Anger can be a useful emotion; it's built into our genetic code

Host: The sky over the city was a bruised grey, heavy with rain that refused to fall. The streetlights hummed faintly, halos trembling in the mist. Inside a small, nearly empty subway station café, the air buzzed with the smell of burnt espresso and the low murmur of tired voices. The walls were tiled white but aged to the color of old teeth, and the clock above the counter ticked like a pulse that had seen too much waiting.

Jack sat at the far end of the counter, hands wrapped around a chipped mug, his jaw tense, his eyes distant. Across from him, Jeeny sat with her back to the window, the faint reflection of her face blending with the night outside. Between them, a folded newspaper bore the quote — a single paragraph underlined in blue:

"Anger can be a useful emotion; it's built into our genetic code to help with self-preservation. But it can also be destructive, even when it is justified." — Michael Hayden.

Jeeny tapped the paper lightly, her fingernails making small, deliberate sounds against the surface.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Anger is the most honest emotion we have. It’s like fire — dangerous, yes, but it’s also what keeps us from freezing.”

Jack: “Fire burns the house down too.”

Jeeny: “Only if you let it. Or if you never learned to hold it properly.”

Host: The light flickered above them, washing their faces in alternating warmth and shadow. Outside, the rain began to fall in hesitant drops, tapping against the glass like soft applause.

Jack: “You talk about anger like it’s noble. But it’s not. It’s animal. It’s the thing that makes people hit, destroy, regret.”

Jeeny: “And it’s the thing that makes people stand up. Without it, nothing would ever change. Every protest, every revolution, every act of defiance began with anger.”

Jack: “So did every war.”

Host: The sound of the rain deepened, steady now, rhythmic. A few commuters shuffled past the window, their umbrellas glowing under the streetlight like paper moons.

Jeeny: “But war isn’t born from anger alone. It’s born from the refusal to listen to it properly. Anger asks for justice. Ego demands revenge.”

Jack leaned back, his eyes narrowing, his voice low.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But anger isn’t that clean. It’s messy. It feeds on itself. It doesn’t care about justice — only about winning.”

Jeeny: “That’s what happens when you suppress it for too long. It festers, mutates. People who never learned to express it end up drowning in it. You can’t cure what you refuse to face.”

Host: A train roared past below the café floor, the vibrations rattling the glasses on the counter. For a moment, their voices disappeared under the thunder of iron and electricity — then returned, quieter, rawer.

Jack: “You’re talking theory. I’ve seen what anger does. My father used to come home drunk, furious at the world. The kind of fury that doesn’t fade — it rots. He said it was the only thing that kept him alive after he lost his job. It kept him alive, alright. Until it didn’t.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the tragedy, Jack. Not that he was angry — but that no one taught him how to use it.”

Jack: “You can’t use poison.”

Jeeny: “You can, if you understand it. Antidotes are made from venom too.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long time, his expression unreadable. The rain had thickened now, blurring the city lights into a single trembling glow. The hum of the station below rose and fell like breath.

Jack: “So what — you think anger is necessary?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s sacred. It’s a signal that something’s wrong. That something needs to change. Even Hayden said it — it’s wired into us for survival. The problem isn’t anger itself. It’s how we handle it.”

Jack: “Tell that to the mob that stormed the Capitol. Or to the man who screams at a waiter because his soup’s cold. You think they’re practicing sacred emotion?”

Jeeny: “No. They’re misusing it. They’re confusing self-expression with self-destruction.”

Host: The barista, a thin man with tired eyes, passed by and refilled their mugs without a word. The smell of fresh coffee filled the space — dark, sharp, grounding.

Jeeny: “Think about Martin Luther King Jr. He was angry — deeply angry — but his anger was disciplined. It became direction. That’s the difference. Destructive anger says, ‘I want you to hurt.’ Constructive anger says, ‘This must stop.’”

Jack: “That’s idealism. Most people don’t have that kind of control.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t learn. Anger is just energy — and like any energy, it can build or destroy depending on who holds it.”

Jack: “Then why does destruction always come easier?”

Jeeny: “Because pain is heavy, and healing requires strength. Anyone can break a window. Not everyone can build a door.”

Host: The rain turned to a downpour now, drumming hard against the window. The lights in the café flickered once, and for a heartbeat, their faces were illuminated only by the glow of the street outside.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve mastered it.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m still learning. There was a time I carried anger like a second skin. My brother’s accident… I blamed everyone. The driver, the system, myself. For years, I thought if I just stayed furious, he wouldn’t be gone. But it didn’t bring him back. It just kept me from living.”

Jack’s eyes softened. His voice came out quieter than before.

Jack: “So what changed?”

Jeeny: “I realized I didn’t have to let go of anger — I just had to stop letting it steer.”

Host: The room fell into a rare stillness. Even the rain seemed to pause, hanging in the air like suspended glass. Jack set his mug down slowly, the porcelain clicking against the counter.

Jack: “You know… I used to think anger was strength. That if you shouted loud enough, fought hard enough, no one could hurt you. But lately, I think it’s the opposite. Anger’s a mask for fear.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Hayden meant — self-preservation. It’s our first armor. But when you never take it off, it becomes a prison.”

Jack: “So what — we’re supposed to just forgive everything?”

Jeeny: “No. We’re supposed to feel everything — then decide what’s worth holding.”

Host: The clock above them ticked louder now, like a heartbeat returning to rhythm. The barista switched the lights off above the counter, leaving only the glow of the street filtering through the rain.

Jack sighed, the weight of old memories flickering across his face.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I miss the clarity anger gave me. When you’re angry, everything feels simple. You know exactly who the enemy is.”

Jeeny: “Until you realize it’s you.”

Host: Her words hung there — sharp but tender. Jack’s gaze met hers across the small table, and something unspoken passed between them — recognition, perhaps, or forgiveness, or just the quiet relief of being understood.

The rain softened again, its rhythm slowing to a murmur.

Jack: “So what do we do with it, then? This anger we all carry.”

Jeeny: “We listen to it. Then we let it teach us. It’s not there to destroy — it’s there to awaken.”

Host: Outside, the first break in the clouds appeared — a sliver of pale moonlight cutting through the mist, laying silver lines across the wet pavement.

Jack smiled faintly, the first real one of the night.

Jack: “Maybe anger’s not the enemy after all.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s just the beginning of understanding.”

Host: The camera would linger there — the dim café, the two cups of coffee cooling between them, the night half-dissolving into quiet peace. The world outside shimmered — raw, imperfect, still human.

And perhaps that was the truth Michael Hayden saw too:
That anger, like fire, was never meant to be extinguished — only learned.

Because in the fragile dance between fury and forgiveness,
we find the strength to protect, the courage to change,
and the grace to begin again.