Men with anger do not know how to deal with unreasonable, pushy

Host: The night was thick with fog, curling like ghostly smoke along the edges of an empty street café. Dim light from an old lamppost flickered against the wet pavement, where rain had just ceased, leaving silver reflections of the city’s bones. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat across a wooden table, two shadows framed by the soft hum of a neon sign. The clock above the counter ticked, steady and cold, as if measuring silence more than time.

Jack’s grey eyes held the kind of stillness that follows a storm—not peace, but containment. Jeeny’s hands, small and trembling slightly, cradled a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold.

Host: The quote had fallen between them moments earlier like a stone dropped into still water.

Jeeny: “You actually agree with that? That men with anger don’t know how to deal with unreasonable, pushy people, especially women?”

Jack: “Not agree, Jeeny. I understand it. There’s a difference. A man who’s angry can’t think. He’s already lost control. And when someone—especially a woman—pushes, he doesn’t know whether to fight or retreat. Either way, he’s defeated.”

Host: The steam from the coffee machine behind the counter hissed, cutting through the air like an exhale of tension.

Jeeny: “You make it sound as if women are the problem, Jack. That if a woman is assertive, she’s automatically ‘pushy.’”

Jack: “Not saying that. I’m saying that anger and emotion don’t mix well with reason. When an angry man meets an emotional woman, both start fighting ghosts, not each other.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, but not with anger—with hurt. Her voice, though soft, carried fire.

Jeeny: “That’s not fair. You’re reducing human conflict to gender mechanics. As if the problem is that men are too emotional, and women too provocative. Maybe it’s about power, Jack. Maybe anger grows in people who’ve never learned to listen.”

Jack: “Listening doesn’t work when someone’s being unreasonable, Jeeny. You’ve been in those meetings—you know how it goes. You try to stay calm, but the pushier the other person gets, the more your blood boils. It’s not about gender, it’s about human limits.”

Jeeny: “Then why did Peterson say ‘especially women’? That’s not a neutral observation—it’s a judgment.”

Host: The rain began to fall again, soft, rhythmic, tapping against the windowpane like measured breaths.

Jack: “Because men often don’t know how to handle confrontation with women, Jeeny. Society trains us to be gentle, to withhold, to never strike back—verbally or physically. But when a woman gets aggressive, a man’s not allowed to defend himself the same way. That’s the trap. That’s where anger festers.”

Jeeny: “So you think men are victims now?”

Jack: “In some ways, yes. Look at relationships, workplaces, even the media. A man’s anger is called toxic, but a woman’s is called empowerment. We’ve lost the balance.”

Host: The air in the café tightened, as though the walls themselves were listening. The neon sign outside buzzed, casting a faint red glow across Jack’s jawline—sharp, tense, and full of defense.

Jeeny: “That’s not balance you want, Jack. That’s privilege disguised as fairness. You’re saying men should be allowed to unleash their anger without consequence.”

Jack: “No. I’m saying they should be allowed to acknowledge it without being shamed for it. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “But what do you call the violence, the abuse, the wars born of that same anger? You can’t talk about men’s anger as if it’s harmless or suppressed. It’s destroyed civilizations, Jack.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, like a curtain falling between them. Outside, a taxi splashed through a puddle, its headlights slicing the mist.

Jack: “Yes, and yet, that same anger built civilizations too. Do you think the Roman Empire, the industrial revolution, or even the civil rights movement happened without anger? The problem isn’t anger, Jeeny. It’s direction.”

Jeeny: “Then who decides its direction, Jack? The same people who’ve always claimed they were just ‘angry for a cause’? I think of Emmeline Pankhurst, leading women’s suffrage through peaceful protest and moral defiance, not rage. That’s power. Not shouting. Not fists. Not dominance.”

Jack: “And yet she broke laws, faced prison, caused chaos. Don’t romanticize it. Her anger was real—it just wore a dress of conviction.”

Host: Jeeny looked down, fingers tightening around her cup. Her reflection in the dark coffee was fragmented by the faint ripples her breath caused.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the difference, Jack. Women turn anger into empathy. Men turn it into control.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny, but not true. Men turn anger into structure. Into boundaries. Into things that last. The problem is when we forget that anger is meant to build, not burn.”

Host: The rain drummed harder, as though echoing their rising tones. The tension had shifted—less like a fight, more like two storms colliding mid-sky.

Jeeny: “You think women can’t build with anger? You’ve never seen a mother defend her child. You’ve never seen women march for justice. Anger isn’t masculine, Jack—it’s human.”

Jack: “And yet men are the ones punished most for expressing it. Look at the modern man—bottled up, medicated, told to be ‘gentle’ while the world mocks him for being weak. That’s not progress, Jeeny. That’s erasure.”

Host: The café light flickered. A moment of darkness passed, soft and total, before the bulb glowed again, faint and trembling—like the pulse of the argument itself.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not erasure, Jack. Maybe it’s evolution. Maybe the world is asking men to grow past anger. To learn something deeper—patience, understanding, grace.”

Jack: “And what happens to all that anger, Jeeny? You think it just evaporates? No—it turns inward. That’s why so many men are lost, depressed, silent. They’ve been told their instincts are shameful.”

Jeeny: “Then teach them to feel, not to fight. To cry. To heal. Anger isn’t meant to be the voice of a man—it’s supposed to be the shadow he learns from.”

Host: The rain finally stopped, leaving behind a thick, quiet air that smelled of earth and reflection. Jack looked at Jeeny, his jaw unclenched, his breathing slower now.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m still learning that myself. But don’t pretend that men can just unlearn millennia of survival overnight. We were taught that control is safety.”

Jeeny: “And women were taught that silence is safety. We’re both unlearning lies, Jack.”

Host: The tension dissolved, like smoke thinning after the flame dies. The two sat quietly now, the neon sign outside casting a soft red shimmer on their faces, both tired yet somehow lighter.

Jack: “So what do we do then—when reason fails, when someone’s being unreasonable, pushy, maybe cruel?”

Jeeny: “We don’t meet fire with fire. We stay still. We breathe. We listen. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Jack: “That sounds like surrender.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s strength. The kind that doesn’t need to prove itself.”

Host: Jack leaned back, a faint smile crossing his lips, like a soldier laying down his weapon after too long a war.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the kind of strength I haven’t learned yet.”

Host: Outside, the fog began to lift, revealing the first hint of morning light—a thin silver line stretching across the wet street. The city was waking, the sound of distant traffic rising softly like breathing after tears.

Host: In that moment, they were no longer just man and woman, or logic and emotion, but two souls trying to unlearn what centuries had taught them—to mistake anger for truth.

Host: And as the light grew, gentle and new, their silence said more than any argument ever could.