I get angry about things, then go on and work.

Host: The morning fog hung low over the construction site, a dense, grey mist that blurred the edges of cranes and half-built structures. The air smelled of wet cement and iron, and the sound of metal clanging echoed through the cold air like a heartbeat.

Jack stood near a stack of steel beams, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his breath visible in the chill. Jeeny walked toward him, her helmet tucked under her arm, her hair messy, her eyes alive with that kind of morning fire that comes from sleepless thought.

Jeeny: “You ever read Toni Morrison, Jack?”

Jack: “Only once. Didn’t think she’d be my kind of writer.”

Jeeny: “She said something that’s been sitting in my head all week. ‘I get angry about things, then go on and work.’”

Host: Jack grunted, the sound half laugh, half sigh. A truck rumbled by, kicking up dust and diesel smoke.

Jack: “That sounds… efficient. But anger’s not a fuel you want to run on for long. It burns too hot. You’ll crash before you finish the job.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes anger is the only thing that gets you to the job. You can’t rebuild what you’re not furious about losing.”

Host: A gust of wind blew, lifting a tarp that snapped like a whip in the air. The morning light shifted, splitting through the fog in faint, silver rays.

Jack: “I don’t buy that. Anger’s for people who don’t know how to act without it. Morrison’s words sound noble, sure — but I’ve seen people destroy more than they’ve built because they mistook their rage for purpose.”

Jeeny: “And I’ve seen people never act at all because they were too afraid to get angry.”

Host: Their voices cut through the fog, one rough, the other burning with conviction.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. Anger’s chaotic. It blinds people. Look at revolutions — the French one, for instance. Started with ideals, ended with guillotines. They worked, all right — worked until there was no one left to work with.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, without that anger, there’d still be kings and peasants. You can’t separate justice from fury. The world doesn’t move because people are calm; it moves because someone finally snaps.”

Jack: “And what do you get after the snap? Smoke. Rubble. Regret.”

Jeeny: “No. You get movement. You get change. You get people who stop pretending everything’s fine.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice rose, sharper now, but her eyes gleamed with clarity, not rage. Jack turned, his face hard, weathered, as if etched by years of seeing too much waste.

Jack: “You think anger is noble, Jeeny. But it’s not. It’s personal. It makes you feel righteous, but most times it just makes you loud. Real change — the kind that lasts — comes from patience, not fire.”

Jeeny: “Patience?”

Jack: “Yeah. Patience is what built cathedrals, cured diseases, landed humans on the moon. Anger starts fires — patience builds civilizations.”

Jeeny: “Then tell me, Jack… who lights the first spark? Patience doesn’t wake the world — anger does.”

Host: The fog lifted slowly, revealing the city in the distance — cranes, skyscrapers, smokestacks, a landscape of human ambition and fatigue. The sun broke through, gold washing over the steel like forgiveness.

Jack: “You sound like you think anger’s some sacred emotion.”

Jeeny: “Not sacred — just necessary. Look at Morrison herself. She wrote out of fury. Fury about racism, about injustice, about people being silenced. Her anger didn’t consume her — it created something immortal.”

Jack: “And for every Morrison, there’s a thousand people who just scream and never build a thing.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they never go on and work. That’s what she meant. The work is what turns anger into art, into progress, into healing. The anger alone means nothing.”

Host: Jack looked at her, silent, thoughtful. The sound of machinery filled the air — the clatter of steel, the roar of engines, the heartbeat of work itself.

Jack: “So you’re saying anger’s like the spark, and the work is the firewood.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Without the wood, the spark dies. But without the spark, nothing ever burns.”

Host: A foreman shouted in the distance. The workers moved like ants, methodical, focused, alive. The rhythm of their labor had a kind of music — a defiance against stillness.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? People use anger as an excuse. ‘I’m angry, so I care.’ But real caring doesn’t need anger — it needs endurance.”

Jeeny: “Endurance without emotion becomes apathy. You can’t endure what you don’t feel deeply about. Anger reminds us we’re still human, not machines.”

Jack: “Machines don’t destroy each other.”

Jeeny: “They also don’t create art, or protest, or love hard enough to change the world.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, vibrant, alive, as the sunlight caught the particles of dust, turning them into tiny, floating golden universes.

Jack: “When I was younger, I used to get angry at everything. Corruption, stupidity, unfairness. Thought I’d fix the world by yelling louder than it.”

Jeeny: “And what happened?”

Jack: “I learned the world doesn’t listen to yelling. It listens to results. So I stopped being angry. Started just… doing.”

Jeeny: “But maybe your anger started the doing. Maybe it’s what made you care enough to fight in the first place.”

Jack: “Or maybe it made me waste years being miserable.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It made you awake. There’s a difference.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the sound of a hammer hitting steel, a steady, resolute beat. It was like the world was agreeing with her.

Jack: “You think anger can stay pure? It always poisons the well, Jeeny. Even good anger turns bitter if you drink it long enough.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why you don’t drink it — you work it. You let it drive the hammer, not become the hammer.”

Jack: “So anger as fuel, but not the destination.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The sun fully broke through the fog now, casting long shadows on the concrete. Jeeny placed her helmet on, the plastic gleaming in the light, and smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “Morrison wasn’t glorifying anger, Jack. She was disciplining it. Turning it into motion, into creation. That’s the difference between destruction and art.”

Jack: “So we shouldn’t suppress anger — we should tame it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because sometimes, the only thing that gets you to pick up the hammer in the first place… is rage.”

Host: For a moment, they stood side by side, watching the workers raise a beam into the sky. It rose slowly, suspended, glinting in the light like a sword of hope. The noise of construction filled the air, drowning their words, but not their understanding.

Jack: “Maybe Morrison was right, then. Get angry. But then — get to work.”

Jeeny: “Because anger without work is just noise.”

Jack: “And work without anger is just survival.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The beam locked into place with a loud, resonant clang, echoing across the sky like a final line of truth.

The fog was gone. The day was clear. And in that moment, the city seemed to breathe, alive, driven, and human — just as Toni Morrison must have meant when she wrote:

Get angry. Then work.