A white-boy attitude is 'I must exclude, denigrate, and leave

Host: The evening hung over the city like a bruise — that deep indigo hour between light and darkness, when the streets begin to change their rhythm. The air smelled of smoke, gasoline, and the faint trace of something burning far away — maybe a protest fire, or just another barrel of trash lit for warmth.

A train thundered overhead, its iron screech tearing through the sky, rattling the rusted beams of the underpass. Beneath it, Jack and Jeeny stood, their breath visible in the cold, the graffiti around them glowing faintly under a flickering streetlight.

Host: The city was alive, but its heart felt tired. On the brick wall behind them, someone had sprayed: “No one is born hating.” The paint still looked wet.

Jeeny: (Staring at the words) “Donna Brazile once said, ‘A white-boy attitude is “I must exclude, denigrate, and leave behind.” They don’t see it or think about it. It’s a culture.’”

Jack: (He leans against the wall, crossing his arms) “That’s a strong thing to say. And a dangerous one if people hear it wrong.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s only dangerous because it’s true.”

Jack: (His voice drops lower, steady but sharp) “Or maybe it’s because it paints with a brush too wide. You start calling attitudes cultural, and suddenly, everyone’s guilty for being born.”

Jeeny: “You’re missing it, Jack. She wasn’t blaming — she was naming. There’s a difference. Culture isn’t about guilt; it’s about awareness.”

Host: The wind pushed through the underpass, lifting a newspaper into the air, its pages fluttering like the ghost of something once important. The headline spoke of “division,” of “unrest,” of another speech that “went too far.”

Jack: (Watching the paper land) “I get that. But it’s not just white boys, Jeeny. Every culture has its blind spots. Every tribe has its pride. You start saying ‘they,’ and suddenly we stop talking about ‘us.’”

Jeeny: (Steps closer, eyes burning in the dim light) “And yet ‘they’ still benefit from the system built for them, Jack. That’s the part you can’t erase by saying ‘we.’ The point isn’t to accuse — it’s to reveal how invisible comfort looks from the outside.”

Jack: “Invisible comfort? You mean privilege.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind you don’t have to ask for, don’t have to defend. The kind you live in, like air.”

Host: The light above them buzzed, casting half of Jack’s face in shadow. He looked older there — like someone who’d fought too long with his own conscience.

Jack: “So what, I’m part of the problem just for existing?”

Jeeny: (Shakes her head, voice softer) “No. You’re part of the solution if you can see it. But if you refuse to — then yes, you become part of what keeps it breathing.”

Jack: (He exhales, runs a hand through his hair) “You really think people don’t see it? You think we’re all walking around blind to the history that built us?”

Jeeny: “I think seeing isn’t enough. It’s about feeling it. Understanding that every door opened for you might have been closed for someone else. That’s what culture hides — not hatred, but hierarchy.”

Host: A car passed, splattering a puddle near their feet. The water rippled with the reflected light — a distorted halo, broken by movement.

Jack: “You talk about hierarchy like it’s intentional. Most of us are just trying to live, Jeeny. People inherit things they never asked for. You can’t crucify a generation for what it didn’t choose.”

Jeeny: “But you can ask it to choose differently now.”

Host: The rain began to fall, light at first — silver threads across the dark — then heavier, until their voices had to rise against it.

Jeeny: (Her hair damp, her words fierce) “This isn’t about hating anyone, Jack. It’s about naming a sickness that hides behind politeness. The culture Donna spoke of — it’s the quiet permission to ignore others’ pain. The belief that progress is personal, not shared.”

Jack: (His tone sharpens, defensive) “And what do you want? For people to apologize for being born white?”

Jeeny: “No. I want them to recognize that being born white is already an advantage. That pretending otherwise is an insult to everyone who wasn’t. It’s not guilt — it’s accountability.”

Host: The sound of the rain on the metal beams grew louder, echoing like a drumbeat — steady, relentless. The city itself seemed to be listening.

Jack: “You talk about accountability like it’s a cure. But it’s not. It just feeds anger. The more we divide the world into victims and villains, the less room there is for truth.”

Jeeny: “Truth doesn’t live in comfort, Jack. It lives in discomfort — in the moment you realize you’ve been standing on someone else’s back just to stay dry.”

Host: Jack stepped closer, his eyes fierce now, voice roughened by frustration.

Jack: “You think I asked for that? You think I wanted any part of this ‘system’? I grew up poor too. My father worked in factories. We didn’t have some secret ladder built for us. I fought for everything I have.”

Jeeny: (Her voice softens again, almost whispering) “I know. And that’s why it hurts. Because you worked hard — but you still started a few steps ahead. That’s what privilege means, Jack. It doesn’t erase your struggle; it just defines where your struggle begins.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning into a fine mist that hung in the air like breath. Jack looked down, his fists unclenching, the fight inside him quieting into something heavier — thought.

Jack: (Quietly) “So you’re saying culture isn’t what we see. It’s what we ignore.”

Jeeny: (Nods) “Exactly. It’s in the jokes that never get questioned. The fear that looks like instinct. The comfort that feels like normal. Culture isn’t just who we are — it’s who we forget to be.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint echo of rainwater dripping through cracks in the overpass.

Jack: (Finally) “Then how do you fix a culture?”

Jeeny: (Her eyes lifted to the sky, where faint light began to break through the clouds) “By talking like this. By seeing each other — really seeing. By refusing to look away.”

Host: The streetlight above them flickered, then steadied, casting a softer glow across their faces. The graffiti behind them — “No one is born hating” — gleamed faintly, as though illuminated from within.

Jack: (With a small, sad smile) “You always find hope in the hardest places.”

Jeeny: (Smiling back) “That’s the only place it matters.”

Host: The train passed again overhead, its wheels screaming like the voice of history itself — repeating, reminding. Jack and Jeeny stood beneath it, two small figures in the vast hum of the city, faces wet not just from rain, but reflection.

Host: And in that moment, the words of Donna Brazile no longer sounded like accusation, but like a mirror — one that forced the world to look, to see, and perhaps, to finally begin the long work of unlearning what it thought was normal.

Host: The rain stopped. The silence left behind was almost gentle — the kind that feels like the first breath after truth.