Racial Equity Advocate helps delay Bemidji school closure
Written by Jamie Copenace (Bois Fort Ojibwe), educator and union member. Edited by Heaven Keane.
About 227 miles north of our state capital, located between the Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe, White Earth Ojibwe, and Red Lake Ojibwe Nations, lies the city of Bemidji, Minnesota—a place my Ojibwe parents chose to live and raise my sisters and me. We grew up and attended schools in the Bemidji Public School District from kindergarten to twelfth grade; our mother was hired in the late 1980s as a schoolteacher in the district shortly after completing her post-secondary education.
American Indian students comprise 26.4% of students enrolled at Bemidji Public School District for 2026—1,221 out of 4,633. White students comprise 67.2%, or 3,114, of enrollment.
In 2017, the Minnesota Department of Human Rights (MDHR) determined that schools statewide were suspending and expelling Black, Indigenous, other students of color and students with disabilities at rates much higher than their representation in the overall student population. Under the Minnesota Human Rights Act, all students in Minnesota are entitled to an education free from discrimination.
Because of this, MDHR established three-year legal agreements with 41 school districts and charter schools, overseeing their efforts to reduce disparities in discipline related to race and disability. Bemidji Public Schools was one of the 41 districts, with American Indian students accounting for about 40% of suspensions and expulsions despite making up only 16% of the student body at the time.
In an effort to reduce disparities, Bemidji Public Schools hired an American Indian Culture and Curriculum Specialist in the spring of 2018 to work with educators by providing culturally relevant professional development and insight to culturally inclusive practices to support Indigenous learners in the classroom.
After about a decade in the classroom teaching in area tribal schools, I entered ISD 31 as a classroom teacher for two years before transitioning to the American Indian Culture and Curriculum Specialist role. As a parent of students attending Bemidji public schools, I currently serve as a vice chair of our Local Indian Education Committee, more commonly referred to as an AIPAC (American Indian Parent Advisory Committee) by the Minnesota Department of Education.
The committees are composed primarily of Native parents, guardians and community members, and they advise on programming and hold annual, legally mandated votes on district compliance regarding student needs, as outlined in Sec. 124D.78 MN Statutes.
In September of 2025, I was checking my emails when I saw one from Education Minnesota that piqued my interest. It was a call for applications to the Racial Equity Advocate program under the Minnesota Educator Academy’s Facing Inequalities and Racism in Education (FIRE) program, which aims to disrupt systemic racism and racial inequities in Minnesota’s education system.
Part of the application was to write your story as it pertained to the topic of racism and racial inequalities. As a reflective thinker and person, I sat with this idea for a few days before making the decision to go for it. Just the thought of making it to the cohort to meet with a community of like-minded, anti-racist educators was empowering to me.
One of the prompts to address in our essay was a challenge we face when it comes to this topic. I chose to divulge my quiet nature that makes me less likely to speak up; if chosen for the cohort, that would be something I’d like to focus on.
Off the submission went, as I told myself that even if I wasn’t chosen, it felt nice to write and get those thoughts and ideas out.
Towards the end of October, I received an email inviting me to the 2025-2026 Racial Equity Advocates Cohort. The following month we had our first cohort meeting. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but we started off in a circle building our community, our safe space.
Our January meeting was held online for safety reasons as Operation Metro Surge ravaged the Twin Cities, and the effects were felt up north in the confines of my home. I remember feeling alone. Then one of our cohort members said something that struck a chord, “We have been through this before and survived. Now we are experiencing it in real time.”
It was an acknowledgment of historical truths of marginalized people that often are not treated as real.
At our next meeting, we were back in person. I had something weighing heavily on my mind, as our community had found out that our school board had voted to close one of our five K-3 schools in order to balance a $3 million deficit.
J.W. Smith Elementary, the school selected for closure, has a student population that is 70.8% American Indian, or 167 of 236 students.
The reasons given for the closure were the age of the building and the declining birth rates at the local hospital whose data is used for district enrollment projection.
In the past few years, there have been positive changes and a concentrated effort to teach Ojibwe language and culture at J.W. Smith, with a wild rice finishing day camp in the fall consisting of learning stations for students that provide language and cultural teachings. The past few springs, the same was done for maple sugaring season.
The school also hired an Ojibwe principal, who has been very supportive of the language and cultural efforts.
The announcement to close the school felt precipitous, and this time I wasn’t alone in how I was feeling.
People in our community started organizing. They put the pressure on by contacting lawmakers, lawyers and our city council.
At one of the public Q&A sessions, our AIPAC chair spoke against the decision due to no consultation with the Native community.
For the final public forum before the vote, I was asked to deliver our chair’s written words to our school board, as she was unable to make it to the meeting.
It was the day before the meeting, so I didn’t have much time to prepare—but I had enough.
The night of the meeting, the list of people waiting to speak was long. I had three minutes to speak.
I mentally prepared by doing the deep breathing exercises we had done in our REA circle. I remembered the energy shared in circle about organizing and taking a stand.
I remembered a Nigerian teaching I heard as I made my affirmation board: “one stick is easy to break but a group of sticks is unbreakable.”
It was the right combination of confidence and fierceness I needed, and I knew I had to deliver it in a way that would be impactful.
My voice read the lines, slow and steady. I stood there alone, but the group seated behind me stood with me, and I was reminded of a scene from “Reservation Dogs” where Willie Jack is told she carries the strength of her ancestors.
As I read the list of numbered demands to the board—written in English—I spoke them in Ojibwe.
Five years ago, I could not have seen myself doing this; I am naturally quiet and prefer to lay low. I credit the REA Cohort for giving me the tools and strength to speak up and advocate when something does not feel right.
Standing as both a parent and an educator, I am reminded that we are responsible not just for witnessing these moments, but for responding to them with honesty, accountability, and action.
