Our second phase was to develop a school curriculum that teaches

Host: The classroom was silent now, long after the students had gone home. The chalkboard still carried the ghost of lessons past — faint words about “empathy,” “respect,” and “listening.” The light from the hallway spilled in softly through the door, catching the faint dust that swirled like memory in the air.

Jack sat on the edge of a desk, sleeves rolled up, his grey eyes fixed on a single line written across the board in Jeeny’s handwriting:

“Our second phase was to develop a school curriculum that teaches tolerance, respect for differences, conflict resolution, anger management, and other attributes of peace.”
— Eddie Bernice Johnson

He ran his finger across the chalk, smudging one word, then another. Jeeny stood near the window, arms folded, watching the last orange sliver of sunset fade behind the trees.

Jeeny: “You erased ‘peace,’” she said softly.

Jack: “Because it’s a fantasy,” he muttered. “You can teach kids math, you can teach them grammar, but you can’t teach them peace. You can’t put tolerance in a textbook.”

Host: His voice was low, roughened by something old — not anger, but fatigue. Jeeny turned toward him, her brown eyes full of light, half sorrow, half defiance.

Jeeny: “You really think that, Jack? You think we’re just born this way — ready to fight, to hate, to see the difference before the sameness?”

Jack: “I think we’re wired for conflict. Look at history — every century, every nation, every so-called progressive society ends up with a war. You can wrap it in education or policy, but underneath, we’re just tribal.”

Host: The wind from the open window stirred the papers on the teacher’s desk, rustling them like faint voices. A poster of children’s faces smiled from the wall, each painted by another child’s hand, each one different, beautiful, and naïve.

Jeeny: “Then why do you even teach, Jack? If you think it’s all hopeless, why stay?”

Jack: “Because teaching isn’t about changing the world, Jeeny. It’s about surviving it. Maybe you give a kid the tools to cope, to compete, but you don’t teach them to forgive. That’s not something you can put on a lesson plan.”

Host: Jeeny walked slowly toward him, her footsteps soft against the old wooden floor. She picked up a piece of chalk, twirling it between her fingers, leaving faint white dust on her skin.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. You can teach peace the same way you teach violence — through what you model, through what you normalize. Every word we speak in this room, every argument we settle without shouting, every time we tell a child that different isn’t dangerous — that’s a lesson.”

Jack: “That’s sentiment, Jeeny. Not curriculum.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said firmly, “it’s the only curriculum that matters. The one that keeps us from repeating the same damn mistakes.”

Host: Her voice rose, filling the room, echoing against the walls lined with old maps and posters about “Global Citizenship.” For a moment, the air felt alive, trembling with conviction.

Jack looked at her — the fire in her eyes, the way her hands trembled slightly as she spoke — and something in him shifted.

Jack: “You sound like my mother,” he said quietly. “She used to say the same thing — that if we could just listen to each other, the world would change.”

Jeeny: “Was she wrong?”

Jack: “She was a teacher, too. In a school that got burned down during the riots.”

Host: The words landed heavy. The silence that followed was long, thick with the scent of old chalk and smoke that seemed to drift from the past. Jeeny didn’t look away.

Jeeny: “And yet, here you are. In another classroom, trying again. Maybe not because you believe, but because some part of her still does.”

Jack: “Maybe,” he said, looking down. “Or maybe I’m just too stubborn to quit.”

Host: The light from the window dimmed, turning everything blue and quiet. Outside, the distant sound of children laughing in the street floated through — pure, unaware of the weight of what was being said inside.

Jeeny: “You know, Eddie Bernice Johnson said that developing a curriculum for peace wasn’t about lessons, it was about phases. Each one a step toward changing how we think about each other. You start with tolerance, then empathy, then maybe — just maybe — you reach understanding.”

Jack: “Sounds like a fairy tale.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “It’s a process. Like learning to speak a new language. You fail, you get frustrated, but one day, you wake up and realize you’re starting to understand.”

Host: She drew a small circle on the board with her chalk, then another one, overlapping slightly.

Jeeny: “That’s conflict,” she said. “And this,” she drew a third that overlapped both, “is peace. It’s not about erasing the differences. It’s about finding the space where they can live together.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. That’s why we have to teach it.”

Host: Jack stood, walking toward the window, staring out at the playground below — now empty except for a single basketball rolling lazily in the wind. His reflection in the glass looked older than he remembered, more tired.

Jack: “You really think peace can be taught?”

Jeeny: “I think everything else has been. War, hate, anger — we’ve mastered those lessons for centuries. Why not try teaching the opposite for once?”

Host: A faint smile touched her lips, but her eyes glistened. The chalk snapped between her fingers, falling in two uneven pieces on the floor.

Jack bent to pick it up, his hand brushing hers.

Jack: “Maybe peace isn’t something you learn,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’s something you remember. Something we all once knew before we started building walls.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe this is what teaching peace is — reminding people they were once kind.”

Host: The room was still now, heavy with meaning. Jack placed the chalk on the desk, staring again at the board where Jeeny had redrawn the word he’d erased earlier.

Peace.

It glowed faintly in the half-light — fragile, defiant, necessary.

Jeeny: “Tomorrow’s lesson?” she asked, her voice gentle.

Jack: “Tolerance,” he replied. “But maybe this time… we start with the teachers.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, and for the first time, Jack smiled back — a real one, small but unguarded. The last light of day caught in their eyes, the kind of light that doesn’t promise certainty, but possibility.

Outside, the school bell rang faintly in the distance, though the day was long over.

And in that quiet moment, the two of them stood in the afterglow of what might one day be called the beginning —
the first true lesson in peace.