Parents and schools should place great emphasis on the idea that

Host:
The evening rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened, their puddles shimmering with the reflection of neon lights. The city hummed — a low, endless sound, half heartbeat, half electric current. From the window of a small coffee shop, the steam from freshly brewed espresso curled upward, melting into the soft jazz that drifted through the room.

At a corner table, Jack sat, his hands clasped around a ceramic cup, the heat rising into his tired fingers. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, eyes lowered, watching the liquid whirl like a tiny storm contained within a cup.

Host:
The light above them was warm, amber, soft as memory. Outside, people passed — all faces, all colors, rushing, colliding, coexisting — an unspoken symphony of difference.

Jeeny: quietly, almost as if quoting to herself — “Roger Ebert once said, ‘Parents and schools should place great emphasis on the idea that it is all right to be different. Racism and all the other isms grow from primitive tribalism... You are a lucky child if your parents taught you to accept diversity.’”

Jack: leans back, exhaling smoke from an unlit cigarette he’s rolling between his fingers — “Yeah. Sounds nice — for the kind of world that doesn’t exist.”

Jeeny: looks up sharply — “You really think that? That difference is something we can’t learn to live with?”

Jack: shrugs — “We talk about diversity like it’s natural, but it isn’t. Not really. The instinct to protect your own tribe — it’s ancient, wired in. You can’t just teach people out of fear.”

Host:
A faint rumble of thunder echoed from somewhere far beyond the city’s glow. The café windows shivered, reflecting their faces — his, hardened, yet uneasy; hers, soft, but unyielding.

Jeeny: leans forward — “Fear isn’t destiny, Jack. It’s inheritance — and we can unlearn it. That’s what Ebert meant. We’re not born racist, cruel, or tribal. We’re just born afraid — and then taught who to be afraid of.”

Jack: smirking slightly — “You sound like a teacher.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly — “Maybe I am. A teacher for people who’ve forgotten what they were supposed to remember — that being different isn’t a threat, it’s a mirror.”

Host:
Outside, a bus passed, its headlights sweeping across the window, washing them both in a momentary flood of light, before fading back into the amber calm.

Jack: sighs — “You think parents and schools can fix that? You really think a few lessons in kindness can undo a thousand years of tribal instinct? People don’t want to be equal, Jeeny. They want to be safe — and being safe often means being superior.”

Jeeny: her eyes sharpen, her voice quiet but cutting — “Then maybe what needs to change isn’t our fear, but our definition of safety. Because if your safety depends on someone else’s exclusion, then it’s not safety — it’s control.”

Host:
The music shifted, the saxophone softening into a kind of melancholy plea. The rain began again — a thin, silver whisper against the windowpane.

Jack: rubs his temple — “I’m not saying we shouldn’t try. I just think people romanticize tolerance. It sounds noble — until you meet someone who truly hates you for who you are. Then all that theory about understanding feels like a luxury.”

Jeeny: her tone softens, understanding — “It’s not a luxury, Jack. It’s the only weapon that doesn’t become a wound. The world’s already full of people reacting to hate with more hate. What if one of us just stopped?”

Host:
A waiter passed, refilling cups, the steam curling up between them like a ghost — of every argument, every hope, every division.

Jack: leans back, voice quieter now — “You really believe people can be taught to love what’s different?”

Jeeny: “No. But they can be taught to respect it — to see that difference isn’t a flaw, it’s the thread that keeps the world from unraveling. If everyone looked, prayed, or thought the same, we’d be dead inside, even if we were all alive.”

Host:
Jack’s eyes flicked toward the window, watching as a young couple — one Black, one Asian — walked past under the same umbrella, laughing, talking, unaware of being any kind of symbol. He watched them with a strange expression, caught somewhere between admiration and ache.

Jack: softly — “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just... tired. Tired of fighting for a world that doesn’t want to grow up.”

Jeeny: reaches for her cup, her eyes warm — “Maybe it’s not about the world, Jack. Maybe it’s just about you — and what kind of ancestor you want to be. Someone who fed the fire, or someone who planted something that might one day shade it.”

Host:
The café door opened, a gust of air sweeping in, bells chiming faintly. A child’s laughter followed, quick and bright, as a young boy ran past the window, chasing puddles, splashing, laughing, alive.

Jack: watching him, a faint smile returning — “Maybe that’s what Ebert meant. That you’re lucky if someone teaches you not to be afraid of the world before it teaches you to hate it.”

Jeeny: nods — “Exactly. The luckiest children aren’t born into wealth or status. They’re born into understanding — into homes where the word ‘different’ means beautiful, not wrong.”

Host:
The rain slowed, turning into a gentle drizzle. The jazz faded, replaced by the soft murmur of evening conversation. The light in the café grew warmer, like the world had drawn its breath and finally exhaled.

Jack: finishes his coffee, stands, buttoning his coat — “You know, Jeeny… sometimes I think the problem isn’t that we fear difference. It’s that we fear reflection — what we might see in someone else that we’ve refused to see in ourselves.”

Jeeny: smiling softly, eyes glinting like candlelight — “Maybe that’s where empathy begins — when the mirror and the window become the same thing.”

Host:
They walked out together, the rain softening, the city glowing around them like a living painting — each color, each face, each language a separate note in a single, incomplete song.

As they crossed the street, a passing bus sent a fine mist into the air, sparkling in the light — every drop catching a fragment of the world, every drop a reflection of something different, yet wholly belonging.

Host:
And there, beneath the wide London sky, Jack and Jeeny walked on — not arguing, not agreeing, but understanding — that the true lottery of life isn’t where you’re born, or what you believe, but whether someone, somewhere, once taught you that it’s all right to be different — and that difference, not sameness, is what makes us whole.