Among the other values children should be taught are respect for

Host: The morning light bled through the curtains, casting soft stripes across the wooden table. The air carried the faint smell of bread and burnt coffee, mingled with the distant hum of a city waking. Jack sat in the kitchen, his shirt sleeves rolled, his hands still stained with ink from last night’s work. Across from him, Jeeny folded her arms, her hair loosely tied, her eyes carrying the quiet firmness of someone who had come to argue not for victory, but for truth.

The radio murmured in the background, some old recording of a speech—a voice echoing James E. Faust’s words:
“Among the other values children should be taught are respect for others, beginning with the child’s own parents and family; respect for the symbols of faith and the patriotic beliefs of others; respect for law and order; respect for the property of others; respect for authority.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, slow and unescapable.

Jeeny: “There’s something beautiful about that, isn’t there? The idea that respect could be the root of all values—that if a child learns to honor others, they’ll know how to live with kindness.”

Jack: (gruffly) “Or they’ll learn how to obey. That kind of teaching, Jeeny—it’s how we raise followers, not thinkers. Respect for authority, law, symbols, property… sounds like a good way to make sure nobody ever asks the wrong questions.”

Host: The light shifted, falling across Jack’s face, catching the faint creases around his eyes—the kind carved by too much watching, not enough sleep. Jeeny’s voice remained gentle, but there was a steel beneath it.

Jeeny: “It’s not about obedience, Jack. It’s about balance. A child who doesn’t learn respect becomes a rebel without cause. Society needs roots before it can grow branches. Respect isn’t submission—it’s recognition. A way of saying: You exist. Your beliefs, your pain, your space—they matter.”

Jack: “Recognition? You mean compliance. I’ve seen what happens when people are taught to ‘respect’ authority without question. They salute, they nod, they obey—and then tyranny walks right through the door, wearing the uniform of order. That’s not virtue. That’s fear in a suit.”

Host: The kettle began to whistle, a thin, shrill sound slicing through the room. Neither of them moved.

Jeeny: “You always go to the extreme, Jack. Respect doesn’t mean worship. It means understanding the weight of other people’s worlds. You can still question while you listen. You can still protest while you honor. Respect is not surrender.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “But who decides what’s respectful? The parent? The church? The state? History is full of people who thought they were teaching values—and ended up teaching obedience. Look at the children in the Soviet schools of the 1930s, taught to salute the party, to report their own parents. They were told it was respect—respect for the collective, for the law. But what they learned was fear.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes flinched, but she didn’t look away. The room felt smaller, the morning light now white, almost cold.

Jeeny: “And yet, without respect, those same children grow into anarchy. Look around us, Jack. Every generation tearing down the last—families divided, faiths mocked, law turned into negotiation, property burned in the name of expression. We’ve mistaken disrespect for freedom. Maybe that’s why Faust said what he said—because we’ve forgotten that reverence isn’t weakness; it’s humility.”

Jack: “Humility’s fine until it becomes a chain. I want a child who questions why the flag matters, not one who’s forced to salute it. I want them to ask what authority earns respect, not just give it. You call it rebellion; I call it thinking.”

Jeeny: “But a child without respect grows into an adult without restraint. They question everything until nothing means anything. The symbol of faith, the law, the flag, the home—they’re not sacred because they’re perfect, but because they give us something to protect. Without that, we’re just voices shouting in the wind.”

Host: Jack’s fist tapped lightly against the table, an unconscious drumbeat of irritation. The clock ticked—each second a small reminder of time passing, of childhoods already lost.

Jack: “You sound like you want to build a world of polite children—all obedient, tidy, thankful. But I’d rather have a messy one, full of dreamers who make mistakes, who fight the system when it’s wrong.”

Jeeny: “And I’d rather have one where dreamers still know how to say thank you to their parents, and please to a stranger, and sorry when they hurt someone. Rebellion doesn’t need to erase respect. It needs to be guided by it. Even Martin Luther King Jr.—he challenged authority, but with dignity, not contempt. His respect for the very laws he broke is what gave his defiance its power.”

Host: The kettle had gone silent, its steam fading like anger cooling into thought. Jack leaned back, his expression softening under Jeeny’s words.

Jack: “Maybe. But respect can be used as a weapon too. The demand for it, I mean. The way those in power use it to keep silence in the room. I’ve seen it. Leaders, priests, parents—all saying, ‘You must respect me,’ when what they really mean is, ‘Don’t question me.’”

Jeeny: “Then teach discernment, not disrespect. Teach a child that respect must be earned—not blind, not forced, but chosen. That’s what Faust meant, I think. That respect starts in the home—not as a command, but as a model. When a child sees their father treat their mother with kindness, when they see disagreement handled with grace, that’s how they learn respect for others, for law, for authority—not through fear, but through love.”

Host: The sunlight deepened, turning the room gold. The dust motes floated like tiny prayers, unhurried, suspended between light and shadow.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about obedience or rebellion. Maybe it’s about balance again. The same thing you said last time.”

Jeeny: “It always is, Jack. We live between chaos and control—between the child who questions and the adult who guides. If either one disappears, the world collapses.”

Host: Jack reached for his cup, his hand brushing Jeeny’s for a moment—a brief spark of understanding. The city outside had grown louder, but inside, the silence was gentle now, no longer the weight of conflict, but the breath of resolution.

Jack: “Respect, then… not as submission, but as a kind of language. The way we tell each other—‘I see you.’”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The beginning of peace is just that—a recognition.”

Host: The camera slowly pulled away—the morning spilling through the window, the world outside still imperfect, still human. The table, with its two cups and lingering words, stood as a small altar to a larger truth:

That respect is not a rule, but a relationship—
a quiet bridge between authority and freedom,
between the child we were and the world we are still learning to deserve.