As long as any adult thinks that he, like the parents and

Host: The university courtyard was nearly empty at dusk. Fallen leaves fluttered across the stone path, their soft rustle mixing with the low hum of faraway traffic and the occasional echo of laughter from a nearby dorm. The air carried that curious scent of autumn and chalk dust, a season of endings pretending to be beginnings.

Host: Jack sat on a worn wooden bench, a leather-bound notebook open in his lap, though the pen in his hand had long gone still. Across from him, Jeeny stood leaning against the old oak tree, her hands deep in the pockets of her long coat, eyes following the fading line of orange across the sky.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Margaret Mead once said, ‘As long as any adult thinks that he, like the parents and teachers of old, can become introspective, invoking his own youth to understand the youth before him, he is lost.’”
(She looks over at Jack.) “It’s brutal — but true. Every generation thinks it remembers what it’s like to be young, but they don’t. They remember their own youth, not youth itself.”

Jack: (closing the notebook) “Yeah. They try to understand the kids like they’re decoding a language that stopped being spoken fifty years ago.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And then they get angry that no one listens to their translation.”

Host: The wind picked up, shaking the branches above them. A few leaves spiraled down, landing on Jack’s notebook — one yellow, one red, one stubbornly green. He brushed them off slowly, as if reluctant to lose even their silence.

Jack: “You ever notice how adults talk about ‘kids these days’ like they’re describing a species? Like empathy expires when your back starts hurting.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Or maybe it just gets replaced with nostalgia. The most dangerous kind of memory — the one that edits out the struggle.”

Jack: “Nostalgia’s just selective amnesia with good lighting.”

Jeeny: “Beautifully cynical. You’d make Mead proud.”

Host: The campus bell tolled in the distance, deep and solemn, marking the hour with a kind of academic gravitas that meant nothing to the wind.

Jack: “She’s right, though. You can’t understand youth by remembering it. It’s not the same thing anymore. The rules changed. The playground’s digital now.”

Jeeny: “The danger’s still analog, though — the same loneliness, the same need to be seen, to matter. Technology just gives it a louder echo.”

Jack: “But you can’t reach them by talking about your own scars. They don’t want stories. They want space.”

Jeeny: “Yes.” (She nodded slowly.) “That’s what Mead meant by ‘he is lost.’ The adult who looks inward instead of outward — who assumes his pain is the map for someone else’s maze.”

Host: The sky darkened, the first stars surfacing like quiet witnesses to their debate. A group of students walked by laughing, earbuds in, glowing screens lighting their faces like pocket constellations. Jack watched them with something between admiration and melancholy.

Jack: “Look at them. They’re fearless and fragile at the same time. They live like every moment matters — but only online.”

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox of their age. Connection everywhere. Contact nowhere.”

Jack: “We weren’t better, though. Just quieter about our mistakes.”

Jeeny: “And slower to make them.”

Host: A nearby lamppost flickered on, casting a golden halo that caught the edges of Jeeny’s hair. She looked like someone standing between two centuries — one foot in understanding, the other in doubt.

Jeeny: “When I taught my first class, I thought if I told them stories about my past — about being young and lost — they’d relate. But they didn’t. They listened politely, then moved on. I realized I wasn’t giving them empathy. I was giving them a museum tour of my mistakes.”

Jack: (chuckling softly) “You made your youth an exhibit.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s the thing, Jack. Every generation thinks it invented rebellion. But youth isn’t rebellion — it’s evolution. And evolution doesn’t care about your sentimentality.”

Jack: “So you think the old have nothing to teach the young?”

Jeeny: “Oh, they can teach. Just not through memory. Advice from nostalgia is useless. You can’t guide someone standing in a storm by telling them about last year’s rain.”

Host: The wind softened, carrying with it the faint sound of guitar chords from somewhere on the quad. The melody was uncertain but earnest — a voice trying to find itself.

Jack: “So what do we do, then? Just watch them and hope they don’t destroy themselves?”

Jeeny: “No. We walk beside them. Not ahead. Not behind. Just beside.”

Jack: “And when they fall?”

Jeeny: “We don’t say, ‘I told you so.’ We say, ‘I see you.’ That’s all anyone ever needed when they were young — to be seen without correction.”

Host: A long silence settled — the kind filled with the weight of truth rather than the absence of it.

Jack: (finally) “You know, I tried to talk to my nephew about work, about the importance of planning. He looked at me and said, ‘Why should I plan for a future that doesn’t want me in it?’ I didn’t know what to say.”

Jeeny: “Because the future we built isn’t the one they inherited.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “We tell them to dream big — and hand them a world already sold.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They’re not lazy. They’re disillusioned. And they’re smart enough to know the difference.”

Host: The light above them buzzed faintly. Somewhere, a siren wailed — brief, distant, almost unreal against the calm of the evening.

Jeeny: “I think that’s why Mead’s warning matters so much. She wasn’t condemning introspection — she was condemning arrogance. The arrogance of thinking your past can explain someone else’s present.”

Jack: “So the adults who try to ‘relate’ are the ones who’ve already lost?”

Jeeny: “Only if they stop listening. You don’t bridge generations by reminiscing. You bridge them by learning again — with the humility of a beginner.”

Host: Jack looked down at his notebook, still blank. He closed it, then smiled faintly.

Jack: “Maybe I should stop writing about what I know and start asking what I don’t.”

Jeeny: “That’s a good start.”

Host: The stars above them brightened — scattered truths across a darkening sky. The students in the distance had faded into silhouettes, their laughter now only an echo carried by the wind.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was their age, I thought adults had all the answers. Now I realize the only wise ones are the ones still asking questions.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the secret — not to understand youth, but to stay curious enough to walk with it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The young don’t need mirrors, Jack. They need witnesses.”

Host: The bell tolled again, softer this time — a gentle marking of time’s passage, or perhaps its reminder.

Host: Jack stood, sliding his notebook into his bag. Jeeny joined him. They began walking across the courtyard, their footsteps slow, echoing faintly on the stone.

Host: And as the wind whispered through the trees, carrying the faint scent of coming rain, Mead’s warning lingered — no longer a condemnation, but a call:

that to guide the young is not to recall one’s own fire,
but to tend the flame now burning in front of you.

Host: For the world doesn’t need the wisdom of who we were —
only the humility to learn from who they are.