We say keep your change, we'll keep our God, our guns, our

Host:
The bar was one of those roadside sanctuaries between nowhere and defiance — a place where country songs hummed low from a jukebox that hadn’t changed its playlist since 1995. The walls were crowded with flags, hunting trophies, and faded photos of soldiers in dusty frames. Outside, the American night stretched wide — endless highways and truck lights glowing like veins across the dark.

Jack sat at the counter, a half-empty beer beside him, sleeves rolled up, eyes fixed on his reflection in the mirror behind the bottles. Jeeny sat a few stools away, nursing a black coffee, her notebook open, her pen tapping absently. The TV above the bar buzzed faintly — a talking head repeating political headlines over the clink of ice and the shuffle of boots.

The air smelled of smoke, metal, and memory.

Jeeny: reading softly from her notes “Sarah Palin once said, ‘We say keep your change, we’ll keep our God, our guns, our constitution.’”

Jack: chuckling dryly “Ah, yes. The gospel according to small-town America.”

Jeeny: raising an eyebrow “You say that like it’s a punchline.”

Jack: turning toward her “No. Like it’s a mirror. A cracked one.”

Jeeny: sipping her coffee “You don’t think it’s conviction?”

Jack: quietly “I think it’s fear dressed as conviction. When people start making lists of what they’ll ‘keep,’ it usually means they’re afraid of losing everything else.”

Host: The bartender, an older man with a slow smile and calloused hands, wiped down the counter near them, pretending not to listen. But his silence said he was.

Jeeny: softly “Maybe it’s not fear. Maybe it’s memory. Maybe they remember a version of America that felt smaller, simpler — where the flag was less a symbol and more a promise.”

Jack: leaning back “You mean nostalgia. That’s not memory — that’s myth with better lighting.”

Jeeny: gently “Maybe myth’s all people have when change moves faster than understanding.”

Jack: quietly “But that’s the thing, Jeeny. Change isn’t the enemy. It’s gravity. You can’t fight it. You can only learn how to fall without breaking your spine.”

Host: The jukebox switched tracks — Johnny Cash’s voice filled the room, low and rough, like history humming through whiskey. The light flickered, catching the metal gleam of a rifle mounted above the bar — both decoration and declaration.

Jeeny: looking up at it “You know, that quote — it’s not just about politics. It’s about identity. People cling to symbols because the symbols don’t argue back.”

Jack: smirking “Yeah, God, guns, and the constitution — the holy trinity of certainty.”

Jeeny: softly “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jack: quietly “It’s not bad. It’s human. We all build altars. Some to faith. Some to freedom. Some to the idea that we were once better than we are.”

Jeeny: after a pause “And you? What do you keep?”

Jack: staring into his glass “Doubt. It’s the only thing that doesn’t rust.”

Host: The bar fell silent for a moment. Outside, a truck roared past, its headlights flashing across the room like a brief interrogation of truth.

Jeeny: softly “You know, Palin’s quote — people mock it, but there’s pain in it too. The kind that comes from feeling unseen. When the world changes without asking you first.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. They hear ‘progress’ and think it means erasure.”

Jeeny: quietly “And when people feel erased, they fight with what they have left — belief, bullets, and the Bill of Rights.”

Jack: dryly “And bumper stickers.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And bar conversations.”

Jack: sighing “Fair enough.”

Host: The bartender poured another drink for someone down the counter. The sound of liquid hitting glass echoed like punctuation in a long, unfinished sentence.

Jack: after a moment “You know, what bothers me isn’t the keeping — it’s the wall it builds. ‘We’ll keep our God, our guns, our constitution.’ It’s not just protection. It’s isolation.”

Jeeny: softly “But isolation feels like safety when the world feels hostile.”

Jack: quietly “Until it turns into loneliness.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “And loneliness breeds anger.”

Jack: gently “And anger looks for a flag to wave.”

Host: The wind outside rattled the windows, a soft howl against the old wood. Somewhere, a dog barked. The TV flickered again, a politician’s face cutting in and out of static, like the ghost of conviction trying to sell itself.

Jeeny: leaning forward “You know, it’s easy to laugh at people who cling to symbols. But you can’t forget — symbols are how humans survive chaos. We reduce the infinite to something we can carry.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. But when we start worshiping the symbol more than the soul behind it, that’s when we lose the plot.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe that’s what America is — a country arguing with its own mythology.”

Jack: smiling faintly “And charging admission.”

Jeeny: smiling back “You’re cynical, but not wrong.”

Host: The bartender turned off the TV. The bar fell into stillness again — just the sound of the wind and the faint hum of the jukebox. Jeeny closed her notebook. Jack stared at the flag hanging by the door — faded, torn slightly at the edge, but still standing.

Jack: after a long silence “You know, for all the noise, maybe Palin’s quote isn’t just defiance. Maybe it’s a plea. A way of saying, ‘Don’t forget us.’”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. It’s not about keeping the past. It’s about keeping relevance.”

Jack: nodding “And maybe that’s the tragedy — they’re trying to preserve a version of America that no longer fits, but they love it too much to let go.”

Jeeny: quietly “That love is real, even if it’s misplaced.”

Jack: softly “Love always is.”

Host: The light above them flickered, then steadied. Outside, dawn hinted at the horizon — a thin line of orange pushing against the dark.

Jeeny stood, tucking her notebook under her arm. Jack followed, leaving his drink half-finished.

Jeeny: at the door, looking out at the waking sky “You think things will ever change?”

Jack: quietly “Everything changes, Jeeny. The question is whether we learn to love what it becomes.”

Jeeny: softly “And if we don’t?”

Jack: after a pause “Then we’ll keep our gods, our guns, our constitution — and lose our country.”

Host: The door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold air. They stepped outside — two silhouettes swallowed by the vastness of the American morning.

Behind them, the jukebox played one last song — a slow, aching country tune about love, loss, and the kind of pride that breaks before it bends.

And as the light spread across the land — illuminating rusted trucks, white crosses, and waving flags — Sarah Palin’s words echoed like a national prayer and a warning:

That conviction without compassion becomes armor.
That belief without empathy becomes blindness.
That every nation has a choice —
to cling to its myths,
or to grow beyond them.

And that sometimes,
the hardest thing to surrender
isn’t faith or freedom,
but the fear of change itself.

Fade out.