Are Kids More Open to Cultural Differences Than Adults Think? A Teacher’s Real Experience
The first day Fardosa joined my third-grade class, I forgot the lesson I’d stayed up late planning. I’d mapped out a gentle activity about our favorite family foods, meant to ease her in and nudge the other kids to be kind. I was convinced someone would stare at the big, spongy flatbread she pulled out of her lunchbox, or ask a rude question about eating with her hands. Instead, I was wiping glue off my art table when I heard Mia, the girl who brings the same turkey sandwich every day, lean across the table and say, “That looks like a squishy pancake. Can I have a bite?”
Fardosa didn’t hesitate. She ripped off a quarter-sized piece and handed it over. By the time I got over to the table, three more kids were crowded around, all asking for a taste. One made a face and said it was too sour, but then asked Fardosa why it’s called injera. She told us her mom makes it from a grain called teff, and you have to let it ferment for three days before you cook it. No one said “that’s weird.” They just nodded, like learning that someone makes bread three days before you eat it was just another cool fact about someone in class.
A week later, Fardosa brought her mother’s dirac to show and tell. The dress was deep blue, covered in tiny silver sequins that caught the light when she walked. Before I could jump in with a pre-planned explanation about traditional Somali clothing, Javi, my student who brings a new gaming accessory to show every week, said, “That sparkles way more than my new RGB keyboard. Can I touch it?” Fardosa said sure, and by the end of show and tell, half the class had filed up to run a hand over the fabric. When we did our Halloween parade a month later, Fardosa wore the dirac instead of a costume, and three other girls paired their own fancy dresses with sparkly hair clips and said they were doing the “wedding parade” too.
I’ve been teaching for 12 years, and for most of that time, I bought into the idea that kids need to be taught to accept cultural difference. I went to all the workshops, planned all the lessons, prepared for the worst. This year, I’m starting to think we’ve got it backwards. Most of the time, kids are already open. We’re the ones who layer on the awkwardness, the assumptions, the unspoken biases we’ve picked up over years.
After Mia tried Fardosa’s injera, her mom emailed me a little confused. She said Mia came home begging to make injera for Sunday dinner. They tried a recipe from YouTube, it turned into a sticky mess, so they ended up ordering it from a Somali restaurant 15 minutes across town. Mia’s mom wrote that she’d never been to that part of town, never tried Somali food, and she almost talked Mia out of it because she was worried she’d order the wrong thing, or look out of place. But Mia just put her shoes on and said “Fardosa’s mom goes there all the time, it’s fine.” They went, they loved it, and now every other Sunday they pick up extra injera to send to school for Fardosa to share. That’s when it hit me: the kid was the one leading the adult into being more open, not the other way around.
The biggest lesson I’ve taken from this is that we don’t need to overdo it. The most helpful things are small, low-effort changes. First, don’t pre-frame difference as a problem. If I’d given that big speech I planned the first day, I would have told the whole class “Fardosa is from a different country, her food is different, so you have to be nice.” That just signals that Fardosa is an outsider who needs special treatment, which is the opposite of what we want. Just let kids interact first. Answer questions when they come, instead of spelling out differences before anyone notices.
Second, don’t shush kids for asking questions. I see parents do this all the time: a kid asks loudly “why does that lady wear a scarf on her head?” and the parent panics and shushes them, embarrassed. That tells the kid that difference is something you shouldn’t talk about, which makes it scary. Instead, just answer simply: “That’s a headscarf she wears because of her religion, it’s part of what she believes.” It doesn’t have to be a 20-minute lecture. A straight, simple answer is all kids need.
Third, don’t pull your kid back because of your own awkwardness. I’ve done it too: I see a person who looks different from me walking by, I’m nervous my kid will say something awkward, so I tug them closer. But more often than not, your kid just wants to say they like their shoes, or ask about their dog. Let them.
It’s not all perfect, of course. Two weeks ago, Fardosa came back from recess crying because two fifth-grade boys called her beaded braids “weird.” It’s not that all kids are automatically open, especially when they get older and start picking up on the biases adults and older kids pass around. But what happened next surprised me, too. I walked out to recess with her, and before I could say anything to the boys, four of her classmates from my class stood up next to her and told the boys to leave her alone. One of them, Lila, turned to Fardosa and held up her own hair, where she’d clipped on three plastic beads that morning, and said “My braids have beads too. They’re cool.”
Last Friday, I ate a piece of injera for lunch, right there at the kid table. I’d never had it before, and I was nervous I’d use my hands wrong or drop lentils on my shirt. I did drop lentils on my shirt, actually. The kids all laughed, and Fardosa gave me a napkin, and that was that. I still mess up. I still don’t know everything about every culture my students come from. I still sometimes catch myself overpreparing, overthinking, assuming the worst. But more and more, I’m just stepping back. Most of the time, the kids are already fine. They just need us to get out of their way.
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