By the time the Google Meet grid settled into focus, the day was stretching in three directions. In Japan, it was nearly 1 a.m., and Heather joined from a darkened hotel room, the lights low so as not to wake the family she was traveling with. In Pittsburgh, it was early afternoon, and Ece logged on fresh from her workday. And in Hatay, the girls gathered around their screens just after dinner, ready to begin.
This Be the Voice of Girls session was part of the month’s theme on Digital Art. Ece began by sharing a painting of a young girl curled into a blue armchair. “Is it digital?” she asked. The guesses were immediate—someone mentioned apps, someone else imagined a tablet. But the painting was from 1878, by Mary Cassatt. Traditional, not virtual. The point wasn’t to mislead but to expand the frame: What is art now? And who decides?
Soon they were deep in discussion—about AI-generated images, animation software, and immersive exhibits that blend virtual reality with oil paint. The work of American artist Rachel Rossin, who builds digital sculptures and overlays them with analog textures, offered a starting point for their debate. Which is harder to make? Which is more creative? Which lasts longer? The girls had plenty of thoughts. They took the questions into breakout rooms with Heather and Ece, and returned not with conclusions, but with better questions. That, as always, was the goal.
And then the music began.
The song for the evening was Kelly Clarkson’s Stronger. Before they hit play, they read a note from one of the songwriters who described it as “an empowering song you can dance to, cry to, or sing at the top of your lungs.” And that’s just what they did.
The grammar lesson—comparatives and superlatives—found its rhythm in the lyrics: stronger, happier, braver, more intelligent. “Eddie is fuzzier than any cat,” one girl said, referring to Carl’s loyal German Shepherd. Another chimed in: “I like swimming more than dancing.” Their responses came with ease and a sense of fun, each one a little marker of confidence. Laughter echoed through the call—not because anyone got it wrong, but because they were all, unmistakably, in sync.
Then came the chorus. And the unexpected joy of a free concert.
One girl admitted she was alone at home and could finally sing without holding back. Another confessed she was on public transportation, prompting a wave of good-natured teasing. “A free concert for the whole bus!” someone wrote, followed by a flurry of laughing emojis. The chat lit up with affection—stories of attending sessions with their moms, and even a suggestion that everyone’s mothers should meet and become best friends.
For a moment, the screen became a stage. The voices were real, the joy unfiltered. Across buses and bedrooms, in households filled with watchful mothers or quiet as a secret, the girls sang. Not just in tune, but in community—with each other, with their teachers, and with the idea that their voices, in every sense, mattered.
Later, during a quiet pause, one girl offered a reflection on the line “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” She didn’t quote the lyrics exactly. Instead, she explained how surviving something painful teaches you how to respond next time. How to cope. How to carry the strength forward. Not just survival—but resilience, shaped into something useful.
Because this is more than English class. It’s more than grammar or pop songs or digital art. It’s about voice—not just the one that carries a tune or forms a sentence, but the one that learns how to speak and sing and question and grow. The voice that returns, week after week, a little bolder than before.
