Your political views should be your political views. I believe in

Host: The night was thick with the hum of air conditioners and the faint, tired buzz of a city that had stopped pretending to sleep. A single streetlight cast its halo over the entrance of a downtown diner, flickering every few seconds like a failing pulse. Inside, the neon glow bathed everything in hues of amber and blue — colors of conflict, blending just enough to form a fragile kind of peace.

Host: Jack sat at a corner booth, sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened, a half-empty cup of coffee in front of him. His eyes, those grey, analytical eyes, were fixed on the muted TV above the counter, where some commentator argued about politics and business ethics. Jeeny entered, carrying the smell of rain and determination, her hair slightly damp, her expression already tense with thoughts she hadn’t yet spoken.

Jeeny: “You’re watching that again?”

Jack: “It’s background noise. Helps me remember why I stopped believing in neutrality.”

Jeeny: “Neutrality? You sound like you’re gearing up for one of your speeches.”

Host: She slid into the seat across from him. The vinyl made a small sigh, as if even the furniture could feel the weight between them.

Jeeny: “You know what Mark Henry said? ‘Your political views should be your political views. I believe in business being non-partisan.’ That’s wisdom, Jack. Not everything needs to be a battlefield.”

Jack: “Wisdom?” He gave a low chuckle, bitter and quiet. “That’s convenience dressed as virtue. No business is non-partisan, Jeeny. The moment you pick who to hire, where to invest, who to serve — you’ve already taken a side.”

Host: The diner’s jukebox clicked softly, an old record whispering faint blues beneath their voices. The waitress refilled their cups, silent and invisible, as though she’d learned to move through the world without disturbing its arguments.

Jeeny: “But that’s the point, isn’t it? Business shouldn’t be about politics — it should be about people. About creating value, not division.”

Jack: “And who defines value? The market? The majority? When corporations fund politicians, when companies exploit loopholes, when they advertise equality but underpay their workers — that’s political whether they admit it or not.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the alternative, Jack? Should every CEO start making campaign speeches? Should every brand pick a party and alienate half the country?”

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe honesty is worth more than comfort. Look at Patagonia — they spoke out about climate change, and they didn’t collapse. They thrived. Because people want truth, not masks.”

Host: The rain started again outside, light and hesitant, like a conversation unsure of where it’s heading. Jeeny stared out the window, watching the water ripple under the streetlight.

Jeeny: “You can’t run a world where every coffee shop, every software company, every small bakery becomes a moral statement. People are tired. They just want their bread, their Wi-Fi, their paycheck.”

Jack: “And the privilege to stay ‘tired’ instead of aware — that’s political too.”

Host: His voice had sharpened. The sound of a truck outside filled the pause that followed, the vibration of its engine blending with the growing tension inside the diner.

Jeeny: “You act like neutrality is sin. But sometimes it’s survival. You think the small business owner on the corner, struggling to keep the lights on, should turn their shop into a statement? What if they can’t afford to?”

Jack: “Then maybe the system’s broken if staying silent is the only way to survive. Maybe neutrality just protects the powerful.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes flared — a quiet fire behind them. She leaned forward, her hands clasped tightly together.

Jeeny: “You always talk about systems like they’re people, Jack. They’re not. They’re just the machinery of chaos we try to organize. And sometimes, to keep it running, you stay neutral. You keep your head down. You do your work.”

Jack: “And that’s how injustice becomes tradition.”

Host: A long silence. The waitress turned the TV off; the neon sign outside flickered weakly, one of the letters dying mid-glow. The room dimmed.

Jeeny: “You think everyone has the luxury to fight. But not everyone does. For some people, keeping the lights on is the revolution.”

Jack: “And for others, turning them off is the only way to make anyone notice the dark.”

Host: The wind outside howled, pressing against the glass, shaking it just enough to feel alive.

Jeeny: “You’re impossible sometimes, Jack. Always dissecting. Always turning ideals into weapons.”

Jack: “Because ideals are weapons, Jeeny. They’re what stop business from becoming pure machinery. You think being non-partisan keeps business clean? It just means you’ve decided not to get your hands dirty in public.”

Jeeny: “No, it means knowing your lane. A company isn’t a preacher. It’s a builder. Its job is to give people the tools, not the sermon.”

Jack: “Tools can build cages too.”

Host: Her jaw tightened. Jack’s words hung between them, cutting through the faint music still playing — a trembling saxophone caught between melancholy and defiance.

Jeeny: “Do you ever stop fighting?”

Jack: “Only when people stop pretending neutrality is noble.”

Host: Jeeny looked down at her hands, her voice suddenly softer.

Jeeny: “You know my father ran a small printing shop, right? During the election years, people would come in — both sides — asking for flyers. He printed them all. Never took a side. Said, ‘My ink doesn’t care about who wins.’ He just wanted to keep food on the table.”

Jack: “And did he believe in what he printed?”

Jeeny: “He believed in staying alive. Isn’t that enough?”

Jack: “Maybe for a man. Not for a world.”

Host: For the first time, Jack’s tone carried a trace of something else — sorrow. Not arrogance, not anger — just fatigue.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re tired of the fight.”

Jack: “I’m tired of pretending it’s winnable.”

Host: The rain had eased to a faint drizzle now, just enough to trace silver threads down the windowpane. In that quiet, Jeeny’s eyes softened, her fingers unconsciously reaching for the edge of his cup, turning it slightly — a small, human gesture among so much philosophy.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe silence feeds the wrong side. But sometimes I just want a world where a business is about bread and not belief. Where people can work without becoming symbols.”

Jack: “And maybe I just want a world where belief isn’t treated like a liability.”

Host: Their words drifted into a truce, fragile as the steam rising from their coffee. Both had spoken from the same ache — one born of fatigue, the other of faith.

Jeeny: “So what do we do, then?”

Jack: “Maybe we start small. Maybe we make sure the businesses we build — the teams we lead — care more about truth than appearances. Not partisan, not performative. Just… honest.”

Jeeny: “Honest.” She echoed it softly, like tasting the word for the first time. “That’s harder than picking a side.”

Jack: “Yeah. But maybe it’s the only real side left.”

Host: Outside, the neon finally flickered out, leaving only the soft glow of the streetlight spilling through the window. Inside, two cups of coffee grew cold between them — a quiet testament to a world that still couldn’t decide whether to speak or stay silent.

Host: And as they sat there, in that thin space between commerce and conscience, Jack and Jeeny finally understood what Mark Henry meant: neutrality wasn’t silence. It was the art of choosing integrity without choosing sides — a kind of balance most never reach, but everyone keeps trying to find.