As I pulled out of the parking lot of the radio station on Friday, Oct. 3, 2025, I watched the sign on the side of the building grow smaller in my rearview mirror until “WCSB 89.3, Cleveland's FM Alternative” faded into the distance. 

Suddenly, I am taken back to 2018. I am 17 years old again, driving home from a show at Mahalls, a music venue on Cleveland’s west side. Sticky with the residue of spilled drinks from the crowd, thinking about the bruises I’d be sure to wake up with the next day from sweaty bodies thrashing into each other, I reach for the radio. 

My mom had recently melted down plastic and shoved it into my car’s auxiliary port, so I no longer had the option of listening to music from my phone. Not long ago I had been in a car accident, which she was convinced I caused by scrolling, distracted, through my endless music library to find the perfect track to play. That wasn’t the cause, though it was a guilty habit. 

Now, I was left with three things to listen to – a signed Mustard Plug CD I had scavenged out of the five-dollar bin at The Exchange, Cake’s Prolonging The Magic, or the radio. I made the rare decision of choosing the radio. 

I dug through the static and exhumed 89.3 FM, WCSB Cleveland. It felt like I had simultaneously stumbled on something I was not supposed to have found – yet, meant for my ears only. Alternative radio, especially college radio, felt like a wild-western world of musical exploration, and you never knew exactly what you would hear. 

Many nights the voices on the radio embraced me as a friend; sharing new songs, long trips and moments of both happiness and grief. 

I love music. I love making playlists. I once made a playlist about robots taking over the world. Really – in my biased opinion, if you listen you could see the whole robot takeover in your head. I sent it to all my friends, along with the endless daily song suggestions they expected to receive from me. I didn’t realize it then, but I needed someone to share this with.

It wasn’t until I started at CSU that I thought maybe I could be the voice cutting through static. 

Last October, I decided to attend the WCSB Halloween Ball, the station’s annual donor-funded Halloween concert at the Beachland Ballroom. It was free to the community, meant to thank the listeners of WCSB for their support. 

After the show, I ended up on the tattered grey couch at a friend’s house, worn from the weight of all the guests before me, listening to WCSB out of his old stereo. I swore to him that in one year I would be a part of it all. 

That was almost exactly a year ago.

When I had finally worked up the confidence, I filled out an application to join the station and anxiously awaited a response. After a few weeks of twiddling-thumbs and perpetual pacing, an email popped up in my inbox, offering me an interview.

I arrived at the station reeling in my head with pride, excitement and nerves. During my interview, I poured out my heart to the executive staff about my love for music and radio. I felt elated to have even had just a brief glimpse into a world I had adored so much – yet incredibly lame about my over-excitement. 

After a moment of discussion among the staff, I was offered an apprentice position. 

On my first day of training, I was overwhelmed with the culture, music and technology that surrounded me. The endless rows of vinyl records, towering shelves of CDs, and walls covered with layers of memorabilia so thick you could barely see the light blue paint beneath – all pieces of shows and bands entwined in the station’s past. Walking down the hall to the main broadcast studio, I felt the presence of 49 years of history envelope me like a warm hug.

In my three months of training, I learned more than I ever thought possible. At first, the board in the main broadcasting room looked like it was assembled in an otherworldly code that my brain couldn’t quite understand. Over the months, I watched Will Cartwright, a former student and continuing DJ, host his weekly spot with The Cowboy Kim Show.

In time, I learned how to use all the equipment that had seemed so foreign to me before. Before I knew it, I was pulling from the library and lining up CDs and vinyls to play, controlling the board, playing PSAs, speaking on air and talking to listeners that called in during the hour. 

I had learned how to host a radio show.

I also learned so much about music. Within one station, there existed representation for almost every single genre of music you can imagine – garage rock, psychobilly, electronic, a variety of ethnic programming – and yes, even jazz. 

In June, I did the first episode of my very own show, Odd Girl Hour. After months of preparation, I went on the air with some intense imposter syndrome. My hands were sweaty and my fingers slipped onto the “play turntable 2” button as the haunting vocals of The Brian Jonestown Massacre washed over the room, serenading me with the lyrics of “It Girl.” A few months later, the band would come through Cleveland on tour, and thanks to the station, I got a pair of tickets. 

The first show, I got a call complimenting me on my playlist. Is it pathetic to feel like that might be up there with one of my proudest moments? 

The name “Odd Girl Hour” was supposed to be a play on the phrase “odd girl out.” It was a place where I could fully be myself, and an extension to those with (at times questionable) taste of a safe space for them to be themselves too. It’s ironic that a show named as a lighthearted nod to feeling like I was a touch outside of the loop was what brought me such a profound sense of belonging. 

Each week I spent the days leading up to my show full of anticipation – scouring the internet, my Spotify playlists, and my personal, physical collection of music for songs to play. I played all the tracks I had long desired to share with someone and spoke my thoughts into the void, even if nobody listened. To my surprise, people actually did. 

Friends and family would send me texts while I was on air, requesting songs or complimenting ones they enjoyed and never heard before. I gave away concert tickets and had the ability to see more shows and be swept away by the phenomena that is experiencing music as a collective.

At the end of the summer, Liam Main, the business manager of WCSB, started a series of Live Sessions, where bands and artists would come into the station and play live to broadcast. I hopped on board and in a short few months the team had created a program that had seemingly never been done in the station’s history. 
 

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On Sept. 7, WCSB held its first Live Session with Post Saga. Jack McLaughlin and I hosted. (credit: Jules Bennett)

We connected with local and touring musicians, and learned how to set up a studio for recording and broadcasting up until the first session. As a journalism major, I honed my skills through interviewing bands on-air. I gained hands-on experience, learning more about my city, my community and myself, too. 

The voices that embraced me as a friend amidst the static no more than a year ago, now embraced me as a part of their community. Some members had been at the station for years, while others had just begun their first year at CSU. I found myself entangled in a web of people to share and talk about music with. 

At WCSB, I had a place within a group of melomaniacs like me. I felt seen and heard in a way I hadn't been used to, my reflection in the window of the studio glowing with an aura of fulfillment and belonging. 

I thought about how much I could get used to it. I thought, rather, knew it was an integral part of becoming the person I am supposed to be. 

Now, it’s all gone. 
 

***Editor’s note: On Oct. 3, 2025, Cleveland State University administration handed over complete control of the station to Ideastream Public Media. The students, managers and long-time hosts of the stations were not given any program continuation under Ideastream’s leadership.