Back when we was in school in Mississippi, we had Little Black

Host: The evening rain drifted down over Beale Street, soft, steady, like an old blues song humming through the neon signs. Streetlights flickered on puddles, turning the wet asphalt into a slow, breathing mirror. Inside a dim bar, cigarette smoke coiled in the air like a ghost of forgotten music. Jack sat by the window, his jacket half soaked, eyes sharp and grey beneath the low light. Across from him, Jeeny sat in silence, her hands cupped around a mug of coffee, its steam rising between them like a veil.

Host: A record spun on the old jukebox, a scratchy, crackling voice — B. B. King’s — whispering about love and loss, about truth carved into the bones of sorrow.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what he said, Jack? ‘Back when we was in school in Mississippi... we had Little Black Sambo…’ That’s not just about words. It’s about how language built the walls we still live behind.”

Jack: “I know the quote, Jeeny. But language changes. We’ve moved past that. The world’s not Mississippi in the 1940s anymore. People say ‘Black Friday’ now and think of shopping, not skin color.”

Host: Rain beat harder against the glass, like a quiet drum in the background. Jack’s tone was flat, almost tired, but his eyes stayed fixed on the reflection of himself in the window.

Jeeny: “That’s the thing. We think we’ve moved past it. But we still use those words, still carry the echo. ‘Black’ for bad, ‘white’ for **good’. We grow up breathing it in until we start to believe it without even knowing.”

Jack: “So what? You want us to change every phrase in the dictionary? You can’t rewrite centuries of idioms overnight. Words have history, sure, but they also have momentum. People don’t mean harm by them.”

Jeeny: “Meaning isn’t just intention, Jack. It’s also impact. You can drive a car without meaning to hit someone, but the damage still happens.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, not with anger, but with the weight of memory. The bar’s light flickered; a neon sign sputtered “OPEN” in blue, then faded into a ghostly white.

Jack: “So what, we live our whole lives walking on eggshells because someone might take a word the wrong way? The world’s already fragile enough. People need to stop looking for insults in shadows.”

Jeeny: “You call them shadows because you’ve never had to live in one.”

Host: The sentence hung in the air. Even the jukebox seemed to pause between tracks. Jack’s jaw tightened; his hand gripped the edge of his glass.

Jack: “Don’t do that, Jeeny. Don’t play the guilt card. I’m talking about logic, not identity politics. If we police every word, we’ll end up in a place where no one says anything at all.”

Jeeny: “And if we say nothing, we let the old meanings rot quietly inside us. Silence doesn’t cleanse — it just buries.”

Host: A bus rumbled by outside, its headlights cutting through the mist, scattering light across their faces. For a moment, the bar looked like a church — two souls arguing over a scripture written in skin.

Jack: “You’re making it sound cosmic. It’s just color associations. Humans have always tied ‘light’ with safety and ‘dark’ with danger. It’s instinct, not racism.”

Jeeny: “Instincts can be taught, Jack. Fear can be taught. So can love. We weren’t born fearing the dark — we were taught that what’s dark must be dangerous. We were taught that what’s black must be bad.”

Jack: “And what about history? You think the English language was designed by racists? It evolved naturally.”

Jeeny: “Naturally? You call slavery, colonialism, and segregation natural? You think centuries of one race owning the printing press didn’t shape the ‘natural’ evolution of words?”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes burned now, deep and fierce like embers. Jack looked away, his reflection fractured in the windowpane. Outside, a figure passed under the streetlight, umbrella in hand — a silhouette against the storm.

Jack: “You can’t change people by rewriting adjectives.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can start by unlearning what they mean. By asking why a child in Mississippi grew up thinking their color was a curse.”

Host: Her voice softened. The storm quieted a little, as if the city leaned in to listen. Jack took a slow breath, his hands now resting open on the table.

Jack: “You know, I grew up in Detroit. My neighborhood wasn’t white, wasn’t black. It was just… broke. People didn’t care what color you were — they cared if you could survive the week.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still heard the same words, didn’t you? The same phrases — ‘blackmail,’ ‘blacklist,’ ‘black market.’ It’s the same map, drawn over different streets.”

Jack: “You’re turning words into villains.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m saying villains hide inside words.”

Host: Jack laughed, a short, bitter sound, more like a sigh.

Jack: “You sound like Baldwin.”

Jeeny: “Good. Then I’m in the right company.”

Host: The tension between them was a living thing, like a flame caught in the middle of a room with no air. Jack’s eyes softened for the first time, and he looked at her as though he’d finally seen the wound behind her words.

Jack: “You ever think maybe people use ‘white’ for good and ‘black’ for bad because that’s how the world looks sometimes? Light reveals. Darkness hides. It’s not about people — it’s about physics.”

Jeeny: “But people aren’t physics. They’re symbols. You think a little girl in Mississippi didn’t see herself in those stories? You think when she read ‘Little Black Sambo,’ she didn’t feel the world laughing at her skin? You think she didn’t start to believe she was part of the bad?”

Host: Silence fell. Only the hum of the jukebox remained, like a faint heartbeat echoing through the room.

Jack: “So what’s the solution then? Paint the world gray? Erase both white and black?”

Jeeny: “No. Reclaim them. Let ‘black’ mean something strong, something beautiful, something alive. Let it mean the depth of the universe, the color of fertile soil, the ink of creation. Let white stay bright, but not superior.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s a lifetime of relearning, of catching your own tongue mid-sentence, of choosing to see the world as it is, not as it was written.”

Host: The rain had stopped. The window glistened with tiny droplets, each one holding a fragment of light. Jeeny reached across the table, her fingers brushing against Jack’s.

Jack: “You really believe words can change the world?”

Jeeny: “They already did. That’s how we got here.”

Host: Jack stared at her for a long moment, the cynicism in his eyes thinning into something quieter — perhaps understanding, perhaps regret.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we carry too much of yesterday in the way we speak. But tell me, Jeeny… when do we stop apologizing for history and start living?”

Jeeny: “When we’ve made peace with it. When we stop pretending it doesn’t bleed through our language.”

Host: The bar was nearly empty now. The bartender wiped the counter, humming the last lines of “The Thrill Is Gone.” Outside, the sky began to clear — a pale moon breaking through the clouds, silver on black.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? B. B. King sang about pain like it was a friend. He never tried to erase it. He turned it into music.”

Jack: “So you’re saying… maybe we can do the same with words.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Not erase — transform.”

Host: A long pause. Then Jack nodded, his voice low, like gravel under rain.

Jack: “Maybe it’s time we write new songs.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s time we let black mean beautiful.”

Host: The moonlight spread slowly across the bar floor, silver over the wet tiles. Jack and Jeeny sat in that quiet light, two shadows side by side — not white, not black, but simply human.