I think the world is ambivalent about feminism. So I can't blame

Host: The campus café was a small, bustling chaos of noise and comfort — steam from the espresso machine hissed like conversation’s punctuation, the air thick with coffee, books, and the low hum of youthful arguments. Outside, the autumn leaves blew across the courtyard, their slow dance echoing the endless questions that filled the classrooms beyond.

Host: Jack sat at a corner table, a stack of papers beside him, the edge of his laptop glowing faintly in the dim light. Jeeny slid into the seat across from him, her scarf still damp from the drizzle, her eyes bright and restless — the way they always were when ideas had hold of her heart.

Jeeny: “Roxane Gay once said, ‘I think the world is ambivalent about feminism. So I can’t blame college students. I think they’re reflecting the greater culture’s attitude toward feminism. So what I can do is, in ways that are appropriate, advocate for feminism and help the students learn what feminism is about.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Ah, feminism — the word that starts debates faster than caffeine hits the bloodstream.”

Jeeny: “And usually in the same place — over overpriced lattes.”

Jack: “You think she’s right? That the world’s ambivalent? Because from where I’m sitting, it feels like everyone’s either screaming for it or against it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the illusion, Jack. The screaming’s just the surface. Underneath, there’s confusion — people who agree in theory but panic when feminism starts rearranging the furniture.”

Host: The rain outside quickened, pattering against the café windows, the world blurring into a watercolor of grey and gold.

Jack: “You mean they like equality as long as it doesn’t inconvenience them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They say they believe in fairness — until fairness costs them comfort.”

Jack: “That’s not feminism’s fault, though. That’s human nature. Everyone’s pro-change until it threatens what they’ve built.”

Jeeny: “True. But feminism was never about comfort. It’s about confrontation — with history, with power, with ourselves.”

Host: She took a sip of her coffee, her hands trembling slightly from the cold or the intensity of her own conviction.

Jack: “You know, I used to think feminism was just a political thing — laws, rights, votes. But these days, it feels more… personal. Like it’s less about systems and more about daily behavior.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it is. The personal is political — that’s the oldest truth feminism taught us. It’s not just about institutions; it’s about interactions. Who speaks. Who listens. Who’s believed.”

Jack: “So you think college students get a bad rap? Everyone says they’re lazy activists — all hashtags and outrage.”

Jeeny: “They’re mirrors, Jack. They reflect the culture they grew up in. If the culture is ambivalent about feminism, why would they be any different?”

Jack: “You mean it’s not apathy. It’s inheritance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t expect clarity from kids raised in confusion.”

Host: The barista called out an order, breaking the quiet for a moment. Someone laughed at a nearby table; a pair of students argued softly over a philosophy textbook.

Jack: “You sound like a teacher.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just tired of watching people mistake misunderstanding for opposition.”

Jack: “But feminism’s such a loaded term. It means a hundred things to a hundred people.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty and the tragedy of it. It’s not one movement — it’s a conversation. Ongoing. Evolving. Messy.”

Jack: “You think that’s why people avoid it? Because it’s messy?”

Jeeny: “Because it demands something of them. Feminism asks for more than slogans. It asks for accountability.”

Host: Jack leaned back, crossing his arms, the light from the café window drawing thin lines of reflection across his face.

Jack: “So how do you advocate for something the world misunderstands?”

Jeeny: “Patiently. Honestly. In the small spaces. Roxane Gay’s right — you don’t change the world with speeches. You change it in classrooms, in conversations like this. You remind people what feminism actually is: not a threat, but an invitation.”

Jack: “An invitation to what?”

Jeeny: “To balance. To empathy. To finally stop pretending equality’s already done.”

Jack: (quietly) “You think men have a place in that?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Real feminism isn’t about pushing men out; it’s about calling them in — into accountability, into empathy, into partnership.”

Jack: “You talk like feminism’s love in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Tough love for a world that keeps failing half its people.”

Host: Her voice softened, but her eyes stayed fierce. She wasn’t trying to win the argument — she was trying to humanize it.

Jack: “You know, I used to feel defensive when I heard the word. Like it accused me of something.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it did — but only because guilt hears accusation where truth just asks for change.”

Jack: (smiling wryly) “You’re good at this, you know that?”

Jeeny: “No, just practiced. Every woman I know has to be.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to slow. The clouds parted slightly, letting a faint beam of light spill through the window and across their table, soft and forgiving.

Jack: “You ever think people will stop being scared of feminism?”

Jeeny: “When it stops sounding like a revolution.”

Jack: “And that’s a bad thing?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s proof it’s still working.”

Host: Jack stared down at his coffee, thoughtful, his fingers tracing a small circle in the condensation on the table.

Jack: “You know, I used to think equality was inevitable. That progress was this natural thing — like evolution. But now I think it’s something you have to keep choosing.”

Jeeny: “Every day. Because progress doesn’t stick by itself. It has to be tended like a garden.”

Jack: “And people like Roxane Gay are the gardeners.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Reminding us that ambivalence is not neutrality — it’s a choice. And silence is a vote for the status quo.”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jack’s face — not of agreement yet, but of awakening.

Jack: “You know, maybe I’ll stop avoiding the word. Maybe it’s time I stopped being scared of conversations like this.”

Jeeny: “Good. Because feminism doesn’t need perfection. It needs participation.”

Host: The café had grown quieter. The last light of afternoon slanted through the windows, catching in Jeeny’s hair, turning it into a halo of copper warmth. Jack looked at her — at her certainty, her patience, her fire — and for once, didn’t feel accused by it. He felt invited.

Host: Outside, the rain had ended. Students streamed past the glass, laughing, carrying books and dreams and the strange, complicated hope of youth.

Host: And as they sat there, cups empty but conversation full, Roxane Gay’s words found their reflection — that feminism isn’t a battle cry shouted into the void, but a lifelong dialogue with the world: patient, persistent, transformative.

Host: The world may still be ambivalent, but around that small café table, belief had taken root — quiet, grounded, and unafraid to grow.