COMMENTARY: Compulsory Safety — What Black Rural Families Need

Families who contributed to this commentary did so with courage and caution. In small rural towns, visibility can invite retaliation. Silence is unsafe. Speaking up is unsafe. Those who have shared and permitted me to share their experiences, and those who were unable to grant that permission, I see you and thank you.

 

Across Northwest, West Central, Southwest, and Central Minnesota, Black families are telling the same story in different towns: their children are being harmed in the educational system the state requires them to attend.

The geography shifts, but the experience does not. School buses, playgrounds, hallways, classrooms, and school‑sponsored events are predictable sites of anti‑Black harassment and racialized bullying. And because K–12 education is compulsory, Black families must send their children into environments where safety is not guaranteed and accountability appears optional.

I know this not only because families are sharing with me, but because I lived it myself.

 

 

In October 1982, on my first day of third grade at Ironton Elementary, I was called a slur on the playground before I had even made it through recess. Adults treated it as a one‑off incident, a momentary lapse in judgment. But it wasn’t. It was an initiation.

For the next eight years, I endured consistent anti‑Black harassment. By the end of tenth‑grade, after yet another violent encounter on the school bus, I knew that returning would mean I would be harmed, do harm, or be punished for defending myself. I refused to go back. At 15, I saw what adults around me would not name: the system was not built for my safety.

Decades later, when my own children entered rural Minnesota schools, I hoped something had changed. It had not. They, too, were subjected to racial slurs, hair‑based harassment, threats of physical violence, and daily insidious anti-Blackness. They told us only the most egregious incidents at the time; the rest they carried quietly until adulthood.

And now, in 2026, I am hearing the same stories from families across western Minnesota.

One mother shared that her children have been called racial slurs on the playground, in classrooms, in hallways, and on the bus. She receives phone calls assuring her the matter is being addressed, yet the harassment continues. A bus driver calls the children names — and remains employed and on their route. “Why is it the job of the victims to mitigate abuse?” she wonders.

On the bus, a child was called “black monkey.” Another endured having their locs pulled — finally opting to cut them off. A six‑year‑old was reduced to tears when a classmate refused to use their name, referring to them only by skin color. These are not isolated incidents.

In preparing this commentary, I reached out to ten Black families across the western half of the state with school-aged children. Of the nine who responded, eight reported consistent and persistent anti‑Black bullying, harassment, aggression, and violence. Only one family reported no ongoing issues.

Families have tried to address these problems through many channels:

• reporting to teachers, principals, deans, and social workers
• filing complaints with bus companies
• requesting cultural competency training
• asking for documentation, accountability, and policy enforcement
• changing schools, changing districts, and opting to home school

What they receive are assurances without action, conversations without consequence, and a cycle of harm that resets each morning when the bus doors open.

The school bus is one of the most dangerous spaces for Black children in rural Minnesota. It is the first point of contact each day and the last point each afternoon. It is where children are most isolated from adult protection and where racist harassment is readily dismissed as “kids being kids.” But what looks like misbehavior is only possible because the system protects white children and punishes Black children who defend themselves.

The systemic failure at the heart of the issue: The lack of consideration for Black children in Minnesota’s education system has produced generations of predictable and preventable harm. Black families can’t opt out without legal or financial consequences. The state compels participation. Our children require safety.

What can readers do?

• First, believe Black families. When we say our children are being harmed, understand that we are naming patterns, not isolated events.
• Second, demand transparency and accountability from your local district. Ask how racial harassment is documented, how bus drivers are trained and supervised, and how administrators track patterns of harm.
• Third, support policies that center the safety and humanity of Black children.
• Finally, recognize that this is not a rural problem alone. It is a Minnesota problem. We cannot claim to value equity while requiring Black children to endure daily harm in a system they are legally mandated to participate in.

Sankofa teaches us to look back to move forward. I look back not to dwell, but to insist on a future where Black rural children are whole, safe, brilliant, and free. Our children cannot wait.

Victoria McWane-Creek indicates she is a survivor of Crosby Ironton Schools, the parent of adult survivors of Otter Tail County school districts, and a friend to families currently experiencing harm in rural school districts across rural Minnesota

 

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