Opening Convocation Speech 2026

When most people hear the title Hamilton, they assume they know whose story they are about to hear. The name says it all: Alexander Hamilton.

For nearly three hours, we follow his journey—from an orphaned young immigrant to a soldier, statesman, and Founding Father. We hear about his ambition, his accomplishments, his mistakes, and eventually his death. Alexander is at the center of the stage, and we naturally assume that this is his story.

But then, in the final moments of the musical, something unexpected happens.

The focus shifts.

Alexander steps back, and Eliza Hamilton steps forward. Until that moment, we have largely understood her through her relationship with him: his wife, the mother of his children, and the person most deeply hurt by some of his choices. But as the musical ends, we begin to learn about the life Eliza built after Alexander was gone.

She worked to preserve his writings and ensure that his contributions would be remembered. But she also created a legacy entirely her own. She helped establish New York City’s first private orphanage, opened a school for children who could not afford an education, spoke out against slavery, and raised money for the Washington Monument. She spent decades serving children and families whose stories might otherwise have been forgotten.

The ending of Hamilton asks us to reconsider what we thought the musical was about. 

It reminds us that history does not automatically remember everyone who deserves to be remembered. The version of the past that reaches us depends on who recorded it, who preserved it, and whose experiences others decided were important enough to include.

In other words: Who tells the story?

It is a powerful question because stories are never simply collections of facts. The person telling the story decides where it begins, which moments and people matter, and whose experiences remain in the background.

When we study American history, we often encounter a familiar group of voices: presidents, generals, innovators, and people who held positions of power. Their stories matter and are an important piece of our country's history, but they are only part of the story.

For generations, our country's history was often told as if only certain people shaped it. Missing, or pushed to the edges, were the voices of Indigenous people whose communities existed here long before the Europeans landed on these shores; enslaved people whose labor helped build the nation; women who led movements yet were denied equality; immigrants who shared their cultures, skills, and dreams; LGBTQ+ people who contributed to their communities while often forced to hide important parts of who they were; and more. Their stories were not absent because they had nothing to say. They were absent because those deciding which stories mattered often chose not to include them. And when voices are left out, we do not simply end up with an incomplete history, but an inaccurate one.

The story of America is not one voice speaking clearly. It is millions of voices—sometimes in harmony, sometimes in conflict, and sometimes fighting simply to be heard. It includes moments of courage and progress, and moments of injustice and failure. Understanding our history requires us to hold all those truths at once. That can be uncomfortable. We may learn that someone we admire also caused harm. We may discover that an event we once understood as a triumph looked very different to the people who suffered because of it. We may encounter stories that challenge what we thought we knew. These are equally important to our story.

So the question “Who tells the story?” is not only for historians. It is a question for each of us, every day. Every photograph you take, post you share, tradition you continue, and story you repeat helps shape what others will remember. The way you describe an event can determine who is seen as the hero, who is blamed, and who disappears entirely. Before deciding that your perspective is the only correct one, pause and ask: What might I be missing?

And if you notice that someone’s voice has been overlooked, make room. Ask a question. Invite them in. Listen to the answer. Your understanding of the world and our community may be incomplete without it. 

Building community doesn't mean we all agree or that we avoid difficult conversations. A strong community makes room for disagreement while still honoring every person's dignity. It creates space for people to speak honestly and expects the rest of us to listen with curiosity and respect. Our challenge is to create a community where many voices can contribute to a richer, more complete understanding of who we are.

As we mark the 250th anniversary of our country, we should celebrate the remarkable ideas, sacrifices, and achievements that have shaped our country. We should also be willing to examine the contradictions, injustices, and unfinished work that are part of that history.

Most importantly, we should remember that the American story is not finished. We are living in the pages that future generations will one day study. 

So, who tells the story?

We all do.

Let us make sure our story has room for complexity, honesty, courage, and many voices. Let us listen carefully to the stories that came before us. Let us seek out the voices that have been overlooked. Together, let us keep striving to build a community—and a country—where every person can be heard, seen, and valued.