People are dying in vain because this country isn't holding their

Host: The city was restless. The night pulsed with the distant thrum of traffic, the low hum of neon, and the occasional cry of a siren slicing through the humid air. Across the street, a flickering billboard played muted clips of protests—raised fists, tear gas, headlines scrolling across the screen like wounds refusing to close.

In a dimly lit diner, Jack and Jeeny sat by the window. The light from the street cut through the glass and fractured across the table, painting their faces in alternating bands of shadow and glow. The coffee cups between them were untouched, the steam already gone cold.

Jeeny stared outside, her eyes catching the reflection of the flashing police lights that danced far down the block. Jack sat opposite, hands clasped, jaw tight, his eyes steady but burdened.

Jeeny: “Colin Kaepernick once said, ‘People are dying in vain because this country isn't holding their end of the bargain up as far as, you know, giving freedom and justice and liberty to everybody.’”

Jack: (gruffly) “Yeah. And he paid for saying it. Lost his career, reputation, everything. All for taking a knee.”

Host: The rain began to fall, soft at first, then heavier—like the sky itself had decided to mourn. The neon from outside bled into the raindrops, turning the window into a painting of sorrow and defiance.

Jeeny: “He didn’t lose anything, Jack. He gave it. That’s the difference. He traded comfort for truth.”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t pay rent. And it sure doesn’t keep you safe. Look around—people chant about justice, but power always wins.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the point isn’t to win. Maybe it’s to refuse to stay silent while losing.”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but there was a blade hidden beneath it—sharp with conviction. Jack leaned back, exhaling, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl.

Jack: “You think kneeling changes anything? Protests, marches, hashtags—none of it fixes the system. The people in charge don’t care.”

Jeeny: “But silence tells them we don’t either. That’s what he meant—‘the country isn’t holding up its end of the bargain.’ Democracy isn’t a gift; it’s a promise. And promises need pressure.”

Host: The rain hammered against the window, the rhythm like a thousand small demands. Jack turned his gaze toward the street, watching a pair of figures cross beneath the glow of a red traffic light.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe the system can be redeemed.”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s left? Rage without purpose? People dying in vain, just like he said.”

Jack: “But don’t you see, Jeeny? That’s what breaks me. They keep dying. We keep talking. And nothing changes except the names on the news ticker.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe the goal isn’t change you can count. Maybe it’s change you can live with—change that refuses to let you sleep through injustice.”

Host: The light outside flickered again, flashing across Jack’s face, catching the faint tremor in his jaw. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes dark and weary.

Jack: “You talk like faith is enough.”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t enough. But it’s where courage begins. Kaepernick wasn’t just kneeling for attention; he was kneeling to make a mirror—to force this country to see itself.”

Jack: “And what if it didn’t want to look?”

Jeeny: “Then he kneeled anyway. That’s the point. Protest isn’t about being heard—it’s about refusing to disappear.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, pulsing with something unspoken. Outside, a sirens’ wail cut through the night, then faded, leaving behind the soft hiss of rain.

Jack: “You think the country broke its promise?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s still breaking it. Every day. Every time justice depends on color, every time liberty skips an address, every time freedom comes with fine print.”

Jack: “And yet, people still wave the flag.”

Jeeny: “Because they still believe in what it could mean. The problem isn’t the flag—it’s what’s being done under it.”

Host: The rain slowed, the drops tracing slow lines down the window, like tears that refused to fall completely.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my father used to make us stand for the anthem no matter what. Said it was about respect. Said we owed something to the country.”

Jeeny: “Maybe your father was right. But maybe respect goes both ways. A country should earn the standing.”

Jack: (bitterly) “And you think it hasn’t?”

Jeeny: “Not for everyone. Freedom doesn’t mean much if it stops at your own doorstep.”

Host: The words cut cleanly, like truth often does. Jack’s hands tightened around the cup, his knuckles whitening.

Jack: “I get what you’re saying. But I still think dividing people with protest just deepens the wound.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The wound was already there. Protest doesn’t divide—it reveals. It’s the bandage being torn away.”

Host: The rain stopped. The city glistened under streetlight reflection. The diner’s hum softened, as if even the walls were listening.

Jack: “You know, part of me admires him. To stand against a whole nation’s expectation takes guts. But another part of me wonders—does it change hearts, or just harden them?”

Jeeny: “Both. But maybe hardening hearts is the first step toward cracking them open. Conscience doesn’t awaken through comfort—it wakes through confrontation.”

Jack: (quietly) “So maybe that’s the bargain we’ve all broken. Not just the country—the people. We stopped holding each other accountable.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Freedom dies not from tyranny, but from indifference.”

Host: The light outside flickered once more, steadier now, painting the world in gold instead of blue. A small group of people passed by the diner, holding signs. Their voices rose faintly through the glass—low, unified, tired but unyielding.

Jeeny: “Look at them. Ordinary people. Standing in the rain for strangers. That’s what liberty is supposed to look like.”

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? You fight for something you may never get to see.”

Jeeny: “That’s faith again, Jack. The kind that plants trees whose shade you’ll never sit under.”

Host: A small smile flickered across his face—not of joy, but of surrender. The quiet kind that comes when truth finally finds a place to land.

Jack: “You’re right. Maybe that’s what Kaepernick was doing all along. Kneeling for a future he’d never get to play in.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “And in that way, he stood taller than most ever will.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely. The clouds parted just enough to let the moonlight through. It spilled across the table, touching their hands, their untouched cups, the space between them.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe real patriotism isn’t blind loyalty. Maybe it’s holding your country accountable for its own promises.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly it. Love that refuses to stay silent—that’s the highest form of loyalty.”

Host: Outside, the streets shimmered. The lights glowed brighter now, no longer trembling. The billboard across the street flickered one last time—an image of Kaepernick kneeling beneath a sea of flags, his head bowed, unbroken.

Inside the diner, the silence felt holy.

And as the first hint of dawn crept into the night, Jack and Jeeny sat quietly—two souls, lit not by comfort, but by conviction—both understanding that the truest form of standing… sometimes begins with a knee.