Lack of education, old age, bad health or discrimination - these

Host: The night breathed with a kind of melancholy calm, the city lights flickering like dying stars across the river’s surface. A train rumbled in the distance, its echo trailing like a ghost through the fog. On a bench near the bridge, Jack and Jeeny sat, their faces half-lit by a streetlamp that buzzed with tired electricity. Between them lay a folded newspaper, its headline bold: “Poverty Rates Rising Despite Economic Growth.”

Jack’s fingers drummed on the wood, restless, while Jeeny watched the river, her eyes reflecting both sorrow and resolve. The air was cold, but the conversation that was about to begin would burn hotter than the steel rails below.

Jack: “Robert Kennedy once said, ‘Lack of education, old age, bad health or discrimination — these are causes of poverty, and the way to attack it is to go to the root.’ Sounds noble, doesn’t it? But I’ve got to wonder — what if the root isn’t what we think it is?”

Jeeny: “What do you mean, Jack?”

Jack: “I mean maybe the root isn’t injustice, or ignorance, or illness. Maybe it’s just human nature. Maybe poverty is as old as civilization itself — a shadow cast by every pyramid we’ve ever built.”

Host: A gust of wind swept across the river, scattering a few dead leaves at their feet. Jeeny turned, her hair lifting slightly in the breeze, her voice both gentle and unyielding.

Jeeny: “You always reduce suffering to inevitability, Jack. That’s your armor — call it natural, and you don’t have to feel responsible for it.”

Jack: “Responsible? You think a man who’s never met his father, who’s working three jobs to feed his family, is poor because of me? Because I don’t feel enough guilt? That’s moral theater, Jeeny — not reality.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about guilt. It’s about connection. The moment we decide poverty is inevitable, we stop fighting it. You’re right — it’s been here forever. But so have wars, and we still try to end those.”

Host: The sound of a boat horn carried across the water, long and low, like a warning. The lamp above them flickered, casting shadows that danced over their faces — two silhouettes carved by conviction.

Jack: “And yet we don’t end them, do we? We just rename them — trade wars, class wars, wars of ideology. The same happens with poverty. We throw money at it, build programs, hold conferences, and still — the cycle spins. Maybe Kennedy was wrong. Maybe the root can’t be reached.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The root can’t be reached because people like you stop digging. Because we measure success by GDP and not by dignity. Look at education — Kennedy was right. Illiteracy still traps millions, and not by accident. It’s profitable to keep people uninformed.”

Jack: “You’re talking about systems, not people. But systems are made by people, Jeeny — and people don’t all want the same thing. Some want power, some want peace, most just want to survive. It’s not some grand conspiracy; it’s just the law of survival.”

Jeeny: “Then why call us human if all we do is compete? Isn’t the point of civilization to rise above that law?”

Host: The river shimmered, catching the faint light of the bridge lamps. A homeless man shuffled by, wrapped in a blanket, muttering to himself, his silhouette fragile against the fog. Jack’s eyes followed him — a brief flicker of sympathy, quickly hidden.

Jack: “Tell me, Jeeny — if we ‘attack the root,’ as Kennedy said, who holds the shovel? The government? The church? The people? Because every time someone digs, another bureaucrat builds a wall.”

Jeeny: “Then we tear it down. That’s what the Civil Rights Movement did. That’s what education reformers and health advocates still do. Every generation has its walls, but it also has its builders of light. You sound like someone who’s already given up.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m just someone who’s tired of pretending progress is the same thing as change. Look around you — homeless shelters overflowing, families choosing between medicine and food. We’ve got technology that can map the stars, but can’t keep a child from starving in the dark.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why you can’t stop believing. Because the moment we accept the dark, we become part of it.”

Host: A pause. The fog rolled in thicker now, blurring the lights across the river until they looked like fading dreams. Jack lit a cigarette, the glow briefly illuminating the weariness beneath his eyes.

Jack: “You talk about belief like it’s a cure. But belief doesn’t fill an empty stomach, Jeeny. Policy does. Economics does. And both are built on interests, not ideals.”

Jeeny: “Belief is the seed, Jack. Policies are just branches. Without the seed, there’s nothing to grow. You can’t legislate compassion — but you can awaken it.”

Jack: “You really think compassion can fix a system designed for inequality? That a little moral awakening will make the rich share and the powerful care?”

Jeeny: “It already has — at moments. South Africa, after apartheid. Scandinavian countries, where social safety nets actually work. Even America, when it decided to create Social Security or Medicare — those were acts born of empathy, not greed.”

Jack: “And now those very systems are crumbling under their own weight. You can’t keep patching the wound without closing it.”

Jeeny: “Then close it. That’s what Kennedy meant — don’t patch, heal. Attack the root, not the symptom. Educate the child, protect the elderly, care for the sick, confront discrimination. It’s not complicated, Jack — just hard.”

Host: The rain began to fall, soft at first, then steady, tapping on the bench, the water, their faces. Jeeny didn’t move, her eyes still locked on his, burning with something more than conviction — faith. Jack exhaled a thin plume of smoke, the embers dying as he watched the river swell.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I envy you. You talk like the world still listens. Like it still wants to be saved.”

Jeeny: “And you talk like it never could be.”

Jack: “Maybe it’s just… I’ve seen too many roots turn to rot.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the soil isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s that we stopped planting.”

Host: A car horn echoed overhead, fading into the distance. The lamp above them finally died, plunging the bench into shadow. Only the sound of the rain and the river remained — two ancient voices whispering the same truth: that time erodes, but it also renews.

Jack: “So what would you do, Jeeny? If you could start from the root?”

Jeeny: “I’d start with education. Teach people not just how to earn, but how to see. How to understand the structures that bind them, the voices that lie to them, the power they still hold. Because once someone sees the root — truly sees it — they can refuse to water it.”

Jack: “And me?”

Jeeny: “You’d be the one to remind them that truth isn’t soft. That it has to be fought for.”

Host: The rain slowed, melting into a fine mist that hung over the river like memory. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, his hand trembling slightly — not from the cold, but from the weight of what he’d heard. Jeeny stood, her coat soaked, her eyes still bright.

Jack: “You really believe we can do it, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Because the moment we stop believing in change, we start accepting chains.”

Host: A train roared overhead, its light slicing through the mist, casting their faces in brief brilliance — as if for one instant, both were illuminated by the same truth. When the sound faded, only the river’s murmur remained.

They walked away slowly, side by side, their shadows stretching toward the water, merging into one. Above them, the city glowed — broken, beautiful, and still, somehow, worth saving.