I'm proud that my family and I live across the street from a

Host: The sky was an ashen dome, stretched low over the town, pressing the smell of iron and smoke into the cold air. The steel mill across the street coughed out a steady plume of steam, its whistles echoing through the evening like old gods breathing. The windows of nearby houses flickered with dim yellow light, warm against the endless grey.

The streetlights hummed faintly. Their pale glow fell upon Jack and Jeeny, who sat on the hood of an old truck parked in front of a small union hall, paint peeling, but alive with the murmur of voices and laughter inside. From across the street came the rhythmic clang of metal, as if the earth itself still had a heartbeat.

Jack smoked a cigarette, its ember glowing like a single eye in the dark. Jeeny sat beside him, her hands wrapped around a chipped thermos of coffee, her hair catching the faint orange from the mill’s flames.

Jeeny: “You ever hear what John Fetterman said once? ‘I’m proud that my family and I live across the street from a steel mill and a union hall. This is where my wife and I want to raise our family, not in a mansion.’”

Host: The smoke curled upward, twisting in the wind. Jack exhaled, watching it drift toward the mill, as though drawn to its heat.

Jack: “Yeah, I read that once. Seems like the kind of thing politicians say when they’re trying to sound like the people.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe he meant it?”

Jack: “I believe he might’ve. But you know how it goes — people love the idea of grit, not the grime. They like to romanticize sweat, noise, poverty — as long as they can keep it at a distance.”

Host: The grind of machinery rose and fell, like the tide. Jeeny looked toward the mill, her eyes catching the light that spilled from its open doors. Inside, silhouettes of workers moved like shadows in an ancient ritual.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly why his words matter. Because he didn’t want distance. Because he chose to live in it — the noise, the smoke, the struggle. It’s not about the mansion, Jack. It’s about belonging.”

Jack: “Belonging doesn’t pay the bills. It doesn’t stop the mill from shutting down when the next contract falls through. You think pride keeps the heat on in January?”

Jeeny: “No. But pride gives you a reason to keep fighting when the heat goes out. That’s what the union hall stands for — not comfort, but dignity.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint sound of singing from inside the hall — an old folk song, half forgotten but still alive in the bones of the town. Jeeny listened, her face softening.

Jeeny: “My grandfather used to work in a mill like that. He’d come home with soot on his face, his hands cracked from the cold. But when he sat at the table, he’d smile. He used to say, ‘Every spark from that furnace is a piece of our bread.’ That’s what Fetterman’s talking about — roots.”

Jack: “And that same furnace took a lot of lives too. I’ve seen it. The heat burns more than metal, Jeeny. It burns people. Dreams. Bodies. You ever seen a man lose his hand to a press and still show up for work a week later? That’s not pride — that’s survival.”

Host: Jack’s voice trembled, a crack in the armor of his usual calm. The mill’s light flickered across his face, revealing something raw — a memory buried deep.

Jeeny turned toward him, her brow furrowing gently.

Jeeny: “You lost someone there, didn’t you?”

Jack: (after a pause) “My brother. 2011. Conveyor jammed. They said it was a mechanical failure. But the truth is, the line was running too fast. Too much pressure, too few hands.”

Host: A heavy silence fell. Even the machines seemed to soften for a moment, as if the town itself paused to listen.

Jeeny: “I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t know.”

Jack: “Yeah, well. That’s why I don’t buy the poetry of it all. The mill doesn’t care if you’re proud or poor. It just keeps running.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But people care. People like your brother, like my grandfather — they didn’t just work the mill. They built something with it. They built community, solidarity, hope. The union hall across the street isn’t just a building — it’s the memory of all those voices refusing to be forgotten.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, strong and trembling at once. Jack dropped his cigarette, crushing it beneath his boot, the ember dying like a fading star.

Jack: “You think that still means something? In a world where CEOs make in a day what a steelworker makes in a year? You think those voices still echo?”

Jeeny: “They have to. Because without them, the rest of us would forget what work even means. This —” (she gestures toward the mill) “— this isn’t just about labor. It’s about identity. About knowing that worth isn’t measured in money, but in hands that build, hearts that stay, and families that don’t run from the noise.”

Host: The union hall door opened, spilling out a burst of light, laughter, and the smell of cheap beer. A group of men in work jackets stepped outside, talking, smiling, their faces lined with both exhaustion and pride.

Jack watched them — then looked down, his jaw tight, his eyes softening.

Jack: “You know, my brother used to say the same thing. Said the mill gave him more than it took. Said he’d rather die working for something that mattered than live useless in some mansion.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you already know what Fetterman meant. Pride isn’t about staying where it’s easy. It’s about choosing to stand where the world forgets to look — and saying, this is home.”

Host: The whistle from the mill blew — long, low, echoing into the night. The workers across the street raised their hands in brief salute, as if to some ancient rhythm that still pulsed beneath the town’s weary heart.

Jack stood, stretching, his eyes following the plume of steam curling into the sky.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why people like him matter. Not because they talk pretty. But because they remind us that grit still has a place in the world.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because no matter how shiny the future gets, someone still has to light the furnace.”

Host: They both laughed softly, the sound small against the great hum of the night. The mill roared again, alive, unstoppable — but this time, it felt less like a monster and more like a heartbeat.

The camera would have pulled back now — two figures standing by the truck, framed against the endless flames and snow. In the distance, the union hall door closed, its light flickering out like the last note of a song.

The town slept. The machines sang. And in that harsh, beautiful noise — in the clang of metal and the whisper of wind — there was something that no mansion could ever buy: the sound of honor.

The sound of home.