Civil rights is unfinished business. Make it your business.

Host: The evening settled over the city like a slow heartbeat. The sky above was a bruised violet, still carrying the warmth of a setting sun, yet heavy with the weight of what hadn’t changed. Down on Maple Street, beneath a flickering lamppost, the glow of a small community center pulsed like a beacon — its doors open, its air alive with voices and conviction.

Inside, the room was filled with folding chairs, paper cups of coffee, and people whose eyes carried both weariness and fire. On one side of the room hung an old banner, its edges yellowed, the words hand-painted in fading red: “Civil Rights — Not Yesterday, But Now.”

Jack stood near the back, his jacket still damp from the drizzle outside, his face thoughtful, skeptical. Across the room, Jeeny was speaking to a small group gathered around her. Her voice — soft but certain — carried over the hum of the crowd like a melody of quiet urgency.

Behind her, someone had written in chalk across the blackboard:

“Civil rights is unfinished business. Make it your business.”
— Marcia Fudge

Jack read it once, then again, his jaw tightening slightly.

Jack: “You ever get tired of unfinished business, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Only when people stop believing it can be finished.”

Host: The room began to clear as the meeting ended, chairs scraping softly across the old wooden floor. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, flickering between exhaustion and persistence. Jeeny walked toward Jack, her steps slow, measured.

Jeeny: “You didn’t say a word tonight.”

Jack: “Didn’t have one worth saying.”

Jeeny: “You always have something to say — usually too much.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, maybe it’s better to listen when history’s talking.”

Host: She smiled — not amusement, but understanding. The kind of smile that carries the echo of a thousand unfinished fights.

Jeeny: “Marcia Fudge said it like a command, didn’t she? Make it your business. Not someone else’s. Yours.”

Jack: “It’s easy to say from a podium.”

Jeeny: “And harder to live in the streets.”

Jack: “That’s what I mean. Everyone wants change until it costs them comfort.”

Jeeny: “Then comfort becomes the enemy.”

Host: The wind outside rattled the windows. A stray flyer lifted from the table — a photograph of young marchers holding hands, their faces a mix of fear and defiance. Jeeny caught it midair and smoothed it gently against the table.

Jeeny: “You know what I think she meant? That civil rights isn’t an era. It’s a mirror. Every generation has to face what’s still staring back.”

Jack: “You’re saying it never ends.”

Jeeny: “It evolves. It demands. And every time we think we’re done, it asks — ‘What about this injustice? What about this silence?’”

Host: Jack crossed his arms, his gaze steady, but his tone edged with fatigue.

Jack: “Sometimes I think people are just tired. They’ve marched, shouted, voted. And still, we’re having the same conversations.”

Jeeny: “Then talk louder. March again. Vote smarter. Tired doesn’t mean done.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. The alternative is despair, and despair never built a better world.”

Host: The last few attendees shuffled out, leaving the echo of footsteps and the faint hum of rain on the roof. Jeeny walked to the chalkboard, reading the quote again — tracing each word with her fingertip as though committing it to her bones.

Jeeny: “Civil rights is unfinished business. That’s not discouragement — that’s truth. It’s a reminder that freedom isn’t a gift, it’s maintenance. You’ve got to keep fixing it.”

Jack: “And who decides when it’s fixed?”

Jeeny: “The ones still excluded.”

Jack: “That’s a long list.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened slightly. He picked up one of the empty paper cups, crumpling it slowly.

Jack: “You know, I used to think change came from leaders — the speeches, the headlines. But it’s smaller, isn’t it? It’s in moments like this. People like you.”

Jeeny: “People like us. Don’t you dare excuse yourself from this.”

Jack: “You think I belong in the fight?”

Jeeny: “Everyone does. The minute you think civil rights isn’t your business, you become part of the problem it’s trying to fix.”

Host: Her tone sharpened — not with anger, but with clarity. She stepped closer, her eyes locked on his.

Jeeny: “Jack, you don’t need to carry a sign or give a speech. But you have to care. You have to see. The fight’s not about noise — it’s about presence.”

Jack: “Presence?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Showing up. Again and again, even when you’re tired, even when you’re disillusioned, even when the world tells you it’s someone else’s turn. That’s what makes it your business.”

Host: Jack looked down, the silence between them filled with weight and understanding. The flickering light above hummed like an old conscience refusing to fade.

Jack: “You ever think it’ll end?”

Jeeny: “It’s not supposed to. Equality isn’t a finish line — it’s a practice. Every generation inherits the fight, and the only sin is pretending we don’t.”

Jack: “So what happens if people stop caring?”

Jeeny: “Then history starts over. And the same battles get refought under new hashtags.”

Host: The wind outside swelled, carrying the distant sound of sirens, of life still uneven, of progress still incomplete.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Every time someone says ‘unfinished business,’ they’re really saying, ‘unfinished humanity.’ We keep patching the same wound because we won’t heal what causes it.”

Jack: “Fear.”

Jeeny: “And power. Fear of losing it, fear of sharing it. But Marcia’s right — civil rights isn’t someone else’s story. It’s a mirror of who we are.”

Jack: “Then maybe the real revolution starts with how we see.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Vision before victory.”

Host: She smiled again — small, tired, but radiant in its sincerity.

Jeeny: “Make it your business, Jack. Not because it’s your responsibility — because it’s your chance to prove you’re still human.”

Jack: “And if humanity keeps failing the test?”

Jeeny: “Then we keep rewriting the answer.”

Host: The two stood there as the lights flickered once more. The blackboard glowed faintly under the last fluorescent hum — the white chalk letters of unfinished business now smudged by touch, blurred by persistence.

Jeeny gathered her coat and opened the door. The night outside was still wet, but in the distance, the streetlights burned — defiant, unyielding.

Jack lingered by the quote one last time, reading it under his breath.

Jack: “Make it your business…”

Host: The words felt heavier now — not as a slogan, but as an inheritance.

He stepped out into the rain, his reflection merging with the city’s — and for a brief, flickering moment, it was impossible to tell whether the water falling from the sky was rain or redemption.

And as the camera of conscience drew back, Marcia Fudge’s call lingered in the air — not as rhetoric, but as a demand, timeless and personal:

that justice cannot retire,
that freedom is not self-sustaining,
and that the only way to honor those who built the bridge
is to keep walking across it,
one step,
one heart,
one unfinished promise
at a time.