Growing up in the '80s in central New Jersey as a weird kid with

Host: The train station was nearly empty — the kind of emptiness that echoes. The sound of a distant freight train rolled through the cold air, blending with the occasional flutter of a pigeon’s wings. Metal benches, slick with condensation, lined the platform under the harsh fluorescent lights that buzzed like tired thoughts.

Host: Jack stood near the vending machine, his hands deep in his coat pockets, the collar turned up against the wind. Jeeny sat nearby on a bench, her back straight, headphones around her neck, one earbud dangling like a question left unanswered. The clock above them ticked, indifferent to the waiting.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how train stations always feel a little like confession booths?”

Jack: “How’s that?”

Jeeny: “Everyone here’s waiting for something. Trying to leave somewhere. Trying to become someone else.”

Jack: “Or just trying to survive the delay.”

Host: He said it with a faint smirk, but his eyes betrayed a weariness — a quiet kind that sits just behind the ribcage.

Jeeny: “Michelle Visage once said, ‘Growing up in the ’80s in central New Jersey as a weird kid with a blue mohawk listening to the Sex Pistols and dressing really funky, I was bullied pretty badly. It was every single day in elementary school and kept going into middle school, too. I felt totally alone, without a single person there for me.’”

Jack: “I remember her. Radio host. Performer. Drag Race judge. Never knew she carried that much weight.”

Jeeny: “Most people who shine learned how to from being kept in the dark.”

Jack: “Or from fighting in it.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying with it the smell of rain and metal, the scent of cities waking up and falling apart at once.

Jeeny: “You know, that story — it breaks my heart. A kid trying to be herself, punished for it every single day.”

Jack: “It’s the world’s oldest crime. The tribe eats its outcasts.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound inevitable.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? Humans don’t fear monsters, Jeeny. They fear difference. Always have.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it’s the different ones who move us forward. Every revolution, every art, every new sound — born from the ones who didn’t fit.”

Jack: “Sure. But for every one who makes it, a hundred disappear. You don’t remember the names of the ones who didn’t survive the noise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not their names. But you feel their echoes.”

Host: Her voice trembled just slightly, like a violin string pulled at its edge of breaking. The lights above flickered, catching the soft shine in her eyes.

Jack: “You talk like pain’s a currency.”

Jeeny: “It is — but only if you spend it right.”

Jack: “And what does that even mean?”

Jeeny: “It means what Michelle did. Turning the loneliness into empathy. The mockery into a microphone. Every insult into rhythm.”

Host: A pause. The distant train horn cried out — long, hollow, mournful — like memory itself moving through fog.

Jack: “You think that’s bravery?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s transformation. Bravery is acting despite fear. Transformation is becoming something because of it.”

Jack: “You really believe a bullied kid can grow into someone powerful just by refusing to break?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it.”

Jack: “You?”

Jeeny: “You forget — I was the quiet girl in high school. Always sketching alone, always too soft, too odd. They called me ghost. One day I realized ghosts only haunt because they once loved being seen.”

Jack: “So you fought back?”

Jeeny: “No. I created. That’s the only rebellion that lasts.”

Host: The words lingered like smoke, delicate yet indestructible. Jack shifted, his shoulders tense, the old memory of something pressing at the edges of his posture.

Jack: “When I was thirteen, I wore thrift store jackets and read books no one else did. They shoved me into lockers, broke my glasses once. I remember thinking, ‘If I just pretend to be normal, maybe I’ll disappear.’”

Jeeny: “Did you?”

Jack: “Yeah. For a while. But disappearing hurts worse than bruises.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the lie conformity tells — that safety is worth invisibility.”

Jack: “It’s funny how the world bullies difference, then later worships it. Same kids who mock the misfits grow up buying their albums.”

Jeeny: “That’s because the misfits build what others are too scared to imagine.”

Host: The rain began, slow at first, then heavier, drumming against the platform roof. The sound wrapped around them like static, softening the sharp edges of the moment.

Jeeny: “Michelle’s story isn’t just about pain. It’s about evolution. She took isolation and made it a voice that now gives others courage.”

Jack: “You think pain always leads to purpose?”

Jeeny: “No. But it gives you the choice. To stay small or become something sacred.”

Jack: “Sacred? You think suffering’s holy now?”

Jeeny: “No. But surviving it is.”

Host: The lights reflected in the wet concrete, turning the puddles into little mirrors — each one catching fragments of their faces, fractured but luminous.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. Some days, being different feels like bleeding in public. But once you learn to bleed in color, the world starts watching.”

Jack: “Bleed in color…” he repeated quietly, “You sound like a song lyric.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe every person who’s ever been alone is a verse still writing itself.”

Host: A train rolled into the station — steam rising, brakes hissing, the deep rumble filling the air like thunder wrapped in steel. The doors opened, releasing a brief burst of warm air and distant chatter.

Jack: “You think she ever forgave them? The ones who broke her?”

Jeeny: “I think she outgrew them. Forgiveness isn’t about forgetting; it’s about building a life where their echoes can’t reach you.”

Jack: “And you think that’s possible?”

Jeeny: “Look around, Jack. Every voice that was once mocked now makes music someone else dances to.”

Host: He looked away, then back at her — the faintest ghost of a smile breaking through his usual restraint.

Jack: “You’re saying the bullied become the builders.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Pain’s an architect if you let it be.”

Jack: “So, what about the kids now — the ones still alone, still being torn apart?”

Jeeny: “We keep speaking for them. We keep reminding them that solitude isn’t emptiness. It’s the soil where strength grows unseen.”

Host: The train doors began to close, the sound echoing through the platform like punctuation. Neither moved. They just watched it leave — watched the blur of light fade into distance.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think the loneliest kids end up being the bravest adults.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they learn early how to survive the silence.”

Jack: “And to love it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Love it — not because it’s easy, but because it’s honest.”

Host: The rain slowed again. A faint moonlight peeked through the thinning clouds, falling over them in soft silver.

Jack: “You think she ever stopped feeling alone?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. Maybe she just learned that being alone doesn’t mean being unloved.”

Host: A moment of stillness. The last train disappeared into the night, leaving only the hum of quiet and the smell of rain-soaked metal.

Jack: “You know what’s strange?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Listening to you talk about her — I don’t feel so alone either.”

Jeeny: “That’s what stories do, Jack. They turn solitude into connection. They prove we’re all just echoes calling out to each other in different tones.”

Host: The camera pulled back, wide, slow — the two of them, small against the vast stillness of the empty platform, their shadows stretched by the fading lights. The rain had stopped, but the world still glistened from where it had fallen.

Host: And in that quiet, their shared silence became its own kind of music — a tribute to every kid with a blue mohawk, every soul that once sat alone in the lunchroom, every heart that learned that being different was not a curse, but a calling.

Host: Because as Michelle Visage knew — and as they finally understood — some of us are meant to stand alone, so that others might finally find the courage to stand at all.