During my first semester in my Educational Doctorate program, I read an article by  Michael Apple The Politics of Official Knowledge: Does a National Curriculum Make Sense? that pushed me to think about power and curriculum in a way I hadn’t fully considered before.

I’ve always understood curriculum as a political tool, a way for governments to leave a legacy. In Ontario, for example, when Mike Harris’ government created the provincial curriculum, it wasn’t just about learning outcomes. I was in teachers college when this curriculum was still new. I remember my associate teacher telling me that curriculums come and go, it is just a way for a government to be relevant to history. She told me to teach what I need to and we will fit the curriculum around the teaching. I did not understand this at that time, but now I truly appreciate that advice. The curriculum was about imprinting a particular vision of society, one that would outlast the government itself. What I hadn’t reflected on deeply until now was the national impact of this kind of power, how a curriculum doesn’t just shape what students learn, but how entire generations come to understand themselves, one another, and their place in society.

Apple’s work made it clear that a national curriculum is not neutral. In many ways, it can function as a form of colonization.

As Apple argues, a national curriculum would likely establish benchmarks that allow parents to compare schools, but it would also rank students, intensify division, and require adherence to increasingly narrow norms. Rather than supporting culturally responsive pedagogy, it moves in the opposite direction, enforcing one dominant perspective and one definition of success. Apple describes this as a return to a so-called “common culture,” rooted in traditional Western values and pedagogy (Apple, p. 233).

As a daughter of immigrants and someone who deeply values her South Asian heritage, this idea is frightening. It brings me back to a time when I felt pressure to hide parts of myself in order to fit in, when belonging felt conditional. Imagining a future where students are once again asked, implicitly or explicitly, to erase aspects of their identity in the name of uniformity is deeply unsettling.

This concern becomes even more significant when considering Indigenous communities and the ongoing work of Truth and Reconciliation. If reconciliation is something we truly take seriously, we cannot continue to cling to a Western, conservative model of education — one rooted in the industrial revolution and designed for factory-style efficiency. Instead, we must move toward decolonizing and Indigenizing the curriculum.

Reading Brunette-Debassige et al. reinforced just how challenging this work can be. Their guiding question, “What changes as a result of what we are doing?”  is one I want to carry with me into every conversation about educational reform. It shifts the focus from intention to impact, from symbolic gestures to meaningful transformation.

Brunette-Debassige et al. also reference Stein’s critique of what she calls “minor reforms,” such as cultural competency initiatives and one-off anti-racism training. This idea connects strongly with Jo Chrona’s work in Wayi Wah! Indigenous Pedagogies and Anti-Racist Education. Chrona emphasizes the importance of owning our ignorance and reminds us that, as adults, learning is our responsibility. We cannot continue to place the burden on Indigenous colleagues to educate us or to lead this work alone.

Anti-racism, as Chrona makes clear, is not about making people feel ashamed or defensive. It is about understanding how policies and systems shape lived experiences and in Canada, this must include addressing Indigenous-specific racism (Chrona, p. 58).

All of this brings me back to the central question: Is a national curriculum worth it?

Given Apple’s analysis of how conservative, right-leaning ideologies often shape official knowledge, my answer is no, especially in a country as large, diverse, and regionally distinct as Canada. A national curriculum risks prioritizing political legacy over lived reality. I find it difficult to imagine such a system truly supporting Indigenization or creating something new that reflects the students currently sitting in our classrooms.

Chrona asks a question that lingers with me: “Is decolonization even possible?” She offers a definition that, for me, holds both honesty and hope:

“If we define decolonization as the continuing process of critically examining and challenging beliefs, values, structures, and processes that are steeped in mindsets that implicitly or overtly devalue or exclude Indigenous Peoples, rights, knowledge systems, and processes, then yes, we can engage in decolonization.”

That feels like hope, the kind rooted not in certainty, but in commitment. A commitment to questioning power, to unsettling dominant narratives, and to making space for Indigenous ways of knowing and being.

I don’t believe this kind of work can flourish within a national curriculum designed as a vehicle for political legacy. Instead, it requires humility, flexibility, and a willingness to let go of control, qualities that are often absent when power is centralized.

References

Apple, M. W. (1993). The politics of official knowledge: Does a national curriculum make sense? Discourse: Studies in Cultural Politics of Education, 14(1), 1–16.

Brunette-Debassige, C., Wakeham, P., Smithers-Graeme, C., Haque, A., & Chitty, S. M. (2022). Mapping approaches to decolonizing and Indigenizing the curriculum at Canadian universities: Critical reflections on current practices, challenges, and possibilities. The International Indigenous Policy Journal, 13(3), 1–23.

Chrona, J. (2022). Wayi Wah! Indigenous pedagogies: An act for reconciliation and anti-racist education. Portage & Main Press.