I think the United States and the secretary of State should be

Host: The newsroom was dim now, long after the last broadcast had ended. The television monitors along the wall still glowed faintly — fragments of the day’s chaos looping in endless replay: protests, wars, campaign ads, markets rising and falling like fever. The city outside hummed under the neon sky, restless and indifferent.

Host: Jack sat at a desk littered with papers, coffee cups, and the half-eaten remains of another long night. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt sleeves rolled up. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the window, her reflection mingling with the skyline — a woman framed by glass and questions.

Host: On the main screen, a quote from Hugo Chávez glowed in bold letters, beneath an image of the late Venezuelan leader addressing a crowd:
"I think the United States and the secretary of State should be concerned about the poverty in this country — people without health insurance. The United States should stop being the empire and be concerned about other countries. You've got to be more worried about your own people."

Jeeny: (quietly) “You know, for all his bluster, sometimes he said things people here don’t want to hear.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Chávez loved to preach morality while he built his own empire. It’s easy to point fingers at America when you’re standing on an oil field.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t the point still true? How can a nation lecture the world about justice while its own citizens can’t afford to see a doctor?”

Jack: “Because the world runs on contradictions, Jeeny. Every empire does. You maintain global power to keep the resources that fund your domestic stability. You don’t get one without the other.”

Host: His voice carried the weight of someone who had once believed in idealism and watched it break down into trade agreements and headlines.

Jeeny: “So we’re supposed to accept it? Just shrug while millions go hungry in a country that throws away more food than it eats?”

Jack: “I’m saying the system’s too tangled to cut cleanly. You pull one thread — foreign policy, defense, oil — and the whole economy unravels.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it needs to unravel. Maybe that’s the only way to rebuild it.”

Host: She turned, her reflection caught in the glass, her eyes dark but burning with conviction. Outside, the city’s lights blinked like stars lost in smog.

Jack: “You talk like revolution’s a therapy session. You think chaos will cure inequality? Every revolution starts with noble words and ends with the same hierarchy, just new faces at the top.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not revolution we need — just accountability. Stop pretending patriotism means ignoring suffering.”

Host: The room was quiet except for the faint buzz of the monitors. The hum of electricity filled the space like unspoken truth.

Jack: “You think this country doesn’t care? Look at the budget — billions for health programs, social aid, infrastructure. But it’s never enough. It’s like bailing a sinking ship with a coffee cup.”

Jeeny: “Because we’re patching the wrong holes. You can’t solve poverty with charity when the system is designed to keep people one paycheck from collapse.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a conspiracy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a conspiracy, Jack. It’s just convenient blindness.”

Host: Her words hit the air softly but carried the weight of accusation. Jack looked up then, his eyes meeting hers across the table — two worldviews, both cracked by fatigue but unwilling to break.

Jack: “You ever wonder if Chávez said that because he envied America’s moral image? Every critic of this country enjoys the freedom to condemn it. That’s the irony.”

Jeeny: “Freedom to speak isn’t the same as freedom to live. What’s the point of liberty if you’re starving under it?”

Host: He paused. The question hung between them — honest, unanswerable.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to say this country takes care of its own. But I remember her choosing between medicine and rent.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly the problem. People think poverty’s a foreign issue — something that happens in places with palm trees and coups. But poverty’s right here, Jack. It’s the woman bagging your groceries, the man fixing your roof, the kids who grow up thinking dental care is a luxury.”

Host: A low rumble of thunder rolled outside — distant, restrained, as if the sky were agreeing quietly with her.

Jack: “You think the empire can stop being an empire? Power doesn’t just step back and apologize. It expands or collapses.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time we stopped being proud of how big we are, and started being proud of how humane we could be.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. There’s nothing more poetic than a country that finally decides to love its own people.”

Host: He leaned back, running his hand over his face, a quiet exhale escaping him. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. The screens flickered, switching between images of hunger lines, city skylines, and diplomatic summits — contrasts too sharp to ignore.

Jack: “You know what the real tragedy is? We’re a nation with endless innovation but limited empathy. We can map the human genome, but we can’t figure out how to make sure everyone eats.”

Jeeny: “Because empathy doesn’t profit shareholders.”

Jack: “And profit funds progress.”

Jeeny: “Progress for who?”

Host: The lights flickered, briefly cutting the room into darkness. For a heartbeat, their silhouettes were the only thing that existed — two figures framed against the pulsing city beyond, arguing about what it means to belong to a country that’s both savior and sinner.

Jack: “You really think America can stop being the empire?”

Jeeny: “Not entirely. But maybe it can remember what an empire’s supposed to protect — its people, not its image.”

Host: Her voice softened now, less anger, more ache — the ache of someone who still believed change was possible even after watching the machinery grind hope into rhetoric.

Jack: “You’d make a good diplomat.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “No. I’d make a better nurse.”

Jack: “Because you still believe people can be healed?”

Jeeny: “Because I still believe they deserve to be.”

Host: The thunder outside echoed again — louder now, rolling across the skyline like a slow reminder that storms, too, are natural forms of cleansing.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, maybe Chávez wasn’t wrong. Maybe before we start saving the world, we should learn how to save each other.”

Jeeny: “That’s the America I want to see — not the empire, but the neighbor.”

Host: The rain began to fall, streaking down the glass like tears the city had been holding back all day. Jack stood, walked to the window, and watched the streets below — people hurrying home under umbrellas, tiny figures trying to stay dry in a downpour they didn’t cause.

Jack: “You ever think we’re just waiting for someone else to care first?”

Jeeny: “Always. But revolutions don’t start with nations. They start with hearts.”

Host: He turned, and for the first time that night, his eyes softened — the cynicism receding, replaced by something quieter: shame, maybe, or hope disguised as weariness.

Jack: “Then maybe it’s time we started one.”

Host: Jeeny nodded, and the faint hum of the monitors filled the silence again — the pulse of a restless country trying to remember its own humanity.

Host: Outside, the storm intensified, washing the city clean in light and thunder. The screen behind them dimmed, Chávez’s words dissolving slowly into black.

Host: But the meaning remained — sharp, luminous, alive — echoing between them and the empty room:

That before you fix the world, you must first learn how to care for your own.