Anger is just not who I am, and I don't think it's what voters in

Host: The city was wrapped in the blue haze of early evening, the kind that makes buildings look tired and beautiful at once. A light drizzle had just begun to fall, dampening the streets and muting the horns of distant traffic. Inside a narrow brick café, the windows fogged with warmth, Jack and Jeeny sat facing each other. Between them, a small candle flickered against the dimness, the flame trembling like an unspoken thought.

Jack’s jacket hung loosely on his chair, his grey eyes narrowed, his voice low and deliberate. Jeeny, her hands folded gently on the table, watched him — calm, present, yet with a quiet intensity in her gaze.

The air was thick — not with anger, but with tension restrained by respect.

Jeeny: “Jon Ossoff once said, ‘Anger is just not who I am, and I don’t think it’s what voters in the 6th district want.’”

Jack: “Yeah. I remember that one. Sounds nice on paper. But let’s be honest, Jeeny — in this world, calm doesn’t win. Anger does.”

Host: Jack’s words cut through the soft jazz playing in the background. The rain tapped harder now, a steady beat on the window, echoing his tone.

Jeeny: “You think anger is strength?”

Jack: “No. I think anger is momentum. Look around. People don’t rally behind politeness — they rally behind passion, fury, the promise of someone willing to fight. Washington runs on outrage. Always has.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the problem. Outrage may start movements, but it can’t sustain them. Respect does. Decency does. That’s what Ossoff meant — that true leadership isn’t about matching the noise, but transcending it.”

Host: A pause. The candle flickered, its shadow stretching across Jack’s hands as he leaned forward, his expression a mix of challenge and curiosity.

Jack: “You’re idealizing it. Politics isn’t about transcendence, it’s about survival. The louder you are, the more they listen. Lincoln — Gandhi — even they knew how to use anger. It’s not about suppressing it, Jeeny. It’s about directing it.”

Jeeny: “Directing it, yes. But not becoming it. There’s a difference.”

Host: Her voice was steady, her brown eyes glowing with a quiet fire. The sound of a passing car splashing through puddles filled the brief silence that followed.

Jack: “You make it sound like anger is some kind of disease. It’s human, Jeeny. You see injustice — you should be angry.”

Jeeny: “Anger is human. But staying angry is poison. There’s a reason Martin Luther King said, ‘Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.’ He was angry, yes, but he didn’t let it define his movement. He turned it into purpose — not vengeance.”

Host: The rain slowed, the jazz softened, and the café seemed to shrink around them, as if the walls themselves were listening.

Jack: “You think voters care about purpose more than power?”

Jeeny: “They care about being seen. And sometimes, being seen means being spoken to with respect, not rage. Ossoff understood that. After years of shouting, he offered quiet.”

Jack: “Quiet doesn’t win headlines.”

Jeeny: “No. But it wins hearts.”

Host: Jack chuckled, a low, almost bitter laugh. He rubbed his temple, as though trying to ease the weight of something deeper than the argument itself.

Jack: “You really think decency can fix Washington? That calm conversation can stand against corruption and deceit?”

Jeeny: “I think decency is the only thing that can. Every empire that’s fallen — Rome, the Soviets, take your pick — collapsed not from lack of anger, but lack of ethics. Anger fuels the fall. Respect rebuilds what’s left.”

Host: Her words hung like smoke, slowly curling upward, sinking into the quiet. Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked out the window, where a couple hurried by, umbrellas tilted, faces hidden.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. But you forget — people aren’t patient. They want results, not reason. You try to talk calmly while the house burns, and they’ll call you weak.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we need more people who would rather rebuild than throw more fire on the flames.”

Host: A clap of thunder rumbled in the distance. The flame between them shivered. The tension in the air shifted — not lighter, but more personal.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s never been betrayed by power.”

Jeeny: “And you talk like someone who’s forgotten that compassion is power.”

Host: Her voice had changed — no longer soft, but edged with conviction. The rain ceased, leaving the sound of their breathing, their heartbeat, the faint buzz of the lightbulb above them.

Jack: “You think compassion would’ve stopped the wars? The corruption? The lies? You think being ‘respectful’ makes a difference to people who thrive on chaos?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because compassion changes the ones who listen — even if it doesn’t change everyone. That’s how revolutions begin — not with the loudest voice, but with the calmest truth.”

Host: The camera might have moved closer then — to Jeeny’s face, her eyes shining, not from tears, but from faith.

Jack: “Faith,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That’s your weapon, isn’t it? You still believe people want good.”

Jeeny: “I don’t just believe it. I’ve seen it. Every time someone forgives instead of retaliates, every time a leader speaks with grace instead of hate — that’s proof. You think anger wins? Maybe in the short run. But kindness outlasts the noise.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed the table again. The sound echoed like a clock ticking — a man counting his doubts.

Jack: “Maybe Ossoff’s right. Maybe voters do want decency. But decency won’t stop the wolves.”

Jeeny: “Then teach the wolves to listen.”

Host: He laughed, but it wasn’t mockery. It was exhaustion, the kind that hides in old wounds. He looked at her, then at the window, where the rain had left trails like veins running down the glass.

Jack: “You always think the world can be reasoned with.”

Jeeny: “Not the world. But the person across the table? Always.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was alive. The rain had stopped completely now, and the air smelled of earth and renewal.

Jack: “You know,” he said quietly, “when I was younger, my father used to yell about everything — politics, bills, the world falling apart. He said anger was the only way to be heard. I swore I’d never be like him. But lately, I catch myself shouting at the news… same tone, same rage.”

Jeeny: “That’s what happens when the noise gets inside you. It makes you forget your own voice.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, his eyes unfocused, the truth of it settling in like a quiet confession.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Ossoff was really saying. That leadership isn’t about echoing people’s anger — it’s about reminding them who they are beneath it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because anger might wake people up, but respect helps them stay awake.”

Host: The light from the street spilled across the table, illuminating the empty cups, the melted candle, and the faces of two people who had stopped arguing and started understanding.

Jack: “Maybe calm isn’t weakness after all.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s discipline. The kind that builds rather than breaks.”

Host: A smile touched the corners of his mouth, faint but genuine. He looked at her, and there was something lighter in his gaze — not surrender, but respect.

Jack: “Then here’s to decency,” he said softly. “The kind that doesn’t make headlines, but maybe… makes history.”

Jeeny: “To decency,” she whispered back, raising her cup.

Host: Outside, the clouds finally parted, and a sliver of moonlight broke through, spilling into the café. It touched the table, the cups, the faces, and for a fleeting moment — everything glowed with quiet dignity.

The rain had stopped.
The world was still.
And in the soft silence, two voices — one fierce, one gentle — had found their common truth:

That anger may win the moment, but only respect wins the soul.