We learn about MLK's 'I Have a Dream' speech. Take that same

In her profound reflection, Jennifer Hyman asks: “We learn about MLK's 'I Have a Dream' speech. Take that same speech and put it in the voice of a woman. Would it be as inspirational? Would it have as much gravitas to it?” These words do not question the power of the speech itself — a masterpiece that moved a nation — but rather the perception of power, and how history has conditioned us to hear authority more readily in the voices of men than women. Her question pierces through the ages like a blade of truth, cutting into the heart of human bias. It forces us to ask not what gives words power, but who we allow to wield that power in our minds and hearts.

In every civilization, the voice has been a symbol of command, a bridge between thought and destiny. The ancients believed that speech could shape reality — that kings ruled not only with armies, but with words that stirred the spirit. Yet, through centuries, the world has too often silenced the voices of women, deeming their tone too soft, too emotional, too unworthy of the grand stage of change. Jennifer Hyman’s question arises from this deep cultural wound. She challenges us to imagine the same fire, the same dream, but spoken through a voice that society has trained itself to underestimate. It is a question of perception — and of justice.

Consider the example of Sojourner Truth, who in 1851 stood before a crowd of men and women and asked, “Ain’t I a woman?” Her words were not rehearsed, nor carried by the machinery of fame, yet they struck with the force of revelation. Like Martin Luther King Jr., she spoke of equality, of the sacred worth of every soul — and yet, history did not raise her speech to the same pedestal. The message was just as divine, but the voice that carried it was female, and thus, to the ears of her time, less “authoritative.” Hyman’s question reminds us that this imbalance still echoes, subtly but powerfully, in our world today.

The origin of Hyman’s insight lies not only in reflection on history, but in her own experience as a woman navigating leadership and influence. As co-founder of Rent the Runway, she has stood in rooms where women’s ideas were met with skepticism until repeated by a man — a common phenomenon in boardrooms, politics, and art alike. Her question about MLK’s speech becomes a mirror for all arenas of society: Whose voice do we instinctively revere, and whose do we unconsciously diminish? It is not a question meant to accuse, but to awaken. For what is inspiration, if not the ability to move hearts — and who decides which hearts are worthy to move?

History is not silent on this imbalance. The voices of Cleopatra, Hypatia, Joan of Arc, and Malala Yousafzai have all proven that inspiration is not bound to gender. Yet, as Hyman suggests, the world’s ear has been shaped by habit and prejudice. The roar of a man is heard as leadership; the cry of a woman, as emotion. But emotion, when grounded in truth, is the purest form of strength. To deny the gravitas of the female voice is to deny half of humanity’s wisdom — to live, as it were, with only one ear open to the symphony of the soul.

If we were to imagine a woman standing at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, uttering the words “I have a dream,” would her voice echo differently? Perhaps not in its meaning, but in the world’s reception of it. And yet, as time moves forward, the tides are shifting. The voices of women — from Amanda Gorman’s poetry to Greta Thunberg’s defiance — are reclaiming their space in the great dialogue of history. Hyman’s question is a call to accelerate that transformation, to train our ears anew, so that the next generation no longer measures gravitas by gender, but by truth.

Therefore, let us take her challenge to heart. Let us listen differently — not only with intellect, but with empathy. Let us question the biases that dwell quietly within us, and when we hear a woman speak of justice, vision, or hope, let us hear her not as a novelty, but as an equal prophet of possibility. Teach children that inspiration wears many voices, and that greatness knows no gender.

For the lesson that Jennifer Hyman imparts is not only about speech — it is about perception and power. Inspiration is not born in the pitch of one’s voice, but in the purity of one’s purpose. The next Martin Luther King Jr. may rise in the body of a woman, and when she does, may we have the wisdom to listen — and to hear the dream as clearly as it was first spoken.