Who included me among the ranks of the human race?

Host: The night pressed against the windows like a question without an answer. The room was bare — just a table, two chairs, and the faint buzz of a dying lamp. The walls were gray, cracked, and honest. They had seen better arguments and worse truths. Outside, the wind moved through the alley, carrying the smell of rain, dust, and distance.

Host: Jack sat by the window, cigarette smoke curling around his face, his eyes reflecting the lonely gold of the streetlight beyond the glass. Jeeny sat across from him, hands folded, gaze steady — the calm eye of the storm that was his mind. Between them, on a torn piece of paper, were the words of Joseph Brodsky:
“Who included me among the ranks of the human race?”

Host: The sentence lay there like a blade wrapped in velvet — beautiful, but cutting on contact.

Jack: “That’s not a question, Jeeny. That’s a declaration disguised as despair. You can hear it — the exile in it, the irony. Brodsky didn’t wonder if he was human. He wondered why everyone else assumed he wanted to be.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he was wondering if humanity deserved him. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “That’s generous. But he was a poet, not a prophet. What he saw wasn’t grandeur — it was absurdity. The way people cling to belonging like it’s salvation. He’s saying, ‘Don’t count me in your species of compromise.’”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he’s saying, ‘If this is what humanity looks like — violence, greed, indifference — then who signed me up without asking?’”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s not alienation; it’s revolt.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s grief. It’s the sound of someone who’s seen too much of the world and found too little of the soul.”

Jack: “You always make pain sound noble.”

Jeeny: “And you always make it sound useful.”

Host: The lamp flickered, and the shadows grew long — stretching across the floor like silent participants in the debate. A gust of wind slipped through the cracked window, rustling the paper with Brodsky’s line.

Jack: “You know what I think? The problem isn’t the question. It’s the arrogance of it. We’ve turned being human into an achievement — as if consciousness were a trophy instead of a condition.”

Jeeny: “And yet you defend it every day — in your cynicism, in your rebellion. You call humanity absurd, but you still argue like it matters.”

Jack: “That’s because absurdity’s all we have. If you stop laughing at the human condition, you start crying. Brodsky knew that — humor and despair are the same mirror, just tilted differently.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t laughing, Jack. He was lamenting. The kind of lament that comes from watching the world make monsters and call them necessary.”

Jack: “Or maybe he was simply bored — tired of the endless theatre of civilization, where everyone plays the part of ‘person’ but no one feels real.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the question isn’t about exclusion. Maybe it’s about authenticity. Maybe he was asking: When did we stop being human enough to belong?”

Jack: “And maybe the answer is — the moment we started needing to ask.”

Host: The rain began, soft at first, then insistent — a slow percussion against the glass. Jeeny rose, walking toward the window. Her reflection blurred in the pane, half-light, half-shadow.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Brodsky was really asking about empathy. About the loneliness that comes from seeing too clearly. When you see every cruelty, every indifference — it becomes unbearable to call yourself ‘one of them.’”

Jack: “So he isolates himself to keep his soul intact.”

Jeeny: “Wouldn’t you?”

Jack: “Maybe. But solitude isn’t salvation. It’s just silence with better acoustics.”

Jeeny: “And yet some truths can only be heard in silence.”

Jack: “You sound like him — the exile turned philosopher. Romanticizing loneliness because connection feels impossible.”

Jeeny: “Maybe connection is impossible — at least the honest kind. We keep trying to touch each other through our egos, our wounds, our noise. Maybe being human is just learning to live with that failure.”

Jack: “Then why call it a race at all? We’re not running anywhere — just circling the same loneliness with better vocabulary.”

Jeeny: “Because even circles have gravity, Jack. Even loneliness keeps us orbiting each other.”

Host: The rain grew heavier. The sound filled the room like memory — familiar, infinite. Jack lit another cigarette, the tiny flame flaring against the gray.

Jack: “I think about that line sometimes. ‘Who included me among the ranks of the human race?’ It’s not just a question — it’s an accusation. Against whoever decided that consciousness should come with responsibility. That we should feel everything and still keep functioning.”

Jeeny: “You make empathy sound like a curse.”

Jack: “It is. You feel the pain of others and realize there’s no way to fix it. Only to witness it. That’s the real cruelty of being human — awareness without power.”

Jeeny: “But that’s also the beauty. Power without empathy is destruction. Empathy without power is art. That’s why Brodsky wrote instead of ruled.”

Jack: “And what did it earn him?”

Jeeny: “Truth. Even if it hurt.”

Jack: “Truth’s overrated. It doesn’t feed you. It doesn’t save you.”

Jeeny: “No, but it dignifies your hunger.”

Host: The clock ticked in the background, soft but insistent. The air had grown cooler. The cigarette smoke hung like a slow confession.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think Brodsky envied the inhuman. The ocean. The stone. The machine. Things that don’t ache under awareness. Maybe that’s what he meant — that consciousness is an accident of evolution we keep mistaking for purpose.”

Jeeny: “You mean the curse of knowing you exist.”

Jack: “Exactly. Animals live. Humans justify living.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe humanity isn’t what defines us. Maybe it’s what tests us.”

Jack: “And what if we fail?”

Jeeny: “Then we become poets.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “That’s cruel.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s mercy.”

Host: The rain softened, turning to mist. Outside, the streetlight flickered — the world trying to stay awake in its own darkness.

Jeeny turned from the window, her voice softer now.

Jeeny: “Maybe Brodsky didn’t mean to reject humanity. Maybe he was mourning it. Asking who decided that this — all this cruelty, beauty, contradiction — is what it means to be human.”

Jack: “And the joke is, no one decided. We just woke up and found ourselves here — conscious, flawed, and uninvited.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the only way to belong is to stop seeking inclusion. To live outside the race, and make art from the exile.”

Jack: “You think art redeems us?”

Jeeny: “No. But it explains us.”

Jack: “And what if explanation isn’t enough?”

Jeeny: “Then we keep writing until it is.”

Host: The lamp flickered again and finally went out. Only the gray light of dawn seeped in now, quiet and merciful.

Host: Jack sat back, his cigarette extinguished, his face a silhouette carved from fatigue and philosophy. Jeeny stood by the window, the faint outline of a smile on her lips — sad, knowing, human.

Host: The paper with Brodsky’s words lay between them, the ink smudged slightly by moisture — but still legible.

Host: “Who included me among the ranks of the human race?”

Host: Outside, the city stirred — buses starting, voices rising, the mechanical hum of another day trying to sound like purpose.

Host: Inside, two souls lingered in the quiet, caught between irony and grace — aware that to question humanity is, paradoxically, its most human act.

Host: The camera pulled back, the window reflecting dawn. And in that fragile light, Brodsky’s question remained — unanswered, eternal — the most honest prayer ever whispered by a thinking creature:

Host: Who indeed?