If voters' anger is the hallmark of the 2016 campaign, nothing

Host: The night was a restless one — the kind of evening that carried too much electricity, too much noise, too much of the world’s discontent. The diner on the edge of the highway glowed faintly in the dark, its neon sign flickering between life and exhaustion. Inside, the smell of burnt coffee and old conversations lingered.

Jack sat in a corner booth, his coat draped over the seat, fingers tapping on a cracked phone screen. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, eyes fixed on the headlines flashing across the muted television above the counter: protests, borders, ballots, anger.

A news anchor’s lips moved silently under bold red captions: “The people versus the establishment.”

Jeeny spoke first, her voice cutting through the static hum.

Jeeny: “Tom Tancredo once said, ‘If voters' anger is the hallmark of the 2016 campaign, nothing has generated that anger as much as the establishment's decade-long duplicity on immigration.’”
(she looked up)
“He wasn’t wrong about the anger, Jack. But anger isn’t born — it’s built. And it’s always built by betrayal.”

Jack: “Betrayal?”
(he snorted, leaning back)
“Jeeny, politics runs on betrayal. The whole system’s a performance. The establishment lies, the people rage, and the machine keeps turning.”

Host: The light above their table flickered, casting half of Jack’s face in shadow. He sounded tired — not of the argument, but of the pattern. The kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from seeing too much of the same story replayed with different names.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the problem. People stop believing change is possible. And when that happens, democracy stops being a conversation — it becomes a scream.”

Jack: “And what do you expect? The working class gets preached at by elites who live behind gated walls. They tell them, ‘Don’t be angry. Be civil.’ While they’re the ones signing trade deals that gut factories, or policies that flood the market with cheap labor. That’s not a scream, Jeeny. That’s a reckoning.”

Jeeny: “But anger isn’t a solution. It’s a symptom. And when leaders use it instead of healing it — that’s when democracies rot.”

Jack: “No, that’s when democracies wake up. The people finally realize the system was never built for them in the first place.”

Host: The waitress passed, her shoes squeaking against the tiled floor. A radio near the counter hummed faintly with old rock music, the melody almost ironic beneath the weight of their debate.

Jeeny leaned forward now, her eyes dark and sharp, her words carrying both sorrow and warning.

Jeeny: “Wake up, or burn down the house they live in? Anger’s easy, Jack. It’s addictive. Once it takes hold, it doesn’t stop at justice — it demands revenge.”

Jack: “Maybe revenge is justice when the same people keep lying. Immigration was never just a policy issue — it’s a trust issue. Decades of promises, nothing changes. People see it now. They see that words are masks.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not the immigrants’ fault. You know that.”

Jack: “I didn’t say it was. But when the establishment plays both sides — pretending compassion while exploiting labor — everyone loses. The rich get cheaper workers, the poor get cheaper wages, and the politicians get applause.”

Jeeny: “And yet, somehow, the anger gets pointed downward instead of upward. Isn’t that convenient?”

Host: A truck horn blared outside, the sound vibrating through the windows. Jack’s jaw tightened. Jeeny’s fingers curled around her mug. The rain had started again — soft, insistent, as if the world itself wanted to wash something away.

Jack: “You think I don’t see that? Of course the powerful use anger to divide. But that doesn’t mean the anger isn’t real. You can’t tell people to calm down when their jobs are gone, their towns are empty, their kids can’t afford rent.”

Jeeny: “I’m not telling them to calm down. I’m telling them to see the full picture. Anger without direction becomes destruction. And the establishment loves that — chaos keeps people controllable.”

Jack: “Then what do you suggest, Jeeny? Compassion circles? Hashtags about unity? We’ve tried civility. It just gives the powerful more time to script their next lie.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m suggesting accountability — real, transparent, painful accountability. The kind that demands truth from both sides. From the establishment and from us.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the window. The reflections of passing headlights flashed across the table, momentarily illuminating their faces — one carved in skepticism, the other in defiance.

Jack: “You think people want truth? They want certainty. Truth is complicated — it offends everyone. Certainty wins elections.”

Jeeny: “But certainty kills empathy. It turns policy into ideology, neighbors into enemies. That’s why the 2016 anger never healed — it just changed faces.”

Jack: “Maybe it shouldn’t heal. Maybe anger is the only honest emotion left in politics.”

Jeeny: “Then God help us. Because anger without compassion is tyranny, no matter whose hands it’s in.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice shook, not from fear, but from fatigue — the kind of moral exhaustion that comes from believing in decency in an indecent world. Jack stared at her, his eyes softening just slightly.

He wasn’t ready to admit it, but he admired her — not for her optimism, but for her refusal to surrender it.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I agree with you. But people don’t listen to reason anymore. They listen to rage. Every tweet, every headline, every campaign ad — it’s weaponized fury.”

Jeeny: “Because fury sells. Outrage is the new currency. It’s easier to feed resentment than to build understanding.”

Jack: “And yet understanding doesn’t trend.”

Jeeny: “No. But it lasts.”

Host: The waitress returned, refilling their cups without a word. The steam from the fresh coffee rose, curling like breath between them — fragile, fleeting.

Outside, the highway hummed with distant engines, anonymous lives passing in and out of darkness.

Jeeny: “Tancredo was right about one thing — the duplicity of the establishment. But he forgot something. Duplicity doesn’t just breed anger. It breeds amnesia. People forget who lied first.”

Jack: “Maybe they don’t care who lied. Maybe they just want someone to say out loud what they’ve been feeling in silence.”

Jeeny: “Then words become bullets. And democracy becomes a firing range.”

Jack: “Or a mirror.”

Jeeny: “A mirror cracked beyond repair.”

Host: The rain had softened now, the storm retreating into a rhythmic drizzle. Jack looked out the window, the distant lights of trucks reflecting off puddles like broken stars. He spoke quietly, almost to himself.

Jack: “You know what I miss, Jeeny? Politics used to be boring. Predictable. Now it’s theater. Everyone’s shouting in costume.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time we take off the masks.”

Jack: “And expose what?”

Jeeny: “Our failures. Our contradictions. The truth that every nation is built on migration, on movement, on people searching for home. We can’t fix what we refuse to face.”

Jack: “And you think words can fix that?”

Jeeny: “Words started it. Words can heal it.”

Host: The television above them flashed another headline: “Public anger surges.” Jeeny glanced up, then back at Jack. He met her gaze this time — the walls between their philosophies thinning, if only for a moment.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe anger isn’t the problem. Maybe forgetting is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We forget that anger comes from love — love of country, love of fairness, love of belonging. But when love is betrayed, it turns to rage. And if we don’t guide it, it devours everything.”

Jack: “So what do we do?”

Jeeny: “We remember. We rebuild. We talk — even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”

Host: The rain finally stopped, leaving the windows streaked but clear. A faint glow from the highway spilled into the diner, painting them in tired gold. Jack sighed, rubbing his temple, then smiled faintly — a rare gesture, fragile but real.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… sometimes I think you’d make a better politician than any of them.”

Jeeny: “No. I’d make a terrible politician. I still believe in listening.”

Host: A quiet laugh escaped Jack — soft, genuine, the sound of a cynic surrendering, just a little, to hope. The clock above the counter ticked, steady and patient, as though it too believed that time — given enough honesty — could still heal what anger had burned.

Outside, a truck roared past, splitting the night, but the silence it left behind was gentler — not empty, but ready.

And as Jeeny’s final words settled in the air, the truth of Tancredo’s quote became clear:

Anger is not the disease. Deception is.
And the cure begins the moment we dare to speak — not to shout, but to understand.