Coloniality in the Curriculum: Examining White Futures in Non- American Contexts

It happened to me while I was teaching 11th Grade American Literature in Nicaragua.

I had arrived fresh from graduating from an English program in Florida, did not imagine I would be signing up to teach in Latin America, but with my interest in the Spanish language and Latin American studies, thought the teaching gig would get me some on the ground experience. I, like many college graduates did not know exactly where I would land post-graduation. I knew I did not want to teach. And then it happened. I found myself facing a class of teenage freshman, juniors and seniors. A drama class was tacked on to curb my enthusiasm.

The first few weeks of the semester were brutal. Not only was I facing a new role for which I had little to no professional training, I also could not speak the language well. I felt as though I had made a mistake. I made friends with colleagues and very soon, I was learning how to be a teacher, and a student of teaching. As a newbie, I wasn’t assigned a classroom of my own, but had to be a “traveling” teacher with a rolling cart to haul my very thick and very dense literature textbooks, combined with a number of novels assigned to the class. The textbooks were not very new, nor very old, but seemed to be the standard textbook of a traditional American classroom, complete with appendices of American government documents, such as the Declaration of Independence, photographs of Native Americans, Puritans, and all sorts of synthesis of American History and American Literature.

“Why did these students need to learn the canon of American Literature?” “Why was I teaching the history of colonization to students who weren’t aware of the stranglehold it had placed on their country, their forebears, their freedom to be, well — Nicaraguan?”

Each of these questions floated through my mind, as I bit my tongue each time a student would ask why they had to learn the articles of the Constitution or the historical accounts of American slavery rather than their own literature. I knew the reason: accreditation. We were teaching a curriculum that dictated what must be taught, upholding knowledge systems passed down through generations of educators.

This blog argues that American literature curricula in international schools reproduces Whiteness as futurity by privileging Western knowledge systems as universal and aspirational, thereby reinforcing coloniality even within globally diverse classrooms. The English classroom must teach American literature, its founding documents, Puritanism, the Civil War, everything I had learned growing up as an American student. It makes sense to teach this curriculum when you are founded as an “American School.” But we were not just an American school. Our students came from Russia, Korea, China, and overwhelmingly, Nicaragua. Down the road sat another “American School,” a familiar model across the globe: private, well-resourced, filled with children of diplomats, expatriates, and wealthy local families whose trajectories often lead to American universities.

This experience reflects a broader issue within global education. Curriculum does not simply teach content; it shapes what students are taught to value, who they are encouraged to become, and which futures are made imaginable. This is where the concept of coloniality becomes visible. The persistence of Western curriculum in non-Western contexts illustrates how colonial power structures continue through education, not through force, but through normalization. What I encountered in my classroom was not neutral instruction, it was the continuation of a particular worldview.

This connects directly to the idea of Whiteness as futurity. The problem I encountered teaching this literature to Nicaraguan students is that it functioned as a form of white futurity. Shahjahan and Edwards (2021) argue that “Whiteness as futurity colonizes global subjects’ imaginaries and reinforces the asymmetrical movements, networks, and untethered economies underpinning global higher education” (p. 748). Ensuring the continuity of American and Western cultural dominance through curriculum reinforces coloniality, not through overt imposition, but through normalization.

When I first arrived at the school, I was excited and almost giddy to teach Thoreau, Emily Dickinson, Mark Twain, and Faulkner. These authors shaped my own intellectual development and inspired my decision to major in English. It made sense to teach American literature in America. But in Nicaragua, something felt off. Our department chair reviewed our weekly plans: Were we meeting curriculum goals? Teaching enough vocabulary? Ensuring grammatical proficiency? Preparing students for AP coursework? These questions guided my instruction, keeping me aligned with institutional expectations. Yet, embedded within those expectations was an unspoken assumption: that mastery of English language and American literary tradition was the pathway to success.

This experience illustrates how language itself becomes a vehicle for Whiteness as futurity. As Shahjahan and Edwards (2021) note, “The pervasiveness of English language learning exemplifies normalized White aspirations shaped by global asymmetries” (p. 750). In this way, English instruction through American literature becomes more than language acquisition, it becomes a mechanism through which particular futures are constructed and others are marginalized. Curriculum, then, becomes a place where coloniality is reproduced through everyday practice.

This realization leads to the question of decolonization. Decolonization in the curriculum began to surface as a pressing concern. Shahjahan et al. (2022) argue that decolonization requires recognizing “the constraints placed by monocultural perspectives or hierarchies” within disciplines and institutions (p. 83). If Whiteness as futurity structures what is imagined as valuable knowledge, then decolonization demands more than simply adding diverse texts. It requires a fundamental shift in whose knowledge is centered and why.

This raises difficult questions: What needs to be learned? What should be taught? Is it possible to meet educational goals without privileging a single literary canon? For Nicaraguan students, decolonization might mean engaging with Indigenous narratives, local histories, and regional literatures, forms of knowledge that affirm identity rather than displace it (Shahjahan et al., 2022, p. 84). Yet, in practice, these possibilities remained unrealized. These questions were never fully explored in my classroom. We did not discuss the consequences of teaching American exceptionalism to Nicaraguan students. We did not meaningfully consider incorporating non-American texts. The dominance of Western curriculum in these international schools often goes unchecked.

I know this not only as a former teacher, but through my current work. I visit similar schools regularly, encouraging students to enroll in American universities. These students often know American history, literature, and culture better than many U.S. citizens. Their education has been carefully designed to prepare them for success within American higher education systems. This is where the issue becomes even more complex. What happens when these schools drown out local voices, including local histories, literatures, and identities in favor of global (Western) mobility? The answer lies, in part, in economics.

For these schools to survive, there must be a clear return on investment for families. Parents are not simply paying for education, they are investing in access: access to American universities, access to global mobility, access to futures imagined through Western frameworks. As Shahjahan and Edwards (2021) assert, “To maintain Whiteness’s value, non-White subjects must also feel compelled to invest” (p. 751). This creates a paradox. Students must be prepared for success in American university systems, which requires rigorous training in English and familiarity with Western knowledge. Without this preparation, their chances of admission and the perceived value of their education diminish. In this sense, curriculum becomes less about learning and more about alignment with global systems of power.

This tension reveals the structural limits of decolonization. Decolonization, then, is not simply a pedagogical challenge, it is a structural one. Keet et al. (2017) warn that decolonization risks remaining rhetorical because “the social structure of the academy will disallow it to become a productive reference point” (p. 4). This is particularly evident in international schooling, where accreditation standards and university admissions requirements reinforce existing hierarchies of knowledge. The question becomes unavoidable: what are the consequences of not teaching this curriculum? Without alignment to American educational standards, students may lose access to the very systems their families have invested in. Universities demand specific coursework, specific competencies, and specific forms of knowledge. Few offer alternatives.

Ultimately, decolonization in international education exists within a constrained space. Educators may recognize the limitations of Western-centric curricula and the ways in which they reproduce coloniality. They may even attempt to disrupt these patterns. But without broader structural change within accreditation systems, admissions practices, and global perceptions of value, these efforts remain limited.

What I experienced in that classroom in Nicaragua was not an isolated tension. It reflects a broader reality within global education: coloniality persists not because educators are unaware, but because the systems in which they operate demand its continuation. The challenge, then, is not simply whether curriculum can be decolonized, but whether global education systems will allow it.