I hate the way they portray us in the media. If you see a black

Host: The city night burned blue and red — neon flashing across puddles, sirens echoing from somewhere unseen. A light rain fell, not cleansing but restless, tracing rivers down graffiti-covered walls. The smell of wet asphalt and smoke hung in the air, heavy as grief.

In the window of a small corner diner, two figures sat facing each other across a cracked linoleum table. A flickering sign outside read “Open All Night”, though the tired waitress had long stopped pretending anyone wanted coffee this late.

Jack stirred his cup anyway, staring into it as if looking for something deeper than caffeine. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on the table, her eyes fierce in the dim light.

The television above the counter played muted footage — a crowd, flashing lights, chaos, headlines scrolling too fast to mean anything.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Kanye once said, ‘I hate the way they portray us in the media. If you see a black family it says they’re looting, if you see a white family it says they’re looking for food.’”

Jack: (sighs) “Yeah. I remember that. He said it after Katrina. And he was right — brutally right.”

Jeeny: “That wasn’t just about the hurricane. It was about centuries of it — how the lens tells one truth for one color, and another for the rest.”

Jack: “The lens is never neutral. It’s loaded. Every frame’s a judgment.”

Jeeny: “Every word too. ‘Looting’ sounds criminal. ‘Looking for food’ sounds human. Same action. Different sentence. Different worth.”

Jack: “Language as verdict.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming on the diner roof. The muted television flickered brighter, faces and fire blurring together in the reflection of Jack’s coffee. The light painted their table in restless shadows — blue, red, blue again.

Outside, a siren passed. Inside, silence deepened.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how injustice hides in vocabulary? The way empathy is rationed out by skin tone?”

Jack: “Yeah. We call it bias, but that word’s too small. It’s not bias — it’s a whole architecture of assumption.”

Jeeny: “And the media builds it like a cathedral — holy, untouchable. People sit and pray before screens, believing they’re watching truth.”

Jack: “It’s easier to trust the camera than to question it.”

Jeeny: “Because the camera doesn’t blink. But it edits.”

Jack: (leaning back) “The worst kind of lies are the ones told by what’s left out.”

Host: The TV changed scenes — a reporter standing in front of debris, their lips moving, their eyes rehearsed. The image felt sterile compared to the storm of emotion beneath it. The contrast between chaos and commentary was almost cruel.

Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her cup, the muscles in her jaw shifting with contained anger.

Jeeny: “You know what gets me? How fast the world forgives the storytellers, but not the subjects.”

Jack: “Because we’d rather blame the image than the mirror.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every broadcast is a kind of courtroom. The difference is, the accused never gets to speak.”

Jack: “They just get framed.”

Jeeny: “Framed — literally and morally.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You think people see it? The manipulation?”

Jeeny: “Some do. Most don’t. Comfort blinds more effectively than fear.”

Jack: “So the camera becomes the weapon, and the headline’s the bullet.”

Jeeny: “And perception — that’s the wound that never heals.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked loudly now, the second hand jerking through silence. The light flickered again, casting Jeeny’s face half in shadow — half flame, half reflection. She looked like a woman holding the truth too hot to touch.

Jack glanced back at the muted television. The new image showed volunteers handing out food. Every face was white.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack — when I was a kid, my father used to pause the news and ask me, ‘What story are they not telling?’ I never understood it back then. Now I do.”

Jack: “He was teaching you media literacy before the term existed.”

Jeeny: “He was teaching survival. How to read between the edits. How to see humanity when the world edits it out.”

Jack: “You think that’s why Kanye said it — not as outrage, but warning?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because portrayal becomes policy. The way a people is framed determines how the world treats them.”

Jack: “And if you control the frame, you control the future.”

Host: The rain softened, becoming a whisper. The waitress turned off the television, leaving only static for a moment — a white noise that filled the space like ghostly applause. Then the screen went black.

The reflection in the window now showed only the two of them — Jack’s face pale under the diner light, Jeeny’s eyes bright, unyielding.

Jack: “You think things are better now? Twenty years later?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Better disguised. Not better.”

Jack: “So the racism evolves — gets subtler, smarter, algorithmic.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Digital segregation. Same prejudice, now automated.”

Jack: “We’ve traded the newsroom for the newsfeed.”

Jeeny: “And the bias for clicks.”

Jack: “Truth outsourced to convenience.”

Jeeny: “And empathy replaced by outrage.”

Host: A car horn blared outside, cutting through the night. A group of teenagers ran laughing through the rain — three Black boys, drenched, free for the moment. Jeeny watched them through the glass, her expression softening.

They were joy personified — wild, fleeting, unfiltered.

Jeeny: “There. That’s what they never show — moments like that.”

Jack: “Why would they? Joy doesn’t sell.”

Jeeny: “Neither does nuance.”

Jack: “So we stay addicted to extremes. Looters or heroes. Victims or villains.”

Jeeny: “Never humans.”

Jack: “Never humans.”

Host: The lights buzzed faintly, the kind of hum that only exists in places where time stalls. Outside, the rain had nearly stopped, leaving behind puddles that mirrored the glow of the diner sign.

Jeeny leaned forward, her voice lower now, heavy but tender.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? The most radical thing anyone can do is tell the truth — without filters, without permission — and refuse to let anyone else narrate their humanity.”

Jack: “Yeah. The most revolutionary act in the modern world is self-definition.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When you name yourself, they can’t mislabel you.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “So maybe Kanye wasn’t just angry. Maybe he was reclaiming the language.”

Jeeny: “Turning accusation into declaration.”

Jack: “Turning pain into power.”

Jeeny: “And forcing the camera to blink.”

Host: The rain finally stopped, leaving the streets slick and gleaming. The air smelled clean again — raw, metallic, alive. The diner felt suspended in time, the kind of place where truth could be spoken softly yet still shake the world.

Jeeny stood, pulling her coat tight, her reflection a ghost beside the window’s darkness.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… sometimes the problem isn’t that the world misrepresents us. It’s that it refuses to see us unless we’re suffering.”

Jack: “Then maybe the next revolution is joy.”

Jeeny: “Joy as resistance.”

Jack: “Humanity as rebellion.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Exactly.”

Host: The camera pulled back, framing the diner — small, glowing, defiant amid the wide, indifferent night. The city lights blurred in the wet pavement, each reflection like a second version of the truth — distorted, but still visible.

Inside, two figures lingered in the last conversation of the evening, voices low, real, unedited.

And as the scene faded, Kanye West’s words echoed across the wet concrete —

that the media’s mirror does not reflect evenly;
that language can wound as deeply as bullets;

that to be seen truly
is a revolution denied to some,
and a privilege given to others;

but that beneath all the distortions,
beneath every headline and half-truth,
the most radical act remains —

to exist visibly,
to speak unapologetically,
and to demand the right
to be seen as human.