Legacies in the Classroom: Reflecting on Fulbright in Peru

Monday June 30th, 2025 --

As I close out my time in Peru with the Fulbright Teachers for Global Classrooms program, I find myself returning again and again to my guiding question: How do local curricula negotiate the intertwined legacies of Spanish-Catholic colonial influence and Peru’s diverse Indigenous cultures—Quechua, Aymara, Amazonian, and more?  It’s a question that reveals as much about the tension between official narratives and lived realities as it does about the shape of Peruvian education itself. And while I can’t pretend to have a definitive answer, my weeks in schools across Lima and Cusco have offered glimpses—powerful, imperfect, and often contradictory—into how that negotiation unfolds.

Peru is a country layered with pasts. You feel it in the cobblestones of Cusco and in the graffiti of Lima. The pre-Columbian civilizations, the violence of the Spanish conquest, the missionary reshaping of belief systems, the legacy of haciendas and serfdom, the 20th-century civil war, and the long shadow of dictatorship—all leave their traces in the classroom. Yet what struck me most during my time here wasn’t a monolithic story being taught, but rather how intensely local and context-dependent historical interpretation is. Each school, each classroom, almost each teacher seems to carry a slightly different version of the national narrative.

At El Buen Pastor, a private Catholic school in a working-class neighborhood of Lima, the legacy of Catholicism was visible not only in the crucifixes on the walls but in the curriculum itself. Religion class was mandatory, and Catholic doctrine threaded its way through classroom routines—prayer in school, references to Christian morality in unrelated subjects. And yet, the students I met—mostly mestizo—were engaged in projects that acknowledged Peru’s diversity. In one class, students explored regional cultures, and there were clear gestures toward acknowledging Indigenous roots. Still, these were gestures, not reckonings. And as a brief visitor, it was hard to discern the deeper realities.

In Cusco, the contradictions deepened. Colegio Nacional de Ciencias, where I was placed for a week of co-teaching, is one of the most storied schools in the country. Founded by Simón Bolívar, it stands as a monument to the republican, post-colonial ideals of the 19th century—and yet it functions in many ways like a colonial institution. All boys. All uniforms. A heavy emphasis on tradition, hierarchy, and performance. And despite the fact that many of its students come from impoverished backgrounds, the curriculum and school culture still bore the marks of Spanish-Catholic legacy. Students take Catholic religion classes. Spanish is the default language of instruction. There is, to be sure, a pride in Incan history—Cusco demands it—but it often feels curated, folkloric, and safe.

I couldn’t help but wonder: do students here read the same textbook accounts of Tupac Amaru II—the Indigenous rebel leader who led an anti-colonial uprising in the 18th century—as their counterparts in Lima? Do they hear the same oral histories at home that get echoed (or erased) in the classroom? Are they invited to see themselves as descendants of resistance or simply as citizens of a state born out of conquest and compromise? I didn’t get to visit schools in the rural highlands or the Amazon, where Indigenous language instruction is sometimes prioritized, but everything I saw suggests the answer is complicated. And deeply uneven.

That unevenness is the heart of the matter. Peru’s national curriculum may outline standards, but in practice, education in this country is radically decentralized—by geography, by wealth, by language, and by teacher interpretation. In Lima, where elites are often descendants of European colonizers or beneficiaries of extractive economic systems, the memory of colonialism is filtered through power. In the Andes, where many families still speak Quechua and live in post-feudal poverty, the story feels different. More personal. More raw. And classrooms, consciously or not, become the battlegrounds where those narratives are elevated or silenced.

My time in Peru taught me to be skeptical of any singular vision of “Peruvian identity”—and to be mindful of the ways education either flattens or complicates that identity. Yes, there are national holidays and government initiatives that pay lip service to diversity. But there are also classrooms where Indigenous histories are celebrated, and others where they are marginal. Some schools use texts that romanticize the Inca only to gloss over the brutalities of colonization. Others try to grapple with these legacies but lack the time, training, or institutional support to do so with depth.

Yet what I found most hopeful were the students. Whether in Lima’s overstuffed classrooms or Cusco’s historic halls, the young people we met were curious, open-hearted, and eager to make sense of the world they’ve inherited. Their energy suggests that there is room—if not yet a clear structure—for a more nuanced reckoning with Peru’s past. Perhaps that reckoning won’t come from the curriculum alone, but from the conversations students have with each other, from the questions they raise, and from the educators willing to make space for complexity rather than clarity.

As I return to my own classroom, I carry these tensions with me—not as contradictions to resolve, but as questions to live with. What histories do we center? Whose voices get heard? How do we create educational spaces that acknowledge complexity without collapsing into confusion? In Peru, I’ve seen what’s possible—and what’s still elusive. And that, in itself, feels like a powerful starting point.

From Lima to the Sacred Valley: A New Chapter in Cusco  

Friday June 27, 2025 --

The second phase of our Fulbright Teachers for Global Classrooms journey took us far beyond the capital city of Lima. Our cohort fanned out across Peru, from the verdant edges of the Amazon to the stark beauty of the high Andes. I was fortunate to be placed in Cusco, alongside my colleague Nick Graham—a seasoned middle school teacher whose wife is Peruvian and who has spent considerable time in the country with his family. Nick and I had actually been paired before, on a now-canceled assignment to Morocco earlier this year. When funding was frozen, we wondered if we’d get another chance to collaborate—and we did, in a place that carries centuries of meaning.

Our host school was Colegio Nacional de Ciencias, Peru’s oldest public high school and an institution so embedded in the country’s identity that it’s celebrating its 200 year bicentennial this year. Founded by Simón Bolívar himself, the school is located right in the heart of Cusco, and its historic weight is everywhere—from its cloistered courtyards to its towering colonial architecture. With nearly 2,000 students, all boys, and a reputation that precedes it, the school represents both pride and paradox. It’s competitive to get into, not through entrance exams, but through sheer demand. Parents camp outside the school the night before registration, hopeful that the prestige or location will offer their sons a better future.

Yet for all its history, Colegio Ciencias is not an academically elite school in the traditional sense. It's a public school, with many of the challenges faced by similar schools in the United States. The student population is largely impoverished. Many boys come from families where parents are taxi drivers, small shopkeepers, or street vendors. A handful have parents working in tourism or journalism. Despite the school’s reputation, it's not necessarily known for rigorous academics, and the learning environment varies greatly from class to class. In a typical group of 28 students, perhaps ten are highly focused, ten more are respectful but drifting, and the remaining few are either disruptive or checked out. It was a reminder that prestige and performance don't always align—especially in systems stretched thin.

Still, the students were, by and large, lovely. Sweet, funny, and genuinely curious, they showed none of the cynicism or eye-rolling that sometimes filters into American classrooms. There was misbehavior, of course. Some students were chatty or inattentive. But what stood out most was the general kindness and self-regulation. There’s an easy warmth among the boys—hugs, some horsing around, jokes—and a visible pride in being part of a school with such a storied past.

Our host teacher, Martha, was indispensable. She’s an English teacher who handles eight classes a week during the morning session, and she guided us with care and clarity. In Peru, secondary school is split into morning and afternoon shifts, with older students attending in the morning. There are 25 classes per shift, totaling 50 daily, spread across ten student cohorts per grade. Teachers move up a pay scale—from Level 1 to Level 8—by accumulating professional achievements like publishing articles or leading training sessions. Higher levels offer better pay and more choice in student assignments for the following year. The layout of the school featured 3 floors surrounded by a large courtyard.  We visited the library and a computer lab where students gathered to study and play video games.  We also visited a science lab on the top floor that had 2 encased mummies. The Inca treated mummies of past rulers as sacred ancestors who still held political and spiritual authority, often parading them during festivals and consulting them on important decisions. These mummies were kept in fine condition, given offerings of food and gifts, and maintained by attendants as if still alive. And there we were, in a science lab, staring at two of them!

Our first day of teaching, however, was humbling. We had carefully designed digital lessons using interactive presentations—only to discover that internet connectivity was virtually nonexistent and most classrooms lacked the necessary infrastructure to support our materials. I spent a lot of time frustrated and failing to get my slides to populate on the screen. Pivoting quickly, we adapted to analog. Nick led students in memorizing poetry, and I resorted to basic improv activities. Just when we thought we’d found our rhythm, we were informed—on less than 24 hours’ notice—that we’d be piloting brand-new tablets in front of a parade of Ministry of Education officials. With media cameras on hand and political stakes in the air, we scrambled.

The pressure was real, but so was the opportunity. I designed a mind-mapping lesson around identity, using the tablet software to have students explore their neighborhoods, language heritage, family culture, and future aspirations. Nick, meanwhile, introduced a science unit involving powerful magnets. The activities landed better than I expected. Even so, it was hard not to notice how easily lessons were disrupted—not just by tech failures, but by the general atmosphere of noise and movement that characterizes many Peruvian schools.

Colegio Ciencias, like most schools we visited, has a large central courtyard surrounded by classrooms. It’s a beautiful layout in theory—sunlight pours in, kids can gather freely—but in practice, the open structure invites constant distraction. Music from gym class blares from enormous speakers through open windows. Students run back and forth between sessions. You routinely hear the wailing of loud sirens on the street or a conch shell being blown like a horn in the courtyard.  Colleagues, students, administrators walk in and out of classrooms mid-lesson, and very little seems sacred about instructional time. The idea of a start time is more suggestion than rule. Teaching, in this context, becomes a form of performance art—fluid, adaptive, and always subject to interruption.

Yet these interruptions aren’t random. In Cusco especially, they’re woven into the cultural fabric. June is a festival month, headlined by Inti Raymi, the ancient Incan sun festival that still fills the streets with processions and pageantry. But it’s not just Inti Raymi—there are parades for every patron saint, civic milestone, or institutional anniversary. At Colegio Ciencias, where every achievement is celebrated—from sports to college admissions—festivals consume vast portions of the calendar. There is no graduation ceremony, oddly enough, but seemingly everything else gets its moment. Local politicians and national administrators frequently drop by for photo ops, further punctuating the school day with spectacle.

While some students and teachers expressed pride in this culture of celebration, others voiced quiet frustration. They know that instructional hours are limited and that the constant churn of events makes deep learning difficult. For all the school's reputation, the amount of actual academic time often feels disjointed. Still, the pride in tradition is undeniable. To wear the Ciencias uniform, to know your school was founded by Simón Bolívar—it carries weight, even when the classroom itself can feel chaotic.

Despite the obstacles, our time in Cusco was rich and rewarding. We forged meaningful connections with our students and saw firsthand the joys and challenges of public education in Peru. Perhaps the most enduring takeaway was this: disruption is the norm, not the exception. But within that disruption are moments of real beauty, humor, and discovery. And when students lit up while mapping their identities or reciting lines of poetry, it was a reminder that learning can happen even when the conditions are less than ideal.

Before we left, we began conversations about developing a student exchange between Colegio Ciencias and our own classrooms back in Great Falls, Montana and New York City. The students here may have limited resources, but they are not short on curiosity or spirit. As we think about what global education truly means, this kind of exchange—rooted in respect, reciprocity, and shared exploration—feels like one of the most meaningful legacies we can build from this experience.

Framing Peru’s Education System: Structure, Complexity, and Cultural Tension

Friday June 20, 2025 --

As I prepare to begin the next stage of the Fulbright Teachers for Global Classrooms program in Cusco, I’ve been trying to step back and understand the national picture of Peruvian education. While the school I’ll be working with is unique in its history and local culture, it exists within a larger system shaped by policy, geography, and legacy. Studying the Ministry of Education’s structure and priorities has helped us begin to contextualize what we'll see on the ground. What’s become clear is this: Peru’s education system is highly structured—but also incredibly varied. And beneath its technical frameworks lies a deeper story about who education serves, and what stories it tells.

Peru’s education system is built around Educación Básica Regular (RBE), which includes three levels: Initial (ages 3–5), Primary (6–11), and Secondary (12–16/17). Instruction begins as early as age 3 in kindergartens, then becomes mandatory from age 6. Students attend six years of primary school and five years of secondary, with 30 and 35 instructional hours per week, respectively. The core subjects include mathematics, communication, social studies, science and technology, physical education, personal development, arts, and—perhaps most notably—religion. Despite being a secular republic, religion (almost always Catholicism) is a standard part of the curriculum, reflecting the deep influence of Peru’s colonial history.

At the national level, Peru operates under a highly centralized system. The Ministry of Education (MINEDU) designs curriculum and policy, which is then administered by regional offices (DRE) and local management units (UGEL). In theory, this provides a coherent national vision. In practice, local implementation seems to vary dramatically depending on region, funding, and infrastructure. While urban schools may have access to more resources, many rural schools—especially in the Andes and Amazon—operate with minimal support, including multigrade classrooms where a single teacher may serve students from several grade levels at once. Finding teachers (often from Lima) willing to move to the rural Andes or Amazon—areas with dilapidated school buildings, little-to-no electricity, poor roads, and bad internet—remains a major challenge for the Ministry of Education. 

The Ministry has made a push toward a competency-based curriculum. Students are expected to graduate with eleven key competencies, including autonomous learning, citizenship, digital literacy, and critical thinking. There’s a stated emphasis on inclusion, gender equity, environmental responsibility, and cultural diversity. However, while these values appear throughout official documentation, their presence in day-to-day instruction depends on teacher training and the realities of the classroom. Many schools still rely heavily on memorization and copying from the board, with limited opportunities for student-led inquiry or project-based learning.

One of the most ambitious elements of the system is the High-Performance Schools program, known as COAR. These are elite boarding schools—one in each of Peru’s 25 regions—serving top-performing public school students. Utilizing the International Baccalaureate program, COAR schools focus on bilingualism (Spanish and English), critical thinking, research, and civic engagement. They represent a sharp contrast to the more traditional, lecture-heavy instruction that characterizes most public schools. However, because these schools serve only a tiny fraction of Peru’s six million students, their impact is inspirational rather than structural.  Some of the people in our cohort will be based at COAR schools.  The impression one gets is that the students are deeply committed to academic achievement.  These schools similar to magnet schools, but on a national level.  And, of course, one of the critiques of this model is that, although these schools provide an opportunity for hard-working children to escape poverty, it creates a "brain drain" in public schools throughout the country.

Peru's linguistic and cultural diversity adds further complexity. Peru is home to over 40 Indigenous languages, including Quechua, Aymara, and multiple Amazonian languages. To address this, the government has developed a network of Intercultural Bilingual Education (EIB) schools—over 25,000 in total—serving more than a million students. These schools aim to teach both in Spanish and in a student’s native language. The model is ambitious and deeply important, but faces persistent challenges: limited teacher training in Indigenous languages, a shortage of culturally relevant materials, and structural barriers that prioritize Spanish-language success.  These efforts made me think of similar ideas in Montana to provide bilingual education to indigenous Blackfeet students—helping to revive native culture while keeping students academically engaged.

Peru has also invested in inclusive education models, with specialized schools for students with moderate to severe disabilities and inclusive classrooms supported by itinerant specialists for those with milder needs. Rural multigrade schools remain common, especially in isolated areas of the Andes and Amazon. You'll find similar models in neighboring Bolivia. These settings place a heavy burden on teachers, who must adapt their lessons for a wide range of learners with limited time and resources. If you're interested in what this life looks like for children and teachers in these settings, this short (free) documentary called The Most Dangerous Way to School  comes with my highest recommendation. My students find it captivating—ziplines to school every day!

The national statistics reveal the sheer scale of the system. Peru has nearly 69,000 schools, with over 6.5 million students. Approximately 80% of students attend public schools. Urban centers like Lima have higher rates of private school enrollment (up to 74% in some districts), while rural areas rely almost exclusively on underfunded public schools. Class sizes vary, but the national average is roughly 11.4 students per teacher in secondary school. Still, actual student-teacher ratios often differ significantly from these averages, especially in remote regions.

Teacher development is a cornerstone of national reform efforts. Peru’s approximately 435,000 teachers are evaluated through a career ladder that ranges from Level I to Level VIII, with promotions based on points accumulated through professional development, research, and teaching experience. This system is designed to professionalize and incentivize the teaching force, but it also places additional pressure on educators who may already be overburdened. A majority of public school teachers are women, and many work under challenging conditions with limited access to ongoing training or technology.

Peru also faces pressing challenges related to migration and displacement, especially from neighboring Venezuela. As of recent estimates, Peru hosts over 1.6 million Venezuelan migrants, with more than 96,000 enrolled in public schools. These students face higher dropout rates due to economic hardship, legal uncertainty, and trauma. MINEDU and UNICEF have implemented targeted support programs, but the scale of need continues to outpace available resources.

In sum, Peru’s education system is a blend of high aspiration and structural limitation. The centralized curriculum, focus on equity, and investment in bilingual and inclusive education reflect a country trying to reckon with its diversity and historical complexity. Yet the realities—uneven implementation, economic disparity, and deeply ingrained legacies of colonialism—often undercut these goals. It is not a system that can be understood through national policy alone. The true story of Peruvian education is told classroom by classroom—each shaped by geography, language, history, and human ingenuity. I look forward to witnessing that story unfold as I begin my work in the highlands.

Peruvian Culture & School Visits

Thursday June 19, 2025 --

Our visit to schools in Lima gave us a kaleidoscopic view of the Peruvian education system—its joys, its challenges, and its remarkable diversity. One of our first stops was El Buen Pastor, a private Catholic school in the working-class district of Los Olivos. Like many schools here, its architecture centers around a large, open courtyard where students gather between classes. As soon as we arrived, the children lit up. They waved, shouted greetings, and clustered around us in a swarm of youthful curiosity. In every school we’ve visited so far, the dynamic has been the same: students are warm, friendly, and endlessly excited to see us. There’s a lot of chatter in class—sometimes to the point of distraction—but the atmosphere is good-natured and welcoming, without a trace of the kind of adolescent moody disengagement that so often plagues classrooms back home.

Inside the classrooms, technology is sparse. Few rooms are equipped with smartboards or projectors—whiteboards and dry-erase markers are the norm. But what the spaces lack in tech, they make up for in human connection. I struck up a conversation with a history teacher whose students were exploring Peru’s regional diversity. He emphasized how distinct the Amazon is from the Andes and the coast—not just in landscape, but in culture, language, and even food. It’s a point that seems to echo everywhere we go. Peru is a patchwork of geographies and identities, each region holding onto its own traditions while also navigating the pressures of national cohesion.

The next day, we traveled to Dora Mayer School in the port city of Callao. The contrast was immediate. This was a public school, far less resourced, and visibly affected by the economic realities of its surrounding neighborhood. Many of the students here are recent migrants from Venezuela, part of the massive wave of displacement that has reshaped demographics across Latin America. You could hear the Caribbean lilt in their Spanish and see how their energy infused the school with a distinct flair. In one classroom, we watched students debate government proposals on potable water and environmental sustainability—a spirited discussion that unfolded in rapid-fire Spanish, full of passion and personal insight. But on closer inspection, the students were reciting viewpoints written out by the teacher—an indication that these debates didn't really feature student-led inquiry.  And some of the students in the audience were on their phones (a problem afflicting schools throughout the world at the moment. Throughout our visit, we were mobbed by eager students offering business cards they had printed themselves—tokens of a hopeful desire to build connection and perhaps maintain ties beyond this fleeting visit.

Our final school visit of the day brought us to Escuela de Talentos, also in Callao. This school, as its name suggests, serves students identified as gifted and talented. Admission requires a rigorous entrance exam, and the academic seriousness of the place was palpable. We sat in on student presentations about life goals and personal journeys—reflections that were thoughtful, even poetic. Yet the teaching style here leaned heavily toward rote learning. Notes were copied meticulously from the board, and inquiry-based learning seemed largely absent. Still, the students were deeply engaged and clearly proud of their work. 

Across these schools—so different in resources, size, and student demographics—certain threads remained constant. The students were consistently open-hearted. The infrastructure was modest, but the spirit was generous. Teachers everywhere were doing their best under constrained conditions, trying to meet the demands of exams while navigating the unique challenges of their communities. 

Of course, no exploration of Peruvian life would be complete without mentioning the food. One of the things I’ve come to believe—perhaps a controversial travel opinion—is that most countries have decent food, but not food that surpasses what you might find in a good American city. But then there are exceptions. Peru is absolutely one of them. Like Italy, Japan, or France, Peru possesses a culinary culture built on vibrant biodiversity and centuries of cultural fusion. The Amazon, the Andes, and the Pacific coast all contribute ingredients; the legacies of Chinese and Japanese migration add technique and creativity. Whether it's lomo saltado—a Peruvian-Chinese beef stir-fry—or fresh ceviche marinated in citrus and spice, every bite here tells a story. 

After our school visits, we made time to explore the Museo Larco, one of Lima’s most beautiful and enlightening museums. Housed in an 18th-century mansion inundated by gorgeous tropical flowers, the museum’s galleries trace the long arc of Peru’s pre-Columbian civilizations. We saw delicate gold jewelry from the Moche, stylized ceramics from the Nazca, and an actual quipu—an Incan knotted-string record-keeping system that still baffles scholars today. Most humbling of all was realizing just how many layers of civilization existed here before the Inca, before Pizarro, before the colonial impositions we so often associate with Latin America. Peru is not a country with one past, but many.

By the end of the day, I found myself mentally sifting through everything we’d seen—trying to make sense of the laughter of students, the discipline of teachers, the flavors of lunch, and the textures of ancient textiles behind glass. These weren’t just disconnected moments; they formed a kind of mosaic. What had begun as observation was quickly becoming something richer—a sense of shared purpose, a kind of partnership forming between teachers across borders.

Tomorrow, we’ll fly to our host communities scattered across Peru. I’ll be heading to Cusco, where a new chapter of this experience will unfold. But already, I feel the first signs of transformation—evidence that this is not just a professional development trip, but something deeper. A reminder that education—like food, like culture—is ultimately about relationship. And Peru, in all its complexity, is proving to be a generous teacher.

Note: This website is not an official U.S. Department of State website. The views and information presented are the participant's own and do not represent the Fulbright Teachers for Global Classrooms Program, the U.S. Department of State, or IREX.