In my very first meeting with Karen Robinson, she told me something that would echo throughout the rest of my summer: “Human Rights Education and Service-Learning is the cornerstone of our work.” At the time, I nodded along, thinking I understood what she meant. After all, I had taken my fair share of human rights courses at the University of Dayton. I’d studied international frameworks, examined humanitarian crises, and written paper after paper. But what I didn’t realize was how different it feels to actually do the work, not just read about it. In class, we studied issues on a global scale that often felt unsolvable. Karen’s passion in that first meeting stood out to me. She spoke with an enthusiasm and a clarity of purpose that I’ve never seen before. It was contagious, but also a little intimidating. I wondered: How could she be so energized about lesson plans and manuals? Weren’t these just academic tools? I had tutored fellow students before and I enjoyed it, but it was not at this level. Nonetheless, I was looking forward to beginning my summer.
When I got to D.C., everything changed. From the moment I stepped into the office, I was surrounded by warmth and encouragement. Everyone welcomed me and made me feel like a part of the team. My first assignments were to develop a lesson plan about Sweet Honey in the Rock, an all-women-of-color a cappella group whose music is rooted in protest and justice, and my second project was to revise the Service-Learning Manual (SLM), a long-standing guide for educators on integrating civic engagement into the classroom. I started with the Sweet Honey lesson. As a former theater kid, I was naturally drawn to the idea of connecting art and activism. The group’s history is remarkable: over 50 years of using their voices to uplift marginalized communities and spark change. Their music isn’t just beautiful, it’s powerful. It speaks truth, demands attention, and creates space for stories that are often left out of history books. But knowing that, and turning it into a cohesive lesson plan, were two very different things. I had never written a lesson plan before. I understood the group’s impact, but translating that into learning objectives, classroom activities, and reflection questions left me feeling overwhelmed. I decided that to help me with this block I would begin work on the SLM .
The manual was originally written in 2007, and as such was in serious need of updating. Human rights issues, international frameworks, and even the language we use to talk about justice have evolved significantly since then. As I read through it, I began to view it through my own lens as someone who had lived these concepts in college through programs like Dayton Civic Scholars, where we learned how to meet communities where they are and engage with their needs, not our assumptions. I started asking myself: What would I want to know if I was the student reading this? Because the fact is, I usually am. That small shift transformed everything. I was so deep in “intern mode” that I forgot I was also still a student. I no longer saw my work as just revising someone else’s content or building a one-off lesson. I saw it as creating tools that could help other students like me bridge the gap between learning and doing. The idea that someone could use my work to spark their own curiosity, creativity, or activism gave me a sense of enthusiasm I hadn’t expected.
Armed with that perspective, I returned to the Sweet Honey lesson and found my stride. I focused it around how art, particularly music, can be a powerful form of resistance. Like I said, I was a big theater kid. I had been doing shows since I was in middle school, so creativity had always been natural to me. Art has always been, for me, an outlet. A way to express myself. And while that helped me through much of the turbulence of high school, my art was not the kind that was moving lawmakers to change their policies. Listening to and reading the lyrics of Sweet Honey was an incredibly refreshing reminder that art is more than just self expression. It is a way to amplify a voice. It can be your own, but it doesn’t have to be. The power of Sweet Honey is that they are able to listen and educate themselves on the issue at hand and then use that education, and a harmony like no other, to bring attention to an issue that would not be as amplified in other ways. Not every student will become a lawyer, a policymaker, or a professional advocate. But every student has access to creativity. Giving youth an outlet to be creative and become human rights defenders allows them to use skills they have readily available to them, to make a seemingly big task much more manageable and enjoyable. Art is fun! And while defending and fighting for human rights might not always be fun, it is needed. So bridging the gap between the two will bring more students into advocacy while doing something they love. Activism doesn’t always have to look like marching in the streets. Sometimes, it looks like singing. Or painting. Or acting. Or writing a song that tells the story no one else is telling.
A quote from Robert F. Kennedy stayed with me throughout the summer:
“Under conditions of turbulence, social and political change, the young are often directly involved not in learning history in the classroom, but in making history themselves.”
That’s what Human Rights Education and Service-Learning are all about. Empowering young people to make history, not just memorize it. What makes human rights education so important and so different from traditional classroom learning, is that it’s inherently active. It refuses to stay theoretical. It demands engagement, reflection, and application. It insists that students do something with what they learn. And that action, when rooted in community and informed by empathy, is what creates real, lasting change. From beginning to end, my time at RFK Human Rights was transformative. I learned that being a human rights defender doesn’t require a grand gesture. It requires commitment, creativity, and a willingness to keep asking questions. It means showing up, over and over, to do the work of justice, even when it’s quiet and behind the scenes. Even when it’s “just” a lesson plan.
Looking back now, I understand Karen’s enthusiasm. I understand how manuals and lesson plans are not side projects—they are the work. They’re the tools that equip teachers to spark change in students, who go on to change their communities, who change the world. I’m proud to have played even a small part in that. And if you had told me a few months ago that I’d be walking away from this summer more certain than ever that education is activism, I might have smiled politely. But now I believe it, with my whole heart. My work at RFK has helped me find my voice—not just as a student, but as an advocate. And now, like Sweet Honey in the Rock, I intend to use it.
Stuart Schramm is a rising senior at the University of Dayton studying International Studies and Political Science. Aside from interning with RFK Human Rights’ education department, Schramm is also the president of the Student Body Association, a student ambassador, and a tutor on campus.