I grew up like a neglected weed - ignorant of liberty, having no

Host: The field stretched endlessly under the gray dawn, mist curling over the earth like a veil drawn by a reluctant hand. The air was thick with dew, smoke, and the distant sound of a train horn — a sound both beautiful and lonely, as though it carried a secret between worlds.

In the middle of that morning fog, two figures stood by a rusted railway fence. Jack, tall and quiet, leaned against a wooden post, a half-burnt cigarette between his fingers. His eyes, pale and watchful, followed the horizon. Jeeny stood beside him, her hands buried in her coat pockets, her breath visible in the cold. Her dark hair moved slightly in the wind, her expression thoughtful — the kind of thought that comes from old pain remembered.

The sun had not yet broken through, but the light was enough to outline the fields, bare and silent, like the memory of a harvest long gone.

Jeeny: “Harriet Tubman once said, ‘I grew up like a neglected weed — ignorant of liberty, having no experience of it.’”

Jack: (exhales smoke, half-smiling) “That’s poetic, but brutal. A neglected weed. That’s how she saw herself?”

Jeeny: “How she was seen, maybe. That’s the tragedy — when people are treated like weeds, unwanted in the garden of humanity.”

Host: A cold wind stirred, carrying the faint scent of soil and ash, whispering through the dry grass like a ghost’s sigh.

Jack: “You make it sound like the world’s still the same. But Harriet’s time was different. She was born a slave. Liberty wasn’t even an option then.”

Jeeny: “And yet, how many people today live the same way? Not chained by masters — but by systems, by fear, by the belief that they don’t deserve freedom? Harriet was talking about ignorance — the kind that’s taught.”

Jack: “Ignorance is survival sometimes. You don’t fight for what you’ve never seen. You just… adapt.”

Jeeny: “Adaptation isn’t freedom. It’s endurance.”

Host: The mist thickened for a moment, swallowing their figures. When it cleared, their faces were quieter, softer — as if the conversation had drawn something unspoken between them.

Jack: “You talk about liberty like it’s natural. But for most people, it’s a luxury. Harriet was lucky — or maybe cursed — to see it. Once you taste freedom, everything else turns to ash.”

Jeeny: “And yet she didn’t stop after tasting it. She went back. Again and again. That’s not luck — that’s defiance.”

Jack: “Or guilt.”

Jeeny: (snaps, her voice sharp) “No, Jack. Responsibility. She didn’t believe freedom was real if she was the only one who had it.”

Host: Her eyes blazed, catching what little light the morning offered. Jack looked away, as though her conviction had struck too close to something inside him.

Jack: “You think everyone has that kind of courage? Most people can’t even change jobs without falling apart.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re still growing like weeds — surviving where we’re not supposed to, bending toward any light we can find.”

Host: A train whistle sounded again, closer now, echoing across the valley. The ground trembled faintly beneath their feet.

Jack: “You know, I used to think freedom was just the absence of control. No one telling you what to do. But maybe it’s not that simple.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. Freedom is knowing who you are when no one’s watching.”

Jack: “That sounds nice on paper. But in reality? The world runs on control — law, money, order. You can’t just walk away from all that.”

Jeeny: “Neither could she. But she walked anyway.”

Host: A pause. The wind pulled at their clothes, lifting the dust around their boots. It was the kind of silence that carried more weight than words.

Jack: “You admire her, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I owe her. We all do. Every woman who ever raised her voice, every worker who ever said ‘enough,’ every person who dared to exist beyond what they were told — they all walk in the shadow of her footsteps.”

Jack: “You make her sound like a saint.”

Jeeny: “Not a saint. A survivor who refused to stay a weed.”

Host: The sun began to rise, slowly tearing the mist apart. The first rays touched the rails, turning the iron into thin lines of gold.

Jack: “It’s strange. I used to think weeds were useless. But they grow anywhere. They find cracks, take root, thrive without permission. Maybe there’s power in that.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Harriet called herself a weed — not a flower. She knew weeds don’t need approval to exist.”

Jack: (with quiet bitterness) “You ever feel like one?”

Jeeny: “Every day. In rooms where my voice doesn’t fit, where people look through me, where my ideas are too loud or too soft — I feel it. But then I remember — even weeds can break concrete.”

Host: A faint smile crossed her face, not of joy, but of endurance — the kind of smile built from pain that refused to break.

Jack: “I envy that. I think I’ve been more… cultivated. Trimmed to fit expectations.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s time to grow wild again.”

Jack: (chuckling softly) “You make rebellion sound like gardening.”

Jeeny: “In a way, it is. Every act of growth is rebellion when you’re told to stay small.”

Host: The train appeared in the distance now — a long, iron serpent cutting through the fog, carrying echoes of history and progress alike.

Jeeny watched it pass, her eyes following the smoke trail that wound into the sky.

Jeeny: “Imagine it — Harriet walking through fields like these, hiding under stars, following the North. She didn’t have a map or permission — just belief. That’s what liberty is: walking toward something you’ve never seen but know must exist.”

Jack: “And still, people find ways to destroy it once they have it.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they forget where it came from — that it was born in struggle. Liberty without empathy becomes tyranny.”

Jack: “You think we’ve forgotten?”

Jeeny: “We talk about freedom like it’s a product, Jack. We sell it, brand it, post about it. But Harriet lived it — raw, dangerous, unpromised. She didn’t have slogans. She had survival.”

Host: The train’s roar faded into the distance, leaving behind a deep quiet that felt both empty and holy.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You know… I used to think liberty was a right. Something given. But listening to you — maybe it’s not a right. Maybe it’s a practice. Something we fight for every single day.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not inherited — it’s learned. And some of us, like Harriet, had to teach the world what it meant.”

Jack: “And what do we do now? When liberty means convenience instead of courage?”

Jeeny: “We remind people where it came from. We make sure the weeds keep growing.”

Host: The sunlight reached their faces now, warm and relentless, turning the last of the mist into light. Jack flicked his cigarette into the dirt, watching the smoke curl up and vanish.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what being human really is — trying to grow in a world that forgets we can.”

Jeeny: “And still, we grow.”

Host: They stood in silence, two shadows against the rising light, surrounded by the endless field — wild, untamed, full of unseen life pushing toward the sky.

The train tracks stretched ahead like lines on an unfinished story.

And for a moment, the words of Harriet Tubman seemed to linger in the air itself — the voice of every weed, every soul that ever fought to reach the sun.

Because even the neglected learn to rise — and in rising, they define freedom itself.