If we want our children to value education, then we must show our

Host:
The schoolyard was quiet now — the echoes of laughter and footsteps having faded with the setting sun. Empty swings swayed in the soft evening breeze, creaking like tired memories. A lone chalkboard outside the classroom still carried the faint white ghosts of arithmetic lessons — “2 + 2 = 4” — as if truth itself had been written and forgotten a thousand times over.

In one of the open classrooms, the smell of erasers, old books, and dust mingled with the golden light pouring through the windows. Jack sat at one of the student desks, his sleeves rolled up, flipping through a battered textbook — not reading, just holding it, the way someone holds an old photograph.

Across from him stood Jeeny, writing something slowly on the chalkboard, her hand steady, her expression calm. The soft scratch of chalk filled the silence, rhythmic and meditative.

Then, without turning, she said quietly:

Jeeny:
“Brad Sherman once said, ‘If we want our children to value education, then we must show our appreciation for knowledge.’”

She paused, setting the chalk down. “I think about that a lot lately. About how children don’t just listen — they imitate. They learn what we love.”

Jack:
He leaned back in the old wooden chair, letting it creak beneath him. “And what if the adults have forgotten how to love learning?” he said, voice low but sharp. “What if we’ve turned education into competition, and knowledge into currency?”

Host:
Her fingers brushed away the chalk dust, leaving faint white marks across her palms. She turned toward him, eyes full of quiet sadness.

Jeeny:
“Then maybe that’s what we need to unlearn,” she said softly. “That knowledge isn’t a race, or a grade, or a price tag — it’s a kind of reverence. A gratitude for understanding the world, even a little.”

Jack:
He gave a small, wry smile. “Reverence? That’s a word you don’t hear much anymore. People want fast answers, not deep understanding.”

Jeeny:
“And yet,” she replied, “deep understanding is what keeps us human. It’s what keeps children curious. If all we teach them is how to pass, we’ll never teach them how to wonder.”

Host:
The last light of the day slanted through the window, casting long golden bars across the desks. The dust motes drifted lazily through it — tiny planets orbiting the glow. Jack watched them, the corners of his mouth twitching in a smile that was half memory, half ache.

Jack:
“When I was a kid,” he said quietly, “my father used to read the newspaper every morning, out loud. Politics, sports, even the weather. He didn’t explain much — he just read. I didn’t care about the stories, but I cared about him caring. That’s how I learned to respect words.”

Jeeny:
Her smile softened. “That’s exactly what Sherman meant. We don’t teach value through lectures. We teach it through what we pay attention to.”

Jack:
He looked down at the book in his hands. “Then maybe we’ve been teaching the wrong things. We’ve taught ambition without curiosity. Success without empathy. We’ve given kids tools, but not reasons.”

Host:
Her gaze lingered on him, her eyes reflecting the dimming light. “You sound like someone who’s tired of pretending the system still works,” she said gently.

Jack:
He let out a small laugh. “Maybe I am. Education was supposed to be the great equalizer, wasn’t it? But it’s starting to feel more like a mirror — one that shows us the gap between what we say we value and what we actually do.”

Jeeny:
“Then fix the reflection,” she said quietly.

Host:
He looked up at her. The chalkboard behind her was blank again, waiting.

Jack:
“Easier said than done,” he murmured. “You can’t make people love knowledge if they see it as a burden.”

Jeeny:
“No,” she said, “but you can make them see it as beautiful.”

Host:
She picked up a piece of chalk and began to write again, her letters slow and deliberate:

“The purpose of education is not to fill a mind, but to awaken it.”

She stepped back, studying it with a small, satisfied nod.

Jeeny:
“If we want children to value learning,” she said, “then we have to show them that knowledge changes us. That it humbles us, lifts us, connects us. That it’s not about knowing everything — it’s about never stopping the act of discovery.”

Jack:
He tilted his head. “And what about the ones who think they already know enough?”

Jeeny:
She smiled. “They’ve mistaken information for wisdom. The two aren’t the same.”

Host:
The air had grown still now, filled with the soft, sacred quiet that sometimes settles in old classrooms — the quiet of minds that remember they were made to learn.

Jack:
“You know,” he said, “we teach kids how to dream, but not how to fail. How to compete, but not how to collaborate. Maybe showing appreciation for knowledge starts with admitting how much we don’t know.”

Jeeny:
“Yes,” she said softly. “Humility is the first teacher. Gratitude is the second.”

Host:
The light had faded completely now, the room illuminated only by the faint glow of the streetlamp outside. The chalkboard stood like a dark mirror, reflecting their silhouettes — teacher and skeptic, student and seeker, both bound by the same truth: learning never really ends.

Jack stood, closing the old textbook, his hand resting briefly on its cover. “Maybe it’s not the kids who need to be reminded to value education,” he said. “Maybe it’s us.”

Jeeny:
She looked at him, a quiet pride in her smile. “Then let’s start showing them how.”

Host:
They walked out together, the door creaking softly behind them, leaving the empty classroom in its quiet glow. The camera lingered on the chalkboard, where her words still shone in white:

“To awaken a mind is the greatest act of love.”

And as the scene faded to black, Brad Sherman’s words echoed through the quiet, as if the empty room itself remembered them:

That to make children value learning,
we must first let them see our wonder.

That knowledge is not a possession,
but a shared light —
passed from hand to hand,
heart to heart,
until it becomes a world awake with understanding.