Children need to get a high-quality education, avoid violence and

Host: The school gymnasium had long since emptied of its noise. Only the faint echo of basketballs bouncing earlier in the day seemed to linger in the rafters — memory made into sound. Folding chairs were stacked against the wall, a banner reading “Community Education Night” hung slightly crooked from the stage. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, weary but unyielding.

At a table near the back, Jack and Jeeny sat amid the remnants of paper cups and half-eaten cookies, the air thick with the scent of chalk, floor polish, and afterthoughts.

Jeeny held a wrinkled pamphlet in her hand — one of the evening’s handouts. On its back, she’d written a quote she had read aloud earlier, but its gravity still hung between them.

“Children need to get a high-quality education, avoid violence and the criminal-justice system, and gain jobs. But they deserve more. We want them to learn not only reading and math but fairness, caring, self-respect, family commitment, and civic duty.”
— Colin Powell

Host: The words rested on the paper like something both obvious and forgotten — ideals too practical to be romantic, too necessary to be ignored.

Jack: sighing softly “It’s amazing how something so sensible can sound radical now.”

Jeeny: nodding “Because we’ve started treating morality like an elective.”

Jack: “Yeah. Everyone talks about education like it’s a product. Grades, test scores, college acceptances. But Powell’s talking about education as citizenship — as character.”

Jeeny: leaning forward “Because what good is intelligence if it doesn’t come with conscience?”

Host: The lights flickered slightly above them. A janitor moved quietly across the gym floor, mopping methodically, the sound rhythmic — a soft percussion against their words.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, school was supposed to prepare you for life. Now it’s like it’s preparing you for competition.”

Jeeny: “Because we’ve mistaken success for significance.”

Jack: pausing “That’s heavy.”

Jeeny: “It’s true. We build sharper minds but emptier hearts. We teach kids how to argue, but not how to listen.”

Host: The sound of the mop faded as the janitor turned down another hall. The space around them felt heavier now — the silence of reflection settling over both.

Jack: “Powell knew what he was saying. He came from discipline and duty, but he also understood empathy. Those two don’t have to be opposites.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He was a general who believed in gentleness — that’s rare. He saw that strength isn’t just force; it’s fairness.”

Jack: “And fairness isn’t something you test. You model it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Kids don’t learn virtue from lectures — they learn it from the adults who live it.”

Host: The camera would move slowly, catching the peeling paint on the gym walls, the banner swaying faintly as the air conditioner kicked on. It was the perfect metaphor — something noble, slightly neglected, still standing.

Jack: “You know what’s missing in modern education? Reverence. Not religious reverence — human reverence. For each other, for the work, for community.”

Jeeny: “Because reverence doesn’t raise profits.”

Jack: “No. But it raises people.”

Jeeny: softly “And people build nations.”

Host: A distant sound — the faint laughter of a child from the playground outside. The night air drifted in through a cracked window, carrying the smell of wet grass and city smoke.

Jack: “You think we’ve failed them? The kids, I mean.”

Jeeny: “No. I think we’ve distracted them. We’ve convinced them success is an individual race instead of a collective journey.”

Jack: sighing “And the finish line keeps moving.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy. We’re teaching ambition without empathy. Progress without purpose.”

Host: The words hung in the gym like a sermon delivered to no one and everyone at once.

Jeeny: “Powell says they deserve more. That’s the part that breaks me. Because he’s right — survival isn’t the same as fulfillment.”

Jack: “He’s saying education should raise citizens, not just workers.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. To know fairness, not just formulas. To practice kindness, not just calculation.”

Jack: “To belong, not just to succeed.”

Host: The janitor finished his work, flicked off half the lights, and waved on his way out. The gym dimmed to a gentle, golden half-light — the kind that makes everything feel almost sacred.

Jack: “You ever notice that the word ‘education’ comes from educare — to draw out? Not to fill up, but to pull forth what’s already there.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It means every child already has something divine inside them. You don’t install greatness; you awaken it.”

Jack: “And we’ve built systems that do the opposite — they pour in until there’s no space left for self.”

Jeeny: “Because conformity is easier to measure than character.”

Host: She looked down at the pamphlet again, her fingers brushing the paper gently — not as if it were fragile, but as if it deserved care.

Jeeny: “Imagine if schools were judged by how kind their students become, not by how high their scores climb.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Then we’d finally be educating human beings, not resumes.”

Host: The camera drew closer, the low light painting both their faces with a quiet sincerity.

Jeeny: “Colin Powell was right. We owe them more. Not just math and reading — but meaning. Not just success — but soul.”

Jack: “And the truth is, if we taught fairness, compassion, and duty, maybe we wouldn’t need to teach resilience so much.”

Jeeny: softly “Because they wouldn’t have to recover from what the world forgot to give them.”

Host: Outside, the laughter from the playground faded, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves. The night had fully arrived, but the air inside the gym still glowed with the warmth of what had been said.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, education isn’t just preparation for life — it is life. Every act of care, every lesson in decency, is a form of teaching.”

Jack: after a moment “Then maybe the question isn’t what we’re teaching them… but what we’re showing them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera pulled back one final time, showing the empty gym — two small figures in a sea of silence, their words echoing against the old wooden floor. The banner above them swayed once more, its letters catching the faint glow of the exit light.

And as the screen slowly faded, Colin Powell’s words remained, not as policy, but as promise:

That education is not the filling of minds,
but the formation of souls.

That children deserve not only literacy,
but legacy —
a model of fairness, caring, and duty
that teaches them how to build a kinder world.

And that the measure of a civilization
is not in the brilliance of its students,
but in the decency of the people
they become.