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How Teenagers Wrote and Performed
What Mattered to Them
What Mattered to Them
By Anastasia Moskaleva
Teacher of Literature
Teacher of Literature
I feel like the idea of a teen play about teens has always been in the air. After all, we’re not a professional theatre group — for us, theatre isn’t really about producing a polished final product. It’s more a way of thinking through stories, themes, and feelings that are close to us. It’s more of an emotional, psychological experience for the kids than a performance per se.
That’s why even last year, when we staged a play about immigration, it was still about us — just through borrowed lenses. We used ready-made characters and plots: a bit of Chekhov, a bit of McDonagh, a touch of Pushkin, even some Dumas. But this year, once we knew we were diving into, it felt only right to try writing those stories ourselves.
So in the spring, we started with a storytelling lab.
We split into three age groups — roughly ages 10–11, 13–15, and then the high schoolers. For each group, we chose themes that we thought would resonate. I won’t say the kids didn’t surprise us (they absolutely did), but that was the initial setup.
The youngest group worked with the theme of dreams, fears, childhood memories, and imagination — things they find meaningful or magical. The middle group, in full adolescent rebellion mode, tackled their inner worlds: their hardest days, the things they wish they could tell someone but can’t. Though they also pushed back on us — rightly — for focusing too much on the negative, as if teen life were only about crisis. So we adjusted as we went.
The oldest students, the high schoolers, explored how they see and want to change the world: their generation’s manifesto, so to speak. Their writing wasn’t as much about inner turmoil as it was about reflection on their place in a broader world — one shaped by people, politics, technology, everything that makes up the external reality.
The youngest group worked with the theme of dreams, fears, childhood memories, and imagination — things they find meaningful or magical. The middle group, in full adolescent rebellion mode, tackled their inner worlds: their hardest days, the things they wish they could tell someone but can’t. Though they also pushed back on us — rightly — for focusing too much on the negative, as if teen life were only about crisis. So we adjusted as we went.
The oldest students, the high schoolers, explored how they see and want to change the world: their generation’s manifesto, so to speak. Their writing wasn’t as much about inner turmoil as it was about reflection on their place in a broader world — one shaped by people, politics, technology, everything that makes up the external reality.
The lab ran for three working days. Day one was more exploratory: we split into small groups and looked at how these themes appear in music videos, films, and other media. Then each group chose their themes, and the students started writing monologues.
Later, Vika and I turned those monologues into three full-length plays. Initially, we thought it might just be three short acts. But the monologues were so rich and complete in themselves — each one its own mini one-person show — that we felt they deserved to be staged just as they were written. And that’s exactly what we did: we didn’t cut or rewrite. What each student imagined and wrote, that’s what ended up on stage.
Later, Vika and I turned those monologues into three full-length plays. Initially, we thought it might just be three short acts. But the monologues were so rich and complete in themselves — each one its own mini one-person show — that we felt they deserved to be staged just as they were written. And that’s exactly what we did: we didn’t cut or rewrite. What each student imagined and wrote, that’s what ended up on stage.
In the end, we had four hours of stage time and 35 teens performing their own texts. I think that’s pretty incredible — and not just in scale, but in spirit.
The first play we ended up with came from the monologues written by the youngest group. Naturally, they didn’t write about pink ponies or fluffy dreams. Instead, they dove headfirst into some pretty intense themes — things like dream worlds, imaginary planets… sure. But also? Inner voices. The realization that not all friendships are real. Rebecca, for example, wrote about learning to tell fake friends from true ones. Matilda’s monologue was about the voices inside her head — the ones that push you in different directions.
So no, our journey into childhood wasn’t exactly sugar-coated. But we did try to shape it as something adventurous — with a touch of mystery and play. We came up with a theatrical frame to tie the monologues together: a group of kids finds an old, dusty board game in a school attic. Obviously, they start playing it — because, well, they’re curious — and the game comes to life.
So no, our journey into childhood wasn’t exactly sugar-coated. But we did try to shape it as something adventurous — with a touch of mystery and play. We came up with a theatrical frame to tie the monologues together: a group of kids finds an old, dusty board game in a school attic. Obviously, they start playing it — because, well, they’re curious — and the game comes to life.
A mysterious Game Master appears and challenges each of them with a task. And those tasks? They were all built from the stories the kids wrote. We just gently tugged on the narrative threads they’d left us — nightmares, imaginary voices, obsessions with Pokémon cards — and spun those into mini adventures. Every challenge was a reflection of a character’s monologue. So what we got, in the end, was this kind of mash-up between Jumanji and Stranger Things, and honestly, the little ones nailed it.
The second play, which we titled You Are Not Alone, grew out of a whole web of monologues — but especially one story by Yoni. He had written a powerful piece about bullying, featuring two characters: Martin and Lawrence. That story took place in a kind of abstract boarding school setting, and we realized it could serve as a perfect narrative frame to hold all the other monologues in this group.
We also had another strong thread from Masha, who wrote about a universal teen falling into crisis — not because of some single dramatic event, but from a storm of things: family conflict, divorcing parents, miscommunication at home. It felt honest, recognizable. So we let that be part of the emotional backbone of the play.
We also had another strong thread from Masha, who wrote about a universal teen falling into crisis — not because of some single dramatic event, but from a storm of things: family conflict, divorcing parents, miscommunication at home. It felt honest, recognizable. So we let that be part of the emotional backbone of the play.
In Masha’s story, the boy — we ended up calling him Sasha — slowly unravels. He feels completely invisible: misunderstood at school, ignored at home, no one really noticing he’s not okay. So he starts numbing himself with substances — alcohol, drugs — until he hits what feels like an emotional and psychological rock bottom. That storyline felt too important to let go, so we decided to weave it into the backbone of the whole play.
If you saw the performance, you probably noticed two recurring threads: one was Martin and Lawrence — from Yoni’s story — and the other was Sasha. But, of course, we weren’t going to put a kid on stage physically trying every substance out there. That’s where the idea of using a puppet came in. Sasha’s descent was told through this puppet — a kind of alter ego — which allowed us to show his struggle symbolically, but no less powerfully.
These two storylines gave us the structure to bring in all the other voices. Set in this fictional boarding school, each student is carrying something different. Some are quietly wrestling with what it means to be a teenager. Some reflect on war. Some feel like outsiders, desperate to tell that story. Others are battling with how hard it is to be in a body that doesn’t match the world’s expectations — and from that came two monologues about self-harm.
These two storylines gave us the structure to bring in all the other voices. Set in this fictional boarding school, each student is carrying something different. Some are quietly wrestling with what it means to be a teenager. Some reflect on war. Some feel like outsiders, desperate to tell that story. Others are battling with how hard it is to be in a body that doesn’t match the world’s expectations — and from that came two monologues about self-harm.
But more than anything, what we wanted to do with this second play was show a world where everyone’s living in their own little sealed-off cube — isolated, misunderstood, trying to cope. And yet, something happens. A shift. Walls begin to crack. These kids start to see one another. Not fully, maybe, but enough to recognize a shared language of loneliness, of wanting to be heard.
And that’s really the heart of it. Even in the darkest places, there’s always someone nearby who could understand. Even — shockingly — an adult. That’s why, at the end of Sasha’s story, a figure appears. A grown-up. Not the kind who lectures or judges, but one who listens. Really listens. That moment was key: we wanted the audience — especially the teens — to feel that it is possible to find someone you can trust.
And that’s really the heart of it. Even in the darkest places, there’s always someone nearby who could understand. Even — shockingly — an adult. That’s why, at the end of Sasha’s story, a figure appears. A grown-up. Not the kind who lectures or judges, but one who listens. Really listens. That moment was key: we wanted the audience — especially the teens — to feel that it is possible to find someone you can trust.
The message we tried to carry through the whole performance is simple, but not simplistic: yes, it’s normal to feel alone. But sometimes, if you risk stepping out of your shell, if you stop hiding in your own locked room, you might find other stories out there — stories that, strangely, echo your own.
And so the core of You Are Not Alone is just that: you are not alone.
And so the core of You Are Not Alone is just that: you are not alone.
The third play also grew out of a single story — which, by the way, is important to mention: not a single monologue from the storytelling lab was left behind. Every single piece found its place across the three plays. The high schoolers’ performance was built around a concept Kostya came up with — a dystopia where people pay not with money, but with time. Whatever value or experience you want in life, you pay for it with literal years of your life.
I thought that idea was kind of brilliant — and also very timely. All the high schoolers, in one way or another, had been reflecting on time. Some wrote about how war shaped their experience of it. Some about procrastination and time eaten up by screens. Others about that feeling when time pushes you toward a point where something has to change — a decision, a leap, a letting go.
So this dystopian world became the stage. There was a storyline, yes, but it was more of a setting than a strict plot. In this world, young people — just about to turn 18 — are expected to give up a certain number of years in exchange for the values they want to pursue. And each monologue, framed within that structure, became a reflection on what is actually worth spending your life on.
In a way, this third play turned into something meta — because these high schoolers really are at that threshold. They’re about to step out into the world, where they’ll have to decide what to spend their time on. Not metaphorically — literally. What do you want to dedicate your life to? What’s worth the cost?
We left the ending open on purpose. The system — the one demanding their time — was about to activate. Each character had to choose. But instead of neatly wrapping it up, we gave them a moment — a moment to stop, reflect, and feel what’s actually real. And that’s the moment we ended on.
Because really, the only time we have — the only one we can actually touch — is the present. Here. Now. So we let the play end not with a final line, but with dancing. Because sometimes the most radical thing you can do, when the future feels uncertain and the past is too heavy, is to just dance with the people you care about — for one more moment.
In a way, this third play turned into something meta — because these high schoolers really are at that threshold. They’re about to step out into the world, where they’ll have to decide what to spend their time on. Not metaphorically — literally. What do you want to dedicate your life to? What’s worth the cost?
We left the ending open on purpose. The system — the one demanding their time — was about to activate. Each character had to choose. But instead of neatly wrapping it up, we gave them a moment — a moment to stop, reflect, and feel what’s actually real. And that’s the moment we ended on.
Because really, the only time we have — the only one we can actually touch — is the present. Here. Now. So we let the play end not with a final line, but with dancing. Because sometimes the most radical thing you can do, when the future feels uncertain and the past is too heavy, is to just dance with the people you care about — for one more moment.
If we take a step back and look at all three of these projects, I want to say again: we are not a theatre school. We’re not a drama studio. We don’t have grand directing or acting ambitions. And that’s exactly what made this whole process so meaningful.
Because what mattered most — at least to me — was that through this kind of work, the students started to realize that their thoughts, their words, their monologues actually matter. That they have weight. That what they have to say might not only resonate with others, but reveal a new side of who they are — even to the people who’ve sat next to them in class all year.
Because what mattered most — at least to me — was that through this kind of work, the students started to realize that their thoughts, their words, their monologues actually matter. That they have weight. That what they have to say might not only resonate with others, but reveal a new side of who they are — even to the people who’ve sat next to them in class all year.
You’re not an actor. You’re not a director. But you step onto a stage, and you say something that truly matters — or you ask a question that sticks with people. And I think that’s incredibly powerful. It was important to us to shine a light on these kids in a way that felt real — to create a setting where they could feel, deeply, that this isn’t just another school project or another presentation. This is something else. Something closer to magic.
We tried to build a world around them — a kind of artistic reality — where what they said looked and sounded as important as it truly was. We shaped it with music that mattered to them. That was actually one of the most special parts — especially for the teen play — when each student chose a song for their monologue. A song from their generation. A song that said something about who they are. That, in itself, was a whole exercise in self-expression.
So yes — technically, the result was a performance. We had costumes, sets, lights, music. We rehearsed. We went through thevfull theatre process — from concept to curtain call. But for me, as a literature teacher, it was always about something else.
We tried to build a world around them — a kind of artistic reality — where what they said looked and sounded as important as it truly was. We shaped it with music that mattered to them. That was actually one of the most special parts — especially for the teen play — when each student chose a song for their monologue. A song from their generation. A song that said something about who they are. That, in itself, was a whole exercise in self-expression.
So yes — technically, the result was a performance. We had costumes, sets, lights, music. We rehearsed. We went through thevfull theatre process — from concept to curtain call. But for me, as a literature teacher, it was always about something else.
It was about meaning.
It was about that moment when a student starts to feel like they matter. When they realize their voice is worth hearing. And my role, really, was just to hold up the metaphorical spotlight — to shine it gently, carefully, beautifully — so that everyone else could see the brilliance, the value, and sometimes even the unexpected beauty of what these kids can do.
It was about that moment when a student starts to feel like they matter. When they realize their voice is worth hearing. And my role, really, was just to hold up the metaphorical spotlight — to shine it gently, carefully, beautifully — so that everyone else could see the brilliance, the value, and sometimes even the unexpected beauty of what these kids can do.