Women have been taught that, for us, the earth is flat, and that

Host: The night had settled over the city like a heavy cloak, thick with fog and the faint buzz of streetlights struggling to stay awake. In a narrow alley café, tucked behind a half-broken neon sign, Jack and Jeeny sat at a small table near the window.

Outside, a group of young women laughed as they passed — their voices bright, unafraid, cutting through the darkness like a song. Inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee, old books, and the slow-burning hope of late conversations.

Host: Jeeny had just come from a protest — a small one, but fierce. Her jacket still carried the scent of rain and smoke. Jack was already there, leaning back in his chair, a cigarette resting between his fingers, the ashtray crowded with half-finished thoughts.

Jeeny set her bag down and took a slow breath, her eyes still burning from the cold air outside.

Jeeny: “Andrea Dworkin once said, ‘Women have been taught that, for us, the earth is flat, and that if we venture out, we will fall off the edge. Some of us have ventured out nevertheless, and so far we have not fallen off. It is my faith, my feminist faith, that we will not.’”

Jack: exhales smoke “She always did have a way of turning rebellion into religion.”

Jeeny: “That’s because for her — for many of us — it is a kind of faith. To walk into a world that keeps warning you not to.”

Host: The light flickered above them, casting soft shadows on the wall — like invisible bars from a cage that once stood there.

Jack: “Faith is one thing, Jeeny. But isn’t this talk of edges a bit dramatic? The world isn’t flat anymore.”

Jeeny: leans forward “Maybe not for you. But for women? The map still ends sooner. The warnings just got prettier fonts.”

Jack: “You make it sound like every woman’s chained.”

Jeeny: “Not chained. Just taught to be small.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but it carried a quiet rage — the kind that comes from years of listening to silence where change should have been.

Jack: “You’re saying society still tells you where to stand?”

Jeeny: “It tells us how to stand — how to smile, how to be pleasing, how not to take up space. It’s not a map anymore, Jack. It’s choreography.”

Jack: half-smiles, bitterly “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that.”

Jeeny: “Every woman has. From birth.”

Host: The rain started outside, tapping against the glass in an uneven rhythm — like a slow applause from the sky.

Jack: “You know, I grew up thinking feminism was already done. Like some completed project — women got rights, got jobs, got choice. Case closed.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem. You thought it was a gift given, not a fight continued.”

Host: The smoke curled between them, thick and pale. Jack’s grey eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in something closer to unease.

Jack: “So what’s your faith, then? That one day the edges disappear?”

Jeeny: “No. That one day, we’ll stop pretending the edges were ever real.”

Jack: “You think fear’s just an illusion?”

Jeeny: “No. Fear’s very real. But it’s built. Taught. Reinforced. The way a wall is built, brick by brick. Patriarchy’s just architecture with better PR.”

Host: Jack laughed — a short, low sound, but not mocking. He was listening now. Really listening.

Jack: “So you’re saying men built the wall, and women have to climb it?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying some of us are tired of climbing. We’re learning to walk straight through it.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her coffee cup, her eyes focused, unblinking.

Jeeny: “You know what it feels like? To live in a world that teaches you your courage is recklessness? That every step beyond the line is a fall?”

Jack: “Then why take the step?”

Jeeny: softly “Because the view’s worth it.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The rain had turned heavy now, sliding down the windows in long, trembling streaks. The neon sign outside flickered — one letter gone dark, like a missing truth.

Jack: “You’ve always had this fire, Jeeny. But tell me — doesn’t faith like that ever break you?”

Jeeny: “It breaks me every day. But breaking isn’t the same as falling.”

Jack: “You sound like Dworkin herself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have to. Every woman does — in her own way.”

Host: Jack took another drag from his cigarette, his hand trembling just slightly. He wasn’t the enemy in her eyes — but he was the echo of a world that still didn’t know it was one.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? You talk about faith, but it sounds like fury.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they’re twins. You can’t have one without the other. You can’t believe in change without being furious at what still is.”

Jack: “And men? What are we supposed to do? Apologize for being born with longer maps?”

Jeeny: “No. Just admit you didn’t draw them alone.”

Host: The words landed quietly but heavy, like the soft thud of truth on wood.

Jack: “You know, I once worked with a woman who should’ve been running the department. Smart, fearless, better than anyone there. But she quit. Said she was tired of being the ‘exception that proves the rule.’ I never really understood what she meant until now.”

Jeeny: “That’s what the edge does, Jack. It doesn’t just keep you from walking forward. It convinces you there’s nowhere else to go.”

Host: The rain began to slow, leaving behind a silver mist that blurred the city into something softer. Jeeny leaned back, her voice gentler now — not because she’d won, but because she’d been heard.

Jeeny: “You asked what my faith is. It’s not that we’ll never fall. It’s that when we do, we’ll teach ourselves to fly.”

Jack: smiling faintly “And what about the men who don’t know how to follow?”

Jeeny: “They can learn. Or they can watch from the edge.”

Host: Jack laughed, low and genuine this time — not defensive, but awed. He stubbed out his cigarette, and for once, didn’t light another.

Jack: “You know, I always thought feminism was about anger. But maybe it’s about navigation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s about rewriting the map. And daring to believe it was wrong all along.”

Jack: “You really think the earth isn’t flat?”

Jeeny: “Oh, it’s round, Jack. Round enough to hold us all — if we stop pretending there’s not enough room.”

Host: The lights outside dimmed as the café’s door opened — the same group of young women from before, now laughing louder, freer, as they escaped the rain. They looked, for a brief moment, like proof — living proof — that faith can reshape fear.

Jeeny watched them, and something soft crossed her face — not triumph, but quiet certainty.

Jack: “You think they’ll make it further than we did?”

Jeeny: “If we keep shouting the directions behind us — yes.”

Host: The rain stopped. A sliver of moonlight slipped through the clouds, spilling across the café floor like a quiet blessing. The reflection of it touched both their faces — equal in light, equal in shadow.

Jack: “Maybe the world isn’t flat after all.”

Jeeny: smiling “It never was, Jack. They just told us it was — because it was easier than sharing the sky.”

Host: And in that tiny café, amid the soft hum of rain-soaked streets and the fading glow of rebellion, the two of them sat — not as man and woman, not as cynic and believer, but as explorers of a world still being redrawn.

Host: The camera pulls back, through the window, into the cool night air — where the laughter of women drifts like music through the city, echoing a faith older than fear.

A faith that knows: the earth is not flat.
And we will not fall.