In a completely rational society, the best of us would be

Host: The sunlight of late afternoon poured through the cracked windows of an old schoolhouse, its golden glow catching the dust that danced like forgotten memories in the air. The blackboard at the far end still bore half-erased chalk marks — a lesson on ethics and economics, perhaps — the ghosts of words that once mattered.

Outside, the playground was silent. Rusty swings creaked in the wind, and the faint echo of children’s laughter seemed to linger — like an old song remembered by the walls themselves.

At one of the worn desks, Jack sat, his hands folded, eyes wandering over the decaying posters of “Dream Big” and “The Future Belongs to Learners.” Jeeny stood near the window, her silhouette framed against the fading light, her expression calm but aching with nostalgia.

The quote, handwritten on the chalkboard, glowed faintly in the dusk:
“In a completely rational society, the best of us would be teachers and the rest of us would have to settle for something else.”
— Lee Iacocca

Jeeny: “It’s such a simple truth, isn’t it? Teaching is the only profession that creates all the others. If society were truly rational, teachers would be our heroes.”

Jack: “Heroes don’t pay rent, Jeeny.”

Host: His tone was dry, but beneath it was a sadness, the kind that builds quietly — not from anger, but from disillusionment.

Jack: “We call them heroes, then underpay them, overwork them, and blame them for everything wrong in the world. If that’s what rational looks like, I’ll take madness.”

Jeeny: “But that’s just it — we’re not rational. We worship profit and ignore wisdom. We measure everything in numbers, but not in meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t feed you, Jeeny. Or fix your car. Or fund a school when the budget gets cut again. The world doesn’t value teachers because their work isn’t immediate. People pay for what they can see, not what they can grow.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why we’re lost. The best builders don’t build machines, Jack — they build minds. The engineer, the doctor, the writer — they all start with a teacher who believed in them.”

Host: The light from the window shifted, now touching the edge of the blackboard, turning the chalk lines into streaks of fire. The room seemed to breathe, as if the walls themselves were listening.

Jack: “I had a teacher once. Ninth grade. He told me I’d never be a writer, that I didn’t have the discipline. I guess he was right — I became a journalist instead.”

Jeeny: “And yet, he still shaped you. Even in doubt, he moved you somewhere. Teachers don’t just inspire — they provoke. Even when they’re wrong.”

Jack: “Maybe. But I’ve seen too many of them burn out. The ones who start with fire, end with ashes. They give, and give, and the system takes until there’s nothing left.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the tragedy, isn’t it? That in the most important work, we offer the least reward. We tell them to ‘shape the future,’ then strip them of the tools to do it.”

Host: The wind stirred through the open window, carrying the faint scent of chalk and earth. The classroom clock ticked, the sound oddly loud, as if marking the minutes of a conversation the world had forgotten to have.

Jeeny: “Do you know why Lee Iacocca said that? Because he saw how we revered innovation but neglected education. He built cars, Jack — but he knew that without teachers, there’d be no builders at all.”

Jack: “Easy for him to say from a boardroom, with a suit and a salary. Try teaching thirty kids who don’t want to be there. Try convincing them that Shakespeare matters more than the screen in their pockets.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve tried.”

Jack: “I have. Once. I taught for six months after college. I thought I could make a difference. But every day was a war — against indifference, bureaucracy, and my own naïveté.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here you are — still talking about it. Maybe you didn’t fail. Maybe it’s the world that failed you.”

Host: The rain began to fall, slow at first, then steady, the drops drumming against the windowpane. Jeeny walked closer, watching the patterns form, listening as if the weather itself were a kind of memory.

Jeeny: “The ancient Greeks called teachers ‘guides of souls.’ The Chinese emperors placed them above warriors. In India, a teacher — a guru — was said to be more important than one’s own parents. Every great civilization rose on the back of education. So tell me, Jack — when did we stop treating it that way?”

Jack: “When we started selling everything. When learning became a business. When degrees became products, and students became customers. The rational society Iacocca dreamed of — it got hijacked by the market.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe rationality isn’t enough. Maybe what we need is gratitude — for those who shape minds even when no one notices.”

Host: The rain softened, and a muted light returned, making the chalkboard glow again. Jack rose, his eyes scanning the room, as if seeing it anew — the empty desks, the quiet ghosts of childhood wonder still echoing in the walls.

Jack: “Do you think it’ll ever change? That we’ll ever live in that society — the one where the best of us teach?”

Jeeny: “It changes every time one person remembers what a teacher once gave them. Every time someone teaches without asking for recognition. Rational or not, that’s how the world moves forward.”

Jack: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. To teach is to believe in something you might never see.”

Host: A silence fell, deep and weighty. Jack touched the edge of an old desk, his fingers tracing the grooves carved by a student’s knife decades ago — initials, maybe dreams.

Jack: “I suppose we owe them more than we ever repay.”

Jeeny: “We owe them everything. The doctor who heals, the pilot who flies, the writer who changes hearts — they all began here, in rooms like this, with someone who believed they could.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. The sky outside was streaked with crimson, the sun dipping low, painting the world in color both fragile and eternal.

Jack smiled, a faint, almost tender smile.

Jack: “Then maybe Iacocca was right. Maybe in a rational world, teachers would be kings.”

Jeeny: “Not kings. Keepers — of all that makes us human.”

Host: She turned from the window, the last of the light falling across her face. The dust in the room sparkled, the way hope sometimes does — small, floating, but real.

As they left, the door swung shut behind them, and for a brief moment, the chalkboard glimmered in the fading sun, as though the words themselves — “the best of us would be teachers” — refused to fade.

And in that empty room, where the air still hummed with memory, wisdom quietly breathed, waiting for the next soul willing to listen.