The attitude of insolent haughtiness is characteristic of the

Host: The air was thick with humidity, the kind that clings to the skin like a memory that refuses to fade. Neon lights from a 24-hour diner flickered against the wet pavement, reflecting a thousand fractured colors into the night. Inside, the smell of coffee and grease hung low, mixing with the distant hum of traffic and the soft hiss of a rainstorm that had not yet decided to end.

Host: Jack sat by the window, his elbows resting on the table, a half-burned cigarette between his fingers. His grey eyes followed the shadows of people passing by — faces foreign, unknown, indifferent. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea in silence, the spoon clinking against the cup like a heartbeat.

Host: On the TV above the counter, a news anchor was talking about immigration, about walls and borders, about who belongs and who does not. And somewhere in the buzz of that broadcast, the words of José Saramago seemed to whisper from the ether:
“The attitude of insolent haughtiness is characteristic of the relationships Americans form with what is alien to them, with others.”

Host: The sentence hung in the air, as if the room itself had paused to listen.

Jeeny: (softly) “He wasn’t wrong, you know. We’ve built a country out of walls — some made of brick, others made of fear.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Fear? No, Jeeny. We built it out of order. Out of the need to define what’s ours. You call it haughtiness; I call it self-preservation.”

Jeeny: “You sound like every empire before it fell.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her eyes flashed with something hot — not anger, but grief that had learned to speak in truths.

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “Empires fall because they grow too soft, not too hard. You can’t survive by inviting everything alien into your home. The world isn’t a charity, Jeeny — it’s a contest.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what Saramago meant — that we measure everything foreign by how well it fits into our comfort. We don’t listen, we label. We say ‘them’ instead of ‘us.’ Even when ‘them’ is just another version of us.”

Host: The rain drummed harder now, echoing like footsteps on a roof. The waitress wiped the counter slowly, watching them from the corner of her eye, as if she, too, was part of the conversation, though silent.

Jack: “You want to talk about haughtiness? Try traveling abroad. Americans are loved, hated, envied, all at once — because we act like we own the future. Maybe that’s not arrogance. Maybe it’s just confidence.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s blindness. We think we’re helping when we’re just rearranging someone else’s world. Iraq, Vietnam, Afghanistan — all stories of nations we tried to reshape in our image. That’s what he meant by insolent haughtiness — the belief that our way is the only way worth living.”

Host: A truck horn blared outside, drowning her words for a moment, but not their meaning. Jack’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened. The smoke from his cigarette curled into the air, shifting like a question he didn’t want to ask.

Jack: “You make it sound like we’re villains in our own story.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we are — to someone else’s.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, but alive, like the pause before a thunderclap.

Jack: “You ever think maybe it’s just human nature? Every civilization sees itself as the center. The Romans, the British, the Chinese dynasties — all of them looked at others and saw barbarians. Why should we be any different?”

Jeeny: “Because we claim to be. Because we call ourselves the land of equality and freedom. If you say you’re different, you have to be different. Otherwise, it’s just marketing with a flag.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a mist that slid down the windows like tears. The lights outside the diner blurred, as if the world beyond the glass had melted into a dream.

Jack: (leaning forward) “But don’t you think outsiders carry responsibility too? Every culture that comes here wants to keep its own identity, its own rules, but still benefit from ours. Isn’t there a limit to tolerance?”

Jeeny: “Tolerance isn’t a limit, Jack. It’s a mirror. It shows us whether we live by what we preach. You can’t wave the Constitution in one hand and build a wall with the other.”

Jack: (dryly) “Try governing without both. You’ll have chaos before sunrise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe chaos is what honesty looks like at first. Empathy doesn’t come neatly — it unsettles you, it forces you to see your own privilege, your own arrogance. That’s why we avoid it. It’s easier to call someone alien than to admit they make us uncomfortable.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the room, and for an instant, the colors were all white and truth. Jack’s face looked hard, defensive, but beneath it, there was something fragile — a hint of recognition.

Jack: “So what — we just open everything? Erase what’s ours?”

Jeeny: “No. We just remember that what’s ours was never ours alone. The language, the music, the food, the freedom — all of it came from the ‘others’ we once feared. The Irish, the Africans, the Chinese, the Mexicans — every one of them built this country, and yet we treat their children like intruders.”

Host: Her voice cracked, but she didn’t flinch. The rain subsided, the sound now just the occasional drip from the roof. Jack looked down, flicking ash into his cup, the smoke curling into nothing.

Jack: “You think we can ever fix that?”

Jeeny: “Not by pretending it isn’t there. Empathy isn’t about fixing, Jack. It’s about seeing. It’s about standing still long enough to understand the pain of someone who doesn’t look like you, sound like you, or pray like you.”

Host: The lights dimmed, as if the electricity itself had grown tired of arguments. For a moment, the world shrunk to their table, their breathing, the tiny sound of rain fading outside.

Jack: “You make it sound like we’ve forgotten how to be human.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we haven’t forgotten. Maybe we just stopped listening.”

Host: The clock ticked, slow and merciless, counting the seconds like footsteps toward an uncomfortable truth.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You know... when I was a kid, my father used to say, ‘The American dream isn’t for everyone — it’s for those who fit.’ I never questioned it. But now, I think he was just scared of what didn’t look like him.”

Jeeny: “And that’s what Saramago meant. Haughtiness isn’t always cruelty — sometimes it’s just fear dressed as pride.”

Host: The storm had passed. The sky was clear now, a thin silver dawn creeping along the edges of the clouds. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, and for the first time, he looked outside — not at the reflections, but at the people themselves.

Jack: “Maybe we all need to be a little more alien to ourselves.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “That’s how we begin to understand the others — by realizing we’re not as different as we like to pretend.”

Host: The morning light spilled through the window, washing over the table, the cups, and the faces of two souls who had found, in their differences, a shared truth:
That to truly see the other is to humble oneself — to unlearn the haughtiness of certainty, and to listen again like the world depends on it.

Host: Outside, a bird sang — the first note of a new day.