Voice for the voiceless

“I want to be a writer.”

The living room went silent. People squirmed in their sofa chairs. Elbows tucked close to their bodies, the women reached for their cups of tea and pretended like they didn’t hear that. Then men crossed their legs and looked up at the ceiling fan.

“Don’t do that,” said one of the men after a brief silence. “You don’t have enough experience. You have to go out there and live, and then you can become a writer.”

“He wanted to be a writer too,” said the man’s wife, glancing disapprovingly at her husband before zeroing in on the young woman. “It’s a nice dream, but it’s not realistic. You have to think about your career and your future, and one day you’ll have a family to support. You shouldn’t quit your job.”

In the corner of the room, an old man began to laugh, cackle — it came from the throat. The others ignored him as they always did. But he spoke up anyway: “He didn’t become a writer because he wasn’t any good at it.”

Glances. Consternation. Silence.

On the way home, the young woman’s boyfriend consoled her. “Don’t listen to them,” he said with his arm wrapped around her tighter than her scarf. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

She stopped their walking and looked up at the young man.

“You might not have the life experience, but that’s not what it takes to be a writer. There are a lot of people who went off to war, but they didn’t all come back and become Hemingway.”

The two resumed their walking pace. The young man continued.

“Think about all the people out there who have a story to tell, who have the life experience, but can’t tell it. There were people who were killed before they got the chance, or maybe they couldn’t write, or maybe there was no one around to listen. But now you’re here, and you can write. You can tell their stories. No, you have to tell their stories. A voice for the voiceless.”

“Hmm,” said the girl as she starred down the long road. The winter had set in. But the leaves had not yet fallen. She remembered the little things. And she got an idea for a story.

“Hmmm.”

—-

This is for you, young woman: