Accusations of indoctrination in schools rarely reflect what’s actually happening in classrooms. Some of it is rooted in prejudice—like when extremist groups raise objections every time a history teacher mentions the Founding Fathers and slavery in the same sentence (Heritage Foundation, 2020). Some of it is sparked by deliberate falsehoods about culturally responsive teaching, like when politicians imagine that individual schools are somehow getting billions to teach children that “their white skin is not equal to Black skin” (Daily Kos, 2023). Some of the outrage is induced for clicks and follows, as critics build lucrative social media brands (Rufo, 2021).
For evidence, accusers often cite stories that have been whispered down the lane. Nothing they’ve seen firsthand, just what they’ve heard about. They’ve done their “research” on Facebook, X, or YouTube. They’ve devoured content from their favorite political influencers. This information has led to spirited exchanges beneath social media posts and news articles, over tense holiday dinners, and during explosive school board meetings.
The reality is that most teachers handle sensitive topics professionally and appropriately. Critics forget that their own teachers were alright. And their children’s teachers are alright. The books in their kids’ classroom libraries are what one might expect from any library: texts that are a little above—and a little below—whatever reading levels are present in the space. Fun books, scary books, informational books. Books about all walks of life. The teachers themselves have been kind, strict, boring, fascinating, energetic, funny, grumpy—normal humans doing a human job. People. Not predators or proselytizers. Despite limited evidence of widespread problems, this unmoored scrutiny of what’s taught (and who teaches it) can have serious professional consequences for educators.
We teach in a time when our silly mistakes are magnified, and the worst intentions are ascribed to fumbled lessons. In this politicized moment, we must do all we can to keep our classrooms from providing fodder. We must be careful. Not afraid, but discerning. Conscientious about our craft, especially when discussing the tough stuff with kids. This, at the very least, means that we should not lead discussions that we are not ready for, regardless of what people outside of our classrooms have to say. It also means that we should diligently connect our most sensitive class discussions to whatever students are meant to be learning (state standards, curriculum, etc.), and we should always be ready to explain these connections to whoever asks.
But there is another precaution that I don’t think gets mentioned enough, and years of experience has driven home its importance: We need to center student inquiry in most—if not all—class discussions about sensitive topics. This stance helps us avoid the common mistake of centering teacher opinions.
Imagine that there is violent conflict going on somewhere in the world. Let’s say that this conflict, like all conflicts, has caused countless civilian casualties, and that brutal images of these casualties are all over social media. Let’s say, too, that this conflict has split the country along familiar fault lines of ideology, race, and ethnicity. How should we lead a conversation about it in class? Most of what we should not do is obvious—don’t preach our personal political opinions, don’t show graphic violence on the smart board. But how can student inquiry keep a thoughtful class discussion about this war from turning into an example of indoctrination or political bias?
We teach in a time when our silly mistakes are magnified, and the worst intentions are ascribed to fumbled lessons.
Inquiry in Action
Here’s an example of how the inquiry-based method can work, both to deepen student learning and protect teachers from unfounded accusations of bias. During the end of my unit on The Book Thief, a novel set in Nazi Germany during World War II, I show students a simplified explanation of the Geneva Conventions (American Red Cross, 2011). After reading through this text, students discuss four questions in small groups:
- Which conventions stand out to you? Here, students often discuss lines like “The wounded and sick shall receive adequate care,” asking each other great questions like, “Who determines what adequate means?”
- What is the difficulty of crafting “rules” for war? Students tend to discuss two great contradictions. First, how do you mandate humanity among people who are actively killing each other? And second, how do you keep both sides accountable to the rules, once one is clearly “winning?”
- Does it seem like the “rules of war” have been followed since they have been written? Do you have any examples? Here, I make it clear that I don’t expect students to know everything. However, because of the text—and the fact that they are also taking world history—I know that they have a working knowledge of WWII. This information, as you can imagine, is blended with what they’ve seen about modern conflicts on TikTok and X, what they’ve heard from their friends, and what they’ve experienced.
- What conventions would your group craft? This question allows students to put themselves in the shoes of people who are at least trying to solve the problem. They then trouble their own thinking, figuring out which rules and which forms of accountability are more likely to work than others.
During this discussion, versions of which I have led every year, my students end up pointedly discussing whatever big world conflicts are raging. The temperature goes up, for sure. But it’s productive heat—heat that I can authentically and confidently defend. Crucially, I am not standing in front of the class preaching my politics. None of the prompts are leading. I genuinely don’t know what my students will say! Every year, they select a different rule to pick apart, a different line of reasoning to challenge, and craft plenty of new conventions.
Centering inquiry doesn’t make me, or any teacher, safe from challenges. But it does make us less likely to make the big mistakes that turn our lessons into fuel for the current culture wars.
