Mr. Speaker, I rise today to recognize the Peace Corps as it

Host: The sunset burned through the clouds over Washington D.C., staining the Potomac River in shades of gold and crimson. The Capitol dome glowed in the fading light, an emblem of both power and memory. In a small café just across from Union Station, two voices murmured beneath the faint hiss of the espresso machine. The walls were lined with old photographs—faces of young volunteers, villages, schools, and hands building something out of nothing.

Host: The smell of rain mixed with the aroma of coffee and aged paper. Jack sat hunched over a newspaper, his grey eyes tracing a headline about foreign aid and budget cuts. Across from him, Jeeny watched the window, where the reflection of the Capitol trembled in a puddle on the street.

Host: Between them, an old quote was written on a napkin in blue ink:
“Mr. Speaker, I rise today to recognize the Peace Corps as it reached its 45th anniversary on March 1, 2006.” — Solomon Ortiz

Jeeny: “Forty-five years. Imagine that. Thousands of people sent into the world to teach, build, and heal. Ortiz was right to honor them—it’s not just an anniversary. It’s a reminder of what we used to stand for.”

Jack: “Stand for, maybe. But what did it achieve, really? A few wells, a few schools, some goodwill? The world’s still burning, Jeeny. Wars, poverty, politics—it’s all the same. The Peace Corps was a nice dream, but dreams don’t feed anyone.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical, even for you. The Peace Corps wasn’t about solving everything—it was about trying. It was about service, about seeing humanity in strangers. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “Intent doesn’t feed the hungry. You can’t live off ideals. Those volunteers went abroad, sure, but they came back to the same broken system. You think goodwill changes corruption?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not corruption, but it changes people. You know, my aunt went to Ghana in the ‘80s as a teacher. She told me once that the kids she taught built their own classrooms years later—some of them became teachers themselves. That ripple mattered, Jack. Maybe small, but real.”

Host: Jack looked up, the lines of his face etched in the dim light. His expression softened, not with agreement but with fatigue. The rain began again, slow and rhythmic, tapping the window like distant applause.

Jack: “And how many of those ripples drowned before reaching shore? You ever wonder if it’s just another form of self-congratulation? Americans playing savior overseas, while their own cities crumble?”

Jeeny: “That’s unfair. The Peace Corps wasn’t about saving—it was about sharing. People learned as much as they taught. You think the volunteers came home untouched? They came back different, humbler, more awake.”

Jack: “Maybe. But humility doesn’t fix injustice. It’s like trying to stop a flood with kindness.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes kindness is the dam.”

Host: The sound of her words lingered, like thunder after lightning. Jack leaned back, his chair creaking. The waitress passed by, leaving two fresh cups of coffee, the steam rising like tiny ghosts between them.

Jack: “You really believe people can change the world one village at a time?”

Jeeny: “I believe the world is made of villages. Every act of service, every shared meal, every child taught to read—it builds something larger than we can see. Isn’t that what makes it human?”

Jack: “Human, yes. Effective, not necessarily. Look at history—charity’s been around for centuries, and so has suffering.”

Jeeny: “Because people keep choosing power over service. That’s not the Peace Corps’ failure—it’s humanity’s.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, but not from weakness—from conviction. Jack studied her, the way her hands gripped the mug, the way her eyes glowed with a quiet fire.

Jack: “You talk like service is sacred.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Tell me, Jack, what’s the point of progress if it doesn’t serve anyone? Machines, profits, weapons—they don’t define us. Service does. Ortiz saw that—he stood in Congress, in a hall built on ambition, and chose to honor service. That’s a kind of rebellion.”

Jack: “Maybe. But it’s easier to honor an idea than to live it. Most people don’t want to serve—they want to win.”

Jeeny: “And yet, there are still people who serve anyway. That’s the miracle. Even when no one’s watching.”

Host: The rain outside thickened into a steady curtain, blurring the lights of passing cars. A bus stopped by the curb, its side emblazoned with faded words: Peace Corps—The Toughest Job You’ll Ever Love. Jack watched it leave, the phrase flickering in the glow of a streetlamp.

Jack: “You know… my father used to say something similar. He served in the Peace Corps in Bolivia, before I was born. He never talked about it much—just said it was ‘harder than war, because there were no enemies to blame.’ I didn’t get it then.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think maybe he meant that serving others forces you to face yourself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what makes it real. The Peace Corps wasn’t built on politics—it was built on conscience. On the belief that peace isn’t the absence of conflict, but the presence of understanding.”

Host: The light above them flickered once, then steadied. The café had grown quiet, the rain the only audience to their words. Jack’s fingers traced the edge of the napkin, the ink beginning to blur.

Jack: “So maybe Ortiz wasn’t just recognizing an institution. Maybe he was reminding us of what we’ve forgotten.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That peace isn’t declared—it’s lived. In small acts. In unseen corners. By ordinary people who refuse to stop caring.”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jack’s face, the first of the evening. The storm outside began to ease, the streetlights reflecting on the wet asphalt like fragments of memory.

Jack: “You know, for someone who claims to hate politics, you’d make a decent congresswoman.”

Jeeny: “Only if I could replace every speech with action.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what the world needs—less talk, more doing.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s start by believing doing still matters.”

Host: Their voices faded into a comfortable silence. Outside, the Capitol’s light glimmered through the mist, like a promise still half-believed. The bus with the Peace Corps logo was long gone, but its echo seemed to linger in the air, steady and unseen.

Host: Jack looked once more at the blurred napkin between them, the quote nearly vanished under the ring of a coffee stain, and said softly—

Jack: “Maybe the anniversary isn’t about the past. Maybe it’s a question—whether we still have the courage to serve.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s answer it.”

Host: Outside, the last drops of rain slid from the windowpane, catching the light like tears that refused to fall. Somewhere beyond the Capitol, the night deepened—but in that small café, two souls had already built a bridge of understanding, one word, one act, one shared belief at a time.

Host: The city breathed. The world turned. And quietly, unseen, the spirit of the Peace Corps—its faith in humble service—lived on in their silence.