We were marching since we were babies and all we did was make

Host:
The sky was the color of television static, grey and indifferent, as the crowd dispersed down the avenue. The protest signs — cardboard dreams, bleeding ink, and slogans long forgotten — lay scattered across the wet pavement. A drumbeat still echoed faintly in the distance, like a heartbeat that didn’t know it was over yet.

A cold wind moved through the city, lifting flyers, tugging at banners, carrying away the last chants of the day. Jack and Jeeny walked together, their steps slow, their shoes soaked. The protest had ended an hour ago, but neither seemed ready to go home.

They stopped under the neon flicker of a closed coffee shop, the sign buzzing like a mosquito in a jar.

Jeeny:
(Quietly.) “Robert Patrick once said, ‘We were marching since we were babies, and all we did was make Jane Fonda famous.’”

Host:
Jack laughed, a rough, tired sound — the kind that breaks into smoke before it becomes humor.

Jack:
“Yeah. That’s about right. Whole generations of people chanting, marching, believing they were changing the world, and all they did was feed the camera. Rebellion became a photo op.”

Jeeny:
(Softly.) “You think it’s that simple? That all the marches, the movements, the sacrifices were just… entertainment?”

Jack:
“Tell me I’m wrong. Look around. Every cause turns into a brand, every revolution ends up on a T-shirt. People march, hashtags trend, celebrities cry on TV, and then — nothing. The machine just absorbs it, like it always does.”

Host:
A bus rumbled past, splattering water, the reflections of old slogans warping in the puddle. Jeeny watched it go, her face soft, eyes bright with something fierce and ancient.

Jeeny:
“You sound like every cynic who ever forgot why people fight in the first place. Sure, maybe it gets sold, maybe it gets distorted, but you can’t erase the hearts that beat for something real.”

Jack:
(Sharply.) “Hearts don’t change systems, Jeeny. Money does. Power does. And both are immune to chanting.”

Jeeny:
“Then what do you call the Civil Rights Movement, or the end of Vietnam? That wasn’t money or power — that was people standing up, refusing to be silent.”

Jack:
(With a bitter laugh.) “And look what it cost them. Half the leaders murdered, the other half silenced. And in the end, who got rich off the story? The filmmakers, the authors, the faces on magazine covers — not the marchers in the mud.”

Host:
The rain began again, softly, beating down on the pavement like a slow drumroll. Jack lit a cigarette, the flame small, defiant, flickering against the wind.

Jeeny:
(Quietly.) “You think fame cancels meaning? That just because someone got credit, the rest of it was pointless?”

Jack:
“It’s not about credit. It’s about illusion. Every generation thinks it’s special, that its rage is unique, that this time it’ll work. But we keep recycling outrage — just with better cameras. The march becomes the movie, and the movie becomes the memory.”

Host:
Jeeny stepped closer, her hair damp, eyes alive with light.

Jeeny:
“Then what’s your answer, Jack? To stop marching? To stop believing? Because you can’t measure change like profit. You can’t quantify hope. Even if Jane Fonda got famous, it doesn’t erase the souls who walked beside her.”

Jack:
“You’re still talking like belief is a currency, Jeeny. It’s not. It’s debt. The more you believe, the more the world takes from you. And when it’s done, you’re left empty, broke, and forgotten.”

Host:
Her hand tightened on the coffee cup, crushing it slightly. The sound was sharp, like paper bones snapping.

Jeeny:
“You really think hope is a waste?”

Jack:
(After a pause.) “I think hope is a drug. We’ve been marching since we were kids — through protests, wars, corporate slogans, elections — and the only thing that really changes is the marketing strategy. That’s what Patrick meant, Jeeny. All that marching, and the only thing that moved was the camera.”

Host:
The streetlights flickered, the neon buzz mixing with the rain’s rhythm. The city’s air was electric, sad, alive.

Jeeny:
“You mistake the failure of the world for the failure of the human spirit. You think because justice is slow, it’s dead. But I’ve seen faces in the crowd — students, workers, mothers — whose eyes burn with the same fire as the ones in Selma, in Prague, in Tiananmen. That’s not a movie, Jack. That’s memory — and it still breathes.”

Jack:
“And yet the machine keeps running. The same wars, the same slogans, the same marches with new hashtags. Maybe we just like the marching. Maybe it makes us feel alive — rebellion as therapy.”

Jeeny:
(With heat.) “Then let it be therapy! At least it’s feeling, not apathy. I’d rather march and fail than sit and rot. Even if the world doesn’t change, I do.”

Host:
The wind shifted, blowing rain sideways. A poster for the protest peeled off a wall, fluttered, and fell into a puddle, the ink dissolving into a blur of color.

Jack:
(Quietly, almost sadly.) “You think that’s enough?”

Jeeny:
“It has to be.”

Host:
For a moment, neither spoke. The rain softened, and the street glowed in the dim yellow light of a lamppost. Their reflections wavered in the water, distorted, but still there.

Jack:
(After a long silence.) “You know… when I was a kid, I went to a march with my father. Vietnam. I didn’t understand what it was about. I just remember the noise, the chants, the drums. He said we were making history.”

Jeeny:
“And do you think he was wrong?”

Jack:
“I think he believed it. And I think that belief is what kept him going. Maybe that’s the real legacy — not the change, but the motion itself.”

Host:
Jeeny smiled, a small, tired smile, but one that held warmth.

Jeeny:
“Then maybe we’re not just marching to change the world, Jack. Maybe we’re marching to remind ourselves that we’re still human — that our feet still move, that our hearts still care, even when the world doesn’t.”

Jack:
(Softly.) “Maybe.”

Host:
They stood there, the protest debris strewn around them — wet signs, faded slogans, discarded megaphones. Above them, a billboard flickered with an advertisement for a celebrity foundation, her smiling face glowing against the stormy sky.

Jack looked up, then laughed quietly, gesturing toward it.

Jack:
“Looks like Jane Fonda’s still famous.”

Jeeny:
(With a faint laugh.) “Then maybe it’s our job to keep marching, even when the fame wins — to keep the noise alive, not for the world, but for the souls who still believe it matters.”

Host:
The camera would pull back now, rising above the street, the rain, the neon signs, the two small figures standing amid the remnants of conviction.

In the distance, another march would begin — a new crowd, a new generation, voices merging, footsteps echoing.

Because even if the world doesn’t change, the sound of people moving together — that’s still holy.