There were very few British black women on TV or in music when I

Opening Scene

The low hum of the television flickered in the corner of the room, but it wasn’t the sound that filled the air. It was the weight of memory, heavy and sharp. The evening was cold, the windows darkened by the dimming sky. A single lamp cast soft light across the room, highlighting the worn-out furniture and the shadows that clung to the corners.

Jack leaned back in the armchair, his fingers idly tapping against the armrest, his mind clearly elsewhere. Jeeny sat across from him, her posture tense but graceful, her deep brown eyes fixed on Jack, as though she could read every thought passing through his mind. The quiet between them was thick, but both felt the pull of something deeper, a conversation they couldn’t avoid much longer.

Host: The air was filled with the scent of old wood and the sharpness of a truth neither was ready to confront. Their eyes met, and the world seemed to shift just slightly, as though the moment had found its voice.

Jack broke the silence, his voice low, laced with a hint of disbelief.

Jack: “You ever think about how people don’t always see themselves in the world around them? Like, growing up, you’re supposed to have role models, people to look up to, but the image of success is often so narrow.”

Jeeny’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table, her eyes narrowing slightly as she leaned forward, her voice soft, but filled with emotion.

Jeeny: “I remember when I was young, the world around me didn’t always look like me either. The faces on TV, in magazines, even in my own neighborhood — they didn’t reflect who I was. But it wasn’t until I heard Alesha Dixon’s words that I realized just how much that kind of absence hurts.”

Jack: “Alesha Dixon? The singer? What does she have to do with it?”

Jeeny’s gaze softened, and she let out a quiet sigh. Her voice grew gentle, but there was a certain intensity in it.

Jeeny: “She said there were very few British black women on TV or in music when she was a teenager. And when she was a child, she was given a doll that didn’t look like her — she threw it away. That memory, that feeling of being given something that wasn’t hers, didn’t reflect her, didn’t see her — it’s a feeling I know all too well.”

Host: The room seemed to grow colder as Jeeny spoke, her words hanging in the air, sharp and full of weight. Jack’s brow furrowed, and he looked away, his mind clearly processing the idea.

Jack: “But… a doll? I mean, that seems like something small, doesn’t it? A child’s toy. Why would something like that matter so much?”

Jeeny’s expression hardened, and she stood up, her eyes blazing with a quiet fire.

Jeeny: “It’s not just about a doll, Jack. It’s about being seen. Acknowledged. When you grow up and you never see someone who looks like you in the spaces that matter, you start to wonder: ‘Am I even supposed to be here?’ The absence whispers to you, telling you that you’re somehow not enough. It’s about feeling like the world doesn’t have a place for you, and that hurt runs deep.”

Host: Jack shifted in his seat, his face flushed, his jaw tightening. The air in the room grew thick with something unsaid. The silence that followed felt like a breath caught in the chest, waiting to escape.

Jack: “But if we start looking for someone to identify with everywhere we turn, won’t we just end up disappointed? People are complicated, Jeeny. Role models are often just that — ideas of what we should be, not real representations. People are flawed.”

Jeeny crossed her arms, her stance firm as she paced the room, the light catching the angles of her face, giving her an ethereal yet grounded presence.

Jeeny: “I know people are flawed, Jack. I know. But it’s not about perfection — it’s about representation. It’s about seeing someone who is real. Someone who doesn’t have to conform to the image of what everyone thinks a person should be. Alesha Dixon’s words hit home because it’s something that transcends one doll. It’s about visibility. When you’re not seen, you’re forgotten.”

Jack’s expression softened, and he leaned back again, his voice quieter now, more reflective.

Jack: “So, you’re saying it’s about belonging? That feeling of being part of something?”

Jeeny nodded, her voice gentle but powerful.

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s about knowing that you matter. That your story, your experience, is just as important as anyone else’s. And when you grow up in a world that doesn’t reflect who you are, it can feel like you’re just a ghost, floating through, waiting for the world to see you for who you really are.”

Host: The rain outside had stopped, but the air in the room still felt charged. The tension between them was palpable, but so was the understanding that had begun to take root.

Jack’s fingers brushed across his lips, his thoughts swirling.

Jack: “I never thought about it that way. I guess I took for granted that I’ve always had someone to look up to. Someone that looks like me, acts like me, even if they’re not perfect. I didn’t realize how painful that absence could be.”

Jeeny’s eyes softened, her voice almost a whisper now, but full of strength.

Jeeny: “It’s easy to take it for granted when you’ve never had to search for someone who feels like they belong. But for many, that lack of representation isn’t just a gap — it’s a scar.”

Host: The room was still, but the air between them had shifted. There was a quietness now, an understanding. The world outside, once so cold and distant, felt a little more connected. Jack met Jeeny’s eyes, and for a brief moment, the silence spoke louder than any words could.

Host: “Perhaps, in the end, it’s not just about seeing yourself in the world. It’s about the world seeing you — not just as you are, but as you belong. And sometimes, all it takes is one voice, one image, one story to change everything.”

End Scene