I think the truth is, we are all racist, really, when it comes

Host:
The city’s evening hung heavy — a bruise-colored sky stretching over a restless world. The rain had stopped, but the streets still gleamed, reflecting the neon signs and the occasional siren’s flash.

In a dim corner café, the air was thick with the smell of burnt espresso and conversation turned inward. The walls were lined with photographs — faces from every walk of life, frozen in monochrome moments of laughter, protest, despair.

Jack sat at a window table, his grey eyes fixed on the crowd outside. He stirred his coffee absently, the spoon clinking like a ticking clock.

Across from him, Jeeny scrolled slowly through her phone, reading an article aloud in a voice that trembled between sadness and frustration.

“I think the truth is, we are all racist, really, when it comes down to it. I think all of us have to check ourselves from time to time, and say, ‘Look, that sort of attitude isn’t good enough.’ It takes discipline to keep our prejudices out.” — Peter Hollingworth

The words hung in the air like smoke that wouldn’t disperse.

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s brutal honesty, isn’t it? Not the kind people like to hear — that we’re all infected, somehow.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Honest, maybe. But also defeatist. If everyone’s racist, then what’s the point of trying to change?”

Jeeny: “He didn’t say we can’t change. He said it takes discipline. That’s the difference. It’s not an accusation — it’s a call for self-awareness.”

Jack: (finally glancing at her) “You sound optimistic. I hear resignation. Like saying hate is inevitable, and we just manage it like a bad habit.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “No. Like saying hate is human — and awareness is what makes us humane.”

Host:
A bus rumbled by, splashing through a puddle, scattering light and shadow across their faces. The noise filled the silence between their words — the sound of the world moving while they stayed still.

Jack: “You know what bothers me? Everyone talks about prejudice like it’s something outside of us. Something other people have. But Hollingworth’s right — it’s built in. It’s fear in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why it takes work. Compassion isn’t natural; it’s cultivated. It’s a practice, like meditation or forgiveness.”

Jack: (sighing) “But that’s exhausting, Jeeny. Checking yourself every time you think, speak, react. How do you live freely if you’re always policing your own mind?”

Jeeny: (gently) “Freedom without conscience isn’t freedom, Jack. It’s arrogance. The moment we stop checking ourselves, we become what we despise.”

Host:
Her voice softened the space between them. Jack’s reflection wavered in the window, layered with the moving shapes of strangers — a visual echo of the conversation: self and other, reflection and distortion, fear and awareness.

Jack: “So you’re saying we’re doomed to guilt forever.”

Jeeny: “No. We’re invited to awareness forever. There’s a difference.”

Jack: (mocking) “Awareness. That word’s lost all meaning. Everyone says it. No one practices it.”

Jeeny: (firmly) “Then maybe that’s where the real prejudice lies — in our fatigue toward trying. The privilege of apathy.”

Jack: (pauses, tone darkening) “You think I don’t try? You think I don’t see my own bias? I grew up in a neighborhood where fear kept us alive. You learn to judge to survive.”

Jeeny: “I’m not judging you. I’m saying that survival instincts can evolve. Fear kept you alive then. Empathy keeps us alive now.”

Host:
The rain began again, soft at first — tapping the glass like a slow apology. The crowd outside hurried for cover. Inside, the café light turned warmer, dimmer, more intimate.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Jack: (quietly) “You ever think prejudice isn’t always about hate? Sometimes it’s just… laziness. The brain taking shortcuts. ‘People like them are this way, people like me are that way.’ It’s easier than uncertainty.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And that’s the danger. It’s not the big, loud hate we should fear — it’s the quiet, reasonable kind. The one that hides behind words like ‘practical’ or ‘realistic.’”

Jack: “Like the person who says, ‘I’m not racist, but…’”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That ‘but’ is the doorway where the monster slips in.”

Jack: (smirking sadly) “So we’re all monsters, huh?”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “No. We’re all mirrors. Some just haven’t learned to see the cracks yet.”

Host:
The firelight from a candle on their table flickered, its reflection dancing across Jack’s eyes. For the first time, there was a flicker of something like vulnerability — not agreement yet, but the fatigue of carrying denial too long.

Jack: “You talk about awareness like it’s easy. But facing your own ugliness — that’s brutal. People would rather preach equality than examine their shadows.”

Jeeny: “Of course they would. Equality is public; reflection is private. The latter hurts more — but it heals deeper.”

Jack: (whispering) “You think you’ve conquered your own prejudice?”

Jeeny: (without hesitation) “No. And that’s the point. It’s not something you conquer. It’s something you keep cleaning, like dust that always settles.”

Host:
The rain intensified. It streaked down the window in crooked rivers, each droplet a tiny distortion of the world beyond. Jack watched them fall, his own expression breaking open — the armor of cynicism slowly giving way to honesty.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my mother used to cross the street if she saw a certain kind of person coming. I used to ask her why. She said, ‘Just being careful.’ I started doing it too. I didn’t even realize it until years later. That’s what scares me — how easy it is to inherit prejudice like a lullaby.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And how brave it is to unlearn it.”

Jack: “It doesn’t feel brave. It feels like shame.”

Jeeny: “That’s the first step. Shame’s the bruise that shows where the healing begins.”

Host:
The café grew quieter, the voices of other patrons fading into the steady hum of rain. The camera panned closer to their faces — two people illuminated by the dim glow of self-recognition.

Jack’s eyes, once guarded, now seemed uncertain — but open. Jeeny’s voice softened, turning almost into prayer.

Jeeny: “The truth is, we all start from bias — it’s the human condition. The real question isn’t whether we’re prejudiced. It’s whether we have the humility to confront it, again and again.”

Jack: (slowly nodding) “So maybe being moral isn’t about being pure… it’s about staying awake.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Exactly. Awake enough to notice the reflex — and stop it before it becomes a belief.”

Jack: “That’s a hard kind of discipline.”

Jeeny: “The hardest. The kind without applause.”

Host:
The rain began to ease, softening into mist. A faint light broke through the clouds, reflecting on the slick streets outside. The café door opened briefly — a gust of cold air, a bell chime, then quiet again.

Jack finished his coffee and looked at Jeeny, something new in his eyes — a weary gratitude.

Jack: “Maybe Hollingworth was right after all. We’re all racist — but maybe that’s not the tragedy. Maybe the tragedy is pretending we aren’t.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Yes. Because pretending is the death of learning.”

Jack: “And facing it — that’s the birth of something better.”

Jeeny: “Of discipline. Of compassion.”

Jack: (smiling) “Of being human.”

Host:
Outside, the rain had stopped. The streets glowed, newly washed. Two figures remained inside the café, still, quiet — a rare peace between disagreement and discovery.

The camera panned to the window, where their reflections merged in the glass — not perfect, not pure, but aware.

Host:
And so the truth lingered — uncomfortable, necessary, unflinching:

That prejudice lives in all hearts,
but awareness redeems them.
That humanity is not found in perfection,
but in the courage to check oneself,
again and again,
until understanding becomes habit.

The scene faded, leaving only the sound of the rain returning — gentle now,
like forgiveness falling from the sky.