I was angry when someone who reported to me in the provost’s office wanted nix our funding commitment to the Native American community on campus. His justification stopped me in my tracks. He said, “There are only four or five Indians on our campus.” I was incensed. The comment was not only inaccurate, it was dismissive of an entire community that had been systematically marginalized for generations. I immediately asked my data analyst to print out the most detailed enrollment and demographic statistics we had on Native American students, faculty, and staff. I walked those pages to his office and placed them on his desk, not gently. Ignorance is dangerous when it is paired with decision-making power, and I was determined that ignorance would not win.

That moment was not an isolated exchange. It was a microcosm of the broader battle being fought on campuses across the country, between performative inclusion and actual, sustained commitment to Indigenous communities. Too often, Native American students and programs are invisible in budget conversations until someone decides they can be cut without consequence. The assumption is that because their numbers may be smaller, their needs are less important. That thinking ignores the obligations universities have to the sovereign nations whose lands they occupy. It ignores the responsibility to repair centuries of exclusion and erasure. And it fails to see the value of Native voices in shaping a more just and inclusive academic community.

This is why our newly published article in Taboo: The Journal of Culture and Education, Volume 23, Number 2, is so personal for me. It tells the story of what we were able to do in partnership with Native students, faculty, and community leaders at Western Michigan University, and it documents the vision they carried forward. It is an incredible honor to write this piece with three Native American scholars whose lived experiences and leadership grounded every aspect of the work. They welcomed me into a project that was theirs from the start and allowed me to contribute in a supporting role. For that trust, I remain deeply grateful.

Adding to the uniqueness of this collaboration, it is not every day a university provost co-authors an article with a celebrated hip hop artist like Frank Waln. Frank’s artistry is not just entertainment—it is cultural preservation, political critique, and storytelling at the highest level. His work as an activist and performer brought a richness to this project that could never have been replicated in purely academic prose. He reminded us that education is not confined to classrooms or lecture halls. It lives in music, in stories, in ceremonies, and in the rhythms of community life.

During my tenure as provost, I understood my role in this work as one of removing barriers and ensuring resources flowed toward the priorities set by the Native American community on campus. I came to listen, to learn, and to support. The Provost Office supported launching initiatives that were not token gestures, but rather designed to create long-term impact. One of these was the “Empowering Indigenous Futures” digital storytelling project, which centered the voices of Native students and elders in telling their own histories and aspirations. This was not a branding exercise. It was truth-telling—sometimes joyful, sometimes painful, always authentic.

Another effort led by Dee Sherwood and others was hosting the Truth and Healing boarding school survivor panel. For many on campus, this was the first time they had heard the stories of survivors and descendants of the Indian boarding school system, which sought to erase Native identities and languages. These were not abstract historical accounts. They were lived realities, still shaping families and communities today. The event created space for deep listening, grief, and the beginnings of healing. Non-Native attendees were often stunned by the scope of the harm, and that discomfort was part of the necessary process of reckoning.

Frank Waln’s contributions to these efforts helped bridge our campus work to broader Indigenous movements across the country. He brought a reminder that culture, activism, and education are intertwined, and that each feeds the other. His music could reach audiences far beyond the walls of the university, carrying messages that no policy paper could convey in quite the same way.

In our article in Taboo, we argue that curiosity itself can be a decolonial act, when it is rooted in reciprocity and respect. In Western academic tradition, curiosity often means pursuing personal intellectual interest. In Indigenous contexts, curiosity comes with responsibility. You do not simply take knowledge; you give something back. You do not ask questions without considering the relationships and obligations that come with the answers. On our campus, this meant shifting from a mindset of extraction to one of partnership.

Of course, there was resistance. Some colleagues in academic leadership feared that authentic engagement with Native communities would require changes they were not willing to make. Others were attached to symbolic inclusion that looked good on paper but left power structures untouched. We encountered people who preferred the comfort of the status quo, even when confronted with data that challenged their assumptions. The comment about “only four or five Indians” was not the first or last time I would hear something like that. But each time, we countered misinformation with evidence and apathy with persistence.

The real test of this work came after my term as provost ended. Would the funding for programs survive without my unequivocal support? The answer, so far, thankfully, has been yes. Many of the initiatives described in our article are still alive today, led by students, faculty, and community members committed to their long-term success. This continuity matters. In higher education, too many programs vanish when leadership changes. The fact that these have endured speaks to the strength of the relationships and the clarity of the vision.

Our work offers lessons that extend far beyond one university. Across the country, Native students are still fighting for visibility, for resources, and for the right to define their own educational priorities. Too often, universities respond with temporary funding, whitewashed land acknowledgments, or photo opportunities rather than with the structural changes that real equity demands. Our article provides a case study of what it can look like to go further. It is not a complete blueprint, every context is different, but it is proof that deeper partnership is possible.

Working alongside my co-authors also deepened my awareness of the emotional labor carried by Native faculty and students in predominantly white institutions. They are often asked to serve as cultural representatives, to educate their peers, and to sit on every diversity committee, all while carrying their regular academic responsibilities. The burden is heavy, and it is compounded when institutions fail to deliver on promises. Our work aimed to lighten that load, not by removing these voices from leadership, but by ensuring they had the resources and authority to lead on their own terms.

This collaboration was also intentionally interdisciplinary. We drew on education, history, cultural studies, social work, environmental science, and the arts, reflecting the interconnected nature of Indigenous knowledge systems. These systems do not separate human relationships from relationships with the land, or storytelling from governance, or spirituality from scholarship. That perspective enriched the work and made it relevant to audiences far beyond the field of education.

Ultimately, the success of the initiatives was measured in the lives of students not an abstracted ROI. Native students found spaces on campus where their culture was celebrated, not marginalized. Non-Native students gained new understandings of the histories and contemporary realities of Indigenous peoples. Relationships formed that will continue to influence lives and careers long after graduation. This is the kind of transformation higher education should aim for—not just enrollment or climate surveys, but deeper connections and a more just society.

As I look back, I am grateful for the opportunity to have been part of this work. I am grateful to my co-authors for allowing me to join their project, to the students and elders who shared their stories, and to colleagues who stood firm when others wanted to cut funding. I am also grateful to Taboo for publishing our article in its full complexity, without forcing it into the narrow confines of institutional comfort.

This experience reaffirmed for me that higher education’s obligations to Native communities are not optional. They are not contingent on enrollment numbers or political convenience. They are rooted in history, in treaty rights, and in a moral responsibility to repair harm. The comment that triggered my initial anger—about “only four or five Indians” and led to a collaboration on this paper was more than an insult. It was a symptom of the systemic erasure that has gone on far too long. Confronting it was not just about one conversation. It was about refusing to let that mindset dictate the future.

Our article in Taboo tells this story in full, and I invite you to read it here. It is about more than one campus, more than one moment, and more than one leader. It is about what is possible when universities move from symbolic inclusion to true partnership. It is about listening deeply, acting with integrity, and sustaining commitments over time. And it is about believing that even in the face of ignorance, change is worth fighting for.

Please share.

Julian Vasquez Heilig is a nationally recognized policy scholar, public intellectual, and civil rights advocate. A trusted voice in public policy, he has testified for state legislatures, the U.S. Congress, the United Nations, and the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, while also advising presidential and gubernatorial campaigns. His work has been cited by major outlets including The New York Times, The Washington Post, and Los Angeles Times, and he has appeared on networks from MSNBC and PBS to NPR and DemocracyNow!. He is a recipient of more than 30 honors, including the 2025 NAACP Keeper of the Flame Award, Vasquez Heilig brings both scholarly rigor and grassroots commitment to the fight for equity and justice.