Violence is a problem we all want to solve. I want to make sure

Host: The school gym smelled faintly of sweat, chalk, and old varnish — that nostalgic mixture of innocence and tension. The evening sun filtered weakly through the high windows, slanting across the dusty basketball court, where banners of forgotten championships still clung to the rafters. The echo of a single bouncing ball faded somewhere down the hallway, swallowed by silence.

Jack sat on the edge of the bleachers, sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened. His eyes looked distant, tired — the kind of exhaustion that comes from too many days trying to fix things that break faster than they heal. Jeeny stood near the stage, her arms crossed, watching him. Her hair was tied back, her face open, alive with conviction and worry in equal measure.

A banner behind them read: “Community Meeting: Building Safer Schools Together.”

Jack: “Patty Murray once said, ‘Violence is a problem we all want to solve. I want to make sure kids learn to deal with anger by learning how to talk with people to solve problems.’”

He sighed, his voice heavy with weariness. “Sounds good on paper, doesn’t it? But words don’t stop fists.”

Jeeny: “They start to, if you teach them early enough.”

Host: The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, one of them flickering like a nervous pulse. Jack rubbed his hands together, staring at the empty court.

Jack: “You ever been in one of these schools, Jeeny? Half the teachers are overworked, half the kids are underfed, and the rest are just angry. You can hang a thousand posters about peace — it doesn’t mean they’ll stop swinging when the world keeps hitting them.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why she said it, Jack. Violence isn’t born in the classroom — it’s carried into it. And if we don’t teach kids to speak before they strike, we’ll just keep raising generations of echoes.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but there was steel under it — the kind that comes from belief sharpened by frustration.

Jack: “Talk, talk, talk. That’s all the Senate ever does. Meanwhile, in neighborhoods like this, kids are dodging bullets on their way home. You can’t solve trauma with conversation.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can stop it from spreading. You can show them another language before anger becomes their only one.”

Host: The silence between them deepened. The hum of the gym felt heavier, like the air itself was listening.

Jack: “You think after-school programs are gonna fix that?”

Jeeny: “Not by themselves. But they can remind kids that their hands were made to build — not break.”

Host: He looked up, meeting her gaze. His eyes were sharp but wounded.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in saving them all.”

Jeeny: “I believe in trying. Because if even one learns to talk instead of hurt, that’s a world already changed.”

Host: A basketball rolled out from under the bleachers — slow, deliberate, as if summoned by the moment. It bumped against Jack’s shoe. He stared at it for a long time before picking it up.

Jack: “When I was their age,” he said quietly, “I punched a kid so hard he couldn’t come back to school for a week.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because he called my mother poor.”

Host: He spun the ball absently between his hands. His voice was almost a whisper.

Jack: “No teacher ever asked me why I did it. Just suspended me. No one told me how to talk, how to breathe. Just told me to stay quiet.”

Jeeny: “That’s what she means, Jack. That silence — that’s where violence begins. When kids learn that pain has no words, they grow up to speak it with their fists.”

Host: The gym door creaked open; a faint breeze stirred the banners overhead. The last sunlight dipped across the wooden floor, golden and forgiving.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. But it’s human. You can’t legislate kindness — but you can make space for it.”

Jack: “And what? Hope it catches on?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it does.”

Host: She walked toward him, her footsteps soft against the court’s polished floor. Her eyes carried the kind of calm only people who’ve seen both failure and faith can hold.

Jeeny: “I’ve worked with kids who’ve been through hell. Some of them can’t even say their own feelings out loud. But when you sit down with them, when you listen — not fix, not preach, just listen — something changes. The storm slows down.”

Jack: “Until the next one comes.”

Jeeny: “And then you listen again.”

Host: He smiled faintly — not mockingly, but with a tired kind of admiration.

Jack: “You make compassion sound like endurance.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every day you teach peace, you’re fighting a war without weapons.”

Host: The ball dropped from his hands and rolled away, stopping in a pool of fading light. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, thinking.

Jack: “You ever think violence is just part of us? That maybe we’re trying to erase something we can’t?”

Jeeny: “No. Violence is learned, Jack. We’re not born with it — we inherit it. From fear, from hunger, from neglect. But if it’s learned, it can be unlearned too.”

Jack: “And who teaches that? The same system that failed them?”

Jeeny: “No. People like you. People like me. People who still show up.”

Host: The wind outside had quieted. The lights hummed softly, steady now. The air in the gym had shifted — not lighter, but clearer.

Jack: “You know, I think about that kid sometimes,” he said. “The one I hit. I wonder if he ever learned how to fight without fighting.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he did. Maybe you did too.”

Host: He looked at her then, really looked — as if seeing for the first time the kind of strength that doesn’t shout.

Jack: “You really think the Senate can build safe schools?”

Jeeny: “Not by itself. But it can make it easier for teachers to care, for parents to rest, for kids to dream. It can give the next generation space to breathe instead of run.”

Jack: “And all that starts with talking.”

Jeeny: “And listening.”

Host: The lights flickered once more, but held steady — glowing like quiet resolve.

Jack: “You know,” he said softly, “I used to think peace was the absence of violence. Now I think maybe it’s the presence of understanding.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t end anger — but you can teach it to speak.”

Host: A faint laugh drifted from somewhere down the hall — a janitor, maybe, or a child who’d stayed late. The sound filled the empty gym with a fragile warmth.

Jack stood, picked up the basketball again, and bounced it once. The echo rang deep, steady, rhythmic — like a heartbeat finding its rhythm again.

Jack: “Maybe that’s where it starts — with something small.”

Jeeny: “It always does.”

Host: She joined him in the center of the court. They stood there in the wide space between echoes, the last light slanting over their faces.

And as the camera pulled back — the empty bleachers, the worn court, the silent promise of a better tomorrow — their figures seemed smaller, yet stronger.

Two people, one idea.

That peace isn’t born in law —
but in the simple, radical act of teaching someone how to speak their pain instead of wielding it.