It isn't enough just to scream at the Occupy Wall Street

Host: The city was restless — a thousand lights flickering against a backdrop of winter fog. Down on the street, the remnants of an Occupy Wall Street protest still lingered: cardboard signs half-soaked in rain, slogans bleeding into the pavement. The wind carried the echo of chants long gone, replaced now by the hum of traffic and the distant wail of sirens.

From the window of a coffee shop overlooking the square, Jack watched the world move again — commerce and compromise resuming their rhythm as if outrage had an expiration date. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug, steam rising between them like the ghost of a revolution.

The rain outside had slowed, but the conversation brewing inside was only beginning.

Jeeny: “Colin Powell once said, ‘It isn’t enough just to scream at the Occupy Wall Street demonstrations. We need our political system to start reflecting this anger back into, “How do we fix it? How do we get the economy going again?”’”

Jack: (sighing) “Yeah. That’s the hard part, isn’t it? Turning noise into policy. Rage into rebuilding.”

Host: His voice carried that weary tone of someone who had marched once — who had held a sign, shouted in the rain — and now carried the echo of that same anger inside him like an unhealed wound. The window glass reflected his face alongside the blurred skyline — two versions of the same man, divided by disillusionment.

Jeeny: “Screaming’s the easy part. It’s the language of pain. But fixing things? That’s the language of courage.”

Jack: (with a faint laugh) “And bureaucracy doesn’t speak courage.”

Jeeny: “No. It speaks delay.”

Host: Outside, a police cruiser rolled slowly past the square, its lights muted but present — like an exclamation mark on an unfinished sentence. The rain streaked the glass, dividing the view into fragments, as though even the city itself was undecided on what side of history it wanted to stand.

Jeeny: “Powell was right. Anger is energy. But it’s only useful if you channel it. Otherwise it just eats you alive.”

Jack: “You think those protests changed anything?”

Jeeny: “They changed the conversation. That’s where every movement starts — not with victory, but with vocabulary.”

Jack: “Then why does it feel like we’re still speaking the same language — just louder?”

Jeeny: “Because we stopped listening halfway through.”

Host: The barista turned up the radio behind the counter — news headlines murmuring through static. Words like “inflation,” “gridlock,” “recession,” and “division” punctuated the air like dull hammer blows.

Jack’s fingers tightened around his cup.

Jack: “Everyone talks about the 1% and the 99%. But what about the 100%? The country that’s supposed to belong to all of us?”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy — we’ve forgotten how to share anger without turning it into hate.”

Jack: “And politics profits from that.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Outrage is the new currency. But Powell — he wasn’t condemning anger. He was asking for direction. For purpose.”

Jack: “You mean discipline.”

Jeeny: “No. Design.”

Host: The rain picked up again — thin, cold streaks racing down the glass. The reflection of the city lights fractured across the droplets like small, fleeting fires.

Jack: “When I was younger, I believed protests could change the world. Now I think they just remind the world it needs changing.”

Jeeny: “That’s still something. Awareness precedes action.”

Jack: “Awareness without action is self-pity.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Then maybe the next revolution isn’t in the streets. It’s in the systems. The offices. The laws.”

Jack: “And who rewrites them?”

Jeeny: “The same people who filled those streets — if they don’t burn out first.”

Host: She spoke softly, but there was fire under the words — the kind that didn’t flare wildly but burned deep and steady. Jack watched her as if searching for evidence that belief still existed in anyone.

Jack: “Powell believed in reform, not rebellion.”

Jeeny: “Because he understood structure. You can’t fix a house by shouting at it. You’ve got to pick up a hammer.”

Jack: “Yeah, but some people are too broke to buy one.”

Jeeny: “Then we build a community toolbox.”

Host: That earned the first real smile of the night — small, brief, but alive. The kind of smile that comes when despair remembers hope has a sense of humor.

Jack: “You really think people still care enough to fix things?”

Jeeny: “I think caring is the only thing keeping this country from collapsing under its own contradictions.”

Jack: “And anger?”

Jeeny: “Anger’s the smoke. Caring’s the fire.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. The coffee shop was nearly empty now — just the two of them and the quiet hum of a broken neon sign outside flashing OPEN, OPEN, OPEN — as if the world were insisting on staying awake.

Jack stared out the window again. The protest signs were still there, soggy and forgotten. WE ARE THE 99%. CHANGE THE SYSTEM. FAIRNESS FOR ALL.

He whispered, almost to himself:

Jack: “We built bonfires out of cardboard and slogans. But no one stayed long enough to feed the flames.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s our turn.”

Jack: (looking at her) “To do what?”

Jeeny: “To turn anger into architecture. To build something instead of breaking it.”

Host: Her words filled the air like the smell of rain before dawn — that faint promise that the storm’s destruction might just make the soil fertile again.

Jack: “You sound like someone who still believes in government.”

Jeeny: “No. I believe in people. Government’s just supposed to be the mirror — we’re the reflection. Powell was saying it’s not enough to shout at the glass. We have to fix what we see.”

Jack: (quietly) “And what do you see?”

Jeeny: “A country that’s forgotten it belongs to everyone.”

Jack: “And how do we fix that?”

Jeeny: “By remembering we can.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t hopeless. It was heavy, yes, but full — like soil after rain, ready for something new to grow.

Outside, the clouds were breaking. A thin streak of moonlight fell across the wet pavement, glinting off the cardboard signs like they still mattered.

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Powell wasn’t asking us to stop shouting, Jack. He was asking us to start listening — to our anger, to our needs, to each other.”

Jack: “And to believe it’s not too late.”

Jeeny: “It never is.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly, the coffee shop shrinking into a single glowing square of light in the vast darkness of the city. The world outside kept moving — cars, sirens, stories — but inside, two people sat awake in the quiet courage of conviction.

Whitman’s genius had lived in the common people. Powell’s hope rested in their action.

And between those two truths, Jack and Jeeny sat — not defeated, not naïve, but ready.

Because faith isn’t silence.
It’s the next sentence after the scream.

Fade to light.