As a black person, I'm used to going to places in which I might

Host: The city was hushed under the weight of midnight rain, its streets glistening with reflections of neon signs and headlights. A small art gallery, half-empty, hummed softly with jazz spilling from an old record player in the corner. On the white walls hung vast canvases of blackness — figures painted in deep, luminous shades that seemed to swallow the light and give it back, redefined.

Jack stood before one of them — a portrait of a man with eyes like quiet storms, his skin rendered in endless gradients of black. He looked absorbed, hands in his pockets, his face unreadable.

Jeeny, holding a small cup of wine, approached him slowly. Her reflection trembled in the glass beside his — two worlds in one frame, both illuminated and shadowed.

They had just read the quote printed on the wall beneath the painting:
“As a black person, I’m used to going to places in which I might be the only black person that shows up there. This experience has an effect on the way you see yourself in the world and what it means to be black in the world.” — Kerry James Marshall

Jack: (softly) “The only one that shows up.” That hits harder than the paint itself.

Jeeny: (nodding) It’s not just about race. It’s about visibility, isolation, being seen and yet not truly seen.

Jack: (tilts his head) Maybe. But Marshall’s talking about a very specific kind of solitude — one built from centuries.

Jeeny: (quietly) Yes. The solitude of history pressing against your skin.

Host: The rain drummed against the gallery window like a slow heartbeat. The lights flickered slightly, giving the room a pulse — alive, intimate, reflective.

Jack: You know, I’ve walked into plenty of rooms where I felt like the only outsider — boardrooms full of people richer, smarter, colder. But that’s different. I could always blend in. Change my language, my clothes.

Jeeny: (gazes at the painting) But you can’t change your skin. That’s the point. For black people, difference isn’t a choice; it’s permanent visibility. You walk in and the air itself changes.

Jack: (turns to her) You think everyone notices?

Jeeny: Everyone feels it. Even the silence knows.

Host: The painting’s eyes seemed to follow them, reflecting light and pain and something deeper — endurance.

Jack: (after a pause) You know what’s strange? The quote isn’t angry. It’s… resigned, but powerful. Like he’s saying, “This is the cost of awareness.”

Jeeny: It’s not resignation. It’s recognition. Marshall isn’t asking for pity — he’s naming a truth. The world teaches black people to see themselves through the eyes of others, and that changes everything.

Jack: (nods slowly) The old W.E.B. Du Bois idea — “double consciousness.” Seeing yourself twice: once as you are, and once as the world tells you you are.

Jeeny: Exactly. And that kind of vision — it hurts, but it also sharpens. You become aware of layers most people never have to see.

Jack: (frowns slightly) But isn’t that exhausting? Living like that — hyper-aware, always performing, never fully belonging?

Jeeny: (softly) It is. But it’s also how survival becomes art.

Host: The music shifted — a saxophone weeping through the rain, deep and melancholic. Jack’s eyes lingered on the canvas again. The man in the painting looked back as if to say: I am still here.

Jack: (quietly) I wonder what it does to someone — to always be the “only one.”

Jeeny: (sipping her wine) It forces you to become your own mirror. When the world doesn’t reflect you, you start building your own image.

Jack: (thoughtful) Like painting yourself back into history.

Jeeny: That’s what Marshall did. He said, “If museums never show black bodies, I’ll fill the walls with them.” He didn’t wait to be invited — he claimed space.

Jack: (half-smiles) That’s courage. But also loneliness, isn’t it? To walk into every room knowing you’ll have to explain your own existence again and again.

Jeeny: (nods) Yes. But it’s the loneliness of being first — not the loneliness of being forgotten.

Host: The lights flickered again, and for a moment, the shadows on their faces seemed to shift. Jack’s pale reflection merged faintly with Jeeny’s darker one in the glass — two outlines, indistinguishable for a heartbeat.

Jack: (slowly) You know, I used to think racism was just ignorance. But it’s more like architecture — built into the world.

Jeeny: Exactly. And you can’t fix a building by hanging better paintings inside it. You have to rebuild the walls.

Jack: (sighs) That’s what scares people. Because rebuilding means admitting it was built wrong in the first place.

Jeeny: (quietly) The hardest part of progress is admitting that the foundation was broken — especially when you’re standing on it.

Host: Her voice trembled, not from weakness, but from truth pressing its way out. The gallery grew quieter, as if even the rain outside paused to listen.

Jack: (after a long silence) I don’t think I’ll ever really understand what it means to live like that — always being both seen and unseen.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) You don’t have to understand it completely, Jack. You just have to see it. That’s where change begins.

Jack: (nods) See. Not just look.

Jeeny: Yes. Because seeing requires empathy — and empathy isn’t passive. It’s participation.

Host: The record skipped, then found its rhythm again — a soft, persistent melody, like breath.

Jack: (looking at the painting again) You know, I think what Marshall’s saying isn’t just about being black — it’s about being human in a world that defines you before you even speak.

Jeeny: (gently) True. But being black means fighting that definition every day. It’s a constant rewriting of self.

Jack: (softly) Maybe that’s what his art is — rewriting the world in his image until it finally fits.

Jeeny: (nods) Until blackness is no longer an exception in a white room, but the room itself — whole, beautiful, undeniable.

Host: The flame of a nearby candle flickered as the rain eased, casting warm shadows on the painted faces that lined the wall — faces of power, faces of quiet defiance, faces that refused erasure.

Jack: (after a pause) Jeeny… do you ever get tired of explaining all this?

Jeeny: (smiles sadly) All the time. But silence is dangerous. It lets the room believe it’s still neutral.

Jack: (nodding slowly) Neutrality — the last mask of privilege.

Jeeny: Exactly.

Host: Her eyes glimmered — not with anger, but with the calm endurance of someone who has stood too long in rooms where she had to carry both her identity and the world’s misunderstanding of it.

Jack: (quietly) I think I get it now — when you walk into a place and you’re the only one like you… the room doesn’t just watch you. It measures itself by you.

Jeeny: (whispering) Yes. And sometimes, it’s only through that tension — that difference — that you realize your own power.

Jack: Power?

Jeeny: The power of presence. Of taking up space that was never designed for you, and refusing to shrink.

Host: Outside, the rain stopped completely, leaving behind a soft mist that hugged the city like smoke. The streetlights shimmered, reflecting off puddles — black and gold, light and shadow intertwined.

Jack: (turning to her) You know, Jeeny… I think we all spend our lives trying to be seen. But some of us never have to prove we exist.

Jeeny: (quietly) And some of us have to prove it every day.

Jack: (after a long pause) Then maybe the real art isn’t on the walls. Maybe it’s in the act of showing up — again and again — even when you’re the only one.

Jeeny: (smiling, softly radiant) That’s what Marshall meant. Showing up isn’t survival. It’s revolution.

Host: The gallery lights dimmed, leaving only the paintings glowing softly in the darkness — hundreds of shades of black, each one alive, each one telling its own truth.

Host: Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, their reflections blending into the same dark glass. For a moment, there were no “only ones.” There was no separation. Only the quiet hum of being — seen, finally, and whole.

And as they stepped out into the cool night air, the city lights shimmered like an unfinished painting, waiting — just waiting — to be rewritten.