The Power of Stories as Bridges: From assumption to understanding 

I grew up in 1970s Las Vegas, during the era of school desegregation and redlining, a discriminatory housing practice where banks and the government literally drew red lines around minority neighborhoods, denying families access to fair home loans and shaping inequities in schools and educational opportunities. I didn’t know what redlining was back then. What I did know was that one year, children from North Las Vegas, Black Children, started riding buses to my mostly white school. No one explained why. As a six-year-old, I only knew that suddenly the classroom felt different. 

At the time, I didn’t understand what was going on. But looking back now, I can see that was the moment when implicit bias first began to take shape in my thinking. I noticed things: the way their hair was styled in braids or twists, so different from my own straight hair; the clothes they wore; the games they played at recess. And because those things were unfamiliar, I thought of them as strange or even wrong. I associated difference with discomfort. Not because anyone had taught me to be unkind, but because no one had taught me how to understand. 

It wasn’t until years later, when I became a teacher, that I began to recognize and unlearn those early assumptions. I had to ask myself: Where did those ideas come from? How did they shape the way I saw others? That kind of reflection is not always easy, but it’s essential. It’s what helped me grow– not just as a person, but as an educator. 

Now I believe more than ever that storytelling, including our own stories, is one of the most powerful ways we can teach empathy and combat social injustice. When I share this part of my life with my students, I’m not just giving them vocabulary words like bias, equity, and advocacy. I’m modeling what it looks like to confront your past, reflect with humility, and choose to do better. 

I want my students to know that we all carry stories that shape how we see the world, but we also have the power to rewrite those stories with awareness, compassion, and action. That’s why sharing mine matters. 

A Mission in South Carolina

When I was 21, I had another powerful experience that deepened my understanding. I served a mission for my Church in South Carolina, and it was there that I really began to listen to stories I had never heard before. 

I remember stepping into homes where poverty was everywhere, sometimes into dirt floors that were once the very cabins where ancestors had lived as enslaved people. I will never forget that feeling, standing in those spaces that carried so much history, pain, and resilience. 

One woman invited me in and showed me her family’s quilts. They were breathtaking, bright colors, carefully stitched, patterns passed down through generations. At first, I just saw them as beautiful pieces of art. But as she told me their stories, I began to understand that these quilts were much more. They were survival, creativity, and testimony all stitched together. They carried history in every line of thread. 

Sitting in those rooms, hearing those stories, I began to realize how much of the American story had never been taught. These weren’t just “lessons” in culture; they were lived experiences that challenged me to face my own assumptions about race, poverty, and resilience. 

Those moments taught me something essential: listening to stories with humility has the power to break down bias. Removes us from thinking we already know to realizing how much we still need to learn. 

Teaching in the Navajo Nation

A few years later, when I was teaching in the Navajo Nation, I learned this lesson again; this time through my own classroom. I had invited a prominent elder to come and share traditional Coyote stories with my students. When I introduced him, I mistakenly called them chants. One of my dear students raised her hand and gently corrected me: “Mrs. Johnson, we don’t call them chants. They are songs.”

In that moment, I felt humbled. I realized that even with the best intentions, I could still get it wrong. My mistake didn’t come from malice; it came from not fully understanding. But that correction was a gift. It reminded me that respect begins with listening, and sometimes that means being willing to be corrected. 

That experience also showed me how powerful student voices can be. My student wasn’t disrespectful—she was teaching me. And by listening, I was able to grow. 

Just like those quilts in South Carolina carried stories of survival and resilience, the stories and songs of the Navajo people carried wisdom, history, and identity. By welcoming them into my classroom, and by humbly accepting correction, I learned that true cultural competence isn’t about always getting it right—it’s about being open enough to listen, learn, and change.

Natalie Sparks Johnson is an educator with over 30 years of experience teaching art, engineering, and robotics across the U.S., Australia, and Europe. She currently teaches at SHAPE American High School in Belgium with the Department of Defense Education Activity (DoDEA). Natalie is a 2025–26 NEA Global Learning Fellow, U.S. Institute of Peace (USIP) Peace Teacher, and Hope Street Group Teacher Fellow. Her work focuses on integrating art, engineering, and peace education through global citizenship and the UN Sustainable Development Goals.

Related posts:

Assessments—Using Incentives to Change the Image In Defense of Affirmative Action: The Difference Between Opportunity & Results New York City Schools Are Closed. Now What? Let the Pandemic be the Mother of Innovation in Schools