We were founded on the idea that all people are created equal

Host: The Capitol steps were almost empty now. The last of the day’s crowd had gone home, their chants and camera flashes dissolved into the dusk. The flag above the dome fluttered gently in the wind — steady, weathered, luminous against the soft orange sky.

The city was exhaling. Its monuments stood silent in their marble stillness, its streets humming faintly with the afterglow of speeches and ideals.

Jack sat on the low stone railing, his jacket collar up against the cool air, the faint echo of patriotic music still ringing in his ears. Beside him, Jeeny carried two paper cups of coffee, steam rising into the fading light.

She handed him one, then unfolded a piece of paper she had tucked into her coat pocket — words she’d printed earlier that morning before the rally began.

Her voice was calm but bright with conviction as she read:

"We were founded on the idea that all people are created equal, and while that notion of who counts as a person — who deserves equality — has evolved over time, the point remains: America was founded as a bastion of freedom and equality. That is the America I know." — Karine Jean-Pierre

She let the last words linger — “the America I know” — her tone soft but firm, like someone defending a beloved friend others had forgotten how to see.

Jack: (quietly) “That’s a beautiful sentiment.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than sentiment. It’s a reminder.”

Jack: “A reminder of what?”

Jeeny: “That the story isn’t finished. That the promise still matters — even if we’re still figuring out how to keep it.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You still believe in the idea?”

Jeeny: “Of course. What’s America without the idea?”

Jack: “A geography lesson.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The idea is what turns land into hope.”

Host: The wind picked up slightly, fluttering the paper in Jeeny’s hand. The lights from the city below flickered on one by one, spreading like constellations across the darkening streets.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. We were founded on the words ‘all men are created equal,’ but it took centuries for the country to realize it didn’t just mean men.”

Jeeny: “And even longer to realize it didn’t just mean some men.”

Jack: “You think we’ve learned it now?”

Jeeny: (pausing) “We’ve learned it. But learning isn’t the same as living it.”

Jack: “So what’s the America you know?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “The one that tries again. Even when it fails. Especially when it fails.”

Host: A siren wailed in the distance, faint and fleeting. The air smelled faintly of rain, stone, and history.

Jack: “You sound like you still have faith in the whole thing.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t mean blindness. It means belief strong enough to argue.”

Jack: “Argue for what?”

Jeeny: “For the better version of us. The version we wrote about before we knew how hard it would be to become it.”

Jack: “You mean the version where freedom wasn’t selective.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Where equality wasn’t an exception — but the expectation.”

Jack: “And you still think that’s possible?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Otherwise, every sacrifice behind those monuments was for nothing.”

Host: The light shifted — the last of the sun slipping behind the Lincoln Memorial. Its columns glowed faintly gold, its presence a reminder and a challenge.

Jack: “Sometimes I wonder if we’re too fractured to ever find that version again. Everyone’s fighting over what America means.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point, Jack. We’ve always fought over what it means. The argument is the process.”

Jack: “You make division sound noble.”

Jeeny: “Not noble — necessary. Progress has always been born from disagreement. From people brave enough to demand that the definition of equality expand.”

Jack: “Like who?”

Jeeny: “Like Frederick Douglass. Like Susan B. Anthony. Like Martin Luther King. Like the immigrants who came with nothing but hope, and the activists who marched for people they’d never meet. Every generation’s been a negotiation between who we were and who we could be.”

Host: The sound of footsteps echoed behind them — tourists leaving, workers locking the gates. The city lights shimmered in reflection across the Potomac, soft and silver.

Jeeny looked toward the horizon, the faint outline of the Capitol dome glowing in the dark.

Jeeny: “You know, what Jean-Pierre said — ‘That is the America I know’ — that’s personal. Everyone knows their own America. For some, it’s opportunity. For others, it’s disappointment. But for me…”

Jack: “What is it for you?”

Jeeny: (thinking) “It’s the in-between. The place that keeps striving. The one that keeps saying, ‘Not yet, but soon.’”

Jack: “You sound like you’re describing a person.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Nations are just collections of souls trying to grow up.”

Jack: “And you think ours still can?”

Jeeny: “I think it must. Growing pains are proof you’re still alive.”

Host: A soft rain began to fall — the kind that doesn’t send people running, just deepens the color of everything it touches.

Jack watched as the flag at the top of the dome rippled against the grey sky, a quiet heartbeat of persistence.

Jack: “When you say ‘freedom,’ what do you mean, Jeeny? Everyone says the word, but no one seems to mean the same thing.”

Jeeny: “Freedom isn’t about doing whatever you want. It’s about everyone having room to breathe. Real freedom expands. It doesn’t hoard.”

Jack: “And equality?”

Jeeny: “Equality is love with a conscience. It’s not charity — it’s respect.”

Jack: “You think America’s capable of that?”

Jeeny: (softly) “We’ve always been capable. We’ve just never been consistent.”

Host: The rain thickened, tiny droplets glistening in the streetlight. Jeeny stood, pulling her coat tighter. Jack followed, slipping his hands into his pockets.

They started walking down the empty steps together, their footsteps echoing in rhythm.

Jack: “You know, for all its flaws, I still get a chill when I look at this place — the dome, the flag, the idea of it all. It’s fragile, but it’s… ours.”

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox, isn’t it? We criticize it because we love it. Because we know what it’s capable of being.”

Jack: “Like a child who hasn’t grown into its potential.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. America’s still learning how to live up to its own poetry.”

Host: They reached the base of the steps. The rain softened again, as if the storm had tired of its own drama.

Jeeny stopped and turned back to look up at the Capitol one last time — its light unwavering in the mist.

Jeeny: “That’s the America I know, Jack. Not perfect. Not finished. But brave enough to keep rewriting itself.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Then maybe that’s what patriotism really is — faith in the unfinished.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Faith in the effort. Faith in the dream.”

Host: They stood there for a moment, the flag above them billowing gently, the rain whispering over stone. And somewhere, in the sound of the wind, Karine Jean-Pierre’s words seemed to echo once more — not as political rhetoric, but as a quiet vow:

"America was founded as a bastion of freedom and equality. That is the America I know."

Host: And perhaps that is what it means to love a country —
not to worship its perfection,
but to believe in its becoming.

To hold faith not in what it is,
but in what it still dares to try to be.