Men who want to support women in our struggle for freedom and

Host: The warehouse was cold, its concrete walls stained with graffiti — protest slogans layered over years of forgotten rage. Outside, the city breathed in restless rhythm: sirens, tires, voices raised in argument and song. Inside, the air smelled of ink and defiance. Posters lay scattered on a long wooden table — slogans half-dried, paintbrushes resting like weapons waiting for dawn.

Jack leaned against the table, his sleeves rolled, his hands smudged with red paint. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, cutting stencils, her black hair falling into her eyes. A radio hummed quietly in the corner, playing Nina Simone — “Mississippi Goddam.”

Host: The night had weight — the kind of weight that belongs to people who’ve decided they’re tired of waiting.

Jeeny: “Andrea Dworkin once said, ‘Men who want to support women in our struggle for freedom and justice should understand that it is not terrifically important to us that they learn to cry; it is important to us that they stop the crimes of violence against us.’”

Jack: (looking up) “That’s not a quote. That’s a command.”

Jeeny: “It should be.”

Jack: “You sound angry.”

Jeeny: “Because I am. She was. Every woman who’s ever had to live smaller than her courage has been.”

Host: The paintbrush slipped from his hand and rolled, leaving a red streak on the concrete — accidental art, accidental truth.

Jack: “I get it. She’s saying men should act, not emote.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world doesn’t need more men feeling bad. It needs fewer men doing harm.”

Jack: “But isn’t empathy the first step toward change?”

Jeeny: “Empathy’s the first step for children. Accountability’s the first step for adults.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s harsh.”

Jeeny: “Reality usually is.”

Host: She stood, brushing the paint dust from her jeans, her movements sharp, purposeful. The overhead light flickered — a pulse matching the tension in the air.

Jack: “So what do you want from men, then? Not sympathy, not softness — what’s left?”

Jeeny: “Action. Resistance. Integrity. Not performative guilt. Not hashtags and tears. Real, visible refusal to be complicit.”

Jack: “You think we’re all complicit?”

Jeeny: “Silence is complicity. And silence has a gender.”

Host: He exhaled — not defensive, but humbled. He picked up another brush, tracing letters on a half-finished poster: ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. The red paint bled slightly, as if the words themselves were alive.

Jack: “You know, I’ve seen so many men post things online — support, outrage — but when they hear something ugly in a locker room, they say nothing. When a woman’s story makes them uncomfortable, they change the subject.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because crying is easier than confronting.”

Jack: “And confronting means losing power.”

Jeeny: “Or sharing it.”

Jack: “Same thing to most men.”

Jeeny: (sighs) “That’s the tragedy.”

Host: The rain began outside — slow at first, then steady, beating against the metal roof. The sound filled the space, rhythmic and relentless, like applause for truth.

Jack: “You know, I used to think being a good man meant not doing harm. But Dworkin’s right — that’s not enough. Neutrality is a luxury of the privileged.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And the word ‘good’ is often just camouflage for inaction.”

Jack: “So you’re saying I shouldn’t just cry. I should fight.”

Jeeny: “Not for us. With us.”

Host: Her voice was calm now, but it carried weight — like a stone dropped into still water.

Jack: “But most men don’t know where to start.”

Jeeny: “Start with the mirror. Start with the jokes you don’t stop. The friends you don’t challenge. The systems you benefit from and pretend are neutral.”

Jack: “That’s uncomfortable work.”

Jeeny: “It’s supposed to be. Growth isn’t polite.”

Host: The wind rattled the warehouse doors. The paint smell grew stronger — sharp, clean, like defiance taking physical form.

Jack: “You know, I used to think feminism wanted men to change who they were. Now I think it just wants men to stop getting in the way.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Stop blocking the exits. Stop rewriting our pain. Stop needing to be the center of the story.”

Jack: “And stop pretending that understanding oppression is the same as ending it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: She stepped closer, her expression softening slightly. The anger was still there, but beneath it, something else — exhaustion. A kind of weariness that doesn’t come from shouting, but from shouting for too long into silence.

Jeeny: “You know what hurts most? That we still have to ask for this. That every generation of women has to explain why being safe isn’t a luxury.”

Jack: “Because power doesn’t surrender. It only evolves.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s our job to keep evolving faster.”

Jack: “And ours to stop pretending evolution is someone else’s problem.”

Host: The radio crackled. Nina Simone’s voice bled softly into the air again — “You don’t have to live next to me, just give me my equality.” The irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

Jeeny: “You know, I don’t want men to cry less. I want them to cry after they’ve done something about it.”

Jack: (quietly) “Yeah. Tears are useless without courage.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: They stood side by side now, painting in silence. The words on the posters multiplied — ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. OUR LIVES ARE NOT REQUESTS. STOP TELLING US TO SMILE.

Each stroke was both accusation and prayer.

Jack: “You think we’ll ever see it? A world where women don’t have to shout for safety?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But not because history gives it to us. Because we take it.”

Jack: “And men?”

Jeeny: “They have to decide which side of history they want to stand on.”

Host: The rain eased, the storm’s echo fading into stillness. The posters lay drying on the table — red words glowing against white paper, pulsing with quiet power.

Jeeny: “You know what Dworkin was really saying?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That progress doesn’t need sentiment. It needs solidarity.”

Jack: (nodding) “And justice doesn’t come from empathy — it comes from ending the excuses.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The light flickered once, then steadied. Their reflections appeared faintly in the wet glass — two figures surrounded by the evidence of conviction.

Host: And as the rain finally stopped, Andrea Dworkin’s words seemed to reverberate through the silence — fierce, unsoftened, unyielding:

Host: that justice does not require sensitivity but responsibility,
that change is not born from tears, but from courage,
and that those who truly stand with the oppressed
do not learn to cry —
they learn to act.

Host: For freedom does not come from empathy alone —
it comes from the moment compassion becomes resistance,
and the world begins to understand
that feeling for someone
is never enough
until you stand beside them.