As an organizer, I start from where the world is, as it is, not

Host: The night was thick with heat and neon, the kind of urban humidity that sticks to the skin like a second soul. A small diner on the edge of the city, its flickering sign spelling “OPEN 24 HOURS” in tired red light, was nearly empty, except for two figures in the back booth.

Host: Jack sat with his sleeves rolled, tie loosened, a half-empty glass of whiskey beside him. His face was sharp, tired, but alive — the kind of man who’s seen too many systems to still believe in heroes. Across from him, Jeeny, with her long black hair pinned back loosely, stirred her coffee in slow circles, her eyes deep, searching, almost aching.

Host: Outside, sirens wailed, streetlights buzzed, and rain threatened but never came. The city waited — restless, electric, expectant — as if it too was about to argue.

Jeeny: “Saul Alinsky said, ‘As an organizer, I start from where the world is, as it is, not as I would like it to be.’” Her voice was calm, but heavy with thought. “That’s the hardest truth, isn’t it? You can’t change anything until you accept how ugly it is first.”

Jack: He smirked, swirling the whiskey. “You sound like you’ve just discovered realism. Welcome to the real world, Jeeny — where ideals go to die.”

Jeeny: “You mean where people forget they ever had them.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Host: The light from the sign outside pulsed through the window, painting their faces in alternating shades of red and shadow. The air conditioner hummed — a mechanical heart beating in the background.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s exactly what Alinsky meant — you have to work in the system to change it. You don’t abandon the world because it’s imperfect. You face it, wrestle it, bend it.”

Jack: “And the system wins while you’re busy wrestling it. Every reformer ends up part of the machine. You think you’re steering it, but it’s steering you. That’s the tragedy of every revolution that turned bureaucratic — from Lenin to Guevara to our own politicians.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s your answer? Burn it all down?”

Jack: “Maybe. At least then you start clean.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand tensed on her cup, her fingers pale against the porcelain. A train horn echoed from the distance, long and lonely, as if the city itself was warning them.

Jeeny: “You know what happens when you burn everything down, Jack? You get ashes. And ashes don’t build anything. Alinsky organized poor people, workers, communities — not because he loved the system, but because he knew change only comes from within it.”

Jack: “Yeah, and the system loved him for it. It let him have his protests, his pamphlets, his movements — then absorbed them. Capitalism doesn’t fight rebellion anymore. It markets it.”

Jeeny: “That’s not entirely true. Think of the civil rights movement — it started within the law, within the churches, the neighborhoods. Dr. King didn’t reject America; he demanded it live up to its own promise.”

Jack: “And they killed him for it.”

Host: The words fell like stones into the silence. Jeeny’s eyes didn’t flinch — they absorbed the weight. The fluorescent light above them buzzed, flickered, and steadied, as if deciding whether to stay alive.

Jeeny: “You think cynicism makes you strong, Jack. But it’s just despair wearing armor. The moment you believe nothing can change, you’ve already surrendered.”

Jack: “No — I’ve adapted. There’s a difference. You call it surrender because you still think the world plays fair.”

Jeeny: “Not fair — just possible. You’ve seen what people can do when they organize, when they believe. Alinsky wasn’t naïve; he said we start with the world as it is. Not to stay there, but because that’s the only solid ground to push off from.”

Jack: “And if the ground itself is rotten?”

Jeeny: “Then you dig. You dig until you find something real enough to stand on.”

Host: The wind outside rattled the door, a loose sign clanging against its frame like a bell tolling for some forgotten cause.

Jack: “I’ve seen what happens when people try to dig. They get buried instead. You know what working within the system really means? Compromise. Compromise until the cause is unrecognizable. Until justice looks like paperwork and protest looks like branding.”

Jeeny: “And what’s the alternative? Sitting here, complaining about the world while it keeps turning? Change is dirty work, Jack. You don’t stay clean doing it. That’s the point.”

Host: Her words were sharp, but not cruel. They cut, not to wound, but to wake.

Jack: “Dirty work, huh? So you justify corruption by calling it pragmatism?”

Jeeny: “No. I justify effort by calling it human. You want purity? Then stay in theory. The rest of us have to live.”

Host: The rain finally began, soft at first, then strong, drumming against the glass like thousands of restless hearts.

Jeeny: “Do you remember Chicago in ’68? The Democratic Convention? Alinsky was there — not throwing stones, but teaching people how to make power listen. He said, ‘You don’t change the world by cursing it. You change it by organizing it.’ He knew shouting in the streets isn’t enough — someone has to sit at the table and bargain.”

Jack: “Yeah, and while you’re bargaining, they’re counting your concessions. Every time you ‘work within the system,’ you’re just oiling its gears.”

Jeeny: “No. You’re learning how it turns, so you can stop it when it matters.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the street, the neon sign briefly dying, then reviving with a crackle. In that instant, both faces looked older, tired, but alive — two souls wrestling with truth, neither willing to let go.

Jack: “You talk like hope is strategy. But hope gets people killed. The world is ruled by power, not idealism.”

Jeeny: “And yet it’s the idealists who rewrite history. Power without purpose collapses. Rome had power — it still fell. Empires burn; ideas endure.”

Jack: “Maybe. But while you’re writing slogans, someone else is writing laws.”

Jeeny: “Then we learn to write both.”

Host: Jeeny’s tone was steady, her hands unclenched, her voice trembling with something between faith and defiance. Jack looked at her as if she were speaking a language he had once known but had forgotten how to understand.

Jack: “You really think you can change the system from inside? It changes you first.”

Jeeny: “It changes you either way. The only question is — will it break you, or will you bend it?”

Host: The music from the jukebox in the corner faded in, a scratchy blues song about lost battles and second chances. It filled the silence like a confession neither could make.

Jeeny: “You know what Alinsky also said? That the price of a successful attack is a constructive alternative. It’s not enough to tear down; you have to build. That’s the difference between chaos and change.”

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in redemption.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I do. For people. For systems. Even for you.”

Host: The rain softened, the neon light steady now, glowing like a wound healing slowly.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been too hard on the idea of working within the system. But it’s hard to believe in reform when every reformer turns politician.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s our job to keep them honest. To remind them why they started. To remind ourselves.”

Host: Jack sighed, leaned back, his eyes softening, the whiskey glass still warm from his hand.

Jack: “You think it’s still worth it — to try?”

Jeeny: “Always. The world is what it is. But so are we. That’s where change begins — in the stubborn refusal to stop trying.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The rain had stopped. The streets shimmered under the streetlights, slick and alive, like a map redrawn by water and light.

Host: In the reflection on the window, their faces overlapped — one skeptical, one hopeful — and for that brief flicker of time, they were indistinguishable.

Host: Outside, the city breathed. Not as it should be, not as it once was, but simply — as it is. And inside that imperfection, something quietly, stubbornly — changed.