of mine runs Story Lab, which is where I’ve taken a stab at the form. “It’s like an epic meetup of randos. Everybody is weird in their own weird way. And they celebrate their weirdness.” 

I can tell they don’t like that word—weird. Because they’re teenagers, terrified of standing out, just like I was. Hell, just like I am now. 

I begin with a passage from Chicago storytelling legend and bestselling author Samantha Irby. She suffers from Crohn’s Disease. Rather than turning herself into a pity case, she takes ownership of her story by embracing every humiliating detail. We’re alongside her when she wears an adult diaper on a first date. “This woman doesn’t keep it at a hundred, she keeps it at a thousand.” I hold up We Are Never Meeting in Real Life. “She spills everything, her weight, her sexuality, her abusive father. What’s the point of being such an open book?” 

When we claim ownership of our stories, the good, bad, and ugly of it, our acceptance of ourselves trickles down to our audience.

Kai raises their hand. “Maybe so other people going through the same stuff don’t feel alone?”

“Yes! When we claim ownership of our stories, the good, bad, and ugly of it, our acceptance of ourselves trickles down to our audience. Your story might help some freshman who wonders if they’ll ever find a place in this world.” 

I describe my first storytelling session. The story I told brimmed with embarrassment and humility. I had to get a job at one of those restaurants where they make grown men dress up like cartoon animals. I was in my 30s, teaching by day, humiliating myself by night. “Not my finest hour, but I let my guard down and let the audience see the real me. And they loved it. They even laughed at my jokes.” 

“Now we know you’re lying,” Jabari says. And he smiles. “Do we get pizza?” 

“Tell a great story, and it’s all you can eat!” Before they start asking about toppings and extra cheese, we move into our first activity. 

I pass around pages of Joe Brainard’s experimental autobiography, I Remember. Every passage in the book is prefixed by “I remember . . .” and draws on his quirky, troubled, heart-felt past. Recollections like: I remember when a kid told me that those sour clover-like leaves we used to eat tasted so sour because dogs peed on them. 

“See! He just dumps memories onto the page. And over 50 years later, people are still clamoring for it.” 

I offer them each a slender, brightly-colored brainstorming journal to write down their own “I remember” statements. Their pencils move, but listlessly. Chantana tells me that after spending all year reporting on other people, it’s hard to switch and talk about yourself. “I feel dumb doing it.” 

I tell her that this takes patience, and I give her and the rest of the class some space, letting the funky hip-hop jazz fill the silence. 

From across the room: “Can I write about when I went to New York over spring break?” It’s Marco. Marco spent all year making excuses for why he couldn’t do any of our projects. And now he’s asking permission to get started? 

“Of course!” I beam. “Yeah! I can’t wait to hear all about it!”

Where? Finding a Sense of Place 

“Don’t be afraid to dig into the hardships. But leave us with hope.”

We need a theme for the event. The students pitch ideas; I write them down. Unanimously we agree. The event will be called “Owning Our Stories: A Celebration.” 

I love that they include the word “Celebration.” The end of senior year isn’t the time to dredge old wounds and make your assistant principal cry into her pepperoni. 

“A celebration of life,” I say. “Yeah, I like this. Don’t be afraid to dig into the hardships. But leave us with hope.” 

A short story pops into my head. A story with such vivaciousness and verve that only a Chicagoan could have written it. I project a photo of Stuart Dybek—old as hell, but still looking super fly in a leather jacket. “This guy went to high school in Chicago. He sat in a chair not too different from the ones you’re sitting in, and his butt probably fell asleep while he daydreamed his life story—just like you do every day.” 

I tell them to close their eyes while I read “Pet Milk,” so they can envision the sense of place that Dybek evokes. Then we round robin all the tiny details their minds conjure during the reading—his grandmother’s yellow plastic radio playing polka and Rudy at the bar who always rolled his r’s and the swirling sky in the fancy drinks. “At the end, can’t you feel his passion burning to the rhythm of the train? That’s the Red Line. Three blocks from our school. He’s here. He is Chicago.”

We discuss how Dybek’s story could inform their own. For one, always keep the audience centered with a confident sense of place. Second, tiny details spark a sensory reaction in your audience, so they better come alive in your narrative. They choose a place and generate details from all five senses. Jabari writes about the alley behind his apartment. Angel describes each knick-knack on her kitchen table. Kai recounts their balcony. In the quick, over the shoulder glances at their notebooks, my students transform. It was like running into them at Target. Wait, you have a life outside of school? Their Dybek-esque details reveal a fuller picture of where they came from and how they got to be who they are. At the end of class I thank each and every one of them for offering me an invitation into their worlds.

When? Finding a Starting Point

“The worst thing you can do is bore your audience from the start.”

“Now imagine you’re up there in front of everyone. What’s the worst thing you could do at the beginning?” 

“Forget your lines?” 

“Trip on the podium?”

“Rip ass?” 

“No,” I say. “The worst thing you can do is bore your audience from the start. They’ve got a lot on their minds, and you’ve got to work for their attention.” 

I share advice I received in a recent Rebecca Makkai class: Start as late as possible without sacrificing the heart of the story.

“Imagine a story that opens like this: ‘When I was eight years old, my mom wanted me to get more active, so she signed me up for the Brownies, which is Girl Scouts for younger kids. I was doubtful of whether I would have fun, but I decided to give it a shot. . . .’” I wait to gauge their reaction. “Snoresville, right?” 

They know it could be better but aren’t sure how. I pass out the first page of  “Brownies,” written by former Chicagoan ZZ Packer, and read that magical first line. 

By our second day at Camp Crescendo, the girls in my Brownie Troop had decided to kick the asses of each and every girl in Brownie Troop 909.

I watch their cracked smiles, their eyes puzzling, wondering what will happen next, likely predicting a cinematic brawl. 

“See, she did it all. Backstory, motivation, and conflict all in one sentence. And you all want to keep reading, right?”  

They write their openings, and I start to imagine how this will all go, live in front of an audience. I’m beginning to believe. These kids are going to dazzle.

Why? Because We Can!

Their stories will now belong not only to them, but also the audience.

Our nerves crackle on the big day. We have a full house. Their stories will now belong not only to them, but also the audience.  

Jabari takes the stage and drops us into a Chicago few of us know. When you grow up on the Southside, getting a bike for Christmas doesn’t mean freedom. It’s an all-out war to keep it from the neighborhood kids’ grabby hands. My privileged rear end never even needed to lock my bike up. Jabari projects the vulnerability tucked in the seat of his prized possession. He also conveys pride. Only after fighting off three kids at once did they stop messing with him. 

Chantana begins with “Dear Grandma,” and we realize her story is in the form of a letter. It’s sad to think of them being apart, but Chantana keeps us smiling. The way she describes the strangeness of an American lunch. The details about the buildings, the trains, the beach. And her refrain of, “You just wouldn’t believe it.” I look around and see heads nodding, everyone absorbing Chicago all over for the first time.  

Geordie makes a grand entrance. Like an alien boss, he walks in wearing the green screen suit. “It’s a lot easier to ask a random stranger for an interview when you’re wearing this,” he says. As he describes how Broadcast Journalism fostered his confidence, he unzips his green screen suit further and further until he completely shed his casing. 

The sausage metaphor! It landed! 

Next is Angel. She begins, her face serious, her voice hushed: “Silent, I sit across from my mother at the kitchen table. Both of us push our food with our forks. We never figured out how to talk to each other. Then, the silence breaks. ‘I’m pregnant. . . .’” 

The audience gasps. We think we know this girl, and wait, really? 

She takes a deep breath. “. . . my mom said.” 

A quick giggle from the audience to test the waters. Angel smiles and gives them time. Then they heartily laugh, realizing the trick. Audience expectation plus a perfectly timed reveal topped with a twist of irony—she nails a gut punch that could only be accomplished in an oral narrative.

Marco’s buddies laugh when his name is called because—What kind of goofy story is he going to tell? He dives into his spring break trip with a friend to New York City, capping off every line with “Do you feel me?” After a concert, he is called onstage for a jam session. He describes beating on the drum, louder and louder, finding his voice, his place in the world. And we’re cheering him along. Yes, we feel you!  

Kai steers into the worst moment of their life—the apartment fire that left them temporarily homeless. At its climax, Kai can’t return for their two pets. They end with a poignant celebration of the resilience they forged. We watch, stunned at the vulnerability and wisdom coming from a kid who all year refused to be on camera.  

And then there’s me, sitting in the front row, ear to the megaphone, weeping into my pepperoni pizza. I wonder who handed Stuart Dybek a megaphone and who helped Samantha Irby give her embarrassment a big hug. I resolve to stop the presses every year and embrace these moments. Without these kinds of stories, Chicago would be a miserable place. Everybody staring at the ground, pods in their ears, going noise-deaf despite the sweet gospel surrounding. 

The event ends, and the kids ask if we can do it one more time before they graduate. I smile. “You can do it every single day for the rest of your lives.”

Featured photo by Oleg Laptev on Unsplash.