In elementary school, we should teach nonviolent conflict

Host: The rain fell in soft, persistent sheets over the schoolyard, blurring the chalk lines of the basketball court and turning fallen leaves into muddied mosaics beneath the streetlight glow. Inside the teacher’s lounge, the air smelled faintly of coffee, paper, and childhood echoes. Drawings of crayon suns and stick-figure families fluttered on the bulletin board, trembling as if breathing with the storm’s pulse.
Jack sat by the window, his shirt sleeves rolled up, grey eyes fixed on the downpour like someone watching time dissolve. Jeeny entered quietly, her umbrella dripping, her hair clinging to her cheeks. She carried a folder of lesson plans, though her expression held something heavier — belief.

Jeeny: “Jane Velez-Mitchell once said, ‘In elementary school, we should teach nonviolent conflict resolution and healthy communication skills, which will help children cope with issues like rejection and sexuality later in life.’”
(she placed the folder down, her voice calm yet insistent) “I keep thinking… maybe that’s where everything begins, Jack. Not with math or spelling — but with how we talk, how we listen, how we hurt and heal.”

Jack: (leaning back, smirking slightly) “That sounds beautiful, Jeeny. Almost utopian. But you can’t teach kids to manage rejection or sexuality the way you teach them fractions. Life’s not that kind of curriculum.”

Host: The light flickered. Outside, a gust of wind threw rain against the windowpane, and the sound echoed like fingers drumming on glass.

Jeeny: “You think I’m naïve. But look around you. Kids are fighting, bullying, hurting themselves — not because they’re bad, but because they were never shown how to speak instead of strike, how to feel instead of fear.”

Jack: “And you think a few ‘nonviolent communication lessons’ will fix that?” (voice low, almost cutting) “Come on. You can’t reprogram human nature. Conflict’s inevitable. We’re animals dressed in etiquette. Even adults can’t handle rejection without falling apart.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why it has to start early.” (eyes bright) “Before that armor hardens. Before they learn that power is the only way to be safe.”

Host: Jack stood, walking to the window, his reflection fractured by raindrops. Jeeny watched him — his profile cold, his shoulders tense, as if the weight of something unseen hung from his frame.

Jack: “You remember that case in Ohio, years ago — the one where a twelve-year-old brought a gun to school because his classmates mocked him online? He didn’t need ‘communication skills,’ Jeeny. He needed boundaries, discipline, maybe even fear of consequences. The world isn’t a therapy session.”

Jeeny: “And yet he was twelve. A child, Jack.” (her voice cracked softly) “A child who didn’t know how to say, ‘You hurt me.’ A child who thought violence was the only language that would be heard. That’s not discipline. That’s failure.”

Host: The silence between them grew thick, like the humid air before a storm’s second wave. The clock ticked — slow, deliberate, like the rhythm of a heart learning patience.

Jack: “So what then? We fill classrooms with talks about emotions and boundaries instead of math and science? We raise a generation of kids who know how to talk but not how to survive?”

Jeeny: “They’ll survive because they’ll understand what it means to be human, not just efficient. Look at history — when we neglect that, everything collapses. Wars, systems, revolutions — they’re all born from miscommunication, from wounded egos, from people who never learned to say, ‘I was wrong.’”

Host: A thunderclap rolled through the distance, the lights trembling. The rain softened, turning from chaos to a whisper. Jeeny sat down, her hands clasped, her eyes fixed on the steam rising from her coffee.

Jack: (quieter now) “You really believe that can be taught? That empathy is a skill, not just a temperament?”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen it happen. There was a girl in my class last year — quiet, always drawing in the corner. Other kids called her strange. One day I introduced a game about conflict resolution — we acted out ways to handle disagreement. A week later, that same girl stood up for another child being mocked. She said, ‘That’s not kind. Let’s talk it out.’ That’s change, Jack. Small, but real.”

Jack: (looking down) “One example doesn’t rewrite the world.”

Jeeny: “No, but it starts to.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tapped on the table, a rhythmic hesitation. His eyes drifted toward the window, where the rain had thinned into silver threads. He looked as though he were remembering something — or someone.

Jack: “When I was in school, I was that kid who kept to himself. When I finally spoke up, the teacher told me to ‘man up.’ Maybe… maybe you’re right. Maybe we learn silence too young.”

Jeeny: “Silence becomes our first violence.”

Host: The room seemed to exhale then. The air lightened, though the storm still lingered outside like a memory refusing to leave. A teacher’s laughter echoed faintly down the hall, soft and distant — a reminder that innocence still existed somewhere close.

Jack: “You mentioned sexuality earlier.” (tone careful) “You really think schools should dive into that? Parents already lose their minds over books mentioning two moms.”

Jeeny: “Because we make shame the shadow of everything natural. Kids don’t need to learn the mechanics — they need to learn respect. How to see difference without fear. When you teach communication, you’re also teaching acceptance.”

Jack: “You’re asking the system to raise our kids better than we can.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m asking the system to help us do what we’ve forgotten — to guide, not control.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, but there was less defense now, more thought. The storm had slowed to a gentle drizzle, the kind that feels almost like forgiveness. Through the window, the schoolyard glistened, reflecting the pale light of the lampposts.

Jack: “When I hear words like ‘nonviolent conflict resolution,’ I think of something fragile. Idealism pretending to be a plan.”

Jeeny: “And I hear courage — people facing conflict without running to the oldest weapon they know.”

Jack: “But violence… it’s instinct. You can’t erase that.”

Jeeny: “No one’s asking to. Only to evolve it. To turn that instinct into assertion, not aggression. Into truth, not harm.”

Host: Her voice softened, but it carried like a bell in fog — clear, unwavering. Jack met her eyes, and for the first time, didn’t look away.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You think if I had learned that back then, I’d be different now?”

Jeeny: “I don’t know. But maybe you wouldn’t be so afraid of what still hurts.”

Host: The words landed like stones in water, rippling outward. Jack’s breathing slowed. The clock’s tick filled the silence, a steady metronome of reflection.

He looked at Jeeny, not as a colleague, but as someone who had found the piece of truth he had misplaced years ago.

Jack: “Alright. So maybe... we do need it. But not as another subject — as a language. The first one we teach.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Exactly. The language of being human.”

Host: The rain stopped. A sliver of moonlight broke through the clouds, spilling over the desks, the drawings, the coffee cups, the two faces finally softened by understanding. Outside, the schoolyard puddles shimmered, like tiny mirrors reflecting a gentler world.

The camera would linger here — on their silence, on the soft glow of redemption.
A world not yet healed, but learning — perhaps for the first time — how to speak without wounding, how to listen without fear.