We should not be flying a flag of a group who wants to erase our

Host: The diner was nearly empty, its neon lights buzzing in the stillness like electric ghosts. Outside, the highway stretched endlessly under a pale moon, a ribbon of concrete and forgotten dreams. Inside, a single jukebox hummed an old blues tune, and the smell of burnt coffee lingered in the air like an unspoken argument.

Jack sat in the corner booth, his hands wrapped around a chipped cup, the steam rising lazily between his fingers. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her drink absentmindedly, the spoon clinking against the glass with a rhythm that felt more like thought than motion. Between them lay a newspaper, folded to an article beneath a bold headline. At the top was the quote:

“We should not be flying a flag of a group who wants to erase our history and bring mass destruction to our country through Communism.” — Marjorie Taylor Greene.

Jeeny: “It’s a strange world, isn’t it? Everyone’s afraid of losing something — history, identity, power. They cling to flags like they’re shields against forgetting.”

Jack: “Because they are. A flag isn’t just fabric — it’s a story. A story people fight over, bleed for, die defending. And stories are dangerous when they stop belonging to everyone.”

Host: The neon light flickered over their faces — red, then blue, then white — the colors of a country still learning what they mean. A truck rumbled past outside, its headlights slicing through the darkness, casting brief shadows across the counter stacked with old menus and memories.

Jeeny: “But what she’s really saying… it isn’t about the flag. It’s about fear. The fear that history isn’t a sacred monument, but a mirror. And maybe that mirror doesn’t flatter us anymore.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just fatigue. People are tired of being told their past is poison. When everything you grew up with becomes a crime, you start confusing correction with erasure.”

Jeeny: “Correction is not erasure, Jack. History doesn’t vanish because we question it. It becomes more honest.”

Jack: “Honest? Or rewritten? The line between those two is thinner than smoke. Every time we rewrite, we say we’re fixing the truth — but all we’re doing is moving the frame to flatter ourselves.”

Host: The jukebox clicked softly, the music shifting to a slow, mournful guitar. Outside, the wind carried the low hum of passing cars, each one a fleeting reminder that the world was still moving, even as they stood still.

Jeeny: “So what’s the alternative? Let the old lies stand because they’re comfortable?”

Jack: “No. But there’s a difference between burning the pages and reading them aloud. You can’t erase what you need to understand.”

Jeeny: “But sometimes understanding means admitting we were wrong — that the stories we told ourselves were myths. That the ‘greatness’ we fly on flags was built on someone else’s silence.”

Jack: “And sometimes rewriting means replacing one myth with another. Every revolution claims it’s rewriting for justice, but it ends up worshipping a new ideology with the same blind devotion.”

Host: Jeeny looked down at the folded paper, her reflection shimmering faintly in the slick ink. She traced the words with her finger, as if trying to feel the weight behind them.

Jeeny: “Communism, capitalism, nationalism — they’re all just words that people fill with fear. But beneath all the shouting, it’s always the same fight: who gets to own the story of the country.”

Jack: “No one owns it, Jeeny. That’s the problem. It’s too big, too broken. Everyone wants their version to be the truth, and when that fails, they pick a flag and pretend it is.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve stopped believing in truth altogether.”

Jack: “Maybe I have. Maybe truth isn’t lost — maybe it’s buried under a thousand competing versions of righteousness.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked loud in the silence that followed. The waitress, half-asleep, refilled their cups and shuffled away without a word. The smell of fresh coffee rose between them — bitter, familiar, grounding.

Jeeny: “You know what bothers me most about that quote? It’s the word ‘erase.’ People always talk about history like it’s a fragile relic. But history doesn’t erase. It lingers. It haunts. You can tear down a statue, but the story that built it still breathes.”

Jack: “Exactly. Which is why I don’t understand why people try to control it. You can’t erase memory. You can only distort it. And once memory becomes politics, truth dies quietly — like an old man in an empty room, shouting at no one.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what’s happening now. Everyone shouting at ghosts.”

Jack: “And thinking the ghosts are enemies instead of echoes.”

Host: The rain began again — slow, deliberate, soft against the glass. Jeeny leaned back, her eyes reflecting the rhythmic shimmer of the lights outside.

Jeeny: “Do you think patriotism and fear always walk hand in hand?”

Jack: “Patriotism is just fear wearing pride’s jacket. Fear of change, fear of irrelevance, fear that your story won’t matter when the next one is written.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without pride, nations fall apart. People need something to hold on to — even if it’s a myth. Maybe flags aren’t lies. Maybe they’re just reminders that we’re still trying.”

Jack: “Trying to remember, or trying to be remembered?”

Jeeny: “Both. Maybe that’s what history really is — the space between the two.”

Host: A long silence followed. The music faded. The rain softened to a whisper. Jack’s gaze lingered on the flag stitched onto the newspaper’s photo — bright against the grayscale print.

Jack: “You know what I hate most about these arguments? They turn love of country into suspicion. Like you can’t love your home unless you agree on the shape of its shadow.”

Jeeny: “That’s because people confuse criticism with betrayal. But maybe the purest form of love is the courage to say: we can be better.”

Jack: “And the most dangerous form is saying we were never wrong.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both kinds of love are necessary. The kind that remembers, and the kind that rebuilds.”

Host: The lights flickered once more. Outside, dawn began to creep in — pale and uncertain, brushing the wet asphalt with the color of renewal.

Jeeny looked at Jack, her voice low, calm, steady.

Jeeny: “We shouldn’t fear the rewriting of history, Jack. We should fear when no one wants to write it at all.”

Jack: “And when they stop reading it.”

Host: The first ray of light pierced through the diner’s window, glinting off the coffee in their cups — two reflections trembling in perfect symmetry.

Jeeny smiled faintly, not with optimism, but with understanding.

Jeeny: “Maybe the truth isn’t erased or preserved. Maybe it’s rewritten in every heart that’s willing to remember honestly.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the only flag worth flying.”

Host: The jukebox clicked again, this time playing a slow melody that sounded almost like forgiveness. The rain stopped, and the neon sign outside sputtered once before going dark.

The two sat in silence, as morning took the world back from the night —
two souls divided by the same love,
two voices whispering beneath the noise of nations,
and above them all,
the unseen flag of truth —
tattered, elusive,
but still waving.