Jesus' birthday is commercialized, so of course, Black History

Host: The neon glow of the city pulsed against the rain-slick windows, painting streaks of red and gold across a dimly lit diner that never closed. The hum of an old jukebox played softly in the background, blending with the hiss of coffee being poured and the distant thunder outside.

At a corner booth, Jack sat, his jacket half-soaked, his grey eyes fixed on the reflection of the street. His hands wrapped around a chipped mug, steam curling into the air like ghosts of thoughts unspoken.

Across from him, Jeeny stirred her drink absentmindedly — her long hair damp, her expression alive with quiet conviction. Between them lay a newspaper, folded to an article with a familiar face and a bold headline about Black History Month merchandise.

Jeeny: “Jidenna once said, ‘Jesus’ birthday is commercialized, so of course, Black History Month is commercialized.’”

Host: Her voice cut softly through the hum — neither cynical nor mournful, but clear, steady, and knowing.

Jeeny: “He wasn’t wrong. We turn everything sacred into something we can sell.”

Jack: leaning back “Yeah, that’s capitalism, Jeeny. It sells dreams by the dozen and memories by the pound. Why should history be any different?”

Jeeny: “Because history isn’t supposed to be a product. It’s supposed to be a pulse.”

Jack: “A pulse doesn’t pay bills.”

Jeeny: “Neither does losing your soul.”

Host: The waitress passed by, setting down a refill for both — black coffee, no sugar. The rain tapped harder on the windows, like impatient fingers demanding to be heard.

Jack: “You think commercialization kills meaning?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t kill it — it dilutes it. Makes it easier to swallow. Makes it look friendly enough for everyone to clap for, but not deep enough to change anything.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the tradeoff. At least it gets people talking. You slap Rosa Parks’ face on a T-shirt, and suddenly kids who never opened a history book are asking questions.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But what happens when the T-shirt costs fifty bucks, made in a factory that underpays brown hands? When the message becomes a logo?”

Jack: half-smiling “Then it’s just Jesus’ birthday all over again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. What began as worship becomes branding. What began as revolution becomes a sale.”

Host: The lights flickered slightly as thunder rumbled closer. The air thickened — not with tension, but with the heaviness of shared truth.

Jeeny looked out the window, her eyes reflecting the red of a passing traffic light.

Jeeny: “Do you know what hurts me the most? It’s not the commercialization. It’s the comfort that comes with it. People feel like they’ve done something just by buying something. Like they can purchase virtue without living it.”

Jack: “You mean like posting a hashtag and calling it activism?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’ve turned conviction into convenience. Black History Month becomes a sale in February and silence in March.”

Jack: “And yet, you can’t blame the people for surviving within the system that built the walls.”

Jeeny: “No. But we can blame the system for painting those walls with slogans about freedom while selling tickets to see them.”

Jack: “You always make rage sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “And you always make cynicism sound wise.”

Host: A moment of silence passed — long enough for the world to breathe in between them. The rain slowed. The city lights outside flickered against the puddles, shimmering like broken constellations.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table.

Jack: “So what’s the alternative, Jeeny? We live in a world where meaning and money are joined at the hip. If you want to spread a message, you brand it. That’s how things survive.”

Jeeny: “But survival isn’t the same as truth. Some things aren’t meant to survive through sale — they’re meant to survive through spirit.”

Jack: “Spirit doesn’t trend.”

Jeeny: “Neither did revolution until people started dying for it.”

Jack: pauses, watching her “You think we’ve forgotten how to die for anything?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we’ve forgotten how to live for anything without monetizing it first.”

Host: The wind blew against the window, rattling the glass like applause from ghosts. The jukebox changed songs — something old, bluesy, and raw — the kind of music that feels like it remembers pain better than history books ever could.

Jeeny took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes lost in thought.

Jeeny: “You know, I don’t hate the idea of Black History Month. I hate that it’s treated like a seasonal sale — ‘one month only, learn about oppression while supplies last.’ Then everyone moves on, cleans their conscience, and waits for the next holiday to feel woke again.”

Jack: “You sound like you expect purity in an impure world.”

Jeeny: “No. I expect honesty. Purity is impossible. But honesty… that’s how we start healing.”

Jack: “And where do you find honesty in all this noise?”

Jeeny: “In the people who refuse to let the noise drown them. The teachers who tell the truth even when the curriculum doesn’t want them to. The artists who paint wounds without apology. The parents who name their children after freedom fighters, not trends.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You always turn despair into prayer.”

Jeeny: “Because despair’s just hope that forgot its purpose.”

Host: The neon light outside the diner flickered once more, then steadied — the red glow casting both of their faces in a strange, intimate hue.

Jack looked at Jeeny for a long time, the kind of look that tries to understand rather than debate.

Jack: “Maybe Jidenna was just pointing out the inevitability. If even God’s son can be turned into a marketing campaign, what chance does culture have?”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t surrendering to it. He was naming it — so we could see it. Once you see the chains, you don’t have to wear them.”

Jack: “You think awareness is enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s the beginning. Awareness leads to rebellion. Rebellion leads to change. But first, someone has to dare to look at the sacred and say, ‘You’re being sold.’”

Jack: “And then?”

Jeeny: “Then you take it back.”

Jack: “How?”

Jeeny: “By remembering why it mattered before anyone could profit from it.”

Host: The rain had stopped entirely now. The glass reflected their faces — two shapes, one tired, one luminous — framed by the world they both loved and feared.

Jeeny reached across the table, her fingers brushing the folded newspaper. She turned it over, hiding the headline.

Jeeny: “We keep forgetting that history isn’t just something to be remembered — it’s something to be lived.”

Jack: “You think people will ever learn that again?”

Jeeny: “They have to. Because the moment we stop living our truth, someone else will sell it back to us — repackaged, overpriced, and hollow.”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe that’s the real revolution, huh? Taking back meaning from the marketplace.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Reclaiming the sacred before it turns to merchandise.”

Jack: “Then I guess we’ve all got work to do.”

Jeeny: “We always did. The question is whether we’ll do it when no one’s watching.”

Host: The camera slowly panned back — the diner glowing against the wet city, the world reflected in the rain-slick streets. The faint hum of life resumed outside — traffic, voices, the quiet hum of struggle continuing unseen.

Inside, their conversation lingered in the air like incense — fragrant, heavy, impossible to forget.

And as the jukebox hummed its final note, the truth settled over the scene — steady and uncommercialized:

The sacred will always risk being sold,
but meaning is only lost when we stop defending it.

Because, as Jidenna said, “If Jesus’ birthday can be commercialized, so of course can history” —
and yet, somewhere beneath the neon and the noise,
the true believers are still reclaiming the story — one unbought word at a time.