Being a female guitar player back in school wasn't great, and I

Host: The stage lights had long gone dark, leaving behind only the soft hum of amplifiers cooling down — that quiet aftersound that feels almost like the instrument breathing. Empty chairs were scattered across the small music hall, and the smell of wood, sweat, and electricity still hung in the air.

At the center of the stage sat Jack, tuning a battered old acoustic guitar, its strings catching the faintest glint from a lone spotlight. The notes he plucked were hesitant, fragile — like memories trying to tune themselves back into meaning.

Jeeny stood by the back of the stage, holding a black guitar case close to her chest. The case had stickers peeling off — fragments of a life spent moving between places where music didn’t always welcome her.

On the inside lid of the case, scrawled in white paint, were words she’d written years ago — a quote she still carried like a scar and a badge:
“Being a female guitar player back in school wasn't great, and I had to change schools so many times. The male drummers and bass players thought it was cool, but male guitar players said, 'It's a guy's thing. You should be doing something else, like playing the harp.’” — Orianthi

Jeeny: (quietly) “You ever notice how rebellion always sounds different when it comes from a girl?”

Host: Her voice was steady, but there was an ache beneath it — the kind of ache that isn’t about the wound itself, but how long it took to stop apologizing for it.

Jack: (without looking up) “Yeah. And somehow, people still call it attitude instead of courage.”

Jeeny: “They called it novelty for me. Said, ‘Oh, that’s cute — a girl who plays lead.’ Like the sound was a trick, not an expression.”

Jack: “People fear what doesn’t fit their version of talent.”

Jeeny: (half-smiling) “And women with guitars have never fit that version.”

Host: She opened the case and lifted out a red electric guitar — chipped, worn, alive. It had history etched into its body, the kind of history that never asked for permission.

Jeeny: “You know what Orianthi said once? She didn’t want to be a ‘female guitarist.’ She just wanted to be a guitarist. But the world kept putting the adjective back in front.”

Jack: “Because the world likes its categories more than its music.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. It’s easier to measure difference than to hear it.”

Host: She plugged in the guitar. The first chord rang out — sharp, defiant, filling the hall like something waking from sleep.

Jack: “You know, I never thought about it before — how much bravery is in that sound. Every note you play is a protest and a prayer.”

Jeeny: “Funny thing is, it didn’t start as bravery. It started as escape. I played because it was the only time the noise in my head made sense.”

Jack: “That’s how all real musicians start — out of survival.”

Jeeny: “But not all of them have to survive the same noise.”

Host: She walked slowly toward the edge of the stage, fingers brushing over the fretboard as if the strings were memories, not metal.

Jeeny: “Back in high school, they made it sound like ambition was arrogance. The guys could play messy, loud, wrong — and they called it energy. I played the same, and they called it trying too hard.”

Jack: “Double standards — the original offbeat.”

Jeeny: (softly) “I changed schools four times. Each one promised to be better. Each one taught me to play louder.”

Host: The lights above flickered, casting their faces in amber. The room seemed smaller now, as if her story was pulling the walls closer to listen.

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now I play because silence feels dishonest.”

Jack: “That’s the best reason I’ve ever heard.”

Host: He set his guitar aside, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees — the kind of posture that meant listening, not waiting to reply.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s not about gender anymore. Not really. It’s about space. Every woman who picked up a guitar had to carve out a space — with her sound, her persistence, her refusal to leave. Orianthi didn’t just play notes — she built room for the rest of us.”

Jack: “You’re saying sound became territory.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every riff was a declaration: I belong here too.”

Host: She began to play again — a slow blues progression that filled the air with ache. Her tone was rich, wounded, alive. It carried both the weight of history and the shimmer of survival.

Jack: “You know, the harp they wanted you to play — it’s elegant, predictable, gentle. The guitar, though — it growls, it bleeds, it fights back. Maybe that’s why it scared them.”

Jeeny: “They weren’t scared of the sound, Jack. They were scared of what it meant: that a woman could wield power without asking.”

Jack: (quietly) “Yeah. The same reason people rewrite history — to control who’s allowed to make noise.”

Host: The amplifier buzzed faintly as the last chord faded. Jeeny looked down at her hands — calloused, strong, imperfect. The hands of someone who had fought and won without ever announcing the war.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? The same boys who told me it was ‘a guy’s thing’ — they quit. They stopped playing. Life got busy. I didn’t.”

Jack: “Because passion doesn’t retire.”

Jeeny: “And resentment doesn’t create. I stopped resenting and started practicing. That was my rebellion.”

Host: A long silence followed. Not empty, but sacred — filled with the invisible music of realization.

Jack: “Orianthi was right, though. You had to change schools, but not your rhythm. And that’s how art survives — through stubbornness disguised as melody.”

Jeeny: “And melody disguised as defiance.”

Jack: “You ever wish it had been easier?”

Jeeny: “No. If it had been easier, it wouldn’t have meant as much. The strings hurt, but they healed me too.”

Host: She smiled faintly — not with triumph, but with quiet grace.

Jeeny: “The guitar taught me that sound doesn’t care about gender. Only people do.”

Jack: “And people eventually learn what sound already knew — that beauty and power don’t come with labels.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every time I play, I feel like I’m undoing a little bit of that history. One solo at a time.”

Host: She bent one note — slow, deliberate — and let it hang in the air. It vibrated through the rafters, through memory, through time.

Jack: “You know what that is?”

Jeeny: (looking up) “What?”

Jack: “That’s what change sounds like.”

Host: The lights dimmed completely now, leaving only the faint glow of the amplifier, like a small fire refusing to die.

And in that quiet, warm darkness, Orianthi’s words felt less like complaint and more like commandment — a lesson carved from defiance and melody:

that art must never ask permission,
that talent is not gendered,
and that the truest rebellion
is simply to keep playing
when they tell you to stop.

The final chord lingered — fierce, pure, unashamed —
a sound both woman and weapon,
singing softly into the dark:
I am here.
And I am enough.