My parents were engineers. In the 1970s, they came to the United

Host: The train station was quiet except for the hum of the last departure board changing destinations — the soft, clicking rhythm of movement and memory. A cold wind slipped through the open archways, carrying the faint scent of rain and iron. Outside, the city lights glowed like a circuit board beneath a fogged-up sky — fragile, luminous, alive.

Host: Jack sat on a metal bench, his hands clasped between his knees, his suitcase beside him. Jeeny stood by the vending machine, watching her reflection in the scratched glass. There was something weary in her posture, something that spoke of miles traveled — not just across distance, but through decades of trying.

Host: Between them, the silence was patient. Not empty — just waiting for the right words to enter it.

Jeeny: “Reshma Saujani once said, ‘My parents were engineers. In the 1970s, they came to the United States as refugees from Uganda. Seeing everything this country did for my family inspired me to want to give back through public service.’”
(she paused, eyes distant)
“Imagine carrying that — gratitude big enough to shape a life.”

Jack: “Gratitude can be a burden too.”

Host: He didn’t look up. His voice carried that low, thoughtful gravity that made every word sound like an argument with himself.

Jack: “People like to romanticize struggle — talk about resilience like it’s some kind of inheritance. But it’s not. It’s exhaustion repackaged as virtue.”

Jeeny: “You’re not wrong. But maybe resilience and gratitude aren’t opposites. Maybe they’re part of the same equation — the pain that builds the purpose.”

Jack: “Purpose. That’s the word we throw at survival when we need it to mean something.”

Jeeny: “And why shouldn’t it mean something? Her parents fled everything — their home, their work, their safety — and still built a new life. That’s not just survival. That’s rebuilding the blueprint.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the station, rattling the windows, making the overhead signs tremble faintly. Somewhere in the distance, a train horn sounded — long, mournful, like the echo of a decision already made.

Jack: “You ever wonder why people like Saujani — immigrants, refugees — talk about giving back more than those who were born here?”

Jeeny: “Because they remember what it’s like to lose everything. Gratitude is sharpest in those who’ve known its absence.”

Jack: “Or maybe they just feel they owe something. Like citizenship is a debt.”

Jeeny: “Not a debt — a responsibility. The difference matters.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling a slow breath. The light from the overhead lamp cut across his face, dividing it — half shadow, half illumination.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? We keep saying ‘refugees,’ ‘immigrants,’ as if they’re a separate category of human. But every civilization was built by people running from something — war, hunger, history. Maybe the whole human story is one long migration.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why Saujani’s story hits so hard. Her family didn’t just escape a place — they carried their work, their education, their hope, across oceans. And she turned that inheritance into service. That’s how gratitude evolves — it becomes action.”

Jack: “Action’s the hard part.”

Jeeny: “It always is. But it’s also the only way to make memory mean anything.”

Host: She moved toward him, sitting on the bench beside his suitcase. The train lights outside flickered across their faces, alternating blue, white, blue again — like moral Morse code.

Jack: “You really think gratitude can build justice?”

Jeeny: “I think gratitude reminds us where justice begins. With acknowledgment. With remembering that what we have — our rights, our safety — came from the labor of people who arrived with nothing but a dream and a passport stamped ‘temporary.’”

Jack: “And yet they build permanence.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s what I love about Saujani’s words — her gratitude isn’t passive. It’s active. It’s not just ‘thank you,’ it’s ‘now let me help.’”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jeeny’s face. Her eyes glowed in the pale light — not naïve, but full of a quiet kind of defiance.

Jeeny: “She didn’t say, ‘America saved my family.’ She said, ‘Because it saved them, I want to serve it.’ That’s the difference between entitlement and empathy.”

Jack: “You think empathy can fix what’s broken?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can keep us from breaking further.”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands. He rubbed his thumb across a faint scar on his palm — old, almost invisible, but still there.

Jack: “My grandfather came here in the ’50s. He never talked about the country he left. Just worked, every day, like he was afraid someone might take it all away. I used to think he didn’t care about politics. But now I realize — silence was his way of praying.”

Jeeny: “And what did you inherit from that silence?”

Jack: “The fear of losing what I never had to fight for.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe your generation’s job is different. Not to rebuild, but to repair — to use privilege as a tool, not a throne.”

Host: The station lights dimmed slightly — the last call before closure. A soft announcement echoed overhead, calm but final.

Jeeny: “Saujani turned her gratitude into Girls Who Code. She gave the next generation a skill, not just a story. That’s what ‘public service’ really means — leaving the ladder up after you climb.”

Jack: “So gratitude becomes justice. Service becomes inheritance.”

Jeeny: “And inheritance becomes responsibility.”

Host: The rain began again outside, tracing silver lines down the glass. The train on the far platform hissed as it prepared to leave — all steam and memory, like time itself exhaling.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, sometimes I wonder if this country deserves people like her — people who keep loving it even when it doesn’t love them back.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it worth saving — the ones who choose to love it anyway.”

Jack: “That’s faith.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s courage.”

Host: She stood, picking up her bag. Jack rose beside her, his expression softer now — the argument settled not in victory, but in understanding.

Host: They walked toward the exit, passing a mural painted across the wall: faces of immigrants, engineers, dreamers — hands building bridges, coding futures, planting flags in soil that had once been foreign and now was home.

Host: The camera followed them as the door opened, spilling warm light onto the wet pavement.

Host: Outside, the city stretched wide — flawed, luminous, unfinished — like an ongoing experiment in hope.

Host: And over the hum of the trains, Reshma Saujani’s truth lingered:
that gratitude, when transformed into service,
isn’t just repayment —
it’s the architecture of belonging.