Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet deprecate agitation

Host: The night was thick with smoke and the hum of distant sirens. The city was alive, but not peacefully—it was breathing, grinding, burning. A crowd had gathered outside the old courthouse, their faces lit by the flicker of torches and phone screens.

Jack and Jeeny stood on the steps, watching, their breath visible in the cold air. The rain had just stopped, leaving puddles that mirrored the chaos—the signs, the shouts, the tears, the hope.

Jack’s hands were in his coat pockets, his eyes hard and grey, reflecting both the flames and the crowd. Jeeny’s hair clung to her cheeks, damp, her expression both fierce and heartbroken.

Jeeny: “Frederick Douglass once said, ‘Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet deprecate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground.’”

Her voice trembled—not from fear, but from something deeper—anger, faith, and grief all tangled together.

Jack: “Yeah,” he said, quietly, watching a young protester raise a sign that read ‘Justice Is Not Negotiable.’ “And we’re still trying to grow crops in concrete.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because no one wants to get their hands dirty anymore. Everyone wants peace, but without the noise. Change, but without the mess.”

Jack: “Because the mess terrifies them. They like the idea of freedom—as long as it doesn’t interrupt dinner.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not freedom they love—it’s comfort.”

Host: A car horn blared somewhere nearby. The crowd shifted, chanting louder. Drums pounded, echoing through the streets like a heartbeat of something ancient and unending.

Jack: “You know, Douglass understood something most people still don’t. Freedom doesn’t fall from the sky—it’s dragged out of the dirt, screaming. And the people who say, ‘Be patient, wait your turn’—they’re just hoping time will do what courage won’t.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every generation forgets that agitation is love. It’s what you do when you care enough to fight.”

Jack: “But love without strategy burns out fast. Look around—half these people will go home tonight, post something, and call it revolution.”

Jeeny: “Don’t underestimate symbols, Jack. Even a hashtag can start a fire.”

Jack: “Sure. But it’s the ones who stay when the cameras leave that matter.”

Jeeny: “And they will. Some always do.”

Host: The crowd surged, voices rising into a kind of music—raw, discordant, but alive. A flag unfurled, waving under the streetlight, its edges torn, soaked with rain.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what he meant by that—‘plowing up the ground’? It’s violent imagery. To plow, you tear, you break, you destroy before you can grow. That’s what agitation is—necessary destruction.”

Jack: “And it’s why most people run from it. They don’t want to see their gardens turned to mud. They just want the flowers.”

Jeeny: “But the flowers only come because someone had the courage to ruin the soil.”

Jack: “Yeah, and that someone usually ends up crucified for it.”

Jeeny: “Every prophet was hated in their own time, Jack. Douglass, King, Parks, Tubman—none of them were comfortable. They were the discomfort.”

Jack: “And they paid for it in blood.”

Jeeny: “Maybe freedom always comes in installments of pain.”

Host: A siren wailed, closer now. Police lights painted the walls in red and blue, blending into the orange torchlight. Jack watched, his jaw tightening, his fists clenching in his pockets.

Jeeny noticed.

Jeeny: “You want to go down there, don’t you?”

Jack: “No. I want to believe it’ll matter.”

Jeeny: “It always matters. Even when it feels small.”

Jack: “Tell that to history. It forgets the small ones.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack—it’s built by them. History is just the name we give to the noise of the forgotten.”

Host: Jack looked at her, startled by the force in her voice. The crowd roared again, and for a moment, their faces were illuminated by a passing flashlight—hers alive with conviction, his haunted by restraint.

Jack: “You talk like faith’s enough to feed the fire.”

Jeeny: “Faith is the fire.”

Jack: “And what happens when it burns you instead?”

Jeeny: “Then you know you were alive.”

Jack: “That’s not survival. That’s martyrdom.”

Jeeny: “And what’s freedom without martyrs? Every inch of progress this world has ever known was paid for by someone who refused to sit down and shut up.”

Jack: “You make rebellion sound like religion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Douglass preached it like one.”

Host: The rain began again, soft, steady, washing the chalk messages from the sidewalks—but not erasing them completely. The words still lingered, blurred but visible, like half-remembered prayers.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I hate most?” she said, her voice quieter now, her hands trembling slightly. “When people say, ‘I support you, but not like this.’ As if justice needs etiquette.”

Jack: “They say that because they’re scared of chaos.”

Jeeny: “Then they’ve never known oppression. There’s nothing tidy about being silenced.”

Jack: “Still, not all chaos leads to freedom. Some just leads to ashes.”

Jeeny: “Then at least the ashes mean something once stood there. Silence leaves no trace.”

Host: The crowd began to thin, but the drums kept beating, echoing through the rain, steady, relentless.

Jack: “You really think agitation is the only path?”

Jeeny: “Not the only one. But it’s the honest one. Freedom that offends no one isn’t freedom—it’s decoration.”

Jack: “And those who hold the whip will always call the noise of chains breaking ‘violence.’”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They want crops without plowing. Peace without justice. Applause without cost.”

Jack: “And what do we want?”

Jeeny: “The truth. Even if it ruins us.”

Host: For a long moment, they just stood there. The rain dripped from the eaves, beading on the metal railing, glistening like tears.

Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out a small flag pin, tarnished and bent. He looked at it for a moment, then set it down on the courthouse steps.

Jeeny watched, silent, then placed her hand over his.

Jeeny: “The soil’s never soft when you start to dig.”

Jack: “Yeah.” He exhaled, smoke mingling with the rain mist. “But maybe that’s the point.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “You plow anyway.”

Jeeny: “Because if you don’t—nothing ever grows.”

Host: The camera would have panned up then—past the two figures, past the crowd, past the flags and flames, to the dark, wet sky above the city.

The rain fell harder, soaking the signs, washing away the chalk, but not the resolve.

And as the scene faded, Frederick Douglass’s words echoed through the darkness, like thunder rolling over soil—

“Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet deprecate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground.”

The ground trembled slightly then, as if remembering.