I began my career as a social studies teacher in September 2001. By my second week in the classroom, the attacks of September 11th had reshaped not only the nation, but also my understanding of what it meant to teach history. I became acutely aware of the students in my classroom whose families had emigrated from the Middle East. As fear and anger filled the news, I found myself asking, “How could I guide students through turbulent current events while ensuring every child felt safe, seen, and valued?”

Over time, I developed a guiding principle for navigating difficult topics, even before I had language for it: politically neutral and morally steadfast. I strive to create space for students to form their own opinions without signaling what they “should” think. At the same time, I remain anchored in the core values of human dignity, empathy, and respect. Neutrality does not mean indifference. It means encouraging inquiry while protecting the humanity of every student in the room.

Balancing content knowledge with historical thinking skills is central to this approach. I want students to be curious about the world they inhabit, not simply consumers of historical facts but investigators. We examine patterns and rhymes across time, ask sourcing questions, identify bias, and construct arguments grounded in evidence. My goal is to help them make sense of both the past and the present through disciplined critical thinking.

In New York State’s middle school curriculum, immigration spans seventh and eighth grade, so I teach it as a thematic unit. The unit is designed to build content knowledge, strengthen students’ use of primary and secondary sources, develop evidence-based argumentation, and cultivate civic discourse.

We begin with vocabulary development (I like Wayground) and an overview of major immigration waves to the United States, including push and pull factors across the past two centuries. Students then rotate through stations featuring personal narratives from immigrants representing a wide range of time periods and countries of origin. These stories humanize historical trends and broaden students’ perspectives.

Next, we explore the history of the Statue of Liberty and read Emma Lazarus’s poem, “The New Colossus.” Students analyze the poem using sourcing and comprehension questions, considering both its historical context and its enduring symbolism. I conclude the lesson by reading the illustrated children’s book, Emma’s Poem: The Voice of the Statue of Liberty, which helps students connect the historical narrative to the emotional power of Lazarus’s words.

When the class meets again, students engage in a silent gallery walk. Political cartoons, photographs, and brief quotations reflecting public attitudes toward immigrants—Irish, Italian, Chinese, Greek, Cambodian, Mexican, Syrian, and others—are posted around the room. Rather than drawing conclusions immediately, students write one question about each source. This emphasis on questioning nurtures curiosity before judgment. Afterward, they complete a graphic organizer to identify sourcing details and analyze evidence of bias.

The unit culminates in a central question: Should “The New Colossus” remain on the Statue of Liberty? If not, what, if anything, should replace it? Students prepare arguments for both sides using evidence from the documents.

We then conduct a structured discussion using a modified fishbowl format. Half the class begins in an inner circle while the other half participates through a digital discussion board. Students rely on sentence starters to frame their comments and must ground their ideas in the documents. Each student receives two tokens as “their two cents.” After speaking twice, they must wait until all others have contributed before speaking again. This structure promotes balanced participation and prevents a few students from dominating the conversation.

Students then switch roles, so every student has the opportunity to speak. We close with a written reflection: What was challenging? Did your thinking change? What do you wish others understood about immigration? When we meet again, we debrief the process itself, reinforcing that civil discourse is a skill that requires practice.

Some of the most meaningful moments of my career have unfolded during these conversations. One student, whose family emigrated from Iraq, spoke passionately about how coming to America had saved her family from violence. Others have shared experiences shaped by Bangladesh, Venezuela, and other native countries. These stories transform abstract policy debates into lived realities.

As someone born in the United States, I can strive for understanding and compassion, but I cannot fully know the immigrant experience. By anchoring our inquiry in the question of “The New Colossus,” I create space for students to listen to one another with curiosity and respect. In those moments, I am reminded that teaching hard history is not only about the past. It is also about cultivating the habits of mind and heart that sustain a democratic society.