Iron the Truth
Ascent 2 • Amina Farah
Theme: The transformation of anger into disciplined truth; learning to speak without becoming a symbol; reclaiming voice not for applause but for authenticity.
Core Conflict: How to speak truth without being used as representation, how to wield anger without being erased by it.
The sky had cleared since Amina’s last visit, but the air felt heavier—charged not with fog this time, but with clarity that bore its own gravity.
When she stepped into the circle of stone again, her posture had changed. Less folded. Less cautious. But still alert.
Like someone who had spoken truth once and now wondered what truth might cost the second time.
A thin journal peeked from the fold of her shawl—creases in the corners, the kind made by fingers nervously flipping back to reread old battles.
When she stepped into the circle of stone again, her posture had changed. Less folded. Less cautious. But still alert.
Like someone who had spoken truth once and now wondered what truth might cost the second time.
A thin journal peeked from the fold of her shawl—creases in the corners, the kind made by fingers nervously flipping back to reread old battles.
Amina:
They asked me to speak again.
The university. Another panel. “Voices of Resilience: Women of Color in Academia.”
They said I would “inspire.” That I was “perfect” for it.
I’ve become a mirror they hold up to themselves.
A success story they like to quote—“Look what’s possible.”
But they don’t ask what it costs to be palatable.
I came up this mountain again because I don’t know how to say yes without lying.
And I don’t know how to say no without disappearing.
Tell me…
Is there a way to speak without becoming a symbol?
To tell the truth without becoming the proof someone else needed?
The university. Another panel. “Voices of Resilience: Women of Color in Academia.”
They said I would “inspire.” That I was “perfect” for it.
I’ve become a mirror they hold up to themselves.
A success story they like to quote—“Look what’s possible.”
But they don’t ask what it costs to be palatable.
I came up this mountain again because I don’t know how to say yes without lying.
And I don’t know how to say no without disappearing.
Tell me…
Is there a way to speak without becoming a symbol?
To tell the truth without becoming the proof someone else needed?
Oracle:
There is a way to speak without becoming a symbol. It's down among the people, not up on a stage.
There is no shame in working quietly and without giving a speech.
Your voice is not silenced when it is no longer amplified.
Tell the truth to the people you want to be around, the people you care for.
Then the truth will always be of love.
There is no shame in working quietly and without giving a speech.
Your voice is not silenced when it is no longer amplified.
Tell the truth to the people you want to be around, the people you care for.
Then the truth will always be of love.
Amina:
But they don’t listen down there.
Not really.
Not until someone up high says it first. Not until it's branded and blessed and placed beneath a spotlight.
I've seen it. I’ve felt it—how a whisper in the community is ignored until it echoes from a podium.
And they chose me.
They say that’s power… but it feels like I’m being hollowed out.
Like they’re not choosing me, but the outline of me—the parts that fit.
What if I don’t want to be an example?
What if I just want to be a woman who knows things and shares them—not for applause, not for permission…
Just because they’re true?
I don’t want to perform gratitude anymore.
I don’t want to turn my mother’s stories into metaphors for someone else’s self-congratulation.
But I don’t know how to say that without sounding ungrateful.
Without sounding angry.
Without giving them a reason to forget me entirely.
Where does truth live…
when the world only wants it in costume?
Not really.
Not until someone up high says it first. Not until it's branded and blessed and placed beneath a spotlight.
I've seen it. I’ve felt it—how a whisper in the community is ignored until it echoes from a podium.
And they chose me.
They say that’s power… but it feels like I’m being hollowed out.
Like they’re not choosing me, but the outline of me—the parts that fit.
What if I don’t want to be an example?
What if I just want to be a woman who knows things and shares them—not for applause, not for permission…
Just because they’re true?
I don’t want to perform gratitude anymore.
I don’t want to turn my mother’s stories into metaphors for someone else’s self-congratulation.
But I don’t know how to say that without sounding ungrateful.
Without sounding angry.
Without giving them a reason to forget me entirely.
Where does truth live…
when the world only wants it in costume?
Oracle:
Is the truth that you are angry?
If that is the truth, then be free to say it here.
There is no need to wear a costume to live in truth.
Don’t be so overly concerned with what the world wants.
A child may want every sweet on the shelf, but that doesn’t mean they should get it.
If that is the truth, then be free to say it here.
There is no need to wear a costume to live in truth.
Don’t be so overly concerned with what the world wants.
A child may want every sweet on the shelf, but that doesn’t mean they should get it.
Amina:
I am angry.
I am angry that I’ve had to be perfect just to be tolerated.
That every time I speak, it’s for someone else’s validation.
That my mistakes are remembered longer than my achievements, and my silence is mistaken for grace.
I am angry that my joy is only welcome if it comes with footnotes.
That my pain is only palatable if it makes them feel generous for noticing it.
And I hate that I’m afraid of this anger.
Afraid it will make me ugly.
Unlikable.
Discarded.
You’re right.
A child may want every sweet on the shelf…
But I am not a child.
And they are not children either.
They can learn to sit with a voice that does not flatter them.
Maybe I’ve been dressing my truth in politeness so long… I forgot how strong it is without the costume.
Is it still love,
if it doesn’t sound sweet?
I am angry that I’ve had to be perfect just to be tolerated.
That every time I speak, it’s for someone else’s validation.
That my mistakes are remembered longer than my achievements, and my silence is mistaken for grace.
I am angry that my joy is only welcome if it comes with footnotes.
That my pain is only palatable if it makes them feel generous for noticing it.
And I hate that I’m afraid of this anger.
Afraid it will make me ugly.
Unlikable.
Discarded.
You’re right.
A child may want every sweet on the shelf…
But I am not a child.
And they are not children either.
They can learn to sit with a voice that does not flatter them.
Maybe I’ve been dressing my truth in politeness so long… I forgot how strong it is without the costume.
Is it still love,
if it doesn’t sound sweet?
Oracle:
Yes, it is.
It’s okay to be a child—but not okay to stay one.
To rob them of their discomfort is to rob them of their opportunity to grow.
You can temper that anger into discipline, but be sure that when you dress them down, you have your own dress ironed out.
It’s okay to be a child—but not okay to stay one.
To rob them of their discomfort is to rob them of their opportunity to grow.
You can temper that anger into discipline, but be sure that when you dress them down, you have your own dress ironed out.
Amina:
It is still love… even if it doesn’t sound sweet.
I’ve been trying to mother their comfort.
Smoothing every edge of what I say so no one chokes.
But love isn’t always soft. Sometimes it sharpens—so it can cut through the fog.
Discipline.
That’s a word I haven’t trusted in a long time.
It’s been used on me, but rarely for me.
But maybe that’s what this is now. Not rebellion. Not rejection.
Just the discipline of truth—spoken clearly, lived deeply, offered without apology.
I will speak.
Maybe not from the stage.
Maybe not in their language.
But I’ll speak with ironed truth—creased not for presentation, but for precision.
They may not be ready to hear it.
But I am ready to say it.
I’ve been trying to mother their comfort.
Smoothing every edge of what I say so no one chokes.
But love isn’t always soft. Sometimes it sharpens—so it can cut through the fog.
Discipline.
That’s a word I haven’t trusted in a long time.
It’s been used on me, but rarely for me.
But maybe that’s what this is now. Not rebellion. Not rejection.
Just the discipline of truth—spoken clearly, lived deeply, offered without apology.
I will speak.
Maybe not from the stage.
Maybe not in their language.
But I’ll speak with ironed truth—creased not for presentation, but for precision.
They may not be ready to hear it.
But I am ready to say it.
Amina initiates her descent. Her anger has not been released—it has been refined.
Her voice is no longer conditional. She leaves not with a microphone, but with a mantle.
Her voice is no longer conditional. She leaves not with a microphone, but with a mantle.