I wanted to raise the voice of a lot of the people that I knew

Host: The sun was sinking behind a row of crumbling apartment blocks, painting the city in hues of rust and amber. Steam rose from the grates, curling like ghosts above the cracked pavement. The faint sound of a distant train echoed between the walls, a melancholic rhythm that seemed to carry the weight of forgotten stories.

In the narrow alley, two figures sat on the edge of a concrete stoop — Jack and Jeeny. A flickering streetlight buzzed overhead, throwing shadows across their faces. The smell of rain mixed with the scent of fried food drifting from a nearby vendor. Jack’s grey eyes were fixed on the skyline — sharp, calculating — while Jeeny watched a group of children playing with a deflated soccer ball, their laughter echoing off the walls like defiance.

Jeeny: “Edwidge Danticat once said, ‘I wanted to raise the voice of a lot of the people that I knew growing up, and this was, for the most part, poor people who had extraordinary dreams but also very amazing obstacles.’”

Jack: (with a low chuckle) “That’s beautiful, Jeeny. But it sounds like every idealist’s favorite tragedy — dreams versus reality. You know how that story ends.”

Host: A faint wind swept through, lifting dust and paper scraps into a lazy spiral. Jeeny’s hair moved slightly with it, strands catching the dim light.

Jeeny: “You sound so sure of that. Maybe because you’ve stopped believing that the poor can dream at all.”

Jack: “No, I believe they dream. Everyone does. But dreaming doesn’t build bridges or feed children. Hard work does — and even that’s not enough when the system’s rigged.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not the dreaming that’s the problem, Jack. Maybe it’s the rigging.”

Host: He turned to look at her, his face tense, jaw set. The buzz of the streetlight seemed louder in the pause between them.

Jack: “You really think raising voices changes anything? The world doesn’t reward the loud — it rewards the lucky. The powerful.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you think Danticat’s words still echo? Because someone listened. Because someone always does. That’s what raising a voice means — it’s not shouting to win; it’s whispering so someone remembers.”

Host: A car passed, its headlights briefly washing their faces in white light. For a moment, they looked like two ghosts suspended in time — one forged by cynicism, the other by hope.

Jack: “I’ve seen what ‘raising voices’ gets people. Protests fade. Movements die. The poor stay poor. You know what changes things? Strategy. Money. Policy.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a politician.”

Jack: “No, I sound like someone who’s seen hope crushed enough times to know it’s not a plan.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And yet here we are, sitting in a neighborhood that people like you call hopeless — still dreaming.”

Host: She gestured to the children, now sitting under a broken lamppost, sketching their names on the pavement with chalk. Their faces glowed with a strange mix of innocence and resilience.

Jeeny: “They’re not strategists or politicians, Jack. They’re just kids. And still, they find ways to build something out of nothing. That’s extraordinary.”

Jack: “Extraordinary dreams. Extraordinary obstacles. That’s the quote, right? I just wonder how many obstacles you can survive before you stop being extraordinary and start being broken.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s where you’re wrong. Maybe the breaking is what makes them extraordinary.”

Host: The streetlight flickered again, its light pulsing like a heartbeat. A thin rain began to fall — hesitant at first, then steadier, coating the pavement in a soft sheen.

Jack: “You ever think Danticat was romanticizing it? The struggle, the pain, the poverty? Writers love that narrative — poor people with beautiful dreams. Makes for a good story.”

Jeeny: “No. She was preserving it. That’s different. There’s a world of difference between pity and preservation.”

Jack: “Explain.”

Jeeny: “Pity looks down. Preservation looks back. It remembers. It says — you mattered. That’s what she was doing. Giving names, faces, and voices to the people the world forgets. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “Names don’t fill stomachs, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Neither does cynicism.”

Host: The rain intensified, splattering against the concrete. Jack pulled his hood up, while Jeeny tilted her face upward, letting the drops trace down her skin like tiny silver threads.

Jeeny: “You know, in Haiti — where Danticat’s family came from — storytelling isn’t just art. It’s survival. When you can’t control your future, you tell your story to prove you still exist.”

Jack: “And you think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Because sometimes it’s the only thing you have left.”

Host: A bus roared past, splashing through a puddle, scattering reflections of the neon lights into the wet darkness. The sound faded, leaving behind the quiet rhythm of rain and breath.

Jack: (softly) “You talk about voices and stories like they’re shields. But I grew up watching people shout into the void. The factories closed. The rent went up. The dreams went down. No one came to save them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe no one came because too many people thought their voices didn’t matter.”

Jack: “Or maybe because voices without ears are just noise.”

Jeeny: “Then our job is to build the ears, Jack. To make people listen.”

Host: The rain began to ease. A few of the children had found shelter under a nearby awning, their chalk drawings slowly dissolving in the water — smudged faces, faded suns, crooked houses.

Jeeny watched them quietly, then spoke again, her voice softer, more reflective.

Jeeny: “You see that? That’s what her quote means. Dreams fading, washing away — but someone saw them first. Someone captured them before the rain took them. That’s what storytelling does. It saves what can’t survive.”

Jack: “You talk like a poet. But the world doesn’t pay poets.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t pay silence either.”

Host: The silence between them deepened, filled only by the faint echo of dripping water. A stray dog passed by, its paws wet, its eyes alert, before disappearing into the dark.

Jack: “So, you think telling stories is enough to fix injustice?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the beginning of fixing it. You can’t fight what you don’t remember. Danticat wasn’t saving people — she was saving their truths. And truths are what change people, not policies.”

Jack: “Policies built on emotion crumble.”

Jeeny: “And policies built without emotion destroy.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now. The streetlight glowed steady for the first time all night. Jeeny turned toward Jack, her eyes lit with the faint reflection of the city’s tired brilliance.

Jeeny: “You’ve seen too much pain, Jack. That’s why you don’t believe in dreams anymore.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe I just learned that not every dream deserves to survive.”

Jeeny: “No — every dream deserves to be heard. That’s the difference. That’s what Danticat meant.”

Host: For a long time, neither spoke. The city hummed — a living, wounded organism. A siren wailed somewhere far away. The air smelled of wet asphalt and gasoline.

Jack: “You know... when I was a kid, my old man worked double shifts at the docks. He used to tell me, ‘Dreams are for people who can afford to sleep.’”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Then he was half right. But even he dreamed — he just did it standing up.”

Host: Jack looked at her, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through his hardened composure. His eyes softened, his shoulders lowered. The tension dissolved like the last raindrop on the street.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe raising voices isn’t useless. Maybe it’s... necessary. Just not enough.”

Jeeny: “It’s a start. Every bridge begins with a plank. Every revolution with a word.”

Host: The children returned to their drawings, laughter rising again like music. One of them began sketching a new sun, bright and uneven but determined to shine.

Jeeny watched, eyes glistening.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — even when the rain washes their dreams away, they draw them again.”

Jack: (quietly) “Extraordinary dreams. Extraordinary obstacles.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And both deserve a voice.”

Host: The streetlight flickered once more — not with decay, but with life. The city, weary yet unbroken, seemed to breathe again.

The night closed around them softly — two souls sitting amid the ruins and rhythms of the ordinary, realizing that even the poorest dreams were still rich in meaning.

And somewhere, between struggle and story, between silence and speech, a small, unyielding truth remained —

that to raise a voice is not to escape poverty,
but to refuse to let it have the last word.