At the beginning of each year, I share a letter about myself with my students. In this letter, I share that what drew me to history is discovering people’s stories. These stories tell us about who we are, where we came from and how we ended up here.

Prior to this year, I taught a mixture of ancient and modern world history. Each year, I got to remind myself what it meant to be a global citizen who shares a beautiful, harsh, interconnected and complex web of narratives with billions of other people. This year, however, I got the exciting opportunity to embark on the wonderful adventure of teaching American History for the first time.

Now, I wouldn’t have described this new teaching role as a “wonderful adventure” if you had asked me back in May of 2023. Having come to America from Taiwan, a country marked by thousands of years of history and a web of modern-day geopolitical tensions, the idea of spending a full year on the history of the United States was unfathomable to me. What could I possibly talk about with my students for a whole year? Clearly, I did not know much about the history of this land.

The thing is, even I forgot what drew me to history in the first place. Upon receiving news about the new curriculum I’d be teaching, my instinct was to reduce the history of the United States to a narrow story of presidents. At that moment, I completely neglected that while the political history of the United States may be short, the stories of the people here exist far beyond what I was trained to think.

Then the task became daunting. How would I ever be able to teach a version of this land’s history and represent all the faces and voices in just one year?

As a history teacher, the conversation about representation in the curriculum is a familiar one. I’ve argued and advocated for more AAPI voices in our curriculum across grade levels. I’ve also criticized the unfair expectations imposed on my department to “teach it all.” I also tend to hold myself and my colleagues to these same unfair standards.

Although it was a little daunting, I felt excited by the opportunity to explore our story with my students. This time, the storybook we’re opening up in history class is not about people from faraway lands but about people who walk our halls and our streets. For this story, I get to be the participant and the guide, both learning and teaching all at the same time.

For example, in September, we opened the first chapter of our book: Being Indigenous in America. Thanks to my extraordinary colleagues and mentors, I had a curated library of resources. In putting together the unit, I found myself continuously circling back to the question of representation.

Was it right that I didn’t teach much about the British colonists? Was it right that I didn’t get into the details of the American Revolution? Am I designing an educational experience for my students that allows them to see themselves through the stories we tell in the classroom? I felt trapped by the idea that all the voices we hear through my curriculum had to be a direct reflection of the people sitting in my classroom. Once again, I was missing the point.

A few weeks ago, I was given this opportunity to reflect upon the choices I made in putting together the first unit in the context of bolstering Indigenous representation in our history classes. I honestly don’t think I have much authority over the “right” thing to do, and I don’t attempt to pretend to hold a broad authoritative voice in this discussion.

However, writing this piece allowed me to center my perspective as a learner, something that a teacher doesn’t get to do enough. As I learned about different Indigenous experiences in America alongside my students, I remembered that representation isn’t just about providing students with opportunities to see themselves in our curriculum.

From personal experience, I can say with confidence that being able to see our heritage and voices reflected in the classroom can not only bring a sense of joy and pride but it’s also a concrete way teachers can affirm and validate our students’ experiences. I experience this joy, pride and validation as an adult in the building, too. I see and hear myself in the halls when our school comes together to celebrate the Lunar New Year, when my students share about the AAPI authors they’re reading for English class or when I walk by a room full of students learning my language.

However, these opportunities that allow AAPI staff and students to see and hear themselves often had to be created by AAPI folks themselves. This may sound empowering at first, but for me, it certainly gets exhausting over time.

The truly freeing and affirming moments I experience at the high school are those, however big or small, that others created for or with me. They assure me that those who don’t look like me are just as invested in learning about my story as I am. Through their learning of what my story may look like, my joy and pain are understood by others in a deep and meaningful way without me having to expose myself. That’s what representation means to me.

So when I look back on my Being Indigenous in America unit, I’d like to think that I included Indigenous voices and stories in my curriculum not because I have a student or a close friend who holds that identity. Rather, I include these voices because I, too, am responsible for knowing and sharing their histories and their stories.