My hope is to create spaces where people of all stripes can come

Host: The evening settled gently over the community hall, that old brick building tucked between a bakery and a closed bookstore, its windows glowing faintly like tired eyes that still refused to sleep. Inside, folding chairs lined the room in uneven rows. A single microphone stood at the front, humming faintly — a reminder of all the voices it had held, all the tempers it had endured.

Jack and Jeeny were the last ones there after the town meeting ended. The crowd had dispersed, leaving behind the smell of coffee, papers scattered on tables, and the distant echo of too many people talking over one another.

Jack sat slouched in one of the metal chairs, his hands pressed together, jaw tense. Jeeny moved slowly through the room, gathering empty cups, her movements soft and deliberate, as if she were tidying not the space, but the air itself.

On the board, written in chalk, were Tracy K. Smith’s words:
“My hope is to create spaces where people of all stripes can come together and speak at a lower decibel level. We make more sense that way. We sound more like our real selves that way.”

Jeeny read it aloud, her voice quiet, almost reverent.

Jeeny: “Speak at a lower decibel level… she’s right, you know. We forget what we sound like when we stop shouting.”

Jack: “Yeah, well. Some people only get heard when they shout.”

Host: The light flickered once, dimming, as if even the bulb was weary from so much noise. Jack leaned back, his eyes distant, while Jeeny turned, holding a cup in her hands, her gaze calm but firm.

Jeeny: “You really believe that, Jack? That the world only listens to the loudest voice?”

Jack: “Look around, Jeeny. Politics, business, even social media — noise wins. The calm ones get drowned out. You whisper truth and no one hears it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not about volume. Maybe it’s about courage — the kind that doesn’t need to shout to be strong.”

Host: A small pause filled the room, thick as dusk. Outside, the faint hum of traffic drifted in through the open window, like the world breathing in low rhythm.

Jack: “You think calmness changes anything? The world’s on fire. You don’t put out flames by whispering to them.”

Jeeny: “No, but you don’t stop them by feeding them either. Fire answers to wind, not shouting.”

Host: Jack gave a small, dry laugh, the kind that came from years of watching good intentions fail.

Jack: “That’s poetic. But look at history. Every revolution started with someone raising their voice, not lowering it.”

Jeeny: “And how many ended in silence because no one learned how to listen?”

Host: The words hung there — heavy, undeniable. Jack’s brow furrowed, his fingers drumming the table.

Jack: “So what? We just sit in a circle and talk quietly while the world collapses?”

Jeeny: “No. We build something different. A place where people talk to understand, not to win. You know, like what this hall was supposed to be tonight before everyone turned it into a shouting match.”

Host: Jeeny placed the last of the cups in a bin and leaned against the wall. Her eyes caught the faint reflection of the board — the quote now ghosted with eraser dust and shadow.

Jeeny: “You heard them, Jack. Everyone had truth in them — it just got lost in the volume.”

Jack: “Maybe people shout because they’re afraid they’ll disappear otherwise. Maybe being loud is the only proof they exist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But what if the proof of our existence is how well we make space for others to exist too?”

Host: The silence that followed was deep, almost sacred. The faint buzz of the lights became the only sound, humming like a low heartbeat.

Jack: “You always think conversation can fix things. That words can heal wounds. But words start wars too.”

Jeeny: “Yes. When they’re shouted without heart. When we forget the weight of tone. Think about it, Jack — the same word can be a weapon or a bridge. It depends on how it’s spoken.”

Host: He looked at her, his eyes sharp, searching.

Jack: “You mean how it’s whispered.”

Jeeny: “No. How it’s meant.”

Host: The sunlight outside had gone completely now. The hall glowed gold from the few overhead bulbs that remained lit, their halos trembling softly against the ceiling.

Jeeny: “When I was little, my mother used to say, ‘Speak so your words can land softly enough to be remembered.’ I didn’t understand that until now. We shout to be right, but we whisper to be real.”

Jack: “Maybe shouting is honesty too. Raw. Unfiltered. Isn’t there truth in rage?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But rage without reflection becomes noise. The louder we speak, the less we hear ourselves.”

Host: Her voice had softened now, carrying the kind of stillness that could calm a storm. Jack sat quietly, letting her words wash over him.

Jack: “You really think we make more sense when we’re quiet?”

Jeeny: “I think we make more meaning when we’re quiet. Sense comes from hearing the other side of silence.”

Host: He looked down at his hands, the calloused edges of fingers marked by years of restless work and unseen battles.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the problem. I don’t know who I am when I’m not fighting.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the voice you need to listen for — the one underneath the fight.”

Host: A small gust of wind drifted through the window, rustling the loose papers on the table. One of them fluttered toward Jack — a printed flyer from the meeting. It read: “Community Futures: A Place for Every Voice.”

Jack picked it up and smiled faintly.

Jack: “A place for every voice. Maybe they should add — ‘and for silence too.’”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because silence isn’t the absence of speech — it’s the presence of listening.”

Host: She moved to the whiteboard, took the chalk, and beneath Tracy K. Smith’s words, she wrote:
“Lower decibel. Higher truth.”

Jack watched, then stood, his shadow stretching long across the floor.

Jack: “You think anyone would come if we built a space like that? A place where nobody shouts?”

Jeeny: “If we start it, maybe they’ll remember how.”

Host: He stepped beside her, reading the chalk lines again. The letters looked fragile, as if one strong breath could erase them — yet somehow, they felt permanent.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Let’s build it. But you handle the talking — I’ll handle the listening.”

Jeeny: “Deal. Though you might be surprised what you find when you actually listen.”

Host: They smiled, that rare, quiet kind of smile that asks for nothing and means everything.

Outside, the night had deepened, the streetlights glowing like patient souls. The hum of the city fell to a low murmur, as if the world itself was taking a breath — softer, slower, more human.

Inside the hall, the chalkboard stood glowing in its own way, the words shining faintly under the last bulb.

“We make more sense that way. We sound more like our real selves that way.”

And as the door closed behind them, the echo of their steps folded into the silence — the kind of silence that doesn’t erase sound, but makes room for it to matter.