If you are born into poverty, the chances are good that your

Host:
The city slept beneath a thin veil of fog, its lights blurred into pools of weary gold. Somewhere beyond the skyline, the faint hum of traffic rose and fell like a tired heartbeat. Inside a narrow, dimly lit classroom, the air was thick with the smell of old books, chalk, and hope that had learned to wear scars.

The walls were lined with fading posters — “DREAM BIG,” “YOU CAN DO ANYTHING,” “EDUCATION IS FREEDOM.” But the corners of those posters curled, their bright colors dulled by years of dust and disbelief.

Jack sat slouched at one of the small desks, his tall frame awkward in a chair built for children. His hands were folded loosely, his eyes grey and distant, watching Jeeny, who stood near the blackboard. She held a piece of chalk, but she wasn’t teaching — she was thinking aloud, tracing circles and arrows that didn’t connect.

Between them, on the cracked chalkboard, written in her uneven hand, was the quote they were both trying to understand:

“If you are born into poverty, the chances are good that your children will be born into poverty. Find a way to give poor kids the same cognitive stimulus that rich kids receive, and they should end up with the same tools for success.” — George Kaiser

Jeeny:
(reading the words softly)
“Find a way to give poor kids the same cognitive stimulus…”
(pauses)
It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Like equality could be built from crayons and storybooks.

Jack:
(scoffing)
Simple words for a problem that’s centuries deep. You can’t fix a broken house with better wallpaper, Jeeny.

Jeeny:
That’s not what he’s saying. He’s saying — start earlier. Before the cracks form. Before the ceilings fall.

Jack:
Before the world teaches them what they can’t have.

Jeeny:
Exactly.

Host:
The clock on the wall ticked, its rhythm steady, dispassionate. Outside, the faint glow of a streetlamp filtered through the window, dust motes drifting like slow thoughts in the beam.

Jack:
You really think books can change destiny?

Jeeny:
I think attention can. Time can. Care can. Those are the things rich kids get without asking — and poor kids are punished for needing.

Jack:
(leaning forward)
You sound idealistic.

Jeeny:
You sound tired.

Jack:
That’s because I’ve seen what idealism costs. You give them pencils, and the system takes the paper. You teach them to dream, and the rent collector wakes them up.

Jeeny:
Then dream anyway. That’s the revolt — to believe the mind is stronger than circumstance.

Jack:
And what about hunger? What about the kids who can’t think because their stomachs are empty?

Jeeny:
Feed them first, Jack. Then teach them to build a world where no one’s hungry again.

Host:
The light bulb above them flickered, buzzing faintly like an insect caught in its own glow. Jeeny drew another circle on the chalkboard — labeled it “poverty.” Then another — “opportunity.” She connected them with a question mark.

Jeeny:
It’s not that the poor lack ability. It’s that they’re starved of stimulus — of voices that tell them they matter, of environments that challenge their minds, not just their survival.

Jack:
So what? We set up more schools? More programs? We’ve tried that. It all ends up strangled by bureaucracy and forgotten funding.

Jeeny:
Then we stop thinking like bureaucrats. Stop measuring worth in data points. A child’s brain doesn’t care about your statistics. It cares about presence. About someone being there — listening, encouraging, believing.

Jack:
(quietly)
Believing... That’s the hardest part, isn’t it?

Jeeny:
Yes. Because belief is the one thing poverty takes first.

Host:
Outside, the wind pressed gently against the window, making it rattle softly, like a voice asking to be let in.

Jack:
You ever wonder how different you’d be if you’d been born somewhere else?

Jeeny:
All the time. But that’s the point, isn’t it? We think talent is destiny, but it’s just access wearing a different suit.

Jack:
You really think kids are equal at birth?

Jeeny:
Yes. The difference starts the minute they’re treated like they aren’t.

Jack:
That’s poetic, Jeeny, but life isn’t poetry.

Jeeny:
Neither is poverty. But it keeps writing itself, generation after generation, because we refuse to change the script.

Jack:
So what’s the rewrite?

Jeeny:
Start by giving every child what the rich have — not the money, but the mindset that the world is theirs to explore.

Jack:
And who teaches them that?

Jeeny:
We do. Every person who remembers what it’s like to be unseen.

Host:
A distant train horn echoed — low and mournful — drifting through the night like a reminder that the world keeps moving, even when dreams don’t. Jack looked toward the window, his reflection faint against the glass.

Jack:
You know what scares me? The idea that even if we fix it — give them education, support, hope — the world might still crush them.

Jeeny:
Then we teach them how to fight back. Not with violence, but with awareness. Critical thought. The power to question. That’s what real stimulus is — not information, but awakening.

Jack:
(smirking slightly)
You sound like a revolutionary.

Jeeny:
Maybe I am. Maybe education is the revolution — the quiet kind, the kind that grows one mind at a time.

Jack:
And maybe poverty is just the absence of revolution.

Jeeny:
Exactly.

Host:
The clock struck midnight. The sound was soft but absolute. The classroom seemed smaller now — not in size, but in weight, as though their words had filled it to the brim.

Jack:
You know, I used to think success was luck — that some people just drew better cards. But now I think it’s scaffolding. Some of us start halfway up the wall, others have to build their ladder from scratch.

Jeeny:
And the tragedy isn’t the climb. It’s that the world blames the climber for being tired.

Jack:
(quietly)
You think we can really change that?

Jeeny:
We have to. Because the moment we stop believing we can, poverty wins — not just the economic kind, but the poverty of imagination.

Jack:
And belief is…?

Jeeny:
The first tool of success. Before books, before money, before anything — the belief that you deserve to learn.

Host:
The rain began to fall softly, tapping against the glass like distant applause. Jeeny set down the chalk. Jack stood, stretching, his silhouette framed against the window’s pale glow.

Jack:
Maybe George Kaiser wasn’t just talking about kids. Maybe he was talking about all of us — the grown-up poor still trying to learn how to think like the rich in spirit.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
Yes. Because success isn’t inheritance, Jack. It’s imagination — and the courage to build what you never had.

Host:
The lights dimmed, the classroom fading into shadow. But on the chalkboard, two words remained visible in the faint streetlight: SPIRIT and SUCCESS, joined by a thin line of chalk — unbroken, unerasable.

Outside, the city still pulsed — chaotic, unjust, alive. Yet somewhere within it, two people believed — however briefly — that the future could be taught to dream differently.

And perhaps, as the night gave way to dawn, that belief — fragile, glowing — was the real stimulus the world had been missing all along.

Fade out.