Every progressive movement has been built on the anger, needs

Host: The night hung over the city like a curtain of smoke — restless, electric, waiting to break. Down in the industrial district, where the old warehouses still breathed the air of labor and oil, a small union hall flickered with life. Inside, the air was thick with voices, papers, and the smell of cheap coffee and wet coats.

The meeting had just ended. The crowd had left behind a sea of empty chairs and half-folded banners reading “Dignity in Labor” and “Fair Pay, Real Futures.”

Jack sat at the front table, his hands gripping the edge, his eyes distant — grey, thoughtful, bruised with fatigue. Jeeny stood by the window, watching the rain streak down over the cracked glass. Her hair, damp from the drizzle, clung to her face as she spoke softly, as though to the storm itself.

Jeeny: “Guy Standing once said, ‘Every progressive movement has been built on the anger, needs, and aspirations of the emerging major class.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Yeah. And every revolution ends with someone else sitting in a bigger chair.”

Host: His voice was rough, tired — the kind of tone that carried both experience and disappointment.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in change anymore, do you?”

Jack: “I believe in repetition. Different faces, same script. The anger burns, the crowd marches, the banners fade. Then the system rearranges itself and calls it progress.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather do nothing? Watch the cycle and pretend it means nothing?”

Jack: “No. I’d rather not pretend it means everything.”

Host: The rain tapped harder against the window, like the rhythm of a heartbeat too fast for calm. Jeeny turned toward him, her eyes alive with something fierce — not naïve, but unwilling to surrender.

Jeeny: “You sound like every tired man who forgot why people fight. Anger isn’t corruption — it’s fuel. The working class, the precariat, the forgotten — they don’t rise because they want power. They rise because they’re tired of kneeling.”

Jack: “And what happens when they stand? Someone else kneels. History doesn’t balance — it just tilts in new directions.”

Jeeny: “Then tilt it toward justice for once.”

Host: Her voice cut the room like a spark through dark metal. Jack flinched slightly, but said nothing. Outside, thunder rolled low and slow.

Jack: “You think anger can build something stable? It burns bright, but it also burns everything.”

Jeeny: “Anger doesn’t destroy — apathy does. Anger is the beginning, not the end. Every reform, every right, every step forward started because someone refused to stay quiet.”

Jack: “And yet anger creates monsters too. The French Revolution gave us Napoleon. The Bolsheviks gave us the gulags. Every movement born from rage eventually eats its own ideals.”

Jeeny: “Only when it forgets what the anger was for. When it turns from need to greed. When leaders stop listening to the people who lit the fire in the first place.”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. The flicker of a dying fluorescent bulb painted their shadows long and uneven across the wall.

Jack: “You talk like history’s a clean equation — needs plus anger equals progress. But people are messy. Fear gets in. Power tempts. Movements rot from the inside.”

Jeeny: “Then make them cleaner. Don’t abandon them. You think cynicism is wisdom, but it’s just comfort in disguise. It keeps you from hoping, from acting.”

Jack: “Hope doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: “No. But it builds the world where rent stops crushing people.”

Host: Her words lingered. The rain softened, the storm passing, leaving only the drip-drip of water from the eaves. Jack rubbed his temples, the weight of years pressing on his shoulders.

Jack: “When I started this union fifteen years ago, I thought exactly like you. I believed anger could move mountains. And for a while, it did. We changed wages, built protections, gave people voices. But then came the politics — the deals, the compromises. I watched ideals dissolve into bureaucracy. Now I can’t tell if we’re protecting workers or protecting our seats.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe that’s the cost of progress — imperfection. No movement stays pure, Jack. But that doesn’t make it worthless.”

Jack: “And what if it does?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we tried. A failed fight is still better than a silent surrender.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked loudly, marking the seconds between them. Jeeny walked closer, her reflection shimmering faintly in the wet glass beside him.

Jeeny: “Do you know why Standing called it the emerging major class? Because it’s not just the poor anymore. It’s everyone living with uncertainty. The gig workers, the temp hires, the freelancers — the people who have no guarantees, no voice. The world keeps shifting beneath their feet, and all they have left is their collective will to demand better.”

Jack: “And what happens when that will turns violent?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’ve failed to listen soon enough.”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed, the storm outside now replaced by the storm inside him.

Jack: “You sound idealistic. You think these people want a movement — most of them just want stability. A paycheck. Peace.”

Jeeny: “Peace without justice is anesthesia. It numbs, it doesn’t heal.”

Jack: “And you think the answer is more disruption? More strikes? More marches?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Until someone listens.”

Host: The wind pushed against the windows, making the glass groan. The faint hum of the city bled in — distant sirens, tires on wet asphalt, the pulse of modern life that never truly rests.

Jack stood, pacing slowly, his footsteps heavy against the worn floor.

Jack: “You believe in collective anger. I believe in individual responsibility. Change starts when people fix themselves, not when they blame the system.”

Jeeny: “That’s easy to say from the top. Try telling that to a worker juggling three jobs and no healthcare. Tell a delivery driver to ‘fix himself’ while the algorithm chews his hours and his dignity.”

Jack: “You think anger alone will fix him?”

Jeeny: “No — but it’ll make him visible. And visibility is the first step to justice.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from fear, but conviction. Jack stopped pacing. He looked at her — not as a colleague, but as something braver: a reminder of his own lost fire.

Jack: “You sound like I used to.”

Jeeny: “Then listen to yourself again.”

Host: A soft silence fell, broken only by the sound of rain easing into a faint mist. The air in the room shifted — not warmer, not colder, just changed.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been mistaking exhaustion for wisdom. Maybe it’s not that movements repeat — maybe it’s that we forget how to carry them forward.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Progress isn’t a line, it’s a spiral. Every generation returns to the same fight, but from a higher ground — if we’ve learned.”

Jack: (quietly) “You think this time will be different?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Because this time, it’s not about replacing one power with another. It’s about rewriting what power means.”

Host: The neon sign outside flickered through the window — UNION HOUSE. Its reflection shimmered across the wet table like a broken halo. Jack stared at it, then reached for the stack of leaflets beside him.

Jack: “You know, Standing was right. Anger, need, aspiration — that’s the holy trinity of change. Maybe I’ve just been afraid of the first part.”

Jeeny: “Because anger feels dangerous?”

Jack: “Because it feels alive.”

Jeeny: “Then let it live — just guide it.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. The city lights shone clean again, reflected on every slick surface like tiny awakenings. Jack gathered the papers, folded them, and slipped them into his coat.

Jack: “We’ll hold another meeting. But this time, no slogans. No speeches. Just listening.”

Jeeny: “Listening is the beginning of revolution.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “With everything I have.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The last light flickered, and the room dimmed into quiet gold.

Jack looked at her, then toward the door — where the wet streets waited, ready to reflect something new.

Jack: “Then let’s start again. With anger, yes — but with purpose this time.”

Jeeny: “That’s how every real movement begins.”

Host: The door opened, letting in a rush of cool air and the distant hum of the city’s unending pulse. As they stepped out, the sign above the hall flickered once more — UNION HOUSE glowing in defiance, fragile yet unbroken.

And in that rain-soaked quiet, as two figures disappeared into the dawn, the words of Guy Standing seemed to rise like a whisper through the streets — that every movement, however fragile, is born not from peace or patience, but from the anger, need, and hope of those who finally dare to stand.