At its best, schooling can be about how to make a life, which is

Host: The classroom was silent, long after the bell had rung. The faint smell of chalk dust, coffee, and books lingered in the air — the scent of thoughts that refused to leave. A single window was open, letting in the soft gold of a setting sun and the distant murmur of children laughing in the playground below.

At the front of the room stood Jack, leaning against the teacher’s desk, sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened. His eyes carried that familiar blend of sharpness and fatigue — the look of a man who had taught long enough to know how little could truly be taught.

Across the room, Jeeny sat at one of the old wooden desks, a notebook open before her, though her pen lay idle. The blackboard behind Jack still held half-erased words — fragments of a lesson on “career paths” that now felt oddly sterile.

Jeeny: “Neil Postman once said, ‘At its best, schooling can be about how to make a life, which is quite different from how to make a living.’”
Her voice was gentle, but it carried conviction. “You ever think about that, Jack? About how school stopped teaching people how to live?”

Jack: “Stopped?” He gave a dry laugh. “I’m not sure it ever started.”

Host: The sunlight stretched long across the floorboards, slicing the room into stripes of warmth and shadow. Dust motes drifted through the air — slow, lazy constellations of forgotten wonder.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe education ever meant more than work training?”

Jack: “Maybe once,” he said. “Back when curiosity wasn’t a commodity. Back when knowledge meant something you lived, not something you used.”

Jeeny: “So what do we teach now?”

Jack: “Compliance. Efficiency. How to play the game. We teach kids how to answer — never how to ask.”

Host: He walked to the board and picked up a piece of chalk, its edge dull, its sound harsh against the slate. He wrote two words: LIVING and LIFE — side by side, separated by a thin white line.

Jack: “Postman had it right,” he said, gesturing to the words. “We confuse one for the other. We tell students that success means survival — a job, a title, a salary — but not fulfillment, not meaning.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what the world rewards? Survival?”

Jack: “Maybe. But that’s why the world feels so tired. Everyone’s making a living, and no one’s making a life.”

Host: His words echoed through the empty classroom like a sermon spoken too late. Jeeny leaned forward, her fingers tracing the groove carved into the old desk by decades of restless hands.

Jeeny: “I had a teacher once,” she said quietly, “who asked us not what we wanted to be, but who we wanted to become. No one knew how to answer.”

Jack: “Of course not. We’re not raised to think in verbs of becoming — only in nouns of identity.”

Jeeny: “You mean titles.”

Jack: “Exactly. Doctor, engineer, CEO — even artist, teacher, activist. Labels of output. But ‘how to live’? That doesn’t fit neatly on a résumé.”

Host: Outside, the sound of a bouncing ball echoed faintly — the kind of rhythm that reminded the listener of both youth and impermanence. The sky beyond the window was bruised purple now, streaked with fading amber.

Jeeny: “So what should schooling teach, then?”

Jack: “It should teach wonder,” he said immediately. “Wonder and empathy. How to think without cruelty. How to fail without collapse. How to love without losing yourself.”

Jeeny: “Those aren’t in the curriculum.”

Jack: “No,” he said, smiling faintly. “They’re in the margins — the parts students never get graded on.”

Host: She looked around the room — the maps peeling from the walls, the faded posters declaring DREAM BIG! in fonts too cheerful to be honest.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe the system was built to avoid those questions? Because once you teach people how to make a life, they stop being easy to control.”

Jack: “That’s exactly why Postman scared people. He wasn’t anti-school. He was anti-conditioning.”

Jeeny: “And we’ve been confusing the two ever since.”

Host: Jack sat on the edge of the desk now, his hands folded, his eyes distant. “You know what I wish?” he said. “I wish education would stop pretending it’s preparation for life — and start being part of life.”

Jeeny: “So stop teaching from the book?”

Jack: “No, teach through it. Teach the why behind the what. The emotion beneath the equation. Let math be philosophy. Let history be empathy. Let science be awe.”

Host: The chalk rolled off the desk and clattered softly to the floor, breaking the spell. Jeeny smiled, her gaze soft but full of something — admiration, maybe even hope.

Jeeny: “You talk like a man who still believes in learning.”

Jack: “I believe in learning. I just don’t believe in the system that’s claimed ownership of it.”

Jeeny: “You think we can change it?”

Jack: “Not in one lifetime. But maybe we can remind one student at a time that they’re not a product. They’re a question — and that’s the point.”

Host: The light shifted again, dimming as evening took hold. The sound of the ball outside stopped. Somewhere, a door creaked shut.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?” she said softly. “I think a real education isn’t about answers at all. It’s about permission — to wonder, to doubt, to feel, to fail.”

Jack: “Permission to be human,” he said, finishing her thought.

Host: A long silence followed — the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but full. Jeeny closed her notebook, stood, and walked to the blackboard. She picked up the chalk and drew a small circle between LIVING and LIFE, connecting them.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Postman meant,” she said. “That schooling should be the bridge — not the border.”

Jack: “Between existence and experience.”

Jeeny: “Between routine and meaning.”

Host: The chalk snapped in her hand, breaking cleanly in two. She looked at it, then laughed — a quiet, tired laugh that sounded more like relief than humor.

Jack stood, took the broken piece from her, and placed it gently on the desk.

Jack: “The world will keep teaching people how to make a living,” he said. “But if we’re lucky, a few will still learn how to make a life — in spite of it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the real classroom — not here, but out there.”

Jack: “Out where?”

Jeeny: “Where the bell doesn’t ring.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the classroom fading into shadow, the chalkboard still lit faintly, the words LIVING and LIFE bridged by a simple white circle.

Outside, the first stars blinked awake. The sound of laughter returned — faint, distant, but real.

And as the scene closed, Neil Postman’s truth hung in the quiet air like a lesson that had finally been learned:

That schooling, at its best, is not preparation for life —
it is life,
and that to make a life — not just a living —
is the most radical education of all.