Chapter 25 #2
“Now, a Havenport Lifetime Achievement Ceremony is a celebration of those rare individuals whose impact reverberates far beyond the lecture hall. And, I have to tell you, I don’t think there’s a soul on this campus who didn’t see this one coming.
” He lets out a small chuckle and the audience matches it.
“Tonight, we recognize a scholar, a mentor, and a visionary. A woman whose work has challenged every norm, uplifted marginalized voices, and transformed the landscape of feminist thought. This woman is the reason this institution has grown. She has brought scholarships, change, and a bright vision for the future here at Havenport. She’s the reason we’re all here, and I’m lucky enough to call her a dear, dear friend.
” He touches his chest, appearing sincere.
Bile climbs in my throat. “Please join me in welcoming the incredible Dr. Althea Ralston.”
He takes a small step back, peering off to the side of the stage where Ralston appears from behind the curtain. Thunderous applause echoes through the room, an all-encompassing roar in my ears. All around me, people stand and cheer. Shout. Sob. I’m frozen, barely breathing.
I watch Ralston cross the stage, ever so graceful in her violet suit.
Her smile is modest, rehearsed, and perfect.
It’s also cold. Empty. But they can’t see that through their Ralston-colored glasses.
She lifts a hand like a pageant queen, fingers squeezed close together as she waves.
She knows how to own the spotlight without ever looking as if she seeks it.
My stomach twists violently. I’m shaking, half tempted to run from the room, but that will only draw attention to me.
This was a mistake.
I shouldn’t be here.
I can’t watch this.
Dean Carlyle steps back toward the microphone once Ralston reaches his side and continues his speech.
“For over thirty years, Professor Ralston has been a force of intellect and integrity, not just at Havenport, but across the world. Her writing—fearless and unflinching—has forced us all to ask the hard questions, and has generated real, lasting change.”
I close my eyes, drowning in his words. Ralston may have done a lot of good—I’d be a fool to argue that—but does it outweigh the bad? At the end of the day, does it matter who the message belonged to, so long as it gets out?
Who gets to speak? Who gets to be heard?
I posed those questions in class once, meaning to lead the discussion on the topic.
Ralston smiled then—indulgent and dismissive—and chose someone else’s question to direct our conversation for the day.
She pretended not to have heard me, and I wasn’t even certain she had, but then she pulled me aside after class to tell me it was an interesting thought. That she wanted to discuss it further.
After things ended with us, when she cut me off in every way that mattered—dismissed and belittled my research proposal for the senior thesis she’d later take credit for, stopped acknowledging me in class even when I was the only one with my hand raised, and used my words over and over again in her books and speeches without speaking my name for credit or acknowledging it in any way—those questions suddenly felt ominous. Like a warning from my past self.
They were no longer rhetorical.
They were what I desperately needed answers to.
“She has not only advanced the field, she has mentored generations of students—many of whom sit in this very room—who now carry her legacy forward.”
I run my finger across her name on the program, looping and tracing each letter. He speaks of us as if we are, in fact, the beloved heirs she spoke of two days ago in my dorm, and not the shadowy remnants of her eraser marks.
Her legacy.
Then again, I suppose Ralston’s legacy is exactly what we are.
Me.
Jade.
Naya.
Dani.
Hayden.
Professor Bell.
We are the pain she will leave behind.
We are how she should be remembered.
Someday, when Ralston is gone, there will be so many names buried under hers—some mentioned in footnotes, some discarded completely.
All forgotten.
In the end, none of us will shine as brightly as the woman on that stage.
“So, without further ado, please join me in celebrating Professor Ralston, recipient of a well-deserved Lifetime Achievement Award and someone who continues to remind us that the work of equity and inclusion is never finished and never silent.”
The crowd stands again, roaring with cheers, hands above their head. I go unnoticed, still frozen in my seat.
From where I sit, I catch sight of Professor Bell near the front. She’s standing, clapping, a bright smile on her face. My stomach sinks.
No.
Has this all been a trap? Have I been fooled again? Maybe she only wanted to keep me safe and out of the way while the award ceremony went on.
Or maybe Ralston asked her to do it. To lie and to trick me so her dazzling moment in the sun wouldn’t be dimmed by a single shadow. She, of all people, would know how easy it is to fool me.
I just went along with it. I believed her. Again.
Two seats over, a young woman leans across to the girl next to her. “Isn’t she amazing?” she shouts, struggling to be heard above the crowd.
It’s a dagger to my stomach, a ripping of my guts.
I drop the program to the floor as if it’s on fire, unable to hold its weight for even a second longer. She’s a thief, and this is the lie that helps conceal it. A furthering of her power.
Despite the noise I made, none of it mattered. None of it brought her down from her pedestal by even the smallest degree.
Slowly, the crowd begins to take their seats. When they do, I get a full view of Ralston behind the microphone, beaming.
Flashes of light burst around the room. She blinks, waves, points to people she knows in the crowd with laughter. She moves forward on the stage and takes someone’s phone, then turns away from them and snaps a selfie with the entire crowd in the background.
She returns the phone to an overjoyed young woman and then, with that hand in the air just like on the tote bags, she quiets us all and begins to speak.
“I should start by thanking all of you, not only for being here tonight—I never wanted any of this”—she waves off the crystal trophy waiting for her in the center of the stage—“but for being here with me through all the years of my career. You have changed not only my world, but yours, and that will always be the legacy I’m most proud of.
Thank you, Dean Carlyle, for believing in me and trusting me to work in this field that humbles me every single day.
I am not perfect, and I never claimed to be.
I’m learning, I’m growing, and I hope that never stops.
” She puts a hand on her chest and looks down, seeming to need to compose herself.
“It feels a little silly to be getting a Lifetime Achievement Award when I am so far from done, but I’ll take it if it brings new light to the causes that mean everything to me.
And here’s what I’ll promise you. As long as there is a seat for me at this table, I will continue to serve the hard truths and continue to make space for each and every one of you.
A room, a city, a state, a country, a world full of empowered women who control their own lives, their own bodies, their own destinies, and their own futures.
That was our grandmothers’ dream. Our great-grandmothers’.
The women before us who were held back, told what they couldn’t do.
The women stuck at home taking care of their husbands, the ones no one ever asked if that was the life they wanted.
The ones who walked into a room full of men, where society said they weren’t meant to be.
The women who were afraid but did it anyway.
The women who couldn’t speak up, even though they wanted to.
The women who had no choice but dreamed that, someday, a girl who came after her would.
Those women? All I ever wanted was to make them proud.
So, I guess you could say that is my life’s work.
And you all are my greatest achievement. ”
The crowd cheers, predictably, and I can’t help admitting it’s a beautiful speech. She’s fighting for the things that matter to me too.
Whether or not I want to admit it, there will always be a part of me that wonders if the end justifies the means.
But then I remember what I told her back in my dorm. It is possible to get what we want without hurting others—to become successful women without resorting to the same tactics men have used to hold us back for centuries.
The literary heroes who stole their wives’ work and published it as their own.
The husbands who called their wives crazy for daring to think for themselves.
The doctors who diagnosed hysteria when she was simply heartbroken.
The kings who murdered for failing to bear them children.
The fathers who forbade their daughters from learning to read.
The lawmakers who decided what her body could do, whether she could vote, and if she deserved a bank account.
The priests who ignored her bruises and urged her to submit.
The media who insisted there was just something about her they didn’t like.
We have to be better than they were. We have to. Otherwise, what we accomplish means nothing. And our betrayal stings even worse.
I wonder how much of her speech was borrowed. Stolen from some nameless face.
I’m starting to suspect every page she’s ever published was built on someone’s silence. Tonight, these people are here to honor the outline of a woman who never existed.
And here’s the twist. They don’t even care. Not really.
They’ve heard the stories. They know things aren’t adding up. But Ralston gave them a narrative that makes them feel good. All I can give them is the truth. And no one claps for the truth.
The lights flicker, interrupting my thoughts.