“Hi everyone,” she started, wincing at how unsteady she sounded. “I wanted to thank you all so much for being here tonight.” She paused, letting her heartbeat settle. “I don’t have a speech planned. There’s no agenda. No formal mission statement. I’m not here to sell you anything. And that’s what I want to emphasize, this isn’t a pitch. But I’ve noticed that there’s something missing for some of us.”
She paused again, letting her voice settle, realizing that the room was dead silent. One could hear a pin drop, every eye on her. It was a lie, for she had written and rewritten this speech a hundred times, practicing it in the car on her way to and from work.
“I think that for some of us, not necessarily all of us, but for a lot of us at least, we don’t quite fit into the spaces we’ve been told areforus. Too many of the places that claim to be a community require costumes.” She swallowed, feeling emotion rising within her as she continued. “And that scares me. It scares the shit out of me. And it’sreallyfucking hard to think that I’m still going to feel like I have no community in eighty years. All of us in this room are going to be around for a long, long time, and I’m terrified for us. Because if we don’t fit into the communities for our kind that already exist, what do we do? Where can we go? What will be left forus, whenwe’rewhat’s left?”
A ripple moved through the crowd, a low murmur of assent. Dynah was nodding so hard, her head was in danger of popping off and rolling across the floor, her wide blue eyes full of unshed tears.
“If you don’t fit a certain mold, you become invisible. And when you’re made invisible, you’re on your own. Your community disappears. I’ve watched too many friends rip themselves into pieces to conform to that. Therehasto be a better way. But . . . if there are enough of us who feel invisible, we can make our own community. All of us here, we’ve got a lot of road still ahead. So I just want to thank everyone for joining us tonight. You can introduce yourselves, or not. There’s no gold star for participation.”
Another ripple of laughter, elastic, lasting until she continued.
“And like, full disclosure, I havenoidea what I’m doing. I just know that this is important. And I hope we can build it together.”
Several of the women in attendance clapped, and another burst of laughter rolled through the room. And then, completely on their own, the introductions started.
“I’ve lived here for two decades, and I still feel like I don’t know anyone.”
“I work remotely, and I talk to my cats and plantswaytoo much. It’s really hard to make friends after forty. I can’t imagine how hard it will be at a hundred.”
“I just moved back into town, and the thought of joining the club here stresses me out too much. I went to one lunch and it was the most anxious day of my life.”
“I grew up in an enclave,” Lurielle piped up, gratefully accepting the tissues that were passed to her, dabbing her eyes. “And it destroyed my self-esteem. It took alotof therapy to undo the damage, and I’m still a work in progress. I’m super low contact with my parents, I’ve been on maternity leave for most of the year, and I can count my friends on one hand. My husband is an orc, and I’ve been crying over the future pretty much nonstop for the last few years. I’mterrifiedof what’s ahead.”
“I’ve lived in Cambric Creek my whole life,” the dryad announced. “And I’m already probably a lot older than most of you in this room. I’ve always had a lot of friends. Friends that I love. But having to say goodbye to people you love over and over again . . . it breaks off a little part of you each time. And I’m never going to trade out those relationships, but . . . well, as you said, we have a lot of road. I can’t tell you how excited I was to see this pop up on the community roster. It’s overdue.”
“I’ve lived in Cambric Creek since college,” began an athletic-looking sylvan. “And we love it here. My husband and I have a little boy, and I truly feel like I’m living my dream life. But my husband is also a different species, and thinking about the future has begun to weigh on me. A lot.”
“I lived in Cambric Creek for years,” Ris offered. “My boyfriend and I live in the city now, but I still consider this home. And we also have a differing species lifespan dynamic.”
The murmur that went through the crowd was like a small wave, and she realized just how many of them were likely in the same situation.Dip your toes in the waters of experience.
“I don’t have a significant other from a different species,” Dynah offered, her nervous laugh making an appearance as her voice wavered, accepting the tissues from Lurielle. “I don’t have . . . anyone, really. I also grew up in an enclave, but I wasn’t offered membership when I moved here for work. And I’m so afraid of being alone.”
The conversation loosened after that. A few of the women talked about feeling isolated through motherhood. Others mentioned similar worries over the future, of being alone.
“So is the goal for this to be ongoing?” the naiad asked. “What will the structure be? Like, do we need a volunteer board?”
Instantly, voices piped up. “I’d help.”
“Me too.”
“Will it always be scheduled for the evenings?”
“I’m hoping we can figure that out together,” Ris answered honestly.
“Can I ask if you’ve thought through what this will look like, ten years down the road?” The dryad again, leaning forward, chin on her knuckles, her eyes sharp and intent.
Ris swallowed. “I’ll be honest, I haven’t thought of anything. I haven’t thought of anything but this,” she waved her hand at the board, “pretty endlessly for the past few years. The first event I tried to organize fizzled. Tonight is me reaching out, wishing on a star. I’m an HR manager, and I don’t have a background in community organizing or nonprofit management. I fully admit I might not be the best person to lead this.”
“Well, right now I disagree,” the dryad said bluntly. “Because I’ve been thinking of it for a hell of a lot longer than you, and I haven’t done anything. But if we’re talking future planning, I have alotof thoughts. What we need is a house.”
The murmur that rippled through the room had a different tenor now. Ris gulped.You can barely get anyone to go for coffee. “A house . . .”
Just saying it out loud put the image in her head — a big, rambling country house, modified for their needs. A dining room, a nursery. Classrooms, a space for workshops, a room for socialization. Something sharper, the edge of a larger possibility looming over them, casting a shadow on the community center tables.
“The community center is perfect right now,” the dryad clarified. “It’s free. It’s central. It’s open throughout the day and evening. Again, I’ve been thinking about this for alongtime. But you’re the one who did it, so all the kudos to you for being brave enough to take the step for all of us. The thing about community, though . . . it takes a village.”
“Everyone wants a village until they have to be a villager,” she echoed Ainsley. “I agree. One person can’t do it all.”
