If you know anything about the issues in our country, you know we

Host: The night was heavy over the city, a thick veil of smog and neon. The streets buzzed with the electric hum of life — sirens, subway rumble, the distant chant of a protest moving somewhere unseen.

A barbershop on the corner stood half-lit, its window streaked by rain, the faint glow of a flickering TV spilling over two figures inside.

Jack sat in the old leather chair, a beer in hand, his jawline catching the blue glare of the screen, where highlights from a football game replayed in slow motion. The anthem scene — players kneeling, crowd divided — repeated like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the counter, her arms folded, her eyes steady but sad, the reflection of the flag flickering in her gaze.

Between them, the words hung on the static of the TV —
“If you know anything about the issues in our country, you know we have a lot of deep-rooted anger and anxieties that spark a lot of passion. When you talk about our national anthem or the flag or race relations or the criminal justice system, it brings up a lot of those fears and insecurities.” — Malcolm Jenkins.

Jack: “You know what I hate about all this? It’s the noise. Everyone shouting, everyone sure they’re right. Nobody listening. Jenkins is right — it’s not just about the flag or the anthem. It’s about all the buried anger nobody wants to admit still exists.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than anger, Jack. It’s grief. Generational grief. The kind that lives in your bones, not your mind. People carry the weight of histories they never lived but still feel.”

Jack: “Grief’s supposed to fade. This country keeps picking at old scars like it’s addicted to pain.”

Jeeny: “Scars only fade when the wound underneath has healed. And we’ve never really healed, have we?”

Host: The TV hummed louder, as if it wanted to speak for them. A commentator’s voice rose and fell — words about “unity” and “division” tumbling like dice on a rigged table.

Outside, a car horn blared, followed by laughter, then silence. The city pulsed with contradictions — defiance and fatigue in equal measure.

Jack: “I grew up with a flag over my bed. My dad made me salute it every morning before school. He said it meant freedom. Now I see people kneel before it and others call that treason. How the hell did a piece of cloth turn into a mirror no one can stand to look into?”

Jeeny: “Because it reflects all of us — the beautiful and the broken. The flag’s not sacred because it’s perfect, Jack. It’s sacred because it carries everything — the pride, the hypocrisy, the suffering. It’s the sum of contradictions.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re forgiving it.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m acknowledging it. There’s a difference. You can love something and still see where it’s bleeding.”

Host: The barbershop clock ticked — slow, deliberate. The air was thick with the scent of shaving cream and old wood polish, with that quiet familiarity found only in places where time has slowed but not stopped.

A storm grumbled somewhere far off, like an argument brewing beneath the surface of the sky.

Jack: “You ever notice how people talk about patriotism like it’s a purity test? As if the only way to love your country is to ignore what it’s done wrong?”

Jeeny: “Patriotism without honesty is just denial. Real love demands truth. Otherwise, it’s worship.”

Jack: “But truth divides people. Look at us now — every conversation feels like stepping on glass.”

Jeeny: “That’s because truth forces people to confront what they built their comfort on. For some, that’s too much to bear. The anthem, the flag, the system — they’re not just symbols. They’re safety blankets.”

Jack: scoffs softly “Safety blankets soaked in gasoline.”

Jeeny: nods slowly “Exactly. One spark — and everything burns.”

Host: The lights flickered as thunder rolled. The rain grew heavier, streaking down the glass, blurring the reflection of the flag on the TV.

Jack stood, pacing slowly, his boots echoing on the tiled floor. Jeeny watched him, calm in his storm.

Jack: “You know what gets me? Every time someone kneels during the anthem, half the country screams about disrespect, but no one asks why they’re kneeling. They see protest as provocation. Emotion as threat.”

Jeeny: “Because acknowledging emotion means acknowledging guilt. And guilt’s the one thing power can’t afford.”

Jack: “So what do we do? Keep talking until our throats bleed? Keep forgiving until it doesn’t hurt?”

Jeeny: “No. We remember. And we feel. That’s what Malcolm Jenkins was saying. These issues — they aren’t new fires. They’re old coals we keep walking barefoot across.”

Jack: “You really think there’s hope in all this? In the shouting and the fear?”

Jeeny: “There’s hope because of the shouting. Silence is the language of surrender. Anger means we still believe change is possible.”

Jack: “Or that we still think we can win.”

Jeeny: “Same thing, sometimes.”

Host: The storm hit full now, pounding against the glass with the rhythm of a heartbeat. The TV screen flickered — images of protests, stadiums, faces twisted in fury and tears. The sound was muted, but the emotion screamed louder than words.

Jeeny walked to the window, pressed her hand against the glass. The rain smeared her reflection — half her, half the city.

Jeeny: “You know, when people say ‘we’re divided,’ they make it sound like a bad thing. But maybe division is just honesty we’ve avoided too long finally speaking out loud. We were never united in truth — only in silence.”

Jack: “That’s a beautiful line, Jeeny. And terrifying.”

Jeeny: “Most truth is.”

Jack: “So what — we just live with the tension forever?”

Jeeny: “No. We live through it. That’s how evolution works — pressure, discomfort, resistance. The same way a muscle grows, or a wound scars.”

Jack: “But people are tired, Jeeny. They want peace.”

Jeeny: “Peace without justice is just anesthesia. It numbs the pain, but the infection spreads.”

Host: The thunder cracked close this time, shaking the glass. A few streetlights flickered out, plunging the block into a hazy half-darkness.

Jack turned off the TV. The room fell quiet except for the storm — the sound of the sky confessing what humans couldn’t.

Jack: softly “You think all this anger can ever turn into something good?”

Jeeny: “It already has. Every march, every conversation like this, every person who dares to feel instead of hide — that’s progress. Pain’s just the cost of transformation.”

Jack: “And what if transformation never comes?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we won’t die pretending nothing needed to change.”

Host: The rain slowed, the thunder moved away, leaving the soft hiss of droplets against the pavement. The streetlights blinked back on — one by one, like hesitant hope.

Jack sat again, his hands folded now, his voice quieter, stripped of the sharpness it carried before.

Jack: “You know, I used to think protests were noise. Now I see they’re more like prayer. Angry prayer, maybe — but still a call to something higher.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Exactly. Rage is what truth sounds like when it’s been ignored too long.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s our national anthem now — not the song we sing, but the conversations we finally have.”

Jeeny: “And maybe one day, when the fear fades, we’ll hear harmony in the shouting.”

Host: The camera pulls back — the barbershop, the rain, the distant glow of a city still restless but alive. The flag on the muted TV remains, still and silent, its colors distorted by water and light — not perfect, but human.

Jack and Jeeny sit side by side, not in agreement, but in understanding — a small peace born not of sameness, but of shared courage to face the noise.

Outside, the storm clears.

A new wind rises — soft, uncertain, but clean.

And in its breath, the world seems to whisper:

We’re not breaking apart. We’re breaking open.