When a young person is sent 'up the river,' we need to remember

Host: The river moved slow that evening — not in defeat, but in memory. The air was damp, carrying the scent of rain and iron, of something old and half-forgiven. A single bridge, rusted but strong, crossed the water; beneath it, the current whispered against stones, whispering of pasts it had carried, futures it would shape.

On the embankment, a bench faced the water. The streetlights flickered to life one by one, their reflections rippling like trembling stars. Jack sat on the bench, his coat pulled tight, a cigarette burning down to ash between his fingers. Beside him, Jeeny sat with a small notepad in her lap, scribbling something — notes, maybe, or prayers disguised as prose.

It was quiet, except for the water — and the faint hum of a city beyond the trees, restless as always.

Jeeny: (reading softly) “Alan K. Simpson once said, ‘When a young person is sent up the river, we need to remember that all rivers can change course.’”

Jack: (exhales smoke slowly) “Up the river. Funny how that phrase means punishment.”

Jeeny: “And redemption, if you wait long enough.”

Jack: “Depends which side of the river you’re on.”

Jeeny: (glancing at him) “You sound like you’ve been both.”

Jack: (half-smile) “Maybe I have.”

Host: The wind stirred, carrying the smell of rain-soaked concrete and wet bark. Somewhere nearby, a train horn echoed — distant, mournful, like the sound of movement without destination.

The river caught a new wave of light from a passing car — sudden and brief — and for a moment it shimmered silver, alive, forgiving.

Jack: “You know, when someone ends up ‘up the river,’ people stop seeing the person. They see the crime, the failure, the record.”

Jeeny: “That’s because judgment’s easier than understanding. It costs less compassion.”

Jack: “Society loves punishment. Forgiveness makes us uncomfortable.”

Jeeny: “Because it reminds us that we could fall too.”

Jack: “Exactly. So we build prisons — walls of stone and of prejudice — and call them justice.”

Jeeny: “But justice without mercy is just a mirror turned backward.”

Jack: (quietly) “You sound like my grandmother.”

Jeeny: “She was right, then.”

Host: The sky darkened, clouds sliding in from the west. A single drop of rain landed on Jeeny’s page, blurring her ink. She didn’t wipe it away. The words bled into one another — like ideas that refused separation.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about Simpson’s quote? It doesn’t deny the river. It accepts the current — but believes in its power to turn.”

Jack: “You think people can really change that way?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Rivers don’t stay still. Why should souls?”

Jack: “Because some people carve their paths too deep. The current can’t fight the canyon.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s where we come in — to help them find a tributary.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It is poetic. Redemption always is. It’s the only poetry life writes with scars.”

Host: The rain began, soft at first, then steady — tapping against the bench, the water, their coats. The river drank it all, as if taking back what was once lost.

The city lights across the bank shimmered through the rain — distorted, beautiful, unreachable, yet near enough to reflect hope.

Jack: “I once knew a kid — seventeen, maybe. Stole a car, crashed it. No one hurt, but he did time. When he came out, everyone still called him a criminal. He couldn’t get a job, couldn’t shake the label. Eventually, he believed it.”

Jeeny: “That’s how society kills twice — first the crime, then the chance.”

Jack: “He used to sit by a river, actually. Said it was the only place that didn’t look at him with suspicion.”

Jeeny: “Because rivers don’t judge where you’ve been. Only where you’re flowing.”

Jack: (after a pause) “He didn’t make it. Overdose. His course ended too soon.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe it didn’t end. Maybe it merged — with something bigger. Even the smallest stream finds the ocean eventually.”

Host: The rain thickened, each drop hitting the surface like punctuation marks on an unfinished story. Jack stared at the river, smoke curling from his cigarette into the mist, until both vanished.

Jeeny closed her notepad and rested her hand lightly on his. No words. Just warmth — small, quiet, human.

Jack: “You really think forgiveness changes the current?”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness doesn’t change the past. It changes the gravity.”

Jack: “Meaning?”

Jeeny: “Meaning — it gives the soul something to flow toward again. Without it, you just circle the same bend forever.”

Jack: “You talk like a philosopher with rain in her veins.”

Jeeny: “And you talk like a cynic who still hopes to believe.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I sit here with you.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Maybe that’s your first turn.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the water — for a heartbeat, the river shone like a road of silver fire. In that moment, even the darkness seemed to pause.

Then it passed — but something in the air had shifted.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Simpson understood something deeper than politics. He knew justice can’t exist without imagination — the ability to see someone not for what they did, but for what they could become.”

Jack: “And that’s a rare kind of sight.”

Jeeny: “It’s divine sight. The kind rivers have — always moving forward, never turning back, but always reshaping the land they touch.”

Jack: “So redemption’s geography.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And every soul’s a landscape waiting for a storm to change it.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then maybe this rain’s a sermon.”

Jeeny: “Maybe all rain is.”

Host: The thunder rolled distantly, soft and deep, as if the sky itself was agreeing. The world glowed under the silver curtain of weather — the bridge, the river, the two figures sitting in stillness.

The current below caught new strength, swirling faster, shifting patterns, reshaping its edges.

Jack: (softly) “You know… maybe every person we send away carries a chance to come back new.”

Jeeny: “If we give them the space to return.”

Jack: “And if we stop damming the river before it reaches the sea.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Redemption isn’t about punishment. It’s about possibility.”

Jack: “And possibility’s the most human thing we have.”

Jeeny: “And the most fragile.”

Host: The rain slowed, becoming a soft drizzle. The city lights blurred into halos. The two sat still, their breath visible, their silence eloquent.

The river, restless but constant, carried the reflection of every light — broken, trembling, but moving forward.

And as the scene faded, Alan K. Simpson’s words lingered across the water like a benediction —

that every river, no matter how damned,
retains the freedom to turn;

that no young soul is sentenced to stillness,
for movement is mercy,
and change is the natural language of grace;

and that redemption,
like the river itself,
does not erase the past —
it simply finds a new way through it.

The current whispered its truth beneath the bridge —
soft, patient, eternal —
all rivers can change course.