I've always been a Democrat; it runs in my family.

Host: The evening had settled like a velvet blanket over the old diner, its neon sign buzzing in tired red above the rain-slick street. Inside, the air was warm, filled with the smell of coffee, fried onions, and nostalgia. An old jukebox in the corner hummed softly, playing Sarah Vaughan’s “Misty.” The tune swayed through the room like a ghost from another time — tender, melancholy, familiar.

At a corner booth, Jack and Jeeny sat facing each other. The rain outside blurred the world, turning every headlight into a streak of light and motion. Jack stirred his coffee absently, while Jeeny looked out the window, her reflection mingling with the city’s faint, wet glow.

On the radio, a voice — elegant, confident, and distant as memory — said, “I’ve always been a Democrat; it runs in my family.” The name followed: Sarah Vaughan.

Jeeny smiled faintly, tapping her finger to the rhythm of the song.
Jeeny: “You hear that, Jack? Even her politics sounded like a melody. Tradition with a touch of soul.”

Jack: “Tradition’s just a nice word for habit. People don’t think — they inherit. Like a family heirloom they never open.”

Host: The lights flickered as a truck passed by, its tires hissing through the rain. The diner’s fluorescent glow swayed — half light, half shadow — casting both of them in a shifting film of color and uncertainty.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like believing in something together is a crime. What’s wrong with a belief that runs through a family — the idea that you’re all part of something shared, something consistent?”

Jack: “Because it stops being a belief, Jeeny. It becomes inheritance. And inheritance breeds blindness. People don’t vote their conscience anymore — they vote their surname.”

Jeeny: “And yet, isn’t that what community is? Shared roots, shared stories, shared values? You think Sarah Vaughan meant she followed her party out of obedience? No, she meant it shaped her — like music, like church, like the way her mother’s hands cooked a Sunday meal. It’s about continuity, not complacency.”

Host: Her eyes glowed as she spoke, her voice quiet but rich with conviction. The steam from the coffee rose between them like a pale veil, blurring their faces, softening their edges — a visual metaphor for the thing they were really discussing: identity.

Jack: “Continuity’s just another word for comfort. You keep passing down the same beliefs, and one day, nobody remembers why they existed in the first place. It’s like those old songs no one listens to — people just hum them out of habit.”

Jeeny: “But even an old song can still make you feel something, Jack. Doesn’t matter how many times it’s been sung. It still carries a truth. Maybe that’s what family beliefs do — they remind you of where you came from, so you know where you’re standing.”

Jack: “Or they keep you from moving anywhere new.”

Host: The waitress passed by, her apron dusted with flour, her eyes tired but kind. She refilled their cups with the precision of someone who’s seen every kind of conversation unfold under these flickering lights — from lovers’ quarrels to philosophical wars.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder, Jack, where your own beliefs come from? You talk about freedom of thought like you invented it, but maybe even your skepticism is inherited. Maybe you learned to question everything from someone else’s disillusionment.”

Jack: “You’re saying I’m a product of someone else’s rebellion?”

Jeeny: “Aren’t we all?”

Host: The rain beat harder against the windows, the sound rising like percussion behind their words. Jack leaned forward now, his voice lower, his tone more measured.

Jack: “You know what I think? People cling to family beliefs because they’re afraid of loneliness. It’s easier to be wrong together than alone and uncertain.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fear. That’s belonging. And there’s beauty in that — the idea that your voice joins a larger chorus. Even if you sing off-key sometimes.”

Jack: “A chorus still needs someone to sing the solo, Jeeny. Someone who dares to go off-script.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even a soloist comes from a choir.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft but unyielding, like a final note refusing to fade. The jukebox changed songs — another Vaughan classic, “Whatever Lola Wants.” Her voice filled the diner, smooth and timeless, floating through the smoke and steam like something holy.

Jeeny: “You know, Sarah Vaughan came from a church choir. Gospel was her first language. When she said her politics ran in her family, I think she meant that faith ran in her family too — not in religion, but in humanity. In the idea that you don’t just live for yourself.”

Jack: “Faith in humanity’s easy when you’ve got a melody. Harder when all you’ve got is noise.”

Jeeny: “But you still listen, don’t you?”

Host: For a moment, Jack didn’t answer. He just looked down at the dark surface of his coffee, watching the reflections of the neon light ripple across it — like small, distorted truths trying to form a picture.

Jack: “I grew up in a house that didn’t believe in much. My father said politics were for liars, religion for dreamers, and beauty for the naïve. Maybe that’s why I stopped believing in anything that claimed to run in the family.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you still came here. You still argue with me. That means there’s a part of you that wants to believe again — maybe not in a party or a church, but in the idea of something shared. Even if it’s just the sound of two people disagreeing.”

Host: Her smile was small but sincere, and something in Jack’s expression shifted — not a conversion, but a softening. Like an old wall beginning to crack, not to fall, but to let in a bit of light.

Jack: “You know, maybe Sarah had it right. Maybe belief isn’t about sides. Maybe it’s about continuity — about what keeps singing in you, long after you stop hearing where it started.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about who you vote for, Jack. It’s about what music you still carry. What you pass down without even knowing it.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to ease, each drop now slower, gentler — as if the storm had decided to listen in. Jack reached across the table and tapped the rim of his cup softly, keeping time with the music.

Jack: “You think belief is like jazz — inherited structure, improvised truth?”

Jeeny: “That’s the most honest way to say it.”

Host: The jukebox played on, its soft vinyl crackle blending with the faint hum of the night. Jack looked at Jeeny, and for once, there was no irony in his voice.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what family really means — not agreement, but rhythm. The kind you keep even when the song changes.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The rhythm that keeps you human.”

Host: The last note of the song drifted out, hanging like a sigh in the space between them. The lights reflected off the window, catching the distant city in hues of red and gold.

Outside, a young couple passed, sharing a single umbrella. Inside, two old souls sat with the faint hum of a record and the warmth of shared understanding.

And somewhere, in the soft echo of Sarah Vaughan’s voice, there was the quiet truth of it all — that belief, like beauty, like music, doesn’t just run in families.

It runs in the blood of being alive.