Because society would rather we always wore a pretty face, women

Host: The office was silent, except for the hum of computers and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. Rain pressed gently against the windows, streaking the glass like thin veins of silver. It was nearly midnight — the hour when truth feels bolder than reason.

Jack sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside his laptop. Jeeny stood by the window, arms crossed, her reflection faint in the darkness. Outside, the city looked like a machine exhaling light and loneliness.

Jeeny: “Nancy Friday once said, ‘Because society would rather we always wore a pretty face, women have been trained to cut off anger.’ She was right, Jack. We’ve been told to smile while we bleed.”

Jack: “Maybe. But anger doesn’t fix anything, Jeeny. It burns everything — and in the end, you’re just standing in the ashes, smiling less and crying more.”

Host: The lamp on the desk threw a dim, yellow halo, outlining Jack’s tired features — grey eyes, sharp jaw, the faint shadow of doubt across his face.

Jeeny: “You talk like anger’s poison. But sometimes it’s medicine. Do you know how many women have swallowed their rage just to stay ‘likable’? To keep their jobs, their marriages, their reputations intact? Society didn’t just train us to smile — it trained us to vanish.”

Jack: “And you think anger brings you back?”

Jeeny: “It does. Anger is proof of life. It’s the body saying, No more.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, drumming like a quiet heartbeat. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated Jeeny’s face — calm, but fierce — like a storm learning restraint.

Jack: “Look, I get it. I’ve seen it — women bottling things up, getting dismissed, patronized. But anger’s not the only way to fight. Strategy, composure — that’s how you change minds.”

Jeeny: “You mean play by their rules. Sit quietly, make your case softly, hope they listen.”

Jack: “It’s more effective.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s more comfortable for them. You know what happens when women get angry, Jack? They’re called emotional. Hysterical. Unprofessional. But when men explode — oh, that’s passion. Leadership. Vision.”

Host: The room felt smaller, denser. Jack’s fingers tapped the table rhythmically, a sound like ticking guilt.

Jack: “Not all men think that way.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not all. But enough. You think anger doesn’t change anything? Tell that to Rosa Parks. Tell that to Audre Lorde, who said, ‘Anger is loaded with information and energy.’ Without anger, there’s no revolution — just silence wearing makeup.”

Jack: “And yet, too much anger becomes noise. Look around. Everyone’s shouting. No one’s listening.”

Jeeny: “Because the ones who’ve been silent the longest are finally finding their voices. The noise you hear isn’t chaos — it’s justice clearing its throat.”

Host: The whiskey glass caught a flicker of light, scattering it across the papers on Jack’s desk. He stared into it as if the answers were floating somewhere between the amber and regret.

Jack: “You think anger’s noble, but it consumes people. Look at online movements — outrage everywhere, and half of it’s performative. How do you tell what’s real anymore?”

Jeeny: “Real anger isn’t performative, Jack. It’s transformative. When women finally allow themselves to feel it — really feel it — they stop apologizing for existing. That’s dangerous to a world that profits off their obedience.”

Jack: “Dangerous can also mean destructive.”

Jeeny: “So can silence.”

Host: Her voice shook, but not from fear — from the weight of truth pressing against years of restraint. The rain softened again, as if the sky was listening.

Jeeny: “Do you know what it’s like to be told you’re overreacting when you’re finally reacting? To be told your tone is the problem, not their behavior? Women are trained to smile through harassment, laugh off insults, and still say thank you for crumbs.”

Jack: “I know. I’ve seen it. But tell me — when does anger stop healing and start harming? How do you keep from turning into the very thing you’re fighting?”

Jeeny: “By remembering that anger isn’t about vengeance — it’s about recognition. It’s not to destroy, but to declare: I exist. I deserve to be heard.”

Host: The air felt electric — a fragile truce between thunder and calm. Jack leaned back, his chair creaking, his eyes scanning Jeeny’s face as if reading a text written in flame.

Jack: “You know… when I was younger, my mother worked in an office. She never raised her voice. Always smiled. Her boss took credit for everything she did. I asked her once why she never called him out. She said, ‘Because women who do don’t last here.’”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly it. She learned to cut off anger — to survive. But survival shouldn’t demand silence.”

Jack: “Maybe she thought silence was power — the kind that waits and endures.”

Jeeny: “Endurance is not the same as freedom, Jack. Endurance just means you’re still in the cage.”

Host: A long pause. The clock ticked, steady and cruel. Outside, the rain eased into a soft mist, and a neon sign across the street flickered, throwing faint light over Jeeny’s eyes.

Jack: “So what do we do then? Teach every woman to rage?”

Jeeny: “Teach her not to fear it. To know that anger isn’t ugliness — it’s honesty. The world calls it unladylike because it’s afraid of what women might say when they finally stop being polite.”

Jack: “Maybe what they’ll say is the truth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And truth — real truth — is always loud before it becomes understood.”

Host: The office clock struck twelve. Somewhere outside, a car horn echoed — distant, lonely, like an afterthought of civilization. Jack poured another drink, but this time his hands trembled slightly.

Jack: “You know… I used to think anger made people weak. But maybe it’s just uncomfortable — for those of us who’ve never had to silence it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beginning of understanding. Anger isn’t about dominance; it’s about reclaiming dignity.”

Jack: “And what happens when the world still refuses to listen?”

Jeeny: “Then we stop asking for permission to speak.”

Host: Her words fell like stones into a deep well, rippling through the still air. Jack looked at her — not arguing now, just listening. Something in his expression — a flicker of guilt, or perhaps respect — softened the steel of his skepticism.

Jack: “Maybe society doesn’t fear women’s anger because it’s violent. Maybe it fears it because it’s justified.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because a woman’s anger is memory with a pulse.”

Host: The lamp flickered, as if agreeing. The rain outside had stopped entirely, leaving behind only the faint reflection of light on wet asphalt — a quiet afterglow of confrontation.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… you’re right. Maybe the world would be a little less broken if women stopped pretending it isn’t.”

Jeeny: “It’s already happening, Jack. One voice at a time. Anger isn’t the end — it’s the spark before the dawn.”

Host: And then, silence — the good kind. The kind that doesn’t come from suppression, but from understanding.

Outside, the city was still, like it too had been holding its breath. The first light of morning began to crawl across the skyline, soft and tender, painting the wet streets in hues of silver and gold.

Jeeny reached for her coat, her face calm now — the calm of someone who had spoken and would not be silenced again.

Jack looked up, his voice low but certain.

Jack: “You know… maybe anger is just love that’s finally stopped pretending.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Love — that remembers its worth.”

Host: They stood there, two silhouettes against the dawn, as the light slowly filled the room — not the harsh light of exposure, but the gentle kind that makes even wounds look like beginnings.

The world outside began to wake, but inside, something else had already been born — the quiet, fierce beauty of a woman no longer afraid to be angry.