Daniel glanced at her, understanding in his eyes, then looked back at the group. "What about the ones we can't fund, the applications we have to turn down?" "We're creating a secondary program," Janet said. "For applicants who don't receive full scholarships, we're offering stipends, free online lessons from professional musicians, and connections to local music programs. It's not the same as full support, but it's something. And we're building a database," Dr.
Morrison added. Every applicant gets added with their consent. As funding grows, we'll go back through and offer additional spots. Nobody gets forgotten. Daniel looked at Amara.
What do you think? You've been quiet. She took a breath. Make sure they don't have to perform their trauma to get help. No essays about their worst experiences.
No auditions where they have to prove how deserving they are. If a kid says they need support, believe them. Dr. Morrison made a note. That's already in our guidelines, but I'll make sure it's emphasized in all communications.
The meeting continued for another hour. They discussed curriculum options, partnership details, legal protections for underage participants. Amara mostly listened, trying to absorb the fact that all of this, this entire program existed because of one night, one performance, one decision to not back down. When the meeting finally ended, Daniel walked Amara to the elevator. "You okay?" he asked overwhelmed.
"Yeah, I figured." He pressed the button for the lobby. "I have something to show you before you leave, if you have time." "I have time." They rode down to the first floor. The lobby was enormous marble floors, high ceilings, security desk near the entrance. But Daniel led her to a wall near the elevator bank where a large bronze plaque had been mounted. It read, "The Loretta Hayes Music Initiative.
Talent does not choose its birthplace, color, or address. Below the quote was a list of names. The first 200 scholarship recipients, Amara's name was at the top. But what caught her attention was the bottom of the plaque, a smaller inscription, in memory of Loretta Hayes, 1958 to 2022, teacher, mentor, warrior. When they try to silence, you sing three times louder.
Amara's vision blurred. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, trying not to cry in the middle of this corporate lobby. Daniel put a hand on her shoulder. Steady grounding. Your grandmother would have hated all this corporate nonsense, he said quietly.
But she would have loved what it means, what it does. Amara managed a nod. She'd probably also tell you to stop crying and get back to work. Daniel added a hint of humor in his voice. That got a laugh out of her.
Watery, but real. They stood there for a few more minutes looking at the names on the plaque. Each one represented a kid who wouldn't have to sleep on subway benches, who wouldn't have to choose between eating and buying guitar strings, who wouldn't have to prove their humanity before someone would help them. What happens to Voices of America? Amara asked eventually.