Children are amazing, and while I go to places like Princeton and

Host: The playground glowed under the morning sun, a scatter of laughter, movement, and color. The air shimmered with the scent of freshly cut grass, chalk dust, and the faint sweetness of melting ice cream from a vendor’s cart down the block. The sound of small feet pattering, of swings creaking, and giggles erupting formed an orchestra of pure, chaotic joy.

Beyond the fence, the city buzzed — sharp, restless, unrelenting — but in here, time moved like a child at play: curious, unhurried, and infinitely alive.

Jack leaned against the jungle gym railing, his tall frame oddly out of place among the pastel slides and scattered jump ropes. He was dressed in his usual dark jacket, his grey eyes thoughtful beneath the sunlight. Jeeny knelt in the sandpit nearby, helping a small girl rebuild a sandcastle that had just collapsed.

Jeeny: “David Dinkins once said, ‘Children are amazing, and while I go to places like Princeton and Harvard and Yale, and of course I teach at Columbia, NYU — and that’s nice, and I love students — but the most fun of all are the real little ones, the young ones.’”

Jack: [watching the kids] “Yeah, because kids don’t question your credentials.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “No. Because they still see magic before measurement.”

Host: A small boy ran past, clutching a toy airplane, arms spread wide, slicing through sunlight like a promise yet to be broken.

Jack: “You always romanticize childhood. It’s not all wonder and laughter. Kids cry, fall, scream. It’s chaos in its purest form.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why Dinkins called them amazing. They feel everything at once — joy, pain, curiosity, fear — and none of it hardens them. Not yet.”

Jack: “Adults build walls. Kids throw sand.”

Jeeny: “And then they build castles out of it.”

Host: Her hands moved with patience, reshaping the sand mound the child had abandoned. The castle, fragile yet proud, caught the light — a small act of creation that would vanish by noon.

Jack: “You really think that’s better than teaching at Ivy League schools? Dinkins was the mayor of New York, a professor — he shaped policy, history. Why glorify a sandbox?”

Jeeny: “Because a sandbox holds the same lesson, just simpler. A child learns to build, share, forgive, imagine — all before they can pronounce responsibility. And if leaders remembered that simplicity, maybe cities wouldn’t break so easily.”

Jack: “That’s idealistic.”

Jeeny: “It’s necessary.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the distant sounds of car horns and construction — the world of adults intruding faintly on the sanctuary of play. Jack folded his arms, his voice lower now, almost reflective.

Jack: “You know, I used to think curiosity was overrated. That it fades because it’s supposed to. But looking at them…” [gestures toward the children] “…maybe it’s not that it fades — maybe we trade it for survival.”

Jeeny: “We trade it for comfort. And then call that maturity.”

Jack: “So you think the kids have it right? No fear, no filter, no direction?”

Jeeny: “Direction comes later. The courage to wander comes first.”

Host: A group of children nearby began a game of tag, their laughter spilling like water over stone. Jeeny watched them, her eyes softening.

Jeeny: “Dinkins saw it clearly. After decades of politics and academia, he still found his greatest joy in children — because they remind you what all that work is for. The policies, the speeches, the institutions — they mean nothing if they don’t serve their future.”

Jack: “You’re talking about idealism again.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m talking about renewal. Kids are what hope looks like before it gets edited.”

Host: The sunlight caught her face, making her look almost ageless — the kind of light that blurs lines between youth and wisdom.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? Adults spend all their time trying to teach children — when really, we’re the ones who forgot the basics.”

Jeeny: “Like what?”

Jack: “Like how to wonder. How to trust. How to start over every five minutes without shame.”

Jeeny: “Or how to forgive. Kids fight, then share crayons two minutes later. Adults fight, then build walls and call them philosophies.”

Host: A little boy came up to Jeeny, holding out a dandelion, the yellow petals smeared from his grip.

Boy: “For you.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

Jack: “He probably pulled it out of someone else’s hand.”

Jeeny: “So what? He still gave it.”

Host: The boy ran off laughing, the simple exchange leaving behind an unspoken warmth that even Jack couldn’t scoff away.

Jack: “You know, Dinkins was talking about something deeper, wasn’t he? Not just kids — but innocence. The kind that never stops asking why.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind that looks at the world and still sees potential, not inevitability.”

Jack: “And yet, the world eats that alive.”

Jeeny: “Not if we remember it’s there to protect. That’s the point. He’d spent his life in systems — politics, institutions, universities — and after all that, he realized the truest lesson comes from the unbroken mind.”

Jack: “Unbroken doesn’t mean wise.”

Jeeny: “No, but it means open. And openness is where wisdom starts.”

Host: A child’s ball rolled to Jack’s feet. He bent down, picked it up, and for a moment — almost unconsciously — tossed it into the air. It came down, and he caught it cleanly, a flicker of amusement breaking through his guarded expression.

Jeeny: [quietly] “You see? It’s still in you.”

Jack: “What is?”

Jeeny: “The part that used to play.”

Host: The wind picked up, scattering sand, laughter, and light. The sky above was the color of beginning — blue, vast, forgiving.

Jack: “You ever think maybe Dinkins missed childhood because he couldn’t fix adulthood?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he admired children because they hadn’t yet learned how to stop caring.”

Jack: “So they’re better than us?”

Jeeny: “Not better. Just purer. They remind us of what we lose when we trade freedom for formality.”

Host: A little girl tugged at Jeeny’s sleeve.

Girl: “Can you help me make wings?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Out of what?”

Girl: “Out of paper.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “Then we’ll fly together.”

Host: Jack watched as Jeeny knelt again, folding white sheets into crude shapes of flight. The children gathered, eyes wide, waiting for transformation. He stood apart but couldn’t look away — the cynic slowly remembering the softness he’d buried.

Jack: “You know, I think Dinkins was right. The young ones really are the most fun.”

Jeeny: “Because they make you believe in flight again.”

Host: She handed him one of the paper wings. It was crooked, flimsy — imperfect — but in his hands, it felt strangely sacred.

Jack: “You really think these little hands can save the world?”

Jeeny: “No. But they can remind it how to begin again.”

Host: He nodded, half-smiling, the sound of children’s laughter swirling around them like wind through trees.

The city beyond the fence still roared with deadlines and noise, but inside the playground, time had surrendered to wonder.

And as Jack lifted the paper wing, letting it glide briefly before falling softly to the earth, he understood what David Dinkins had meant —

That after all the lectures, the policies, the achievements,
after the legacy and the loss —
the truest joy lies not in what you build for the world,
but in remembering what it was to love it like a child.