When We Know More, We Do Better: Rethinking the Term “Prehistory”

Teaching is not about having every answer forever. It is about being willing to ask better questions, listen to new perspectives, and recognize when there is room to grow.

It’s about being able to say:

“I didn’t know that before. Now I do. What can I do with this new information?”

Recently, I found myself asking that question about one of my own curriculums.

Stardust to Storytellers: Prehistory.

And if I’m being completely honest, my first reaction was embarrassment. Not because I had intentionally chosen a harmful word. Not because the curriculum itself had changed. But because I realized I had accepted a term that is commonly used in education without stopping to critically examine its history and the assumptions behind it.

And that realization is an important example of privilege.

Sometimes privilege is not about actively choosing to exclude someone. Sometimes it is about moving through the world without having to question the language around you because that language was never something you had to think about.

I saw “prehistory” used in museums, textbooks, and classrooms. I understood what it meant. I used it because it was familiar.

But I didn’t stop and ask:

“Who defined this term? What assumptions are built into it? Does this word communicate what I actually believe about humanity’s story?”

And I should have.

So, what’s the concern with the word prehistory?

The conversation around this term is complicated. Traditionally, prehistory has been used to describe the time before written records. In many classrooms, it functions simply as a chronological label.

However, the concept of prehistory also has roots in a colonial and Eurocentric way of understanding the past. By treating written records as the point where “history” begins, it privileges societies that left written documents while implying that cultures whose histories were preserved through oral traditions, art, archaeology, and other forms of knowledge somehow existed before history itself.

For many Indigenous scholars and historians, that implication is not just inaccurate, it reflects a worldview that has historically been used to marginalize Indigenous peoples and many other societies. Their ancestors did not lack history because they lacked writing. They have rich histories, complex cultures, sophisticated knowledge systems, and traditions that were passed down across generations.

People did not become historical when someone first pressed symbols into clay.

Humans have always had history. They built communities, created art, developed technologies, cared for one another, and preserved knowledge in many different ways. Writing is one way to record history. It is not what makes history exist.

That doesn’t mean everyone who uses the word prehistory intends this implication. Most educators and historians use it as a familiar chronological term. But as I’ve learned more about the history of the concept and listened to Indigenous scholars discussing its impact, I’ve come to believe we can choose language that better reflects the reality that all people have always had history.

The story starts long before humans

This conversation has also made me think more deeply about what Stardust to Storytellers actually is. Because the truth is, the curriculum doesn’t even begin with humans. It begins with the Big Bang.

We start with the formation of the universe, the birth of stars, the creation of Earth, the development of life, and the incredible chain of events that eventually led to humans.

Before there were civilizations, before there were written records, before there were even humans, there was a story unfolding. Matter coming together. Planets forming. Life adapting and changing. Billions of years of events that eventually led to us.

The human story did not begin with writing, with cities, or with the civilizations we most commonly study. It began much earlier.

And that is part of why this conversation about the word prehistory made me pause. While the term has a common academic meaning, I am not sure it fully captures the incredible scope of what this curriculum is trying to explore. This isn’t just a story of “before history.” It is the story of how we became part of this universe.

Why am I sharing this?

Because I think educators have a responsibility to model the kind of learning we hope to inspire. Sometimes learning means discovering something new about a topic. Sometimes it means discovering something new about ourselves. This was one of those moments for me.

I could have dismissed the conversation and said, “But everyone uses this term.” I could have become defensive. Instead, I wanted to listen. Being willing to reconsider our assumptions is part of being a lifelong learner. And if I expect my students and children to think critically, examine evidence, and ask thoughtful questions, I need to be willing to do the same.

So, what’s next for Stardust to Storytellers?

I am currently exploring alternative terms to use. The curriculum itself is not changing. The heart of it remains the same: humans have always been creative, curious, and storytellers. The people who lived before written records were not waiting for history to begin. They were history.

But I want the name of this curriculum to reflect that belief as clearly as possible. So I am brainstorming. Some ideas I have started considering:

• Stardust to Storytellers: Our Origins
• Stardust to Storytellers: The Beginning of Us
• Stardust to Storytellers: Cosmic History

Or maybe even just S2S: A, B, C, etc etc?

I would genuinely love your thoughts. If you have a name that captures the wonder, complexity, and incredible story of the universe’s earliest chapters, I would love to hear it.

Because this curriculum has never really been about a single word. It has always been about helping students understand the biggest story there is: the story of how we got here.

And sometimes, telling a story better means being willing to rethink the words we use.

Know more. Do better. Keep asking questions.