In 1787, many Americans were convinced that the 'perpetual union'

Host: The evening was heavy with mist, the kind that blurs the edges of streetlights and softens the sound of passing cars. In a small corner café, steam from coffee rose like ghosts above the cups, dancing briefly before fading into the dim light. Jack sat near the window, his coat damp, his grey eyes reflecting the neon sign outside that flickered the word “Union” in tired, blue letters. Across from him, Jeeny held her hands close to the cup, warming them, her face pensive, her eyes soft but restless, as though haunted by something she couldn’t name.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… Edmund Morgan once wrote that in 1787, Americans were convinced their ‘perpetual union’ was collapsing. It’s strange, isn’t it? How fragile the idea of unity can be — even when people fight for it.”

Jack: (leans back, exhaling smoke) “Fragile? No, Jeeny. It’s inevitable. Every union, every collective, is temporary. They all pretend to be eternal, but collapse the moment self-interest returns. Look at those thirteen states — they surrendered power, sure. But they never meant to serve something larger than themselves.”

Host: The café clock ticked, a steady, mechanical heartbeat in the background. Jeeny watched Jack’s hands, the way his fingers tightened slightly when he spoke, as though he were clutching an invisible truth too bitter to swallow.

Jeeny: “So you think self-interest is all that binds people? That there’s no faith, no ideal, no shared belief that can last?”

Jack: “Faith is useful until it fails. Ideals are fine as long as they don’t cost too much. The Articles of Confederation — remember them? Thirteen states, thirteen egos, each clinging to their sovereignty like a child to its toy. They called it a ‘union,’ but it was just a fragile agreement built on fear of tyranny. The moment they felt safe, they turned on each other.”

Host: A bus groaned past the window, its reflection rippled in the rain-streaked glass. Jeeny looked at her reflection — fragmented, doubled, blurry — as if even her own image was questioning its unity.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? That they fought again — not to separate, but to rebuild. The Constitutional Convention wasn’t an admission of failure, Jack. It was an act of hope. They believed they could fix what was broken.”

Jack: (smirks) “Hope is just denial with better marketing. The Constitution wasn’t about faith, it was about control — power being redistributed more efficiently. They didn’t want unity; they wanted stability. There’s a difference.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the roof, filling the pauses between their words. The air was dense, like something was about to crack.

Jeeny: “You always reduce everything to mechanics, Jack. Power, control, efficiency — as if people are machines. But even those men — Madison, Hamilton, Franklin — they argued, they doubted, they dreamed. They were flawed, but they believed in something more than just control.”

Jack: “And how long did that belief last? A few decades before civil war split them again. Human nature doesn’t change. The Founders just delayed the inevitable — division dressed up as unity.”

Host: Jeeny’s brow tightened, her voice sharpened. The softness in her eyes turned into fire.

Jeeny: “But if division is inevitable, then why do we keep fighting to come together? Why do people still marry, build, forgive, even when they know it might break? Why did they rebuild the Union after the Civil War, or Europe after World War II? You talk about human nature as if it’s cynical, but maybe it’s just… persistent.”

Jack: (quietly) “Persistent, yes. But not pure. The Union was rebuilt because economies depended on it. Because nations can’t afford chaos. Even in love, Jeeny, people return not out of faith, but out of fear — fear of being alone.”

Host: A brief silence settled over them. The rain softened, the music from the old jukebox shifted to a slow, melancholic tune. Jeeny took a breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she lifted her cup.

Jeeny: “Maybe fear and faith are closer than you think. Maybe unity doesn’t exist to last, but to remind us that we need each other, even when it’s hard. That’s what the Founders were learning, Jack — that freedom without connection is just another form of isolation.”

Jack: “And connection without freedom is slavery. You can’t ignore that. When people surrender too much to the collective, they lose their identity. The Soviet Union, for instance — they believed in unity too. But what did it cost them?”

Host: The word “cost” hung in the air, heavy and unwelcome. Jack’s eyes narrowed, but his voice softened a little, like a flame that realizes its fuel is almost gone.

Jeeny: “Everything has a cost. Even freedom. But maybe the greater tragedy is when people refuse to pay it. When they choose to stand apart instead of build together. That’s what Morgan meant, I think — that the fear of collapse can also be a moment of creation.”

Jack: “Creation through fear… that’s poetic, but dangerous. It romanticizes panic. Those men in 1787 weren’t dreamers — they were survivors. They didn’t trust the people, Jeeny. That’s why they built a system to control them.”

Jeeny: “Or to protect them. From themselves, maybe. From the chaos of unrestrained will. That’s the paradox, isn’t it? We build systems to guard freedom, but those same systems threaten it. The Articles were too weak; the Constitution too strong. So we live forever in that tension.”

Host: The lights flickered, a brief pulse of electricity that illuminated their faces — one shadowed by doubt, the other lit by defiance.

Jack: “So what do you want me to say, Jeeny? That the Union, any union, is worth the pain? That we should pretend unity is noble, even when it’s built on compromise and hypocrisy?”

Jeeny: “Not pretend — believe. Because belief isn’t about certainty; it’s about commitment. The Founders didn’t know their Union would survive, but they chose to act as if it could. That’s what faith looks like, Jack — not blindness, but courage in the dark.”

Host: The rain had stopped. A thin light broke through the clouds, casting a silver glow across the wet pavement outside. Jack watched it, his jaw tight, his voice lower, almost a whisper.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it takes faith to hold a fractured world together. But it also takes doubt to keep it honest. The Founders had both — and maybe that’s why it worked.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe that’s what we’re all still trying to do — balance our doubt with faith, our freedom with connection. A kind of perpetual union not of nations, but of hearts.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The sound of a passing train echoed faintly through the city, a low, rhythmic hum that seemed to stitch the silence between them. Jack nodded, almost imperceptibly, and looked at Jeeny — really looked.

Jack: “You and your unions, Jeeny… always rebuilding what the rest of us give up on.”

Jeeny: “Someone has to.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — through the window, into the mist, where the lights of the city blurred like memories of a promise still kept. The Union of 1787 may have shaken, but in this small café, in the meeting of two minds, a different kind of union endured — one not written in law, but in the fragile, defiant human will to believe, again and again, in each other.