Are Kids More Open to Cultural Differences Than We Think? A Teacher’s Real Observations
It was 12:30 on the Friday before Halloween, our 3rd grade classroom’s annual international potluck, and I was hovering by the food table watching Javi twist the hem of his blue soccer hoodie. Javi had joined our class just three weeks prior, after moving from Oaxaca to live with his dad here. His mom had sent him in with a giant tupperware of mole poblano over rice, the dark sauce smelling of bitter chocolate and smoky chili, and I’d already seen half a dozen kids veer toward the store-bought pizza rolls and sugar cookies dominating the other end of the table. I’d spent the morning worrying someone would say something rude, that Javi would leave the potluck feeling more out of place than he already did.
Then Lila, who brings homemade chocolate chip cookies to every class party, wandered over. “What’s that?” she asked, leaning in. Javi mumbled it was mole, his grandma makes it back home. Lila nodded, grabbed a plastic spoon, and scooped a bite before I could even jump in to introduce it properly. Her eyes went wide, and I braced. “That’s so good,” she said. “It’s spicy and chocolatey? Can I have a bigger portion?”
By the end of 10 minutes, every kid in the class had tried a bite. One asked if it was really chocolate on chicken, Javi nodded and said his family eats it for every birthday. No one made a face, no one whispered behind their hands. After cleanup, the mom who’d made samosas that day pulled me aside and said she almost didn’t bring them. She’d been sure the kids would think they were “too weird” compared to the other foods, that someone would say they smelled funny. Half the class had asked for seconds, she told me, shaking her head. I’d had the same unspoken worry before the potluck too. That’s when I started really asking: are kids more open to cultural difference than we give them credit for?
I have a 7-year-old daughter, and we moved into our current neighborhood last spring. Our next-door neighbors are a Somali family, and the first week we were there, my daughter and I ran into them getting the mail. My daughter pointed at Fowsia, the mom, and asked loud, “Why do you wear that scarf on your head?” I felt my chest tighten, already opening my mouth to apologize and launch into a quick, awkward explanation of religious clothing. Before I could, Fowsia’s 8-year-old daughter, Arla, stepped in. “It’s a hijab,” she said. “It’s for my religion, and I have one with unicorns on it. Want to come see it after school?” My daughter nodded, and by dinner that night, they were riding bikes up and down the street together. I’d overcomplicated the whole thing before it even started.
I don’t think kids are inherently nicer or better than adults. I’ve seen them say awkward, hurtful things, same as anyone. But what I’ve noticed over 8 years of teaching is that most of the discomfort around cultural difference comes from us, the adults. We carry our own awkwardness about saying the wrong thing, our own unspoken stereotypes we picked up over the years, our own assumptions that difference will be a problem. We project that onto kids, and end up creating distance that wasn’t there to begin with.
I’ve changed small, concrete things in my classroom because of these observations. I don’t do big, awkward “welcome the new different kid” introductions anymore. When a new student joins from another country, I just say their name, what they like to do for fun, and move on. If kids have questions, they ask, and I let the new student answer first before I jump in. If a kid says something awkward, like “Why does your mom talk differently?” I don’t immediately scold them for being rude. I just pause and let the other person respond. Most of the time, it’s just curiosity, not malice. Shaming the kid for asking just makes difference feel like a taboo, something to whisper about instead of talk about openly.
Last month, a boy in my class asked Javi if everyone in Mexico lived in huts, like he saw in an old cartoon he watched at his grandpa’s house. I almost stepped in to correct him and give a quick lesson on harmful stereotypes, but I paused, and asked Javi if he wanted to answer. Javi laughed and said “I lived in a house with a pool before we moved here. My cousin has a trampoline bigger than our classroom. There are big cities just like here.” The other boy nodded, said “That’s cool, I want a pool,” and they went back to playing four square. No big speech needed, no hurt feelings, just two kids talking.
I still mess up, of course. Last month, when we did a family traditions project, I caught myself suggesting to one of our Korean students that he bring kimchi to share, like I was checking a box for “Korean culture.” He looked at me and said “I’d rather bring the bulgogi my dad makes for our game nights, that’s our tradition.” I realized I was falling into the same trap: treating his culture as something exotic to display, instead of just part of his normal life. That’s the thing, kids don’t see it as exotic. They just see it as his life.
It’s not as simple as saying kids are born open and adults mess them up. Some kids grow up hearing bigoted comments at home, and they repeat them. But even then, more often than not, when they get to interact with people directly, instead of hearing what adults say about them, they change their minds. I don’t have all the answers, and I still catch myself overthinking every interaction around difference. But lately, I’ve been trying to step back more. Let the kids ask questions, let them share food, let them play together without me mediating every little moment. More often than not, they handle it a lot better than I would.
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