When the Left agitates over government policies, it's considered

Host: The city was split in two — half drowned in darkness, half glowing in neon. The rain had just ended, leaving the streets slick like mirrors, where red tail lights and blue billboards bled into each other. Somewhere in that electric afterglow, in a corner booth of an all-night diner, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other, a half-empty pot of coffee between them, and a radio humming political talk beneath the low static of the storm.

On the radio, a voice echoed — sharp, deliberate, dripping with frustration. Monica Crowley’s quote hung in the air:
“When the Left agitates over government policies, it's considered righteous anger. When the Right — and much of the center — agitate, it's painted as the rantings of the criminally and violently insane.”

Jack: (staring into his coffee) She’s not wrong. You notice that? How truth shifts depending on who’s shouting it? One side gets to call their rage “justice,” and the other gets called lunatics. Same anger, different branding.

Jeeny: (stirring her cup slowly) Or maybe it’s not the same anger, Jack. Maybe motive matters. What you’re angry about defines whether it’s righteous or just resentful.

Host: The neon sign outside the window flashed — OPEN — its letters blinking through the steam like heartbeat pulses in the night. The sound of rainwater dripping from the roof played like a metronome to their rising tension.

Jack: (his voice sharpens) That’s convenient, isn’t it? Everyone thinks their cause is righteous. Everyone believes they’re saving something. You think the Left’s protests are purer than the Right’s? The anger is the same — it’s just permission that’s different.

Jeeny: (meeting his eyes) But permission comes from ethics, Jack. If your anger defends the oppressed, that’s not the same as anger that preserves the powerful. Morality can’t be symmetrical when suffering isn’t.

Jack: (scoffs) You sound like a manifesto. Tell me — who decides who’s oppressed? The media? The universities? The same people who sell truth for clicks and virtue for votes? Everyone’s a victim these days — and when everyone’s a victim, no one’s responsible.

Host: A car horn echoed down the empty street, and the lights from a passing bus washed through the window, illuminating the steam rising from their cups. Jeeny’s eyes caught the light — warm, amber, full of quiet conviction.

Jeeny: (calmly) I think you mistake compassion for weakness. You think caring about others is manipulated emotion, but what if it’s the only thing holding us together? Maybe the Left shouts about injustice because silence keeps people invisible.

Jack: (gritting his teeth) And maybe the Right shouts because they’re tired of being told they’re monsters for wanting order. You ever think of that? They’re not all bigots, Jeeny. Some just don’t want the world torn down in the name of progress.

Jeeny: (leans forward, voice rising) But what if the world needs tearing down, Jack? What if the structure was built on bones and lies? You call it order — I call it denial.

Host: The rain began again, soft, rhythmic, like a heartbeat returning. Jack’s jaw tightened; Jeeny’s fingers trembled slightly around her cup. Their reflections in the window merged — one shadow, two souls locked in opposition.

Jack: (quietly, almost to himself) And what happens when your righteous anger burns the bridge instead of crossing it? When justice turns into revenge?

Jeeny: (pauses, her tone softens) Then we lose the truth, Jack. Just like them. But that doesn’t mean we stop trying to find it.

Jack: (bitter laugh) Truth? The word’s lost its meaning. Everyone’s got their own facts, their own narrative, their own enemy. The whole damn country’s just a war between mirrors — each side screaming, “You’re the evil one!”

Jeeny: (quietly) Maybe that’s why the anger gets boring — like Cornell said. Because it stops changing anything. It just feeds itself.

Host: The neon flickered again, its light now paler, tired, as if even the sign was weary of choosing a side.

Jack: (leans back, his voice low) I don’t think the anger ever fades. It just gets… institutionalized. One side calls it activism, the other calls it patriotism. Both sides forget it started as fear.

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) Fear — yes. That’s the root, isn’t it? Fear of losing control, of being erased, of being wrong. We’ve all built tribes around that fear and called it identity.

Jack: (staring into his glass) And the media feeds it, politicians harvest it, and people like us — we drink it like coffee and call it belief.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe the only real rebellion now is to stop being angry. To stop letting division be our religion.

Host: A long silence settled — thick, electric, alive with what they didn’t say. The radio behind them crackled, shifting from politics to a faint old song, something from decades ago — a melody about lost love and better days.

Jack: (smiles faintly) You know what’s funny? Both sides think God is on their team.

Jeeny: (half-smiling back) Maybe He left the team a long time ago.

Jack: (chuckles) Or maybe He’s just waiting for us to realize the game was never about winning.

Jeeny: (nods, her voice quiet, almost prayerful) Maybe. Maybe He’s just watching to see which one of us finally listens.

Host: The rain slowed again, whispering on the windowpane like an exhausted confession. The diners around them were silent now, just the two of them in the glow of fading light — two faces, two truths, both flawed, both real.

The camera would pull back, slowly, past the neon glass, past the empty street, past the echo of the argument that had become something almost like understanding.

The quote still hung there, its meaning shifted, refracted through their words:
“When the Left agitates over government policies, it's considered righteous anger. When the Right — and much of the center — agitate, it's painted as the rantings of the criminally and violently insane.”

And as the scene faded, the Host’s voice lingered one last time —
perhaps the tragedy was never which side was angry,
but that anger itself had become the only language we still spoke,
while truth — quiet, fragile, human — sat between us, waiting to be heard.