Are Kids More Open to Cultural Differences Than We Think? What I Learned As A Preschool Teacher
Last month, I set up folding tables for our preschool’s annual end-of-semester potluck, covered them with plastic tablecloths dotted with blue dinosaurs, and stacked napkins next to a cooler of juice boxes that was already sweating through onto the floor. Lila, our newest student who’d moved from Mogadishu six weeks earlier, arrived with her mom holding a big foil platter. I recognized the food from a quick Google search I’d done the night before: canjeero, a spongy sour flatbread, topped with a sweet date spread and bits of slow-cooked lamb.
I immediately moved to hover nearby. I’ve been teaching 4- and 5-year-olds for five years, and I’d braced myself for the awkward moment I’d had before: a kid pointing at an unfamiliar food, saying something loud and unfiltered that would make the new family feel out of place. I’d already planned my line, ready to step in and redirect if needed.
Then Javi, our resident goldfish-cracker thief who came to school every day with a peeling dinosaur sticker on his cheek, wandered over. He stared at the platter for two seconds, then said, “That looks like a giant fluffy pancake. Can I have a bite?”
Lila nodded, reached up, and tore off a big piece for him. He ate it plain first, made a silly face at the sour flavor, then asked for some of the brown date spread on top. Three bites later, he was waving over his friends yelling, “Guys, this pancake is better than the chocolate chip ones my mom makes.” By the time I remembered I was supposed to be hovering, six kids were crowded around Lila’s platter, and she was handing out pieces like she’d been hosting potlucks her whole life. Her mom leaned against the wall next to me a minute later, smiled, and said, “I was worried they would think it’s strange. They don’t, huh?”
After potluck, during circle time, Lila pulled out the bright blue dirac she’d worn to her cousin’s wedding a week earlier, for our “special clothes” share. Mia, who refuses to wear anything that isn’t pink and has a tiara in her cubby at all times, leaned forward immediately and said, “Your dress has sparkles. Can I feel the cloth?” She touched it, then told Lila it was way sparklier than her own princess dress. No one made a big deal out of it being different. It was just a pretty dress, like any other pretty dress.
That night, I thought about how often I plan big, structured lessons around accepting differences — we do a themed cultural week every fall, make paper lanterns, decorate diya lamps, color flags from around the world. I’ve spent so much time worrying about how to teach kids to accept differences that I never noticed how much they already do, before we add all our adult awkwardness to the situation.
A year ago, we had a new student who used a wheelchair, whose family moved here from Chennai for his dad’s job. He brought gulab jamun for our Diwali share, and I stood by ready to answer any questions about his chair before anyone could ask something rude. Before I could open my mouth, one kid asked why his chair had sparkly wheels, and he said “I picked them out because they match my toy trucks.” Another kid said “Cool, can you push me faster than I can run on the playground later?” That was the end of the conversation. They didn’t see his disability or his last name or the food he brought as something that separated him. They just saw a kid who had sparkly wheels and good candy.
Adults are the ones who carry the awkwardness. We worry about saying the wrong thing, we project our own insecurities and past experiences onto kids, and we turn a normal curious question into a big awkward moment. The good news is you don’t need big lesson plans or expensive workshops to help kids feel comfortable around difference. There are just three small things I do now that work way better than any craft I’ve ever planned.
First, pause 10 seconds before you step in. If a kid points at someone’s food, headscarf, or wheelchair and asks a question, don’t jump in to redirect or apologize before anyone speaks. Most of the time, kids are just curious, not mean, and letting them ask the question directly lets the other person answer on their own terms. That day at the potluck, if I’d jumped in to say “Everyone, this is special food from Lila’s home, let’s be polite,” I would’ve turned it into a big deal, like there was something to be polite about. By stepping back, I let them interact like normal kids.
Second, if you do need to step in, direct the question to the person it’s about first. If my 6-year-old nephew asks our new neighbor why she wears a head covering, I don’t shush him or answer for her. I just turn to her and say “Would you mind talking about that if you’re comfortable?” Nine times out of ten, the person is happy to answer, and it becomes a normal, low-stakes conversation instead of a weird secret. If they don’t want to answer, I just say “That’s something personal, let’s ask her what her favorite dog breed is instead” and move on.
Third, talk about cultural differences in small, daily moments instead of only saving them for special holidays. You don’t need to plan a whole lesson to mention that the kimchi in your stir fry is a popular breakfast food in Korea, or that the mosque we pass on the way to the park is where some people go to pray, just like Grandma goes to her church on Sundays. Small, casual mentions make differences feel normal, not special or scary.
Last week, Lila brought canjeero for snack again, because Javi asked her three days in a row. Javi’s mom texted me later that she drove 20 minutes to the Somali grocery store on the other side of town last weekend to buy canjeero mix, because Javi wouldn’t stop talking about “Lila’s pancake.” I still catch myself leaning in to intervene sometimes, old habit I guess. I still plan our annual themed week crafts, because the kids like making paper lanterns. But I’ve started leaving more space between my plan and what actually happens. More often than not, the kids are already fine. We’re just the ones who need to get out of the way.
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