In our racist, sexist society, Christmas is the eight hours when

Host: The snow fell in slow, lazy spirals across the street, turning the city into a muted theater of white and neon. A faint hum of Christmas lights flickered above a closed bookstore, their colors bleeding into the wet pavement. Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of coffee, dust, and old paper. Candles trembled on the countertop, fighting against the drafts that sneaked through cracks in the windowpane.

Jack sat near the window, his coat still damp, his eyes reflecting the outside lights like fractured glass. He held a cigarette between his fingers but didn’t light it. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug, her hair catching faint threads of candlelight.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the quiet hum of an old radio, playing a broken carol — its melody both nostalgic and hollow.

Jeeny: “Do you know what Lloyd Kaufman once said, Jack?” Her voice was soft, but edged with something sharp. “He said, ‘In our racist, sexist society, Christmas is the eight hours when we stop killing each other, and gratuitous overeating is encouraged so that the starving and other people in the world can die.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Yeah. Sounds about right for Kaufman. The man makes grotesque films because reality’s already grotesque.”

Host: A faint draft slipped through the window, stirring the smoke from a nearby candle. Jack leaned back, his eyes narrowing — the kind of expression born of long years watching people betray the ideals they preached.

Jeeny: “You sound like you agree.”

Jack: “I do. Look around, Jeeny. We wrap cruelty in tinsel. For one day, we pretend the world isn’t built on exploitation — then go right back to it. We gorge ourselves while others starve, all under the banner of joy. Kaufman just stripped off the costume.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that still something? To stop for even eight hours — to pause the cycle of hate, even briefly?”

Jack: “You call that mercy? That’s not peace, Jeeny. That’s sedation. It’s anesthesia before we wake up and start cutting again.”

Host: The candle flame flickered. The radio crackled. Somewhere outside, a child laughed — a sound so innocent it felt like a ghost in the room.

Jeeny: “You think too little of people.”

Jack: “And you think too much.” He leaned forward, his hands pressed together. “Tell me, when the factories dump waste into rivers during the year but donate to charity on Christmas — does that cleanse them? When billionaires fund food drives while paying starvation wages — do you call that redemption or theater?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both,” she whispered. “But theater can still awaken empathy. Even hypocrisy can create a crack, a chance for light.”

Jack: “Light?” He laughed quietly. “The light’s just a neon sign saying SALE.”

Host: Jeeny didn’t flinch. Her eyes, deep and brown, met his with calm defiance. The candlelight painted her face in gold and shadow — as if she carried both hope and heartbreak in equal measure.

Jeeny: “I saw a woman last year — homeless, sitting near a bakery window. A man walked by, drunk, laughing with friends. He saw her and gave her his half-eaten sandwich. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t pure. But she smiled, Jack. For that moment, her hunger eased. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Jack: “A crumb isn’t justice, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it’s still kindness.”

Jack: “Kindness that shouldn’t need a holiday to exist. The problem isn’t the lack of generosity, it’s the schedule of it. We ration compassion like it’s gold.”

Host: Jack’s voice grew harder, sharper — each word like a small strike of flint. Jeeny listened, her hands trembling slightly against the mug, but her eyes stayed steady, like an anchor.

Jeeny: “So what, Jack? You’d rather people stop pretending altogether? You’d rather no one sing, no one give, because it’s not perfect?”

Jack: “I’d rather honesty than pretense. If we admit that Christmas is a façade — maybe then we’d start fixing the year behind it.”

Jeeny: “But maybe — without that façade — some people wouldn’t have the strength to care at all. You talk like hope’s a lie, but hope’s the only thing keeping the poor alive.”

Host: The wind outside picked up, brushing against the window with a soft, hollow whistle. The streetlights shimmered through the falling snow, like dying stars refusing to go out.

Jack: “You know what I see every Christmas? Shoppers fighting over flat screens, influencers staging charity posts, and news channels preaching love between commercials. It’s all rot in a red suit.”

Jeeny: “Then look deeper. Look past the noise. There’s still a child somewhere waking to a warm blanket for the first time, a widow receiving a letter from an old friend, a refugee finding shelter. Maybe it’s not enough, but it’s something real.”

Jack: “And the starving millions? Do they get comfort from knowing that somewhere else, someone’s overeating in their name?”

Jeeny: “That’s not what I said—”

Jack: “That’s what Kaufman said.”

Host: Jack’s voice cracked slightly, betraying a trace of bitterness. He ran a hand over his face, as if wiping away invisible dust. The radio hummed faintly, the carol warping into static.

Jeeny: “You’re angry at the world, Jack. But anger alone builds nothing.”

Jack: “Neither does blind forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “Who said forgiveness was blind?” Her tone sharpened now, rising with quiet fury. “You think compassion is weakness — but it’s rebellion. In a world that profits from hate, every act of empathy is revolutionary. Even if it lasts only eight hours.”

Host: Her words cut the air like shards of glass. Jack looked at her, stunned for a moment — not by her argument, but by the fire behind it.

Jack: “You call overeating a revolution?”

Jeeny: “No. I call remembering hunger a revolution. Every time someone eats and feels a twinge of guilt, that’s conscience waking. It’s imperfect, yes, but it’s still humanity whispering through the noise.”

Jack: “That whisper’s drowned by carols and cash registers.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you still listen to them every year?”

Host: Silence. The question landed like snow — soft, but heavy. Jack’s eyes drifted to the window, to the glowing street, the endless motion of lives outside their small refuge.

Jack: “Because maybe I want to believe. Even cynics get tired of being right all the time.”

Jeeny: “Then believe, Jack. Not in the system, not in the show — but in the moments that slip through it. The ones money can’t buy and cameras don’t capture.”

Host: The air between them softened. The flame steadied, burning quietly. Outside, the snowfall slowed, as if the sky itself was listening.

Jack: “You always make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s painful. But that pain means we still feel. And as long as we feel — even disgust, even guilt — there’s hope.”

Jack: “So what are we supposed to do? Just keep pretending for eight hours a year?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, leaning forward, her voice trembling but steady. “We take those eight hours and stretch them. We turn them into eight days, then eight months. Maybe someday, eight years. Maybe it never ends.”

Host: Jack looked at her — really looked. Her eyes reflected the candle’s flame, steady, unwavering. For the first time that night, his expression softened.

Jack: “You always did know how to ruin a good rant.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And you always knew how to hide behind one.”

Host: The radio finally went silent, replaced by the quiet hum of the city beyond. They sat there — two souls suspended in the fragile balance between despair and faith. The snow outside had stopped. Only the glow of the streetlights remained, tracing faint halos around every falling flake.

Jack: “Maybe Kaufman was right. Maybe we’re monsters pretending to be saints for one night.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe,” she said softly, “we’re saints pretending to be monsters the rest of the year — just to survive.”

Host: The flame on the table flickered once, then steadied again — a small, defiant heartbeat of light against the dark. Jeeny reached out, placing her hand over Jack’s. For a moment, no words were needed.

Outside, somewhere beyond the frozen streets, a faint bell rang — distant, imperfect, but still pure.

And in that fragile silence, Christmas — cruel, hypocritical, beautiful — lived again, not as a lie, but as a question.