In the state of Wisconsin it's mandated that teachers in the

Host: The classroom was washed in late afternoon light, the kind that turns dust into gold. The old windows rattled gently in the autumn wind, carrying the faint scent of wet leaves and distant chalk dust. On the blackboard, half-erased words still clung stubbornly — ecosystem, stewardship, future.

At the back of the room, Jack sat on the edge of a desk, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hands clasped loosely. He looked older than the students who had just left, though not by much — tired in the way only idealists can be. Jeeny stood by the window, her arms crossed, watching a group of children run through the schoolyard. Their laughter rose above the wind, pure, untamed, and fleeting.

Host: The room was empty of students now, but full of their echoes. It was the kind of silence that invites reflection — and reckoning.

Jeeny: “Gaylord Nelson once said, ‘In the state of Wisconsin it's mandated that teachers in the social sciences and hard sciences have to start giving environmental education by the first grade, through high school.’”
Her voice was quiet, almost reverent. “Imagine that, Jack. Children learning about the earth before they even learn what an economy is. That’s the world I wish we’d built.”

Jack: “Sounds nice,” he muttered, glancing toward the blackboard. “But mandates don’t make miracles. You can teach ecology, but you can’t legislate empathy.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true. You can plant the seed of it. That’s what Nelson understood — that awareness has to begin before the apathy sets in.”

Jack: “And yet, here we are — adults with more data than ever, and less care than children playing in the dirt.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because we forgot how to see the dirt as something sacred.”

Host: The light shifted, warming their faces as the sun dipped lower. Jeeny moved closer to the chalkboard, tracing the faint outline of a drawing — a crude but earnest tree, its roots sprawling across the slate.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that law? It’s not just about science. It’s about values. It says to every kid — you’re part of something bigger, and your choices matter.”

Jack: “That’s a sweet sentiment. But half of those kids grow up into people who vote against their own planet. How do you fix that?”

Jeeny: “By not giving up on the other half.”

Jack: “You really think a curriculum can save the world?”

Jeeny: “Not a curriculum — a generation.”

Host: Her words hung in the room, shimmering in the dust-light. Outside, one of the children stopped running to pick up a fallen leaf, studying its veins with the seriousness of a young scientist. Jeeny’s eyes softened.

Jack: “You make it sound easy. Just teach them early, and everything changes.”

Jeeny: “Not easy. Just necessary. Because by the time we’re adults, the world’s already divided — politics, profit, pride. Kids see the world before we tell them how to. That’s power, Jack. That’s purity.”

Jack: “Purity doesn’t last. The system eats it. The same system that mandates education is the one funding oil pipelines and cutting trees to print the textbooks.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we start inside the system — to outgrow it. Nelson knew that. He didn’t fight to destroy institutions; he fought to reshape them.”

Jack: “And yet, the planet keeps heating, the rivers keep drying, and the laws keep looking good on paper. Tell me, Jeeny, what’s left to teach when the earth itself becomes the lesson?”

Jeeny: “Then we teach them to listen.”

Host: A long silence. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, each sound a small act of defiance against despair.

Jack ran a hand through his hair, looking out at the playground — at the way the children’s shadows stretched longer and longer across the asphalt.

Jack: “You think they can carry it? The responsibility, I mean. The weight of fixing what we broke?”

Jeeny: “They won’t have to carry it alone — if we start carrying it with them. Education isn’t just transfer; it’s transformation. It’s not about giving answers; it’s about giving eyes.”

Jack: “You talk like the classroom’s a cathedral.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. The only one left that still believes in redemption.”

Host: The last line echoed through the room, the way truth sometimes does — softly, but with the gravity of conviction.

Jack: “You know what bothers me, Jeeny? We act like education is enough. But kids grow up into the same machine that taught them. What’s the point of giving them hope if the world’s just waiting to grind it out of them?”

Jeeny: “Because maybe one day, one of them will refuse to be part of the machine. And that’s how revolutions begin — quietly, in classrooms.”

Jack: “And if they fail?”

Jeeny: “Then we try again with the next class. Because failure isn’t the end of teaching — it’s the reason it exists.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve turned education into faith.”

Jeeny: “Faith is what education becomes when knowledge alone isn’t enough.”

Host: The sun finally slipped below the horizon, leaving the classroom in a soft blue twilight. The chalkboard gleamed faintly in the fading light, the drawn tree still visible — its roots deep, its branches reaching.

Jeeny walked over and picked up a piece of chalk, her fingers leaving white dust on her skin. She drew a single word beneath the tree: Tomorrow.

Jack: “You really think they can save us?”

Jeeny: “Not us. Themselves. But maybe that’s enough.”

Jack: “You sound like you believe the world deserves another chance.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, her voice a whisper. “I believe the children do.”

Host: Outside, the playground was empty now, the swings creaking softly in the wind. The night was coming on — full of quiet, full of possibility.

Jack stood, brushing the chalk dust from his hands. He looked at the board again — the simple drawing of the tree, the word Tomorrow, and the faint fingerprints that framed them both.

Jack: “You know, Nelson was onto something,” he said at last. “If we teach them the world is alive, maybe they’ll stop treating it like a resource.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Education isn’t about learning the world. It’s about learning to belong to it.”

Jack: “Then maybe the first grade is the right place to start.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, smiling. “The first breath is.”

Host: The lights went out. The room fell silent except for the wind whispering through the cracked window — a sound that could almost be mistaken for the planet breathing.

And in that breath, something eternal stirred — the faint, persistent pulse of hope, of learning, of life insisting on beginning again.

Host: Because perhaps, as Nelson believed, the world isn’t saved in laboratories or legislatures —
but in classrooms, where small hands first learn how to draw a tree and call it home.