Inner city education must change. Our responsibility is not

Host: The old classroom was empty except for the hum of the flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of chalk dust clinging to the air. The walls, once bright, were now faded yellow, lined with cracked paint and curling posters — “DREAM BIG,” “LEARN TODAY, LEAD TOMORROW.” The desks were scarred with names, initials, tiny rebellions carved into wood by generations of students who’d passed through believing no one was listening.

Outside, the city rumbled, its heartbeat carried by buses, sirens, and the laughter of children echoing down brick-lined streets. Inside, Jack stood by the blackboard, hands in his pockets, staring at a single line written in chalk:

“Education is not information. It’s transformation.”

Across the room, Jeeny sat at a desk near the window, arms folded, her expression thoughtful as she watched dust dance in the late-afternoon light.

Jeeny: “James L. Farmer, Jr. once said, ‘Inner city education must change. Our responsibility is not merely to provide access to knowledge; we must produce educated people.’”
She looked up, her voice quiet but firm, the weight of those words echoing through the abandoned space. “It’s not just a quote, Jack. It’s an indictment.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Yeah. He wasn’t talking about curriculum. He was talking about conscience.”

Host: The wind pressed against the windows, rattling the glass. Somewhere outside, a school bell rang — not for them, but for some other classroom, somewhere still full of voices and hope.

Jeeny: “Access to knowledge — we say it like it’s enough. But giving someone a book doesn’t mean you’ve taught them how to read the world.”

Jack: “Exactly. We confuse exposure with education. We hand out degrees like they’re bandages, but the wound’s deeper — it’s systemic. It’s generational.”

Jeeny: “It’s structural.”

Jack: “And it’s moral.”

Host: Jack walked to the chalkboard, his hand brushing across the words, leaving a faint smear of white on his fingertips.

Jack: “Farmer knew that knowledge without empowerment isn’t education. It’s containment. A system that teaches you about freedom but not how to use it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And inner-city schools — they’ve been forced to carry the burden of society’s failures. Poverty, racism, neglect — all labeled as ‘academic challenges.’ But they’re human challenges.”

Jack: “And we keep pretending standardized tests can measure broken opportunity.”

Jeeny: “They can’t measure hunger, Jack. Or fear. Or the exhaustion of trying to learn in a world that’s already written your story for you.”

Host: The light outside dimmed, the sun dipping behind the skyline. Shadows stretched across the room like tired memories.

Jack: “You know, I grew up in a neighborhood like this. My high school had one computer lab — and half the computers didn’t even work. They told us to ‘dream big,’ but never explained how to build the ladder.”

Jeeny: “And when kids fall, they call it failure — not design.”

Jack: “Farmer’s words — they hit harder now. He wasn’t asking for reform; he was demanding revolution. He wanted education to liberate, not pacify.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the difference between teaching facts and teaching freedom.”

Host: She rose from the desk, walked slowly toward the chalkboard, her fingers trailing across the carved initials on each desk as if reading the stories left behind.

Jeeny: “He said ‘we must produce educated people.’ That’s not about grades. That’s about conscience — about shaping thinkers who challenge the very system that taught them.”

Jack: “People who see the cracks — and don’t just survive them, but demand to rebuild the foundation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because real education should be dangerous.”

Host: The words hung in the air, sharp, electric. The classroom seemed to awaken for a moment — as if the ghosts of students long gone were leaning forward, listening.

Jack: “You know, I think about that sometimes — how the system trains kids to memorize, not to imagine. To obey, not to ask.”

Jeeny: “And when they ask, we label them disruptive. When they dream, we call them unrealistic.”

Jack: “Farmer would’ve called them necessary.”

Host: She smiled faintly, the kind of smile born not from hope but from defiance — the small, quiet kind that survives because it refuses not to.

Jeeny: “Education’s supposed to create citizens, not statistics. That’s what he was trying to say. Knowledge isn’t enough. It has to mean something.”

Jack: (turning toward her) “It has to change something.”

Jeeny: “It has to save something.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now, though it hadn’t worked in years. Maybe it was just the echo of their words bouncing off walls that once held the laughter of children.

Jack: “You know, I visited a school last month — brand new, all glass and chrome. The students had tablets, projectors, all the tech you could imagine. But the teacher told me she’s never seen such apathy. Kids don’t care, because they don’t see the point.”

Jeeny: “That’s what happens when education loses its soul. You can’t digitize purpose.”

Jack: (sighing) “So what’s the answer then?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Start small. Teach a kid that their voice matters. Teach them that learning isn’t about passing a test — it’s about claiming a life.”

Jack: “That’s not policy. That’s philosophy.”

Jeeny: “That’s humanity.”

Host: The room grew quiet, the hum of the lights softening as if in agreement. The city’s glow pressed gently against the window, golden and distant, like a promise not yet kept.

Jeeny: “You know, Farmer was right. Our responsibility isn’t just to open the door. It’s to make sure someone walks through it and leaves changed.”

Jack: “To teach not what to think — but how to see.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because real education doesn’t fill you. It frees you.”

Host: The wind outside whispered, stirring a loose piece of paper across the floor — a forgotten essay, its lines faint, its purpose unfinished. Jack picked it up, smoothed it out, and smiled sadly.

Jack: “You think he ever believed we’d get there?”

Jeeny: (softly) “He believed we had to keep trying. That’s what real teachers do — they teach hope, even when they’ve stopped feeling it themselves.”

Host: The lights buzzed once more, then dimmed. The city’s glow filled the empty classroom. Jeeny stood by the window, looking out — at the streets where children walked home beneath the fractured light of the world they’d inherited.

And as the last trace of chalk faded on the board, James L. Farmer Jr.’s words seemed to breathe through the stillness — not as history, but as a commandment:

that education is not a transaction of facts,
but a transformation of souls.

That it is not enough to grant access to books,
if we do not awaken the hunger to read the world.

That a society cannot claim progress
until its classrooms produce not obedience,
but understanding —
not students,
but citizens.

And so the old lights flickered,
the ghosts of a thousand lessons lingered,
and the future — waiting just outside —
listened.