I started a college campus-based nonprofit in June 2012 called

Host: The afternoon heat shimmered above the campus courtyard, making the air look like it was breathing. Students moved across the concrete paths, their laughter echoing between brick buildings covered with old ivy and fresh posters—some peeling, some bold, some fighting invisible wars.

A speaker platform had been set up near the fountain, draped in red, white, and blue fabric. The words “Freedom Forum: Youth and the Future of Liberty” hung across the top, sun-bleached but loud.

Jack stood near the base of the stage, arms folded, his grey eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, the outline of a coffee cup trembling faintly in his hand. Across from him, Jeeny sat on the edge of a stone planter, a notebook open on her lap, her pen tapping rhythmically as she watched the crowd forming.

The Host’s voice came low and cinematic, as if observing history in real time:

Host: The quote had come from the morning’s keynote—Charlie Kirk, speaking with the fervor of a man who believes his voice can change the course of an empire:
“I started a college campus-based nonprofit in June 2012 called Turning Point U.S.A. to target millennials in college. Our mission was to create a powerful conservative grassroots activist network on campuses and identify, educate, train and organize students to promote the principles of freedom, free markets and limited government.”

The applause had been uneven—half cheers, half silence.

Jack: (sipping his coffee, voice calm but edged) “Freedom, free markets, limited government. You know, Jeeny, it’s impressive how every ideology can sound poetic when you say it fast enough.”

Jeeny: (looking up) “You say that like ideals are tricks. Maybe some people still believe words like ‘freedom’ can mean something beyond slogans.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the smell of grass and fresh paint, mingled with faint tension—the kind that comes when beliefs collide. A small group of students argued nearby; their words dissolved into the general hum of noise.

Jack: “Belief isn’t the problem. Certainty is. Every time someone starts an organization to ‘save the world,’ I start counting the minutes until they decide who the enemy is.”

Jeeny: (closing her notebook gently) “You think cynicism makes you wise, but all it does is keep you from building anything. Sure, Turning Point has its politics. But it’s also students learning to act—to participate. Isn’t that what democracy is supposed to look like?”

Jack: “Democracy? Or recruitment? When activism turns into branding, democracy turns into business.”

Jeeny: “You think passion can’t exist in structure? Charlie Kirk was barely out of his teens when he started this. Most people that age don’t even know what they believe. Maybe he saw a void and decided to fill it.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Or saw a market and decided to sell it.”

Host: The sunlight hit the metal benches, making them gleam like truth too bright to sit on. The students gathered, waving pamphlets, their faces flushed with energy, some with defiance. Posters read Liberty Starts Young.

Jeeny: “You’re too quick to mock ambition. Not everyone who organizes believes they’re a prophet. Some just want to stand for something. That’s rare now.”

Jack: “Standing for something isn’t hard. Standing without hating something else—that’s the trick. Every ‘movement’ I’ve ever seen eventually turns its back on its own words.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward, voice sharper) “And what do you stand for, Jack? Balance? Observation? Sitting at the edge of every argument and congratulating yourself for not joining it?”

Host: The crowd noise swelled—a chant beginning near the fountain, rhythmic, youthful, a mix of hope and tribal pulse. Jack watched them, his jaw tightening. Jeeny’s words had found their mark.

Jack: (after a beat) “Maybe I just don’t trust people who call themselves ‘grassroots’ while being funded by billionaires.”

Jeeny: “Every cause has its patrons. You think progressives don’t have their donors too? The point isn’t who funds it—it’s who finds their voice because of it. Look at them.” (She gestures toward the crowd.) “Half of those kids have probably never felt heard until today.”

Jack: “Heard? Or herded?”

Jeeny: (firmly) “Don’t do that. Don’t reduce everything to manipulation. Sometimes people just… believe. And belief—however naive—can start something real.”

Host: The chanting quieted as the next speaker took the mic. A student—barely twenty, nervous but glowing—spoke about “individual responsibility” and “the power of choice.” The words came out rough, but honest. The crowd applauded anyway.

Jeeny watched, her eyes softening, her hands clasped as though trying to hold on to that fragile sincerity.

Jeeny: “You see that? That’s not propaganda. That’s courage. Maybe she’s wrong, maybe she’s right—but she’s awake. That’s more than most adults can say.”

Jack: “And what happens when she learns that not everyone gets the same freedom to choose? That markets aren’t gods, and liberty doesn’t feed the poor?”

Jeeny: “Then she’ll learn. That’s the point. Freedom means the right to be wrong, too.”

Host: A long pause. The air shimmered with late-afternoon heat. Jack’s expression shifted—not surrender, but thought. He took off his sunglasses and rubbed his temples, suddenly looking less like a cynic and more like someone exhausted by caring too much.

Jack: (quietly) “You know what scares me, Jeeny? Not what they’re fighting for—what they’re willing to ignore to protect it. Every cause needs villains to stay alive. Once you build a movement on opposition, you can’t survive without conflict.”

Jeeny: (gently) “And yet, without conviction, the world stops moving. Maybe wisdom isn’t avoiding conflict—it’s knowing which ones are worth starting.”

Host: The fountain spray glimmered in the sun, the droplets catching light like fleeting truths. Around them, the crowd began to disperse—some exhilarated, some unconvinced, but all changed in some small way.

Jack: “You really think this kind of thing changes anything?”

Jeeny: “It changes someone’s tomorrow. And that’s enough. History’s built out of small beginnings. Even Turning Point started with one kid and one stubborn idea.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Stubborn. That’s the part that worries me. Passion without self-doubt turns into ideology. And ideology without empathy… well, we’ve seen what that builds.”

Jeeny: “And apathy without courage builds nothing at all.”

Host: The wind rose again, scattering a few loose flyers across the courtyard. One landed near Jack’s feet, the words Freedom is Responsibility printed in bold black. He picked it up, stared at it for a long moment, then folded it neatly and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Jack: “You know… maybe I’ve been mistaking skepticism for intelligence.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe skepticism’s just faith waiting for evidence.”

Host: The sun began to dip lower now, bleeding orange light across the campus. The flags fluttered in the wind, their colors deepening as shadows stretched.

Jeeny stood beside him, notebook under her arm, watching the students scatter back to dorms, cafes, their unfinished lives.

Jeeny: “Movements aren’t perfect, Jack. But they remind people they can move. That’s something.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe every generation needs its own rebellion—its own reason to shout.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Even if it’s messy. Especially if it’s messy.”

Host: The camera would pull back now, revealing the courtyard bathed in the last light of day—posters curling at the edges, the stage empty, but the air still vibrating with the echo of ideas.

The two figures stood there—Jack and Jeeny—not as opponents anymore, but as witnesses to the same complicated truth:

That in every movement, there is both noise and need.
That freedom, once spoken aloud, can never fully be silenced.

And as the sun disappeared behind the old campus clock tower, the world exhaled quietly—
leaving only the sound of paper rustling,
and two souls still arguing, softly,
about how to save what they both loved for different reasons.