Modern education has devoted itself to the teaching of impudence

Host: The rain fell in slow silver lines, drawing threads across the windows of a forgotten classroom. The hour was late, and the building — once alive with voices — now echoed with the ghosts of lessons long abandoned. A single lamp burned above a wooden desk, its light pale, tired, yellowing like an old memory.

Jack stood by the blackboard, a piece of chalk turning to dust in his fingers. On the board, written in his sharp hand, were the words:
"Modern education has devoted itself to the teaching of impudence, and then we complain that we can no longer control our mobs." — John Ruskin

Jeeny sat at one of the front desks, her elbows resting on the scarred wood, her chin propped on her hands, watching him with a mix of pity and challenge.

Jeeny: quietly “It’s a beautiful sentence, in a terrible way. Ruskin always saw the rot before anyone smelled it. But you look like you’re ready to agree with him.”

Jack: drops the chalk, his voice low and heavy “Because he’s right, Jeeny. We’ve mistaken rebellion for intelligence, sarcasm for thought, defiance for wisdom. We teach people to question everything, but we’ve forgotten to teach them why some things deserve reverence. It’s no wonder the streets are angry.”

Host: His voice carried the weight of a teacher who’d stopped believing in his own classroom. The chalk dust rose like ashes, lingering between them, blurring the words on the board.

Jeeny: leans back, frowning “So you’d rather we teach obedience? Silence? Is that what you call education — to kneel and memorize? Maybe what you call impudence is just courage in another language.”

Jack: turns sharply “Courage without wisdom is just noise. And our schools are breeding noise. Everyone wants to be right, no one wants to listen. We’ve taught children that their opinions are truths, their feelings are facts. Now they shout, they mock, they burn — and we call it expression.”

Host: The lamp light flickered, casting shadows across his face — angular, weary, hardened by disappointment. Jeeny watched him, her eyes dark and alive, the rain’s rhythm beating softly against the windows like a pulse of defiance.

Jeeny: softly, but firm “You talk about noise, Jack, but maybe it’s not noise — maybe it’s rage. The rage of those who were never heard. The impudence you despise is the child of injustice. If our mobs have no respect, it’s because respect was never given to them in the first place.”

Jack: shakes his head “No, Jeeny. That’s too easy. Blame the system, praise the rebels — I’ve heard it all before. But at some point, you have to choose: do you want a society that thinks, or one that just feels wronged? We’ve trained a generation to doubt everything, but we’ve forgotten to teach them humility.”

Jeeny: “Humility? Or submission? Because those two are not the same. You call it humility when people agree with you. You call it impudence when they don’t. Maybe education has finally done its job — maybe it’s unleashed truth that refuses to obey.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, hammering against the glass with urgent rhythm, as if demanding entrance. Jack paced slowly, his shoes clicking on the floor, while Jeeny watched, hands folded, eyes unwavering.

Jack: “Truth without discipline is anarchy, Jeeny. You can’t build a civilization on emotion. Knowledge used to humble people. Now it inflates them. We don’t educate minds anymore — we inflate egos. We’ve made everyone their own oracle, and now no one believes in anything greater than themselves.”

Jeeny: leans forward, her voice rising “And what do you expect, Jack? We live in a world that measured obedience by fear, that punished questions, that called curiosity a crime. Impudence was born because silence was murder. If the young are angry, it’s because they’re awake — and the old world doesn’t like being seen.”

Jack: with a bitter laugh “Awake? No, Jeeny — they’re just loud. There’s a difference. Awakening requires reflection, discipline, pain. But all we’ve taught them is outrage. They want to tear down everything they don’t understand, and they call it progress.”

Jeeny: stands, voice trembling now “And what’s wrong with tearing down something that was built on lies? You fear chaos, but maybe it’s justice wearing a new name. You think they’re mob-minded, but maybe they’re just done with being lectured by men who’ve forgotten how to feel.”

Host: The air between them tightened — anger and grief intertwined. The lamp’s glow shivered, stretching their shadows across the walls, locking them in a dance of conviction.

Jack slammed his hand against the desk, papers flying like startled birds.
“Respect isn’t earned by rebellion alone!” he shouted. “It’s earned by understanding what you defy. And our schools have stopped teaching that. We’re raising critics, not creators. Doubt has become a virtue, and faith — any kind of faith — a joke.”

Jeeny stepped closer, her eyes blazing, her voice steady despite the storm outside.
“Then maybe the joke is on us, Jack. Because faith without question is just blindness. And authority without accountability — that’s tyranny dressed as order. You can’t control your mobs because you never understood their pain.”

Host: The rain slowed, its fury spent, leaving behind a soft hiss against the glass — a whisper of peace, or perhaps just exhaustion.

Jack’s breathing softened. His shoulders dropped. He looked at Jeeny, and for a moment, the defiance in his eyes gave way to regret.

Jack: quietly “Maybe we both want the same thing — students who can think, feel, and lead. But the balance is gone, Jeeny. We’ve made questioning easy, and wisdom difficult.”

Jeeny: steps closer, gently now “Then maybe our job isn’t to control them, Jack — it’s to guide them. Education shouldn’t tame people; it should teach them how to hold fire without burning the world.”

Jack: smiles faintly “Hold fire... without burning the world. That’s a lesson I’d actually teach.”

Host: The lamp flickered, then steadied, its light warm once more. The rain stopped, and outside, the streets glistened — reflections of neon, moonlight, and possibility.

Jeeny walked to the blackboard, picked up the chalk, and added a line beneath Ruskin’s quote:

“Perhaps education’s purpose is not to control the mob — but to teach the mob to control itself.”

Jack read it, then nodded, a soft smile forming, haunted and hopeful all at once.

Host: And as the lamp dimmed, and the room sank into quiet, the two stood together, watching the words fade into the darkness —
each knowing that impudence and obedience, reason and rage,
were not enemies, but lessons,
still waiting to be learned.