We have to teach girls communication skills.

Host: The classroom smelled faintly of chalk, paper, and rain, that soft nostalgic perfume of learning and hesitation. Through the wide windows, the late afternoon light poured in—amber and gentle, the color of forgiveness. Outside, the trees swayed, their shadows rippling across the desks like moving thought.

The room was empty except for Jack and Jeeny, sitting near the front, surrounded by half-erased lesson plans on the board: Empathy. Dialogue. Voice. The chalk dust still clung to the edges of the blackboard, like ghosts of half-finished ideas.

On the teacher’s desk, a quote was written neatly in white:
“We have to teach girls communication skills.” — Rachel Simmons

The sentence looked simple—yet it hummed, quietly, with centuries of silence.

Jeeny: (reading the board softly) “Rachel Simmons said that. ‘We have to teach girls communication skills.’”

Jack: (leans back, arms crossed) “You’d think they already had them. Women talk more than anyone I know.”

Jeeny: (tilts her head) “Talking isn’t the same as communicating, Jack.”

Jack: “You mean…?”

Jeeny: “I mean honesty. Assertion. The kind of speech that doesn’t tremble before it’s spoken.”

Jack: (half-smile) “You make it sound like words have genders.”

Jeeny: “They do—because power does.”

Host: The rain began to fall softly outside, tapping against the window with rhythmic insistence. The light dimmed, replaced by the warm hum of the overhead lamps. The world outside blurred—grey and tender. Inside, their voices sharpened against the silence, clear and real.

Jack: “So what, you think girls don’t learn to speak up?”

Jeeny: “They learn to speak politely. To please. To apologize before they exist too loudly.”

Jack: “Come on, that’s a little dramatic.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s generational. Girls are taught that quietness equals grace. Boys are taught that confidence equals strength.”

Jack: “And confidence gets mistaken for arrogance.”

Jeeny: “Only when it comes from women.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windows, scattering a few loose pages from the desks. Jeeny reached out to catch one—her fingers brushing the paper like it was a fragile idea trying to escape.

The page read: “Lesson Plan: Voice = Visibility.”

Jack: (reading the page) “Voice equals visibility… that’s catchy.”

Jeeny: “It’s true. A girl who can’t express herself disappears twice—once from the room, and once from her own potential.”

Jack: “So you’re saying communication isn’t just a skill—it’s survival.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because silence is how inequality sustains itself. You can’t fight what you’re not allowed to name.”

Jack: “That’s the problem, though. Every time someone does speak up, they get labeled emotional, aggressive, difficult.”

Jeeny: “Which is why we have to keep teaching it—because the world keeps punishing it.”

Jack: “You think teaching will change that?”

Jeeny: “Eventually. You can’t dismantle centuries of quiet with one generation of noise—but you can start the echo.”

Host: The light flickered, a faint hum buzzing from the fluorescent lamp above. Jeeny’s face was half in shadow, half in golden light—like conviction meeting exhaustion. Jack watched her carefully, the way one watches a truth take shape.

Jack: “You know, when I was in school, the loudest kids—boys and girls—got punished equally.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. They got punished differently. Boys were told to focus. Girls were told to calm down.”

Jack: “That’s… probably true.”

Jeeny: “It’s not malice—it’s habit. The kind of bias that hides in kindness. ‘Sweetheart, don’t interrupt.’ ‘Be nice.’ ‘Don’t make a scene.’ Each word teaches her how to shrink.”

Jack: “And then she grows up and forgets how to fill a room.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Yes. Or worse—she fills it and apologizes for doing so.”

Host: The rain outside grew steadier, its rhythm merging with the ticking of the classroom clock. The sound felt like time moving with purpose, slow but relentless.

On the chalkboard, the quote seemed to glow faintly in the yellow light: teach girls communication skills. It wasn’t instruction—it was rebellion disguised as a lesson.

Jack: “You ever teach, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Every day, in one way or another. Conversations are classrooms if you listen right.”

Jack: “So what would you teach first?”

Jeeny: “Permission.”

Jack: “Permission?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The permission to speak without needing to justify existing first.”

Jack: “And after that?”

Jeeny: “Precision. The ability to say what she means without wrapping it in apology.”

Jack: “And finally?”

Jeeny: “Persistence. The courage to keep speaking even when the world isn’t ready to hear her.”

Host: The light caught the chalk dust on the blackboard, turning it into a constellation of white sparks. Outside, thunder rumbled faintly, but inside the room was calm—the stillness of transformation in progress.

Jack: “You really think communication can fix that much?”

Jeeny: “It’s not just communication—it’s reclamation. It’s how women take back the narrative from history.”

Jack: “But don’t men need to learn to listen, too?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Communication isn’t a monologue—it’s a duet. But right now, too many women are trying to sing through walls.”

Jack: “So we break the walls.”

Jeeny: “No. We teach both sides to build windows instead.”

Host: The rain softened, replaced by the faint sound of students’ laughter echoing in the halls beyond—distant but hopeful. The world outside was still grey, but the light within had shifted—subtle, golden, alive.

Jack: “You ever wonder what would happen if every girl learned what you just said?”

Jeeny: “The world would sound different.”

Jack: “How?”

Jeeny: “It would sound like women asking for less permission and giving more direction.”

Jack: “And the men?”

Jeeny: “They’d finally hear the music instead of the noise.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You know, that’s the first time I’ve heard you call communication art.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s how the soul translates courage into language.”

Host: The clock struck five, the echo ringing softly through the empty classroom. Jeeny stood, brushing chalk from her hands. She walked to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and under Rachel Simmons’s quote, wrote three words in looping script:

“Voice is Freedom.”

Jack watched her, then smiled.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you?”

Jeeny: (turning to him) “More than anything.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s what we should be teaching—girls, boys, everyone.”

Jeeny: “We will. One conversation at a time.”

Host: She dropped the chalk, its sound small but sharp, like punctuation at the end of a declaration. The two stood for a moment, facing the board, as the last of the daylight slipped across the room.

The rain had stopped. Outside, the wet earth gleamed—a world ready to listen again.

And as the scene faded, Rachel Simmons’s words glowed in the amber light, transforming from statement to vow—

that voice is not a luxury,
but a lifeline;

that communication is not taught through grammar,
but through courage;

and that when a girl learns to speak,
she doesn’t just find her sound—
she restores her place
in the conversation of the world.

For every word once silenced,
there waits a sentence that saves.
And every girl, once taught to whisper,
can one day learn
to sing.