Once you do away with the idea of people as fixed, static

Host: The night hung like a veil over the city, its streets painted in neon and rainlight. Steam rose from manholes, and reflections trembled on the pavement like ghosts of forgotten dreams. Inside a small bar, tucked behind an alley, music hummed low—blues, slow and aching, like a memory that refuses to fade.

At the corner booth, Jack sat with his hands wrapped around a half-empty glass, his eyes lost in the amber swirl. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair damp from the rain, a faint smile trembling on her lips as she looked at him.

The quote had appeared earlier that evening, scrawled in chalk across the bar’s old mirror:
“Once you do away with the idea of people as fixed, static entities, then you see that people can change, and there is hope.” — bell hooks

Jeeny had read it aloud. That’s how it started.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think about that, Jack? That maybe people aren’t as fixed as we make them? That maybe… everyone has the capacity to change?”

Jack: (leans back, voice low and rough) “Change is a nice story, Jeeny. It makes people sleep better at night. But real change—deep, irreversible change—rarely happens. People don’t shed their skin that easily.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes flickered with something like hurt, but also fire. The kind that doesn’t die easily. She lifted her chin, her voice trembling with both gentleness and defiance.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. I’ve seen people break, fall apart, and come back whole. I’ve seen addicts become teachers, prisoners become poets. What’s that, if not change?”

Jack: “Exceptions. You always cling to exceptions. You think because one or two people turned their lives around, the whole world is redeemable? Most people just pretend to change. They repaint their walls, but the foundation—it’s still cracked.”

Host: The music swelled slightly, a saxophone crying somewhere in the dim room. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the window, like a ticking clock, marking each second of their growing tension.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s forgotten what it means to believe. You talk like hope is some kind of disease.”

Jack: (a thin smile) “Maybe it is. Hope makes people wait for miracles instead of building them. Look around, Jeeny—this city runs on the same lies every night. People promise to do better, to love harder, to quit their vices… and yet every bar is full, every morning smells of regret.”

Jeeny: “You’re not looking closely enough. People stumble, yes. They fall back. But even then, the fact that they try again—that’s hope manifest. That’s change in motion.”

Jack: (leans forward, his grey eyes sharp) “Trying isn’t changing. It’s surviving.”

Host: A pause hung between them, heavy and wet like the air outside. A waiter passed by, the scent of coffee and cigarettes following in his wake. Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her glass, her voice now softer, more introspective.

Jeeny: “You know what bell hooks was really saying? She was saying that the way we see people shapes what they can become. If we label someone as hopeless, broken, evil—they’ll start to believe it. But if we see them as fluid, capable of growth, they just might step into that possibility.”

Jack: “So now perception is salvation?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it is. Think of all the people who were told they’d never be more than what they were—women, slaves, the poor, the queer. History is full of people who broke out of the cages others built for them.”

Jack: “And history’s also full of tyrants who never changed. Men who died the same monsters they were born as.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But we remember the ones who did change. Malcolm X, for example—he started with anger and found wisdom. He evolved. Isn’t that proof that human beings are not fixed?”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Malcolm was rare. A fire that burned differently. But for every Malcolm, there are a thousand who just keep burning without ever lighting anything.”

Host: The bar grew quieter. The song ended. Only the faint buzz of a broken neon sign filled the silence. Jeeny’s eyes glistened now, catching the light like water over stone.

Jeeny: “You talk about people like they’re machines, Jack. Predictable, mechanical, doomed to repeat themselves. But you’re human too. Haven’t you ever changed? Even once?”

Jack: (looks down at his drink) “Change? I’ve adjusted. That’s not the same thing.”

Jeeny: “Then why did you quit drinking for a year after your father died?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. The question cut deep, like a sudden crack in old ice. He didn’t look up. The barlight caught the edge of his face, revealing something raw, unguarded.

Jack: “Because grief forces you to. It’s not growth. It’s survival instinct.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s becoming. Grief made you see differently. You started volunteering at that youth shelter. You talked to those kids like they mattered. Don’t tell me that wasn’t change.”

Jack: (quietly) “It didn’t last.”

Jeeny: “So what? Even if it lasted a day—it was change. Small changes matter, Jack. That’s what hope is. It’s not about permanence—it’s about the possibility.”

Host: The rain outside softened. The window fogged, and Jeeny’s reflection appeared beside Jack’s—two blurred silhouettes, divided by glass, united by silence.

Jack finally looked up, his eyes carrying something that wasn’t cynicism anymore. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe longing.

Jack: “You really think people can reinvent themselves completely?”

Jeeny: “Not completely. But they can realize themselves. They can move closer to who they truly are. That’s what bell hooks meant—human beings are not final drafts. We are revisions.”

Jack: (murmurs) “Revisions…”

Host: The word lingered in the air, like a note from a fading piano.

Jeeny: “Yes. And that’s why there’s hope. Because no one is done becoming. Not even you.”

Jack: “And if people don’t want to change? If they cling to their worst selves because it’s easier?”

Jeeny: “Then we keep believing they still can. Because the moment we stop believing, we become part of their cage.”

Host: A slow smile crept across Jack’s face—sad, but real. He exhaled, the smoke curling toward the ceiling like a confession.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I just got tired of waiting for people to change.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t wait. Help them.”

Host: Her voice carried warmth, but also steel. Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he set his glass down. The rain had stopped completely now. Outside, the city lights reflected clean and still on the pavement, as if the world itself had been washed.

Jeeny: “bell hooks believed in love as a force of transformation. Maybe that’s what we forget—it’s not about fixing people, it’s about loving them into growth.”

Jack: “And if love fails?”

Jeeny: “Then love again. People fail, not love.”

Host: A silence fell, heavy but not empty. Jack looked out the window, watching the streetlight flicker over a passing stranger. A man paused to help another who had dropped his groceries—two figures, small, almost invisible in the vast night, but the gesture was enough to make the world seem softer.

Jack: (softly) “Maybe there’s still hope, then.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “There always is, Jack. As long as we believe people aren’t finished.”

Host: The camera of the night drew back, pulling away from the bar, through the mist, over the glistening streets. Inside, two souls sat beneath the dim light, their faces reflected in one another’s eyes.

The city kept breathing—slow, human, imperfect—but alive with the pulse of change.

And somewhere, on that bar’s mirror, the words of bell hooks remained—softly glowing in chalk:
People can change. And there is hope.