I went to an inner-city school in Buffalo. We had no money. But

Host: The classroom smelled faintly of chalk, coffee, and rain — the kind of scent that always clings to places where curiosity once lived. Through the cracked windows, the city breathed: car horns, distant sirens, the murmuring pulse of Buffalo at dusk. Dust motes floated in the amber light that filtered through the blinds, and on the walls, faded posters still clung — The Solar System, Newton’s Laws, The Power of Questions.

At one corner desk, Jack sat, his long frame folded awkwardly in a student’s chair, tapping his pen against a pile of worn papers. Across from him stood Jeeny, holding a small model rocket, her fingers dusted with paint and hope. Around them, the echoes of children — long gone but not forgotten — lingered in the quiet.

Host: They had come back here, years later, to a place that once taught possibility with nothing but cardboard, glue, and conviction. And tonight, they were talking about belief — the kind that changes lives even when the world has no resources left to give.

Jeeny: “Megan Smith once said, ‘I went to an inner-city school in Buffalo. We had no money. But our teachers believed in hands-on active learning — there was a mandatory science fair, which was critical.’”
She set the rocket gently on the desk, her eyes bright. “I love that. No money, but imagination. That’s what real education is — not wealth, but wonder.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic,” he said, leaning back, the chair creaking beneath him. “But idealism doesn’t keep the lights on, Jeeny. You can’t power a school with belief.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can ignite one with it. Look around, Jack — this whole place was built on belief. These teachers weren’t paid enough. These kids didn’t have computers. But they made rockets out of soda bottles and dreams out of scrap.”

Jack: “And where did it get them? Most of those kids ended up working two jobs just to survive. You think a science fair changed that?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said simply. “Because it taught them that discovery was possible — and that’s the beginning of everything.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, streaking down the windows in thin silver veins. The fluorescent light above flickered, its hum merging with the distant thunder. The rocket, small and fragile, cast a long shadow across the table — a silhouette of human persistence.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That a project on electricity or vinegar volcanoes can rewrite a child’s fate?”

Jeeny: “Not the volcano,” she said, smiling. “The spark behind it. When a child builds something — anything — they stop seeing the world as fixed. They start seeing it as malleable. That’s the real education.”

Jack: “That’s romantic.”

Jeeny: “It’s revolutionary. Every invention starts as a question in a poor kid’s mind.”

Jack: “You always make struggle sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It is noble — when it births curiosity instead of cynicism.”

Host: He looked around — at the empty desks, the peeling paint, the abandoned blackboard where someone, years ago, had written in faint white dust: ‘The future belongs to the curious.’ For a moment, something shifted behind his grey eyes — a memory, perhaps, of a boy who once raised his hand too quickly, too eagerly, before the world told him not to.

Jack: “You know, when I was twelve, I built a water filter for the school science fair,” he said quietly. “Used sand, charcoal, old plastic bottles. Thought I was saving the world.”

Jeeny: “What happened?”

Jack: “The judges said it was clever but impractical. Told me it wouldn’t scale.” He smirked bitterly. “I learned my lesson early — imagination doesn’t pay.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “But apathy costs more.”

Host: The thunder rolled closer now, rumbling through the bones of the old building. The lights flickered again, briefly plunging the room into darkness. When they came back, Jeeny’s face was illuminated, her eyes shining with a stubborn, almost sacred conviction.

Jeeny: “Megan Smith said it best — the teachers believed. That’s what made the difference. You don’t need money to believe in a child, Jack. You just need vision. A good teacher doesn’t give you facts; they hand you possibility and say, ‘Go find it.’”

Jack: “And what happens when the world doesn’t care about their possibility?”

Jeeny: “Then at least they’ve learned to care for their own. And maybe, one day, they’ll teach others to do the same.”

Jack: “You think one science fair can build that kind of faith?”

Jeeny: “I think one teacher can.”

Host: The clock above the chalkboard ticked slowly, the sound heavy in the still air. The rain softened, fading into a steady patter like applause far away.

Jack: “So you think learning should be hands-on — like the science fair, like experiments, like play?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Learning should be lived, not memorized. You can’t learn courage from a textbook. You learn it when your project fails five times and you try again because you want to know.”

Jack: “But failure breaks people too.”

Jeeny: “Only when they stop being curious.”

Jack: “You really believe curiosity can save us?”

Jeeny: “It already has. Every bridge, every cure, every bit of progress began with someone asking why not?”

Host: The sound of rain slowed. The air inside felt warmer now, infused with something gentler — a kind of quiet hope. Jeeny reached for the model rocket, adjusting its crooked fin, her movements tender, deliberate.

Jeeny: “You see this?” she said. “It’s not just a toy. It’s a promise — that creativity is stronger than circumstance. That education isn’t a privilege; it’s a rebellion.”

Jack: “Rebellion?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Against indifference, against resignation, against the idea that brilliance belongs to the rich.”

Jack: “You sound like a manifesto.”

Jeeny: “I am,” she said with a small laugh. “Every teacher who believed in me made me one.”

Host: A long silence settled. Jack looked at her, at the tiny rocket, at the words still faintly visible on the chalkboard. For once, he didn’t argue. The cynic in him seemed to soften, his edges blurring under the warm hum of memory.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right,” he said finally. “Maybe the problem isn’t that we lack money. Maybe it’s that we’ve stopped believing learning is sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is sacred,” she whispered. “Every spark of understanding is a small act of creation.”

Jack: “And every failure?”

Jeeny: “A rehearsal for discovery.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. The streetlights outside flickered to life, spilling orange light across the old desks. The building creaked, like an old scholar sighing contentedly.

Jack: “You know,” he said, his voice softer, “maybe the world could use another mandatory science fair.”

Jeeny: “Not just for kids,” she said. “For everyone — adults too. To remind us how to wonder again.”

Jack: “And what would you build?”

Jeeny: “Something small. Something that teaches people to look up.”

Host: The city glowed outside — wet streets, warm lights, and the faint smell of rain on concrete. In the empty classroom, Jack and Jeeny stood together, the tiny rocket between them gleaming like a fragment of the possible.

And as they walked out into the night — past the flickering signs, the laughter, the endless noise — they carried with them a quiet understanding:

That education is not measured in wealth or walls,
but in the courage to keep asking “What if?”,
even when the world answers, “Impossible.”

Host: And in that defiance — as in Megan Smith’s words — learning becomes not just survival, but flight.