I believe that children are our future. Teach them well and let

Host: The sun had just begun to set behind the cracked skyline of the old school building. Its golden light spilled through the broken windows, painting the dust in the air like tiny floating embers. The faint laughter of children echoed down the long, empty hallway, fading with every footstep until it became a ghost of memory.

Outside, the playground lay still — swings moving gently in the wind, the chains creaking like old bones. The smell of chalk and rain lingered in the air.

Jack stood by the window, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes distant. Across the room, Jeeny was erasing a half-written sentence from the blackboard, her fingers leaving smudges of white on her dark skirt.

Jeeny: “Whitney Houston once said, ‘I believe that children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess inside.’”

Jack: (without turning) “Yeah. I’ve heard that one. Sounds beautiful. Naïve, maybe, but beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Naïve?”

Jack: “Sure. We keep saying children are our future, but then we build a world that’s already broken before they even grow up in it.”

Jeeny: (turns to face him) “That’s exactly why the words matter. Because if we stop believing they can do better, they’ll never even try.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed the door open with a quiet sigh, and the curtains fluttered like tired wings. The chalk dust danced in the last rays of light, shimmering around Jeeny’s silhouette — a woman carrying both faith and fatigue in equal measure.

Jack: “You talk like hope is a strategy. But I’ve seen what this world does to kids. They come in curious and bright — by the time they’re sixteen, they’ve already learned cynicism better than any adult.”

Jeeny: “Then we’re the ones teaching the wrong lessons.”

Jack: “You think optimism can fix the system? Poverty, corruption, violence — you can’t ‘teach’ those away with a motivational quote.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can teach resilience, compassion, self-worth. You can teach a child to see beauty in themselves before the world convinces them they’re worthless.”

Jack: (turns finally) “And how do you teach that when they don’t even have food at home? When their parents work three jobs and the world keeps telling them they’re invisible?”

Jeeny: “You show up. You care. Even once — that’s enough to plant something that lasts.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy but not hopeless. Jack walked toward a row of abandoned desks, running his hand over the scratched wood, the carved initials, the fragments of forgotten youth.

Jack: “You really believe in this, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Because when I was twelve, a teacher did that for me. She told me I was worth something — that my thoughts mattered. And I believed her, even when no one else did.”

Jack: “And now you’re the one writing on the chalkboard.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And you’re the one watching from the window, wondering when you stopped believing too.”

Host: The light outside dimmed into twilight, turning gold into deep blue. The streetlamps flickered to life one by one, their soft glow spilling across the empty classroom floor.

Jack: “You know what I see when I look at kids these days? Faces glued to screens. No imagination. No patience. Just digital hunger.”

Jeeny: “You’re looking at what we gave them. We built that hunger. We fed them distraction instead of purpose. But it’s not too late.”

Jack: “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “No. Just a believer.”

Jack: “In what?”

Jeeny: “In potential.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, the sound pattering against the window like an old lullaby. Jack’s reflection shimmered beside Jeeny’s in the glass — two adults talking about a world that still belonged to children.

Jack: “I don’t know, Jeeny. Maybe I’ve seen too much. Every time I walk past the shelter downtown, I see kids with eyes older than mine. What future do they have?”

Jeeny: “The same one we build with our choices. Every time we dismiss them as hopeless, we make it true. Every time we see beauty in them, we give it a chance to live.”

Jack: (sighs) “You make it sound like faith is enough.”

Jeeny: “Faith is a start. But teaching — real teaching — is an act of rebellion. It’s saying to the world: You don’t get to define what they become.”

Jack: “Even when the world wins most of the time?”

Jeeny: “Even then. Especially then.”

Host: Jeeny picked up a piece of chalk, its edge worn to a nub. She began to write on the board in slow, deliberate strokes. Jack watched as the words formed under her hand: “You are enough.”

Jack: “You think those three words can change a life?”

Jeeny: “They changed mine.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You know, my father used to say something similar. ‘Be proud of who you are.’ He’d say it like a command, but never showed me what pride looked like.”

Jeeny: “So you stopped believing him.”

Jack: “Yeah. And I guess I started believing something else — that I’d never be more than what I already was.”

Jeeny: “That’s what belief does, Jack. It builds the walls we live inside.”

Jack: “And kids — they haven’t built theirs yet.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly. That’s why they’re our future. They still have room to believe.”

Host: The rain eased, the air now filled with the smell of wet earth and old paper. The clock on the wall ticked toward eight, its rhythm patient and sure.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I wanted to be an astronaut.”

Jeeny: “What happened?”

Jack: (half-smile) “Someone told me I wasn’t smart enough. And I believed them.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why we have to do better. Because children believe the first thing they hear about themselves — good or bad. Words become their mirrors.”

Jack: (quietly) “So what if we’ve already broken ours?”

Jeeny: “Then we start rebuilding — through them. Every time we teach a child to see their own light, we reflect a little of it back into ourselves.”

Host: A beam of light from a passing car streaked across the classroom, cutting through the shadows. It lingered on Jeeny’s face — soft, radiant, tired, hopeful.

Jeeny: “I think Whitney meant more than just a song. She was talking about faith — not in God, not in systems — but in the next heartbeat of humanity. And that heartbeat begins in the smallest bodies, the quietest voices.”

Jack: “So the future isn’t something we wait for. It’s something sitting in those little desks, right?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Waiting for someone to look at them and say, You matter.”

Jack: “And if no one does?”

Jeeny: “Then the world ends — quietly, slowly, generation by generation.”

Host: Jack turned back to the window. The street below glowed with puddles reflecting the yellow streetlights. A group of children ran past, their laughter cutting through the night air like bells.

He smiled.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe the future isn’t lost yet. Maybe it’s just waiting for us to remember what it feels like to believe in something simple.”

Jeeny: “Like a child does.”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “Then teach them well, Jack.”

Jack: (nodding) “And maybe they’ll teach us back.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly — the classroom now empty except for the chalkboard, where Jeeny’s words glowed faintly in the fading light: “You are enough.”

Outside, the children’s laughter echoed again, softer this time, like a promise carried on the wind.

The rain stopped. The moonlight broke through the clouds.

And for one brief, eternal moment, the world — bruised, tired, imperfect — felt like it could still be beautiful again.