I am confronted by the reality that I am a settler teacher. As such, I must "acknowledge[e] [my] implicit bias" (Dei & Linton, 2019, p. 282). Like many of us 'teacher types', I have spent much of my life learning and working in various educational institutions. I grew up liking school. I have benefited immensely from it. I can't escape that fact. And I can't create authentically safe spaces in my classroom without first acknowledging the White privilege that imbues Western public-school structures and routines. Sadly, White privilege is part of me as both a human being and as a teacher. According to Dei & Linton (2019), my first step must be to challenge all my Eurocentric assumptions diligently, explicitly, and regularly about what school is and should do.

Sheldon (2019) argues that we must challenge the traditional "one right way" of answering questions (p. 308), and "construct an alternative to the status quo" (p. 316). I would argue that many such alternatives – just like stories - must be voiced for genuine inclusion and equity to exist. Students want to do work that matters (Miller, 2015), and that will mean something different for every single child. My framework incorporates an emphasis on Inquiry, Maker Education, Place-Based, Hands-On, and Outdoor Education, all of which are "participatory and action-oriented" (Dei & Linton, 2019, p. 280), and involve the kind of critical thinking and transformative possibilities that should facilitate genuine change and connection between students. I must help create those safe spaces where the questions can be asked to allow this to happen. Spaces where we embrace and celebrate both our differences and the ways in which we are the same. There may be some difficult conversations here (Dei & Linton, 2019), framed by a focus on honesty and connection, rather than colonialism and disconnection (Dougherty, 2012). Social justice and planetary citizenship will be my goals.

As Clack (2022) asserts, giving students agency means giving them real choices, opportunities, and ownership. This means entirely re-writing the script. The message can be "the hope that something different is possible" (Dei & Linton, 2019, p. 287). Our stories are, I believe, living things. They are spaces where we can reflect on the existential questions: Who am I? Who do I want to be? We can ponder possibilities: What must be challenged? What might be preserved? And we can look to the future: What transforms everything? Our stories are both the end and the beginning, and we are constantly rewriting them.