Screaming at children over their grades, especially to the point

Host: The classroom was empty now — only the faint hum of the fluorescent lights remained. The sun had fallen beyond the schoolyard fence, leaving the desks bathed in pale moonlight. A blackboard stood at the front, covered in half-erased equations, chalk dust drifting through the still air like tired ghosts.

Jeeny sat at one of the desks, her hands folded, staring at a crumpled report card before her. Jack leaned against the teacher’s desk, a shadow in his grey coat, his expression unreadable but sharp. The silence was heavy, the kind that carries the weight of unspoken childhoods.

Jeeny: “Ben Stein once said, ‘Screaming at children over their grades, especially to the point of the child’s tears, is child abuse, pure and simple. It’s not funny and it’s not good parenting. It is a crushing, scarring, disastrous experience for the child. It isn’t the least bit funny.’”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from uncertainty but from memory — the kind that burns quietly, like an ember that never goes out.

Jack: “Strong words,” he murmured, his low voice echoing in the hollow room. “But maybe a little naive. Discipline is part of life, Jeeny. A parent who doesn’t push their child leaves them unprepared for the world. The world doesn’t hand out kindness.”

Jeeny: “Pushing isn’t the same as breaking. You can build a spine without crushing a soul.”

Host: A faint gust came through the cracked window, stirring the papers on the desk. The faint smell of chalk, metal, and old books filled the room — the scent of lessons learned too late.

Jack: “You call it abuse. I call it pressure. My father shouted at me over grades. I turned out fine.”

Jeeny: “Did you?” Her eyes lifted to meet his — soft but unwavering. “Or did you just learn to hide the noise inside you?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his cheek flickering. The moonlight caught the edge of his face, half in light, half in shadow — like truth warring with defense.

Jack: “You think silence makes trauma? No. Weakness does. The world won’t go easy on anyone because they were yelled at too much.”

Jeeny: “You’re mistaking pain for preparation. They’re not the same. A child who’s terrified to fail doesn’t grow strong; they grow afraid — of love, of mistakes, of themselves.”

Host: Her voice softened, but each word struck like quiet thunder. The rain began outside, slow and steady, the sound of it slipping through the gutter, whispering against the window glass.

Jack: “Fear can be a teacher. It was for me. Every ‘A’ I earned was a shield. Every failure, a wound I couldn’t afford. It made me relentless.”

Jeeny: “It made you relentless, yes — but also unreachable. You wear your grades like armor, even now.”

Host: A pause. The clock ticked, loud in the silence — each second a reminder of time lost, of childhoods turned into battlegrounds.

Jack: “You make it sound like love and anger can’t coexist.”

Jeeny: “They can. But when anger drowns out love, it becomes something else. Call it discipline if you want. I call it fear masquerading as control.”

Host: She stood, slowly, the chair scraping softly against the floor. Her shadow fell long across the room, reaching the edge of the blackboard where the words “Try Harder” had been written in firm, chalky letters.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the story of the South Korean student, Cho Hyun? He ranked second in his class — second — and his father beat him for not being first. That night, he jumped from a bridge. They said it was about honor. It was about shame. And every teacher I’ve known since then carries that story like a quiet scar.”

Jack: “That’s tragic. But you’re comparing extremes. Not every angry parent is a tyrant.”

Jeeny: “But every screaming parent teaches fear. That’s enough.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, its rhythm more insistent, like the pulse of an old wound reopening. Jack turned his gaze downward, his hands tightening on the desk edge.

Jack: “You talk about fear as if it’s only destructive. Fear’s why I studied. Fear’s why I worked. Without it, I’d still be nothing.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Without it, maybe you’d have learned that you were enough before the grades.”

Host: The words hung, sharp and tender all at once. The light flickered above them — a pulse of electricity, echoing the fragile beat of something human beneath all the noise.

Jack: “You think parents mean to hurt their kids? They don’t. They want them to succeed. They don’t know another way to say ‘I’m scared for you.’”

Jeeny: “I know. But love that speaks in screams stops being love in a child’s ears. The child only hears, You’re not enough. That’s what scars.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, and she sat again, quieter now. Her eyes glistened, and Jack looked at her for a long time — not with argument, but with recognition.

Jack: “Did someone…?”

Jeeny: “My father,” she whispered. “Every report card. Every test. ‘You could have done better,’ he’d say. I used to think his words were my mirror. Took me years to realize they were his reflection, not mine.”

Host: The rain softened, falling like a hush over the building. The air grew still, as if even the storm wanted to listen.

Jack: “He probably thought he was helping.”

Jeeny: “Most abusers do.”

Host: Jack flinched — the truth hit harder because it carried no accusation, only sorrow.

Jeeny: “Ben Stein was right. Screaming at a child isn’t education. It’s despair turned outward. A parent’s failure to heal their own wounds before passing them on.”

Jack: “Then what’s the answer? No pressure? No standards? Just unconditional acceptance?”

Jeeny: “Unconditional love isn’t the absence of standards, Jack. It’s the presence of safety. You can’t teach excellence through fear. You teach it through belief.”

Host: Her hand reached out, resting on the desk between them — an invitation, not a challenge. Jack looked at it for a long moment before speaking.

Jack: “My father thought love was measured in toughness. He used to say, ‘The world won’t go easy on you, so why should I?’ I guess… I believed him.”

Jeeny: “And did it make the world easier when you got there?”

Host: Jack’s silence was the answer.

The clock ticked on. Outside, the rain stopped, and a faint light broke through the clouds, spilling across the floor like forgiveness.

Jack: “Maybe the hardest part of growing up is realizing your parents were just scared children themselves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And breaking that cycle — that’s what real strength is.”

Host: The moonlight grew warmer now, no longer pale but soft, human. The blackboard gleamed faintly, as if the words of the past were slowly being washed away.

Jack: “So, what do we do with all that anger we inherited?”

Jeeny: “Turn it into understanding. Because if screaming can scar a child, gentleness can heal one.”

Host: Jack’s eyes glistened — not with tears, but with something rarer: release. He reached for the crumpled report card and smoothed it out, laying it flat on the desk, the grades meaningless now under the tender weight of new truth.

Jack: “Maybe next time someone tells their kid they’re proud, it should be for who they are — not what they scored.”

Jeeny: “That’s the grade that matters.”

Host: The camera would now pull back, through the window, over the empty schoolyard where puddles reflected the faint glow of the moon. Inside, two figures remained — quiet, still, transformed.

And as the night deepened, one truth lingered in the silence:
that love shouted becomes a wound,
but love spoken gently — even once — becomes a cure.