Leo shut down his computer and stood up.
The hunger was still there, but it had been suppressed by sothing more powerful.
A clear sense of purpose.
He walked out of his apartnt building and headed toward the community center that was about to be auctioned off.
The scene on the street was exactly as it had been when he walked by earlier, filled with decay and depression.
But now, in his eyes, this was no longer an unchangeable reality, but a battlefield to be won.
He stood at the entrance of the Steel Worker Community Center.
It was a three-story, red-brick building, its style rough and unadorned, just like the steel workers who had built it.
On the front wall of the building, the tal emblem of the old Steel Workers’ Union was still visible. Though covered in rust, the arm tightly gripping a hamr still radiated strength.
He pushed open the heavy wooden doors and went inside.
The walls of the main hall were covered with black-and-white photographs.
The photos depicted the golden age of Pittsburgh’s steel industry: scenes of n working before blast furnaces, scenes of the Union organizing parades, and scenes of community residents holding picnics together.
These pictures told the story of a forgotten history.
The hall was quiet, save for the sound of children’s laughter from one room and the intermittent clacking of a typewriter from another.
An elderly woman with graying hair sat behind the front desk, sorting through a pile of docunts.
She wore a pair of reading glasses and a faded sweater, her expression focused.
Seeing Leo enter, she looked up and sized him up with a scrutinizing gaze.
"Can I help you with sothing, young man?"
"My na is Leo Wallace," Leo began. "I saw the announcent on the city governnt’s website about this place being auctioned."
The old woman’s eyes imdiately beca wary.
"Are you a reporter?"
"No."
"Sent by the city?"
"No, not that either."
"Then who are you? A real estate speculator looking to pick up a bargain?" Her tone sharpened.
"None of the above," said Leo. "I live in this community. I just wanted to understand the situation and see if there’s anything I can do to help."
The old woman narrowed her eyes, continuing to study him, as if trying to judge the truth in his words.
"My na is Margaret Davies," she said. "I’m the director of this center. There’s nothing to help with here, unless you can pull fifty thousand US Dollars in property taxes out of a hat within a week."
After speaking, she lowered her head and returned to her docunts, clearly having no intention of saying another word to Leo.
’Don’t be so quick to say what you can do,’ Roosevelt’s voice rang out. ’Rember what I told you. First, listen. Listen to their stories, and feel their anger and helplessness.’
Leo didn’t leave.
He sat down on a worn-out sofa in the hall.
Margaret ignored him.
After a while, a few elderly people, around the sa age as Margaret, ca out of an activity room.
They were holding hand-knitted sweaters and handicrafts, having clearly just finished a senior activity group.
Seeing the unfamiliar face of Leo, they all cast curious glances his way.
One of them, a tall elderly man, walked up to Leo.
"Whose kid are you?" he asked. His hands were covered in calluses and scars, the permanent marks left by the steel mill.
"My na is Leo Wallace," Leo said, standing up. "My father used to work at the Hostead Factory."
Hearing "Hostead Factory," the expressions of the elderly people imdiately ward.
The tall old man said, "I’m George. What are you doing here?"
"I saw the auction announcent," Leo repeated.
George sighed, the wrinkles on his face deepening.
"Yeah, they want to snatch away this last little place we have."
"They?"
"The Mayor and his rich friends," another old man interjected. "They’ve had their eyes on this piece of land for a long ti. They think us paupers are an eyesore."
And so, Leo began to chat with these old folks.
He spent the entire afternoon sitting on that sofa, just listening.
He listened to George talk about how the community center had provided him with free computer training after he lost his job, allowing him to learn how to use the internet and video chat with his grandson in another state.
He listened to an elderly woman nad Rosa talk about how, after her husband passed away, the daycare services here had saved her from loneliness and helped her find new friends.
He listened to a retired electrician nad Mike talk about how he ca here every week to repair appliances for the community’s elderly for free, because it made him feel like he was still a useful person.
Every single one of them saw this place as their ho.
They spoke of what the center ant to them, of their worries for the future, and of their anger toward the city governnt and that real estate company.
Leo didn’t interrupt, nor did he offer any suggestions. He just listened intently, committing every story, every detail they shared, to mory.
「Night fell.」
The lights in the community center’s main hall flickered on.
More and more residents arrived from all directions.
Most of them were elderly people like George and Rosa, the forgotten half of the city.
Tonight, a mobilization eting was to be held before a protest.
Margaret Davies stood in the center of the hall, using a gaphone to explain the situation to the dozens of residents who had gathered.
Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was filled with strength and determination.
She told everyone that they had contacted a local TV station and were preparing to hold a peaceful demonstration in front of City Hall before the auction began next week.
She encouraged everyone not to give up, to fight for their ho until the very last mont.
The atmosphere of the eting was sowhat heavy. Although everyone was angry, there was a greater sense of powerlessness.
They all knew that in the face of the city governnt and a powerful real estate company, their ager strength was like a mantis trying to stop a chariot.
At the end of the eting, Margaret saw Leo still sitting in the corner.
She hesitated for a mont, then raised the gaphone and spoke to Leo.
"You, the young man over there. You’ve been listening all afternoon. Is there anything you’d like to say to everyone?"
All eyes focused on Leo.
Leo felt his heart begin to pound.
This was the first ti he would have to give a speech to a real crowd, instead of tapping on a keyboard from behind a screen.
He stood up, his legs feeling a little weak.
’Relax, kid,’ Roosevelt’s voice echoed in his mind. ’You don’t need to be an orator. You just need to be their voice.’
’Retell the stories you heard this afternoon in your own words. Then use your knowledge to show them that this fight is not hopeless.’
Leo took a deep breath and walked to the center of the hall.
He didn’t take the gaphone.
He cleared his throat and began his first-ever speech.
"Good evening, everyone. My na is Leo Wallace."
"This afternoon, I was here and I heard Mr. George’s story, I heard Lady Rosa’s story, and I also heard Mr. Mike’s story."
He retold the stories he had heard in the simplest of terms.
He spoke of the computer training, the daycare services, and the free appliance repairs.
The residents in the hall listened quietly, their expressions slowly changing from initial curiosity to understanding and resonance.
Because Leo was talking about their own lives.
"These stories tell one thing," Leo continued. "This place is a ho. It’s a ho that the people of this community built for themselves after the steel factories shut down."
"But now, soone wants to tear down our ho. They say it’s because we owe taxes."
His tone shifted, becoming sharp.
"As a student of history and law, I also looked up the relevant city regulations this afternoon. Our community center, as a non-profit organization, is fully qualified to apply for a property tax exemption. Why has Lady Margaret’s application been repeatedly rejected by the Mayor’s Office?"
"I also found out that the Peak Developnt Group, which is preparing to buy this land, is Mayor Carter Wright’s biggest campaign donor. Why is there only one bidder for this auction? Does that conform to the procedural justice of a public auction?"
The questions he raised left everyone in the room stunned.
They only knew anger; it had never occurred to them that there might be illegal dealings behind all this.
Leo’s voice, at this mont, grew louder and more impassioned.
Roosevelt’s voice, in his mind, provided him with the most powerful concluding line.
"They don’t just want to tear down an old building!"
"They want to tear down the mories accumulated by generations of this community! They want to tear down the mutual support we built in hard tis, and they want to tear down our final dignity as laborers!"
"They want to use cold steel and concrete to completely bury the history of us, the steel workers of Pittsburgh!"
The speech ended.
The entire hall was silent for a few seconds.
Then, applause erupted like a tidal wave.
It wasn’t polite applause. It was heartfelt, fervent, and filled with hope.
The elderly Margaret Davies made her way through the crowd and stood before Leo.
She looked into Leo’s eyes, her gaze having transford from initial suspicion and wariness to trust and expectation.
She gripped Leo’s hand tightly.
"Kid, we’re all just a bunch of old bones. We only know how to shout slogans. We don’t know how to deal with those people in suits."
"We need a leader who understands the law and knows how to talk. Are you willing to help us?"
She didn’t wait for Leo’s answer, but pulled an envelope from her pocket and pressed it into his hand.
"We all pitched in so money. It’s not much, but it’s all we could co up with. We want to formally hire you as the legal advisor for our protest."
"This is your first paynt."
Leo looked down and saw that the sowhat worn envelope contained dozens of scattered one, five, and ten-dollar bills.
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