Business leaders regularly complain that young people don't leave

Host: The morning sun slipped through the office blinds, drawing long lines of light across a room filled with the low hum of computers and the faint buzz of coffee machines. The air was thick with the smell of paper, ink, and ambition — that restless energy that always seemed to hang in places where people tried to build something that mattered.

At the far end of the open workspace, Jack leaned against a whiteboard covered in messy diagrams and half-erased numbers. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his grey eyes — sharp, restless — scanned the chaos as if trying to extract order from it.

Across from him, Jeeny sat on the edge of a desk, her long black hair tied loosely, her brown eyes reflecting both frustration and hope. A group of students had just left the room — young, bright faces still echoing with the nervous laughter of those learning how to dream.

Host: The training session was over, but the debate was only beginning.

Jeeny: “You saw them, Jack. They were alive. The moment they started pitching their ideas — their eyes lit up. That’s what education should feel like. Not memorizing, not complying, but creating. Steph McGovern is right — teaching young people to be entrepreneurs teaches them to think.”

Jack: “To think?” He gave a short, dry laugh, crossing his arms. “No, Jeeny. It teaches them to chase. To sell, to compete, to turn every idea into a product. You call it education — I call it conditioning. Not every kid needs to be an entrepreneur.”

Host: The light from the blinds slanted across Jack’s face, half-illuminating his expression, half-drowning it in shadow — like a man split between belief and doubt.

Jeeny: “You always say that, Jack. But look around you — the world doesn’t reward obedience anymore. We tell kids to sit still, follow the rules, pass the test — and then we blame them for not being ready for life. Entrepreneurship teaches them adaptability, resilience, teamwork — real-world survival skills.”

Jack: “Survival? Or exploitation? We’re turning children into mini start-ups. Do you really think every sixteen-year-old needs to learn about market gaps and profit margins? Let them be kids, Jeeny. Let them fail, dream, read, wander. Not everything has to be about the bottom line.”

Host: The hum of a distant printer filled the pause that followed. Dust motes drifted lazily through the light, indifferent to the battle unfolding beneath them.

Jeeny: “But that’s the point, Jack — it’s not about the bottom line. It’s about confidence. You saw that boy earlier — Ravi. He said he’d never spoken in front of anyone before today, and now he’s presenting a business plan about recycling waste into school materials. That’s not profit — that’s purpose.”

Jack: “Purpose,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing. “You think schools can teach that? Schools barely manage to teach math. You can’t manufacture vision, Jeeny. It comes from hunger, from life, from failure — not some two-week entrepreneurship course sponsored by a bank.”

Host: The sound of his words lingered, heavy, but not cruel — just weary. Jack had that tone often, the sound of a man who once believed in something, and watched it break.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. You think practicality kills creativity. But what if it feeds it? When students see how their ideas can live in the real world — when their hands shape something that works — they stop being dreamers and start being doers.”

Jack: “Dreamers built this world, Jeeny. Not ‘doers.’ The dreamers — they imagine what could be before the world tells them what can’t.”

Jeeny: “And then they starve in the process.”

Host: Her words were soft but sharp, and they hit him like a truth he didn’t want to admit. The room seemed to contract for a moment — the sound of the air conditioner, the faint buzz of lights — all blending into a low hum of tension.

Jack: “So you’d rather we turn education into an assembly line for entrepreneurs? Where every student has to ‘build a brand’ before they learn who they are?”

Jeeny: “No. I want them to build themselves. Entrepreneurship isn’t about brands or money. It’s about taking ownership — of ideas, of choices, of failure. It teaches communication, empathy, collaboration. It’s applied humanity, Jack.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice carried a quiet conviction, the kind that made even silence lean in to listen.

Jack: “Applied humanity,” he repeated, almost amused. “That’s cute. But let me ask you — how many entrepreneurs actually care about humanity once they start chasing investors? They learn the language of ‘impact’ just to sell it better.”

Jeeny: “That’s not the fault of the teaching. That’s the fault of the world they grow into. But if no one teaches them integrity, teamwork, ethics, and self-belief, how will they ever change that world?”

Host: Jack walked toward the window, his reflection blurred in the glass — half man, half question mark. The city outside was already alive — horns, voices, the rhythm of commerce moving beneath the pulse of dreams.

Jack: “You ever wonder why we glorify entrepreneurship so much? Why every school now has a ‘startup challenge’? Because it’s cheaper to tell kids to save themselves than to fix the system that’s failing them.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s because the system needs saving — and they’re the ones who might still care enough to do it. Look at Greta Thunberg. Look at the kids designing solar lamps in rural India. They’re not waiting for permission. They’re building solutions.”

Jack: “And yet, they still need the basics. You can’t build a solar lamp if you don’t understand physics. You can’t pitch if you’ve never been taught to think critically. You talk about freedom, but education without structure is just chaos.”

Jeeny: “Structure without freedom is a prison.”

Host: The words collided, and for a moment, both of them simply breathed — the argument hovering in the air like heat.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was seventeen, I sold homemade candles at a community market. I didn’t make much — maybe enough to buy a book or two. But it wasn’t about the money. It was about learning — how to talk to people, how to fail with grace, how to try again. That’s the lesson.”

Jack: “And I spent my school years memorizing formulas I’ve never used again. You think I don’t see your point?” He turned, his eyes softer now, his voice low. “But there’s a fine line between inspiring and burdening. Kids shouldn’t carry the pressure to ‘innovate’ before they’ve even figured out who they are.”

Jeeny: “Maybe innovation is how they find out who they are.”

Host: The light shifted again, the sun now high, pouring through the blinds in streaks of gold that seemed to dissolve the argument’s edges. Both of them stood quietly for a moment — the kind of quiet that feels like understanding trying to form.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is — entrepreneurship isn’t about business.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s about courage. It’s the art of taking an idea — any idea — and risking yourself for it. Whether it’s a product, a cause, or a dream, it’s the same heartbeat.”

Jack: “Then maybe what we should be teaching isn’t entrepreneurship, but authorship. How to write their own story — whether it’s in business, art, or science.”

Jeeny: “Yes.” (She smiled faintly.) “Teach them to own their narrative, not just their profit.”

Host: The room felt lighter now. The whiteboard, once cluttered with half-erased lines, seemed suddenly full of possibilities again. Jack reached for a marker, uncapped it, and wrote in big, uneven letters:

“Build — but never forget why.”

Jeeny looked at it and nodded. The city outside pulsed with life — cars, voices, ambition — but for that brief moment, there was stillness in the office, as if the future itself had paused to listen.

Host: And in that stillness, they both understood what Steph McGovern had meant — that teaching entrepreneurship was never about creating capitalists, but about awakening capable, compassionate, thinking humans who could bridge the gap between school and life.

The sunlight filled the room fully now, washing the whiteboard, their faces, and the lingering doubts in the same golden clarity. And though the debate had no final winner, it left something greater — direction.

A small, quiet spark — the kind that doesn’t just light ideas, but keeps them human.