when the people teaching those children are not offered the same wholeness? What happens when the very educators tasked with nurturing the brilliance of diverse children are asked— explicitly or implicitly— to shrink themselves?
There is a painful paradox in our field. Early childhood education claims to honor identity, yet it so often makes little room for the identities of the adults doing the work. We are expected to leave our accents, our grief, our spiritual practices, our political consciousness, our ancestral wisdom at the door. We are allowed to teach diversity, but not embody it. We are asked to show up fully for our students, but only partially for ourselves.
When I was a classroom teacher, I was not neutral. I carried passion, memory, resistance. I brought my ancestors into the classroom with me. I spoke with conviction and cultural fluency. And I learned that this makes some people uncomfortable. The truth is, when we talk about“ professionalism” in early childhood education, we are often talking about assimilation. We are talking about codes of conduct, dress, and demeanor that prioritize White, Eurocentric norms. We rarely ask: Who gets to be seen as professional? Who decides what professionalism looks like?
Our identities are not distractions from professionalism. They are the foundation of authentic, effective, and just teaching. When we honor who we are, we create space for children to do the same.
Cultural Implications for Native Hawaiian Educators
As a Kanaka‘ Ōiwi educator, navigating these expectations has meant constantly translating— my language, my values, my intentions. It means watching cultural practices be misunderstood or dismissed as“ inappropriate” or“ irrelevant.” Even worse, it is seeing and having to participate in events that dishonor your culture( like“ luau”-themed staff lunches) or the awkwardness of explaining why a child calling me Aunty isn’ t disrespect— it’ s love.
I have been told more than once that I’ m“ too passionate,” that I“ take things too personally,” that I“ care too much.” But what others don’ t see is that in my culture, to teach is to care with your whole being. To lead is to be in a relationship. To educate is a spiritual act.
There have been moments when I’ ve felt deeply disconnected— sitting in staff meetings where equity is discussed in abstract terms, but my lived experiences are invisible. Walking into professional learning spaces and knowing I am the only Native Hawaiian in the room, again. Being asked to explain my culture as though it’ s a footnote in someone else’ s narrative rather than the center of my own.
And yet, I remain. I remain because I believe our children deserve to see themselves reflected in those who teach them. I remain because our stories matter. I remain because every time I bring a Hawaiian chant into the classroom, or speak the names of my ancestors, or make space for a child’ s tears without trying to fix them— I am reclaiming something sacred. The disconnect between how we see children and how we see educators is not a small thing. It is a rupture. And if we are serious about equity, about justice, about truly honoring identity, then we must begin by extending the same wholeness to teachers that we extend to children. Because we are worthy of being seen.
20 Young Children
Summer 2026