I shall not change my course because those who assume to be

Host: The train station was almost empty, save for the sound of a solitary violin somewhere in the distance. The clock above the archway ticked with unforgiving rhythm, its hands marking time not as progress, but as persistence. Outside, the sky was tarnished silver, promising rain that had not yet fallen.

Jack stood by the departure board, his coat collar raised, his eyes fixed on the word CANCELLED flashing in red. Jeeny sat on a wooden bench, her hands around a cup of coffee gone cold, her posture small yet resolute — like a flame that refused to bow to the wind.

Between them, a newspaper lay open on the bench, its headline reading: “Whistleblower Faces Public Backlash.”

Jeeny: “Victoria Woodhull once said, ‘I shall not change my course because those who assume to be better than I desire it.’”

Her voice was steady — quiet, but carrying the kind of steel that had been forged in the furnace of humiliation.

Jack: “Woodhull — the woman who ran for president before women could even vote. She had guts.” He turned, his grey eyes catching a flicker of admiration, quickly tempered by realism. “But she also got destroyed for it. Mocked, jailed, erased.”

Jeeny: “And still, she didn’t change her course. That’s the point.”

Jack: “It’s also what broke her. Stubbornness can look like bravery — until it turns into a cliff.”

Host: The wind pressed against the glass doors, and a newspaper page fluttered across the floor, as if chased by a ghost of conviction. Jeeny watched it for a moment, then spoke — her voice now softer, but no less fierce.

Jeeny: “You call it stubbornness. I call it integrity. She was told she didn’t belong — a woman preaching free love, equality, political reform in the 1800s — and she faced them all. Alone. Can you imagine what that felt like?”

Jack: “I can. But integrity doesn’t feed you when the world closes its doors. Idealists always think defiance is victory. Sometimes it’s just exile.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every revolution starts with exile.”

Jack: “And ends with ruin, half the time.”

Jeeny: “Half the time isn’t none of the time.”

Host: Jack laughed, low and weary — not mocking, but pained, the kind of laugh that carries the echo of long disappointments. The violin from the station’s far end shifted into a minor key, as if the music itself was listening to their argument.

Jack: “You really believe defying everyone makes you noble?”

Jeeny: “No. It makes you free.”

Jack: “Free? Free to fail? Free to be despised?”

Jeeny: “Free to live by your own truth, even if it kills you. That’s worth more than obedience.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one losing everything.”

Jeeny: “And you’d rather lose yourself to please others?”

Host: The train lights from the far track glimmered, slicing through the fog like a promise that never quite arrives. Jack looked away, his reflection caught in the window — fractured, doubled, uncertain.

Jack: “You think rebellion is virtue. But look around, Jeeny. Every voice that stands alone gets drowned out by the mob eventually. Maybe Woodhull’s course was right — but no one followed her. History doesn’t reward the stubborn; it rewards the survivors.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. History rewards the seeds. They don’t always bloom in their own time, but they bloom.”

Jack: “Seeds get buried too.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But burial and planting look the same, don’t they?”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy — not hostile, but contemplative. A gust of wind finally broke through the doors, lifting the newspaper, sending it spinning across the floor. It came to rest beside a trash bin, the headline now creased beyond recognition.

Jeeny: “Woodhull didn’t just fight men. She fought the idea that people should apologize for existing differently. ‘Those who assume to be better than I’ — that’s what she called them. The self-appointed gatekeepers of virtue.”

Jack: “And now everyone’s a gatekeeper. Everyone’s shouting what’s right and wrong — on screens, in streets, in offices. Maybe the real rebellion today is silence.”

Jeeny: “No. Silence is surrender. You can’t change the world by bowing to it.”

Jack: “Sometimes you survive it by bending. That’s not cowardice — it’s strategy.”

Jeeny: “Strategy is fine — until it replaces soul.”

Host: The station lights dimmed for the night shift. A loudspeaker crackled, announcing another delay. Somewhere in the distance, a child laughed, the sound fragile, hopeful, unbroken.

Jeeny: “You know why I admire her? Because she didn’t wait for permission. She didn’t need anyone to say, ‘You may speak now.’ She just did.”

Jack: “And she paid for it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But her courage gave others the permission she was denied. That’s the paradox of change — the first one through the wall always bleeds.”

Jack: “And the rest forget who built the opening.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But somewhere, someone walks through it — and that’s enough.”

Host: Jack sat down beside her, the bench creaking under their weight. He rubbed his temples, the lines in his face deepening under the station’s yellow light. His voice when he spoke again was low — stripped of cynicism, closer to confession.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in people like her. But life teaches you — ideals don’t pay the rent. Defiance doesn’t heal betrayal. Sometimes, it’s easier to follow the current.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why the current never changes.”

Jack: “Maybe the current isn’t supposed to.”

Jeeny: “Everything that flows eventually carves stone, Jack. Even the softest water leaves its mark.”

Host: He looked at her, and for the first time, there was no argument in his eyes — just a quiet acknowledgment, like a man recognizing a truth he once loved but had buried for survival.

Jack: “You sound like Woodhull herself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I just refuse to let fear set the course.”

Jack: “And what if the course leads you into ruin?”

Jeeny: “Then at least I’ll know it was mine.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to fall — softly, steadily, like a rhythm of renewal. The station clock struck midnight, its echo long and hollow. Jack rose, picked up the newspaper, and folded it carefully, as if closing a chapter that had already been written.

Jack: “Maybe the world needs more people who refuse to change their course — even when everyone tells them to.”

Jeeny: “It always does. That’s how it finds its direction again.”

Host: The train lights finally appeared, cutting through the fog like faith revived. They stood together, side by side, as the doors opened, the warm air from inside meeting the cold rain.

Jeeny stepped forward first, her eyes bright, her voice soft but unyielding.

Jeeny: “Those who assume to be better than us will always speak loudest. But it’s the quiet ones who keep walking that change the road.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Then keep walking, Jeeny. I’ll catch up — when I find the courage.”

Host: The doors closed, the train moved, and through the window, her face was reflected — serene, steadfast, like a flame that would not bow to wind.

The station was quiet again, but in that stillness, something shifted — not in the world outside, but in the space between conviction and doubt, where all human revolutions begin.

And as the rain fell harder, the words of Victoria Woodhull seemed to echo through the empty hall —
not as rebellion,
but as a promise:

“I shall not change my course.”