Women didn't want to be on the stage with other women because

Host: The theatre lay empty after hours — a cathedral of forgotten voices and lingering lights. The faint buzz of an old neon marquee bled through the windows, its glow trembling across the dusty velvet seats. Onstage, the curtains hung half-drawn, like tired lungs, still breathing the echo of the night’s performance.

A single spotlight, left on by mistake, burned weakly at center stage, casting a pale circle of truth that waited for confession.

Jack stood there, arms folded, his grey eyes sharp beneath the shadows. He wore his skepticism like armor, the way some men wear pride.

Jeeny sat on the edge of the stage, her legs dangling, her hair loose, catching the dim light like black silk. Her voice, when it came, was quiet — but with that trembling strength that always precedes rebellion.

Jeeny: “Kathleen Hanna said, ‘Women didn’t want to be on the stage with other women because they didn’t want their bodies to be compared. They didn’t want another female act opening for them because of this weird competitive and tokenistic attitude.’”

Host: Her words filled the air like a spark catching dust — fragile, but ready to ignite.

Jeeny: “And that… that breaks my heart, Jack. Because the stage should be a place of power, not fear. Of solidarity, not comparison.”

Jack: (grimly) “It’s not just the stage, Jeeny. It’s the world. The system isn’t built for equality — it’s built for spectacle. People don’t look at artists, they look at reflections. Fame turns everyone into mirrors, and mirrors breed insecurity.”

Jeeny: “That’s an excuse, not an explanation. The patriarchy thrives on division — it teaches women that they have to outshine each other just to be seen at all. That’s not nature, that’s design.”

Host: The spotlight flickered, pulsing like a heartbeat in the dark. Dust danced in its glow — tiny, suspended galaxies.

Jack: “Design, maybe. But competition is human. You can’t wish it away with ideology. Men compare themselves too — their power, their success, their scars. It’s not gendered, it’s primal.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Men compete for dominance. Women have been forced to compete for permission.”

Host: Her voice sharpened, but her eyes stayed tender — the kind of tenderness that wounds because it’s honest.

Jeeny: “Think about it. For decades, there could only be one woman in any genre. One queen of pop. One token in the rock band. One woman on the political ticket. That scarcity was artificial. It was manufactured to make us grateful for crumbs and hostile toward each other.”

Jack: “And you think that’s still true?”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. The culture of tokenism doesn’t die; it just gets prettier lighting. Look at the entertainment industry — every woman is still measured against another, but men are measured against themselves. A woman’s body becomes her résumé before her voice even hits the mic.”

Host: The sound of a dripping pipe echoed faintly backstage — rhythmic, like a metronome counting the years of silence women had endured.

Jack: (thoughtful) “You’re not wrong. But envy isn’t only imposed — sometimes it’s embraced. Some artists feed on competition. It gives them drive.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they were never taught cooperation could be stronger. That two women could lift each other higher than one could climb alone.”

Jack: “You’re speaking ideally. Reality’s crueler. Crowds don’t cheer for equality; they cheer for hierarchy. The spotlight isn’t big enough for everyone.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Then the light itself needs to change.”

Host: Her hand brushed the edge of the stage, the faint dust smearing across her palm like memory.

Jeeny: “Do you know what Riot Grrrl was, Jack? It wasn’t just punk. It was rebellion against that very hierarchy — girls making noise together, screaming on the same stage, saying we don’t need to compete to exist. Kathleen Hanna wasn’t bitter. She was heartbroken that even revolution gets filtered through comparison.”

Jack: “You sound like you were there.”

Jeeny: “In spirit, maybe. Every woman who’s ever been told she’s ‘too much’ or ‘not enough’ — she’s part of that chorus.”

Host: The light shifted slightly, catching Jeeny’s eyes, making them gleam with the same defiance that lives in all wounded hearts that refuse to quiet down.

Jack: “But tell me this — if solidarity is the goal, why does competition persist? Even among feminists, there’s division. Even among artists, rivalry.”

Jeeny: “Because healing isn’t linear. We’re still undoing centuries of scarcity thinking. When you’ve been told there’s only one seat for you at the table, even love becomes a contest.”

Jack: “Then what’s the solution?”

Jeeny: “Sisterhood. But not the soft, postcard kind. The raw kind. The kind that forgives and confronts. That says: I see your success, and it doesn’t threaten mine.”

Host: The fire in her words filled the room, the air thick with both pain and promise.

Jack: “You really believe women can erase competition?”

Jeeny: “Not erase. Transform. Turn it into collaboration. That’s the evolution patriarchy fears most — women refusing to see each other as rivals.”

Jack: “You make it sound like unity is rebellion.”

Jeeny: “It is. In a world that profits from division, unity is the loudest kind of revolution.”

Host: The rain outside began to fall harder, drumming against the theatre’s roof like applause from an unseen audience.

Jack: (softly) “You know, there’s a kind of irony here. Men created the stage, but women made it sacred. Yet even now, they’re still told they’re guests on it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And Kathleen Hanna refused to be a guest. She built her own stage. That’s why her words matter — because they’re not about envy, but about evolution.”

Jack: “Still, human nature doesn’t change overnight.”

Jeeny: “Neither did freedom. But we still fight for it.”

Host: Jack stepped forward, into the spotlight. The pale beam caught his features, hard and weary — a man confronting his own complicity in the systems he criticized.

Jack: “Maybe we’ve all been actors in the wrong play. Pretending equality exists while performing inequality.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to rewrite the script.”

Host: She rose, standing beside him in the circle of light — two silhouettes now, no longer opponents but witnesses to the same truth. The light widened slightly, stretching across the stage floor, spilling into the seats, as if the theatre itself were waking from a long, unkind dream.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — women don’t need smaller mirrors. They need bigger rooms. Rooms that don’t force comparison to prove worth.”

Jack: “And men?”

Jeeny: “Men need to stop treating women’s power as an interruption. And start treating it as expansion.”

Host: He looked at her — and for the first time, something like humility flickered across his face. The kind of humility that comes when logic kneels before empathy.

Jack: “Maybe the real revolution isn’t onstage at all.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s in the rehearsal rooms, the dressing rooms, the quiet spaces where women decide they’re done shrinking.”

Host: The rain eased, and for a fleeting moment, the moonlight broke through the clouded skylight above, merging with the spotlight — the natural and the artificial light intertwining, like the merging of strength and grace.

Jack: (quietly) “You make me believe, Jeeny… that maybe competition was never the disease — just the symptom of not being seen.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When everyone’s visible, comparison becomes celebration.”

Host: The stage fell silent. The light above dimmed slowly, fading into a soft golden glow. Their shadows melted together, indistinguishable — the cynic and the believer, the observer and the insurgent — united, if only in that moment, by understanding.

And in that final hush, the old theatre seemed to sigh — the kind of sigh that comes from walls that have heard too many apologies and too few promises.

Outside, the rain stopped completely. The marquee flickered once more, its letters half-lit but legible: NOW SHOWING — EQUALITY.

Host: The world, it seemed, was ready for a new act.