You know, I always say white is not a colour, white is an

Host: The evening sky over the city had turned the color of smoke — that uncertain hour between twilight and truth, where the world feels both alive and guilty. The neon signs outside the diner buzzed softly, their glow reflecting off the wet pavement, painting the night in red and gold.

Inside, the diner hummed with quiet tension — the sound of cutlery, the low murmur of news from the TV mounted in the corner, and the steady hiss of the coffee machine. It was the kind of place that smelled like fried onions, regret, and stories you don’t tell until after midnight.

Jack sat in his usual booth, shirt sleeves rolled up, a half-eaten sandwich in front of him. He wasn’t eating. His grey eyes were fixed on the screen above the counter. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a mug, eyes sharp but soft, studying him rather than the news.

On the TV, an old recording of Dick Gregory played — the sound grainy, the man’s voice full of wit, anger, and humor woven into truth:
"You know, I always say white is not a colour, white is an attitude, and if you haven’t got trillions of dollars in the bank that you don’t need, you can’t be white."

The line hit the diner like thunder under quiet skies. A few patrons chuckled awkwardly. One man looked away. Jeeny’s lips tightened, not in discomfort, but recognition.

Jeeny: “He said that fifty years ago. And it’s still the sharpest thing anyone’s said about class and color.”

Jack: “Fifty years later, it’s still the same world — we just changed the filters on the camera.”

Jeeny: “You think it’s just class?”

Jack: “What else could it be? He wasn’t talking about skin — he was talking about access. About the kind of safety money buys.”

Jeeny: “No, he was talking about power. The kind that makes your reality feel universal.”

Jack: “Power, money — same language, different accents.”

Jeeny: “You always flatten things when they get uncomfortable.”

Jack: “I simplify things so I can see them clearly.”

Jeeny: “You mean you erase the parts that don’t fit your view.”

Host: The waitress passed by with a pot of coffee, refilling cups that didn’t need refilling. Outside, the streetlights hummed. Inside, the air thickened with that familiar tension between intellect and experience — between the one who observed the world and the one who felt it.

Jack: “You really think whiteness is just an attitude?”

Jeeny: “It’s not just an attitude. It’s a passport. A door that doesn’t lock when you walk up to it. Gregory was saying whiteness is wealth — not just in money, but in insulation. The privilege of not having to think about survival every second.”

Jack: “You make it sound like nobody else struggles.”

Jeeny: “Everyone struggles. But not everyone’s struggle is criminalized.”

Host: Jack looked away — not in defiance, but in the quiet way a man does when he knows he’s standing in front of a mirror that finally shows him everything.

Jack: “I get what you’re saying. I just hate how true it is. We built a world where skin and status trade places like currencies. You can buy invisibility if you can afford it.”

Jeeny: “And if you can’t, you become the problem everyone’s trying not to see.”

Jack: “So what do we do with that truth? Just sit here and nod?”

Jeeny: “No. We live differently because of it. Or we admit we’re part of the lie.”

Host: The rain began outside — soft, almost polite, tapping against the windows like a metronome marking the weight of their conversation.

Jack: “You ever feel guilty for what you have?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But guilt doesn’t feed anyone. It just makes the privileged feel moral for feeling bad.”

Jack: “So what’s the alternative?”

Jeeny: “Awareness that doesn’t stop at sympathy. Awareness that builds.”

Jack: “You mean redistribution.”

Jeeny: “No. Recognition. The ability to stop pretending the playing field was ever even.”

Host: Jack leaned back, arms crossed. His face was thoughtful now — not defensive, but introspective. He had the look of a man who was trying to reconcile what he’d learned with what he’d lived.

Jack: “You think that’s what Gregory meant? That white isn’t about color, it’s about comfort?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Comfort without consequence. The luxury of never thinking about what your skin, your accent, your name, your existence might cost you.”

Jack: “But isn’t that the dream? To reach that kind of security?”

Jeeny: “It’s a dream when you earn it. It’s a nightmare when it’s built on someone else’s exhaustion.”

Host: The TV flickered again, showing Gregory’s face mid-laugh — that knowing, mischievous grin of a man who could slice through delusion with humor sharper than any knife.

Jeeny: “He weaponized laughter. That’s why he scared people. He made them laugh while they realized they were the joke.”

Jack: “That’s genius. Truth wrapped in comedy. Like smuggling fire through a smile.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because if you tell people the truth plain, they’ll deny it. But make them laugh first — now they’ve already agreed with you before they realize it.”

Jack: “You think we’ve lost that kind of voice now?”

Jeeny: “No. It just gets buried under noise. Outrage sells faster than insight.”

Jack: “So the real thinkers become echoes.”

Jeeny: “And the real systems stay intact.”

Host: The rain intensified, streaking the window in slanted lines. The light from the neon sign outside — OPEN ALL NIGHT — reflected red across their faces, as though the world itself were blushing at the conversation.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think the world doesn’t want equality — it wants permission to keep pretending.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Gregory was mocking. The illusion that equality can exist inside a structure designed to preserve advantage.”

Jack: “Then what’s the fix?”

Jeeny: “There isn’t one. Just small acts of resistance that make the illusion harder to sustain. You tell the truth. You refuse to decorate injustice with politeness.”

Jack: “And if people call that anger?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe anger’s overdue.”

Host: Silence. Heavy but not hopeless. The rain slowed again. The waitress turned off the TV; Gregory’s face disappeared into static. But the words stayed — floating like smoke, unerasable.

Jack: “You know, when he said ‘white is an attitude,’ I don’t think he was just condemning. I think he was inviting — telling people to choose differently.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But to choose differently, you have to see the cost of the choice.”

Jack: “And most people don’t want to pay that bill.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why artists like him existed — to make the comfortable feel the cost, if only for a second.”

Host: The lights flickered, and for a brief moment the diner was bathed in shadow — two faces half-lit, half-lost, divided by nothing but understanding.

Jeeny reached for her mug, drained the last of the coffee, and smiled softly.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, sometimes I think truth is like architecture — you can build around it, but you can’t demolish it.”

Jack: “And sometimes it’s like money — only the rich get to ignore it.”

Jeeny: “Then I guess the rest of us keep reminding them it’s still there.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped completely. The street shimmered, reflections rippling in the puddles like ghosts of the world they’d just dissected.

They sat in silence for a while, neither speaking, both thinking — about class, color, laughter, and the kind of truth that survives its own discomfort.

And as they finally stood to leave, the faint sound of Gregory’s laughter seemed to echo from somewhere unseen — not mocking, not cruel, but full of the fierce warmth of a man who understood the weight of saying what needed to be said.

Because he wasn’t just talking about color.
He was talking about consciousness.
About who gets to dream — and who gets to build the dream in the first place.

Host: The neon sign flickered once more — OPEN ALL NIGHT — a reminder that the conversation, like the fight, was never really over.