It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in

Title: The Colors of Strength

Host: The evening sun draped its golden fabric across a city park, where laughter mingled with the soft music of a street performer’s guitar. Children ran in spirals of joy, their voices rising like birdsong. The air was warm, filled with the scent of grass and the faint hum of traffic beyond the trees.

At a quiet bench near the fountain, Jack sat watching the scene unfold. His jacket hung loose, his hands clasped together, his eyes sharp but softened — as though he were trying to see the world the way he once did, before cynicism turned clarity into armor.

Jeeny approached with slow steps, a small paper bag of roasted peanuts in hand. She sat beside him, offering the bag wordlessly. He took one, smiling faintly.

For a moment, neither spoke. The fountain’s water glimmered in the sunlight, throwing small rainbows into the air — fragile, fleeting, perfect.

Jeeny: “Maya Angelou once said — ‘It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in diversity there is beauty and there is strength.’”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “I’ve always loved that line. The way she makes difference sound like something sacred — not something to fix.”

Host: His voice was quiet, textured with respect. The words carried the kind of weight that only truth and regret can share.

Jeeny: “Sacred, yes. But also urgent. We still don’t teach it, Jack. Not early enough. Not deeply enough.”

Jack: “Maybe because we keep mistaking similarity for safety.”

Jeeny: “And difference for danger.”

Host: A breeze passed through, scattering the fallen leaves in circles around their feet. The sunlight shifted, softening to amber.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? When I was a kid, my father used to say, ‘Stick with your own.’ And I never questioned it. It sounded like advice. Later, I realized it was a wall.”

Jeeny: “Walls always start as wisdom in someone’s mind.”

Jack: “Yeah. They call it protection. But it’s really fear wearing logic’s mask.”

Jeeny: “And fear teaches faster than love if no one corrects it.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes followed a group of children chasing a ball across the park — brown hands, white hands, black hands all reaching for the same small joy.

Jeeny: “Look at them. No one told them yet that color divides. That’s the beauty of children — they see difference and call it interesting, not threatening.”

Jack: “Until adults teach them otherwise.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why Maya said parents must teach it early. Because prejudice doesn’t grow on trees; it’s planted at home.”

Host: The sound of the fountain deepened, rhythmic, steady — like a soft drumbeat echoing through water. A pair of old friends nearby laughed in two different languages, neither fully understanding the other, but both entirely present.

Jack: “I remember when I first worked abroad. I thought I was open-minded. But every time someone did something differently, I took it as wrong. Took me years to learn that different isn’t a threat — it’s a mirror showing you your limits.”

Jeeny: “And when you stopped resisting it?”

Jack: “The world got bigger. And kinder.”

Jeeny: “That’s the strength Maya meant — not just collective power, but personal expansion. The courage to let your world outgrow your comfort.”

Jack: “You think we can still teach that? In a world this divided?”

Jeeny: “Especially in a world this divided.”

Host: The light caught her face then — warm, unwavering — like a torch held against the dusk.

Jack: “But how do you teach beauty in difference to people who’ve only ever seen it used as a weapon?”

Jeeny: “By example. By showing them that curiosity heals faster than judgment. That listening is braver than shouting.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic, Jeeny. But poetry doesn’t fix politics.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But politics without poetry has no soul.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “You always make idealism sound like common sense.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because it should be.”

Host: A small child ran past, tripping over a curb and falling. Two others — one boy with pale skin, one girl with dark — rushed over, lifting him up together. The boy brushed his knees, then all three laughed and ran off again.

Jeeny watched them, her eyes soft.

Jeeny: “There. That’s what Maya meant. Diversity isn’t a lesson; it’s a moment — repeated until it becomes habit.”

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think people fear diversity because it reminds them they’re not the center of the story.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It asks you to share the narrative. To realize that truth has more than one voice.”

Jack: “And we’re not used to that.”

Jeeny: “No. We’ve been trained to compete, not to coexist.”

Host: The sky deepened into shades of orange and rose. The city’s buildings glowed in the fading sun, each window catching light differently — yet all burning with the same warmth.

Jeeny: “Maya understood something simple but revolutionary: diversity isn’t decoration. It’s design. Humanity was built to be plural.”

Jack: “And yet, we still keep editing the blueprint.”

Jeeny: “Because we mistake uniformity for unity.”

Jack: “And forget that even music needs dissonance to find harmony.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly.”

Host: The wind shifted. Somewhere nearby, a group of teenagers began to sing softly — a blend of voices, languages, and laughter spilling into the cooling air. The tune was imperfect, but its sincerity was flawless.

Jack listened, then spoke more quietly.

Jack: “You know, I envy them — growing up in a world where difference is finally being celebrated. At least, more than it was.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But celebration isn’t enough. We can’t just clap for diversity; we have to protect it. Feed it. It’s not a trend — it’s a duty.”

Jack: “And who teaches that?”

Jeeny: “Everyone who’s ever felt unseen.”

Jack: “That’s a lot of teachers.”

Jeeny: “And not enough students.”

Host: The streetlights flickered on, casting golden halos around the trees. The day was folding itself into night, but the park still glowed with quiet life.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought strength meant sameness — everyone marching in the same direction, no questions asked. But now I think real strength looks more like this park — messy, colorful, unpredictable.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Strength is in the mosaic, not the monolith.”

Jack: “And beauty?”

Jeeny: “Beauty is in the courage to keep the mosaic whole.”

Jack: “So diversity’s not the challenge — our fear of it is.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And fear fades faster when faced with familiarity. You can’t hate what you’ve learned to see.”

Host: The fountain’s spray caught the lamplight now, transforming into a column of liquid gold. The children’s laughter had softened into echoes, carried by the evening wind.

Jeeny reached for her bag of peanuts, offered it again.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, the first classroom is the home. And the first lesson should be this — that every color, every voice, every story adds something the world didn’t know it needed.”

Jack: (smiling gently) “And that’s where beauty begins.”

Jeeny: “And where strength survives.”

Host: The city hummed beyond the park, alive with its infinite variety — different tongues, faces, rhythms — all bound together by the invisible thread of coexistence.

And as the last light of day surrendered to twilight, Maya Angelou’s words lingered between them — a benediction whispered through time:

That diversity is not a challenge to overcome,
but a masterpiece to preserve.

That beauty lives in our differences,
and strength grows in our ability to hold them together.

The stars emerged, scattered yet united —
each one burning its own shade of light,
together forming a sky no single hue could ever fill.

And beneath that vast, living canvas,
two souls sat in the glow of understanding —
unlabeled, unafraid,
human.