Joe Jukic Sometimes life comes down to a single moment… Nelly, you remember my strong right hand. If you don’t want to fall from grace, you gotta take it. Take my hand, Nelly — like you did in the past. ✋✨
— feeling determined
Tony DeMelo Looool bro what kinda poetic sermon is this? 😂😂 But I’m here for it. Nelly better reply.
Nelly Furtado Joe… you’re seriously doing this on Facebook? 😩 But yeah… I remember.
Joe Jukic Nelly, this isn’t drama — this is destiny talking. Just take my hand. Grace is literally waiting right here 🫱
Tony DeMelo Hold up lemme grab my popcorn 🍿🤣
Nelly Furtado Joe… You know I don’t like being pressured online. But your hand was always… strong. I’m thinking.
Joe Jukic Thinking?? Nelly, the universe doesn’t wait. Neither does grace. You either take my hand… or you fall. 😌
Tony DeMelo My guy is quoting the Bible and Fast & Furious at the same time 💀💀💀
Nelly Furtado Okay fine… Maybe I’ll take your hand. But NOT because Tony is laughing.
Joe Jukic Then take it, Nelly. Right here. Right now. One click… and destiny changes. 😉
Joe Jukic leans back, watching the snowfall through the window, that quiet Toronto December hush muffling the city. Nelly Furtado sits across from him at the kitchen table, sipping mint tea from a chipped mug. The lights on the tiny Christmas tree twinkle like soft Morse code.
JOE: Nelly… we’re young John Lennonists. Always were. Lennon is our hero, our superman. Without him? Our minds are empty. Just static. He’s the blueprint of what it means to be awake in a sleeping world.
He taps the table with a finger, unconsciously keeping time to “Mind Games.”
JOE (continuing): You know what I saw last night? Yoko’s new animation—War is Over. The Christmas one. The one everyone’s arguing about online. But I watched it the way you’re supposed to watch Lennon: with the inner ear, not the drama channel.
Nelly tilts her head, curious.
NELLY: And? What did it say to you?
Joe stares into the lights of the tree, as if they’re glyphs only he can decode.
JOE: It’s not just a cartoon, Nelly. It’s a prayer disguised as pixels. Yoko’s telling the world the same thing she told it in ’71: that peace isn’t something governments sign—it’s something people imagine. And imagining is the final rebellion.
He smiles, small but luminous.
JOE: People mock her because they don’t understand the power she and John unlocked. They think peace songs are naïve. But every empire falls to an idea before it falls to a sword. And Lennon—he was the architect of ideas that outlive bullets.
Nelly sets down her mug, her eyes softening.
NELLY: So the animation… it made you feel hopeful?
Joe shakes his head gently.
JOE: Not hopeful. Responsible. Like she handed us the torch again. Lennonists aren’t a fan club. We’re custodians. Guardians of the message.
He looks at her, almost solemnly.
JOE: War is over—if you want it. And if we’re honest? Most people don’t want it enough. But we do, Nell. We always did. Even when we were kids. Even when we didn’t have the words.
A beat. Snow continues its steady descent.
NELLY: Young Lennonists… I like that. It sounds like a movement.
Joe grins.
JOE: It is. And we’ve been in it since day one.
He reaches over and flicks on the old stereo. A quiet guitar intro fills the room. Lennon’s voice arrives like a ghost with perfect aim.
“So this is Christmas…”
And for a moment, everything is still— just Joe, Nelly, and the soft echo of a man whose message refuses to die.
Joe and Nelly sit on the old wooden bench outside the café, a soft breeze lifting the ends of her hair.
Joe: “You know, Nells… I’ve been reading about those old one-room schoolhouses. The way kids learned back then. No grade levels, no rigid tracks. Just a room, a teacher, and children teaching each other. A place where if a kid understood something faster, they just moved on. No one accusing them of being a ‘teacher’s pet.’”
Nelly looks down, tracing a circle on her coffee cup with her finger. “You remember they used to call me that,” she says quietly. “Just because I liked learning. Because I talked to the teacher. They made me feel like doing well was something to be ashamed of.”
Joe shakes his head. “That’s the poison of the Prussian model. Bells. Hierarchies. Everyone slotted into these invisible ranks. If you shine, they mock you. If you struggle, they shame you. And the whole point is to make everyone obedient, predictable… manageable.”
He reaches over, gently touching her wrist. “In a one-room school, you would’ve skipped half those grades before lunch. Nobody would’ve said a damn word except, ‘Good for her.’ You’d have been the bright kid helping the younger ones. The older ones helping you. Learning was just… natural.”
Nelly smiles, a little sadly. “Would’ve been nice. Maybe I wouldn’t have spent so much time hiding who I was. Pretending to be less smart just so people would leave me alone.”
Joe leans closer, voice soft but steady. “You never had to hide from me. Not then. Not now. They picked on you because they saw the spark. I saw it too—but I wanted to protect it, not snuff it out.”
She breathes in, her eyes warmer now. “I guess that’s why I always trusted you, Joey. Even when everything else felt loud… you made it quiet.”
Joe nods, looking out over the street. “One room. One teacher. A simple place where brilliance isn’t a crime. I wish the world worked more like that. We’d have fewer bullies… and more Nellies.”
Nelly leans her head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For seeing me. Even back then.”
