Politics is not perfect but it's the best available nonviolent

Host: The rain had just begun to fall over the city, soft and steady, turning the streets into sheets of reflected light. In a narrow café near the corner of a forgotten street, two silhouettes sat opposite each other — their voices quiet, but heavy with the weight of something larger than the room.

A television flickered in the corner — a news anchor talking about the latest election scandal, words drowned under the hiss of the espresso machine and the crackle of the storm outside.

Jack sat by the window, coat still damp from the rain, his grey eyes hard but tired, like someone who had seen too many promises dissolve into headlines. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup, her brown eyes watching him like she could see the pulse of his frustration beneath the silence.

The café smelled of wet dust, burnt sugar, and something almost like hope, if you looked hard enough.

Jeeny: (softly) “Maynard Jackson said, ‘Politics is not perfect but it's the best available nonviolent means of changing how we live.’”

Jack: (leans back, scoffing lightly) “Best available? That’s like saying drowning is the best available way to swim. Politics is just the art of disappointment dressed in speeches.”

Host: The rain tapped harder against the glass, as though the city itself wanted to argue.

Jeeny: “And yet, you vote every election.”

Jack: (grimly) “I vote because I have to. Not because I believe in it. You pick between two liars, both promising paradise, both building palaces out of half-truths.”

Jeeny: “You think cynicism makes you free, Jack? It doesn’t. It just makes you predictable.”

Jack: (smirks) “No, it makes me realistic. Politics is a performance. The stage changes, the actors rotate, but the script stays the same — power for power’s sake.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you still angry? If you really believed nothing could change, you’d be quiet. But you’re not quiet. You’re furious. That means some part of you still believes politics should mean something.”

Host: The lights flickered, and a low rumble of thunder rolled over the café roof. Jack looked away, the reflection of the TV shimmering across his face — another story about another protest.

Jack: “It should. But it doesn’t. Look around. Corruption, inequality, false promises — it’s all theater. The people shouting in the streets don’t change anything. The men in suits decide how long their shouting lasts.”

Jeeny: (leans in) “You’re wrong. The men in suits fear that shouting. That’s why they silence it. That’s why they make laws to contain it. That’s the proof of politics — not its perfection, but its potential.”

Host: Jack’s hands clenched slightly on the table. He looked out at the rain-soaked city, where neon lights swam across the puddles like bruised stars.

Jack: “Potential doesn’t feed the hungry. Potential doesn’t stop wars. Politics failed in Rwanda, in Syria, in the streets of Detroit. Tell me, Jeeny — what’s noble about a system that only moves when tragedy forces it to?”

Jeeny: (voice trembling slightly, but strong) “What’s noble is that it still moves at all. You forget, Jack — every right we have came from someone who refused to accept violence as the only language. Votes replaced bullets. Laws replaced vengeance. Politics is messy because it’s human. But it’s the only way we’ve found to argue without killing each other.”

Host: The air between them thickened, heavy with unspoken truths. A young man at the counter was scrolling through his phone, watching footage of a protest — people shouting, police advancing, umbrellas lifted like shields.

Jack: “Nonviolent? Tell that to those protesters. Politics uses violence by proxy — police, policy, poverty. You don’t need guns when you can weaponize neglect.”

Jeeny: (her voice softens) “And yet, every inch of progress — civil rights, women’s suffrage, the fall of apartheid — came through politics, not war. King, Gandhi, Mandela — they all chose the imperfect road because the alternative was annihilation.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated her face, fierce and calm at once. Jack stared at her, eyes searching, perhaps for an answer that might reconcile his disillusionment with her faith.

Jack: “You really think politics can save us?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can keep us from destroying ourselves long enough to learn how.”

Host: The rain outside eased, becoming a whisper. Jack tapped his cigarette on the table — a nervous rhythm that betrayed the storm inside him.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s never seen how dirty it really gets.”

Jeeny: (gently, with a sad smile) “And you sound like someone who’s forgotten that dirt is where things grow.”

Host: That sentence hung in the air like a seed. Jack blinked — slow, reflective. The café’s clock ticked behind them, indifferent and patient.

Jack: (quietly) “You think democracy still works? Look at the polarization, the manipulation, the propaganda. We’re living in echo chambers. Politics isn’t uniting anyone anymore — it’s dividing us faster than ever.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we’ve turned politics into a spectacle instead of a service. We treat it like entertainment — winners and losers — not responsibility. But the truth is, politics doesn’t fail us; we fail it.”

Jack: “That’s convenient. Blame the people for the corruption of the powerful.”

Jeeny: “No — remind the people of their power. The moment we stop showing up, the worst people win. That’s why Maynard Jackson said what he said — not because politics is pure, but because it’s the only space where change can be built without blood.”

Host: Jack’s eyes drifted again to the TV. The anchor’s voice was muted, but the subtitles read: ‘Youth voter turnout reaches record high.’ Something flickered — small, reluctant — in his expression.

Jack: (half-smiling) “You really believe the ballot box can do what centuries of revolutions couldn’t?”

Jeeny: “Not overnight. But inch by inch. Every law that protects the weak, every reform that saves one life, every voice that rises without fear — that’s victory, Jack. It may not be perfect, but it’s progress. And progress is the quiet miracle of politics.”

Host: The storm had stopped. The windowpane shimmered with the last trails of rain, reflecting both of them — two figures on opposite sides of faith, both searching for meaning in the same reflection.

Jack: (sighs, softer now) “Maybe I just wanted politics to be cleaner. To match the idea of what it promised.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “It never will. Politics isn’t a saint — it’s a struggle. It’s the conversation between who we are and who we want to be.”

Host: The light above them steadied, a rare stillness filling the space. Jack picked up his cup, now cold, and stared into it like he could read the world in the ripples.

Jack: “You really think one vote, one voice matters?”

Jeeny: “Ask those who never had one.”

Host: That silenced him. The TV anchor had moved on to another story — an image of children waving flags in the rain, smiling at nothing and everything.

Jack: (softly) “You always find hope in the mess.”

Jeeny: “Because hope is the only thing politics can’t regulate.”

Host: Jack laughed quietly, shaking his head. He looked up at her — the rain had stopped, but her eyes still held its reflection.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll vote for hope this time.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s where every real change begins.”

Host: Outside, the clouds parted just enough for a thread of sunlight to break through, glinting off puddles, off cars, off broken glass. The camera pulled back, leaving them in that tiny café — two souls wrestling with the impossible idea that imperfection might still be worth fighting for.

And as the city stirred, its streets alive again with the slow rhythm of people trying, failing, believing — the rain began to dry on the windows, leaving streaks like fingerprints of history.

Because politics, imperfect and bruised, was still the only way humanity could argue — and build — without reaching for the gun.