I don't know that hearing people have ever felt that experience

Host:
The community center was quiet after hours, save for the hum of the vending machine and the faint whir of the overhead lights. The room was simple — white walls, folding chairs, a stack of educational pamphlets left neatly on a table. But it was filled with something unseen — a kind of stillness that had its own sound.

At the far end of the room, Jeeny sat facing Jack, her hands folded, her eyes focused on his. Between them lay a small notepad, half-filled with words — half conversation, half translation.

Jeeny: “Millicent Simmonds once said, ‘I don't know that hearing people have ever felt that experience of truly being left out. They have easy communication, while deaf people can't join in. It takes more time to communicate with us.’”

Jack: [nodding slowly] “It’s humbling, isn’t it? How she says it — no bitterness, just truth.”

Jeeny: “It’s the kind of truth that doesn’t shout. It just exists, quietly — waiting for the rest of the world to notice.”

Host:
A clock on the wall ticked faintly — too faintly to be heard by all, but loud enough for the silence to measure itself against. Outside, the night pressed close against the windows.

Jack: “You know, we talk about being ‘left out’ all the time — social circles, conversations, politics. But for her, it’s not metaphorical. It’s literal.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She’s describing a kind of exile most of us never imagine — not distance, but delay. The space between what’s said and what’s understood.”

Jack: “The space where belonging waits.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And that space — it’s not just silence. It’s effort. Deaf people have to work to be part of something the rest of us take for granted.”

Host:
The fluorescent light above them flickered once — then steadied, buzzing like a nervous thought. Jeeny’s fingers moved absently across the notepad, sketching a tiny wave — motion trying to become meaning.

Jack: “You ever notice how communication is supposed to connect us, but it also builds walls? The faster we speak, the more we exclude.”

Jeeny: “And the louder we are, the less we listen.”

Jack: “So maybe what she’s really saying — it’s not just about being deaf. It’s about patience. About the way empathy slows time.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because when you communicate with someone who signs, you have to be fully present. You can’t half-listen. You can’t fake understanding. You have to meet them where they are.”

Jack: [quietly] “That’s rare in any language.”

Host:
A handwritten poster hung near the door — “Learn ASL: The Language of Connection.” The marker ink had started to fade, but the sentiment still glowed with purpose.

Jeeny: “You know what’s beautiful? The way she frames it — not as complaint, but invitation. She’s not saying, ‘You’ve failed us.’ She’s saying, ‘Slow down. Make space.’”

Jack: “Yeah. She’s not demanding sympathy — she’s offering a chance to understand.”

Jeeny: “That’s what true inclusion looks like. Not a gesture, but a willingness to change your rhythm.”

Jack: “To speak with your hands instead of your mouth.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “Or with your eyes instead of your ego.”

Host:
The silence between them deepened — not empty, but alive. Jack tapped his pen against the notepad, then began writing slowly: ‘How does it feel, do you think — to live in a world where sound is decoration, not necessity?’

Jeeny read the question, paused, then answered aloud — her voice soft, reverent.

Jeeny: “I think it feels like living in a world that finally listens — not with ears, but with attention.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why Simmonds acts the way she does — so deliberately. Every expression, every gesture, it’s all intention. There’s no wasted noise.”

Jeeny: “Because for her, communication isn’t casual. It’s sacred.”

Jack: “And for the rest of us, it’s disposable.”

Jeeny: “We speak like we have endless time — but meaning gets lost in the rush.”

Host:
The vending machine rattled as it dropped a candy bar someone forgot to collect earlier. The sound broke the silence, sharp but fleeting, then dissolved again into quiet.

Jack: “You know, I wonder what the world would look like if we all communicated like that — slowly, purposefully. If we had to mean every word because every word took effort.”

Jeeny: “It would feel heavier. But also more honest.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what she’s giving us — a new way to measure humanity. Not by what we hear, but by what we take time to understand.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the irony, isn’t it? The hearing world prides itself on communication — yet no one feels heard.”

Jack: [after a pause] “She might be the one listening best.”

Host:
The lights dimmed slightly as the building’s timer clicked toward closing. Their shadows stretched across the table, merging — indistinguishable.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was a kid, I thought silence was emptiness. Now I think it’s the purest kind of presence. You can’t hide behind silence.”

Jack: “No. You can only show up.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s what Millicent’s quote really means — showing up, despite the delay, despite the work. It’s her way of saying, I’m still here. Can you meet me halfway?”

Host:
They sat for a long moment without speaking, the air holding their shared understanding — fragile, unspoken, luminous.

Outside, snow began to fall — the quiet kind that makes the world sound like it’s holding its breath.

Jack wrote one last thing on the notepad: “The world moves too fast for kindness.”

Jeeny read it, then shook her head gently. “No,” she whispered. “The world doesn’t move too fast. We do.”

Host:
The camera would pull back — two figures framed by fluorescent light and stillness, a notepad between them glowing faintly in the reflection. The snow outside blurred the window, turning the world soft and wordless.

And as the scene faded, Millicent Simmonds’ quiet truth would echo — not through sound, but through meaning:

In a world built on noise,
silence becomes courage.
To be heard is easy.
To be understood takes time.
So slow down,
listen with your eyes,
and meet humanity
in the spaces
between the words.