There's definitely ways to get your anger out and not have to

Host: The sunset bled into the skyline, painting the city in amber and violet hues, the kind of light that softens everything — even tension. The air was still warm from the day, but the wind carried the cool whisper of night. Down on the quiet edge of an old basketball court, Jack and Jeeny sat side by side on the metal bleachers. A basketball rolled lazily near their feet, forgotten after a long afternoon of talking more than playing.

The faint sound of traffic hummed beyond the chain-link fence. The sky stretched wide, open and peaceful — the opposite of what anger usually feels like.

Jeeny: “Sasheer Zamata once said, ‘There’s definitely ways to get your anger out and not have to yell and kick and scream and fight people. That’s not my jam. That’s never how I’ve been.’”

Host: Jack smirked slightly, his grey eyes catching the light of the fading sun.

Jack: “That’s rare. Most people I know treat rage like it’s exercise — the louder the burn, the better they feel after.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Maybe that’s because they confuse release with destruction. She’s talking about something different — control without suppression.”

Jack: “Control’s overrated. Sometimes yelling feels good.”

Jeeny: “Sure, in the moment. But it doesn’t heal. It just passes the flame to someone else.”

Host: The basketball rolled again, nudged by a faint breeze. Jack stopped it with his shoe, tapping it idly as he thought.

Jack: “You sound like a therapist.”

Jeeny: “No. I just understand that calm doesn’t mean passive. It means choosing your response instead of being consumed by it.”

Jack: “So you’re saying anger’s not wrong — just mismanaged?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger’s information. It tells you where the pain is. You just have to learn how to translate it.”

Host: A silence fell — not heavy, but reflective. The last light of day glinted off the fence, turning steel into silver.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to break things when I got angry. Plates, guitars, even once a wall.”

Jeeny: (gently) “What did it fix?”

Jack: “Nothing. Just left more to clean up.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing. Rage tricks you into thinking it’s power, but it’s just reaction. Power is staying grounded when the world’s shaking your core.”

Host: Jack leaned back, stretching his arms along the top bleacher rail. His voice softened.

Jack: “You ever get angry, Jeeny? Like really angry?”

Jeeny: “Of course. I just don’t let it speak for me. I take it somewhere private — somewhere it can breathe without hurting anyone.”

Jack: “Like meditation?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Or art. Writing. Running. Talking. It’s not about silence — it’s about safe noise.”

Host: The streetlights flickered on, washing the court in soft gold. Their shadows stretched long behind them, reaching across the asphalt.

Jack: “You think people fear calm people?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Because calm people can’t be controlled. Their silence makes others face themselves.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You’d terrify my old bandmates.”

Jeeny: “Because you used to fight?”

Jack: “Because I used to mistake chaos for passion.”

Jeeny: “That’s common. We’re taught to express love loudly and anger violently — like we need volume to prove sincerity.”

Jack: “But maybe sincerity’s the quietest thing in the room.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger’s not evil, it’s sacred — it’s the body saying, ‘Something’s wrong.’ But sacred things should be handled gently.”

Host: The wind rustled through the trees at the edge of the court, scattering a few leaves across the pavement.

Jack: “You know, Zamata’s quote — it’s simple, but there’s wisdom under it. ‘That’s not my jam.’ She’s not rejecting anger, she’s rejecting violence.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s the difference between expression and eruption.”

Jack: “And between being human and being ruled by it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The goal isn’t to get rid of anger — it’s to make peace with it, so it stops controlling the soundtrack of your life.”

Host: Jack dribbled the ball once, slowly, the sound echoing across the empty court.

Jack: “It’s strange. The older I get, the quieter my anger’s become. It’s like fire that doesn’t need to burn — just glow.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s because you’ve learned to turn it into awareness instead of ashes.”

Jack: “And yet, people think calmness means weakness.”

Jeeny: “Only until they try to stay calm themselves. Then they realize how much strength it takes not to explode.”

Host: The air grew cooler, the stars beginning to shimmer faintly overhead. The sound of the city softened — like a volume knob turned gently down.

Jeeny: “You know, I think people like Sasheer Zamata are important. They remind us that gentleness can coexist with power. You can protect your boundaries without breaking anything.”

Jack: “Including yourself.”

Jeeny: “Especially yourself.”

Host: A moment of silence passed between them — the kind that feels like mutual understanding rather than absence.

Jack: “You ever notice how calm people draw people in? Like their peace feels contagious?”

Jeeny: “That’s because real peace isn’t silence — it’s safety. And people crave safety more than victory.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real revolution — learning to be soft in a world that rewards sharpness.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Softness isn’t weakness. It’s intelligence wrapped in mercy.”

Host: The wind brushed past them again, cool and fragrant with night. Jack stood, picking up the basketball and spinning it slowly in his hands.

Jack: “So, the next time I get angry — what should I do?”

Jeeny: “Don’t fight it. Invite it in. Let it talk, but don’t let it drive.”

Jack: “That sounds like therapy again.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “It’s just maturity with better lighting.”

Host: Jack laughed quietly, the sound carried by the evening air. He tossed the ball toward the hoop. It bounced off the rim and rolled to a stop — but the two of them didn’t care.

Jeeny looked up at the first star appearing above the court.

Jeeny: “Zamata’s right, you know. There’s a thousand ways to express what hurts without turning it into war. Art, kindness, even laughter — all are ways of exhaling anger.”

Jack: “So peace isn’t the absence of feeling — it’s the mastery of it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera slowly pulled back, capturing them as two silhouettes against the fading light — two souls sitting between calm and chaos, learning the rhythm of restraint.

The city glowed behind them, alive yet distant. The sound of a soft breeze replaced all noise.

And as the night deepened, Sasheer Zamata’s words hung in the air — clear, simple, liberating:

“Peace doesn’t mean you never feel anger. It means you’ve learned to let it move through you without becoming it.”

Host: The scene faded to black, leaving only the echo of the ball’s last bounce — soft, measured, and utterly free.