KESHENA, Wis. — Rihauna Fuentez runs her fingers along the tangled wires, tracing their course over a wooden panel and into an electrical box. The 20-year-old, with mussed rainbow hair and a nose piercing, pounds her hammer with precision.
She surveys her work beside her peers. “I’m just trying to figure out which color wire I put through,” Fuentez said, pointing to a metal switch plate.
The workshop sits on the wooded campus of the College of Menominee Nation, nearly 250 miles north of Chicago. Each corner is crowded with industrial equipment and half-finished electrical projects, with the lingering smell of sawdust. Most of the students are Native American.
Like many of her classmates, Fuentez grew up on the remote Menominee Reservation. “I hadn’t really thought about going out of state and whatnot,” she said. “I’m just testing college as a whole … It’s been going pretty good so far.”
Yet the tiny college faces threats that extend far beyond the workshop, or rural stretches of northern Wisconsin.
Higher education has become a battleground under President Donald Trump, who has made high-profile targets of elite universities in Illinois and beyond. Less visible, though, is the administration’s quiet assault on the country’s 37 tribal colleges and universities — many tucked in rural corners of the Midwest.
In June, the Trump administration proposed slashing the Bureau of Indian Education’s budget by 88%, axing a sector heavily reliant on federal support.
Lawmakers rejected the proposal in congressional committees, indicating that it is unlikely to advance. But the ordeal has unnerved tribal leaders as they brace for the rest of Trump’s presidency.
“We could not have sustained without that funding,” said Ahniwake Rose, president of the nonprofit American Indian Higher Education Consortium. “There’s still a lot that could happen within the next few years, and anytime (presidential) priorities shift.”
Last month, the Department of Education announced an unexpended lifeline: $495 million in additional grant funding redirected to tribal colleges and historically Black colleges and universities. But the schools’ long-term funding outlook remains marked by uncertainty.
Like most tribal colleges, the College of Menominee Nation serves a predominantly rural, low-income population — enrolling roughly 300 students and serving 83 tribes. The campus is an institution in the small town of Keshena, where a two-lane highway meets the edge of the reservation.
‘Devastating’
On a recent September afternoon, a handful of students walked to class along winding, tree-lined paths. Inside, sepia-toned portraits of the Menominee Indian Tribe lined the halls.
College President Christopher Caldwell has led the college for five years, but recent months have been especially trying. He doesn’t like to linger on the what-ifs. Still, the proposed Bureau of Indian Education budget would have dealt a near-fatal blow to the college — likely forcing it to shutter within a few months.
“It would have signaled the end of many tribal colleges outright,” Caldwell said. “It would have been devastating.”
Although the initial threat has subsided, other federal stressors have emerged. Trump has cast himself as a champion of rural education and vocational training — yet his cuts have inflicted collateral damage on many of those programs.
A $9 million U.S. Department of Agriculture grant, which funds scholarships and faculty positions at the college, was abruptly paused earlier this year. Looming changes to Pell Grants and the federal work-study program also sowed uncertainty on campus.
Unlike elite universities, the College of the Menominee Nation operates with a modest endowment and a small alumni network. Federal funding accounts for 40% of its $12 million budget, leaving little cushion. It’s a stark contrast to the billion-dollar spending plans at institutions like Northwestern University or the University of Chicago. But for students and faculty, the stakes are no less urgent.
“We manage what we can,” Caldwell said. “Things change on a daily basis. So it’s more, ‘How do we adapt to the situation that’s in front of us?
‘A better educational experience’
The Menominee Indian Tribe once inhabited more than 10 million acres of the Midwest, encompassing much of northern Wisconsin and upper Michigan, according to the tribe. But as settlers expanded west in the early 19th century, Indigenous people were forced to relinquish their ancestral lands. Meanwhile, American Indian boarding schools forcibly separated Native children from their families, in a deliberate effort to erase Indigenous culture.
After centuries of persecution, tribal colleges are “important places where healing takes place,” according to Cheryl Crazy Bull, CEO of the nonprofit American Indian College Fund. Their creation is a direct reflection of tribal sovereignty, she said, grounded in language, land and culture.
“The trauma of the boarding school experience was generational,” Crazy Bull said. “Tribal colleges are one environment and community where you and your family can have a better educational experience.”
The first tribal college was founded in Arizona by the Navajo Nation in 1968, born from a growing movement for Indigenous self-determination. Dozens more soon followed. The 235,000-acre Menominee Reservation was reestablished in 1973, and the tribe chartered the college two decades later.
Collectively, the country’s 37 tribal colleges and universities serve about 27,000 students. With open-door admissions policies, anyone, regardless of their ethnic or racial background, can enroll. Tuition is intentionally kept low — averaging $3,572 annually — and nearly 80% of students rely on Pell Grants.
The institutions have never received full funding under federal law, despite yielding a strong economic return. For every dollar invested, there’s a $1.60 gain in tax revenue and public sector savings, according to AIHEC’s economic impact report. Experts note that while funding is tied to tribal enrollment, the per-student allocation hasn’t been adjusted for inflation since the 1970s.
“We’re woefully underfunded,” Rose said. “We’re very, very reliant on federal budgets and federal funding.”
The proposed Bureau of Indian Education budget would have been slashed from $183 million to $22 million. The Department of Interior, which oversees the subagency, has yet to detail why the change was put forth.
‘Steeped in who we are’
Midway through an interview with the Tribune, Caldwell paused to wave to his youngest daughter walking by in the halls, who studies Menominee poetry. For Caldwell, an alum himself, the campus is woven into his family’s history: His eldest daughter also attended the college, as did his wife and parents. Despite its size, the reservation is home to only a few thousand tribal members.
“Even if you’re not related to them, we know who the students are. It’s like, ‘Who’s your mom and dad?’” Caldwell said with a laugh. “That connection runs deep.”
Most of the students are drawn to the college for its affordability and proximity to home. They enroll in bachelor’s and associate’s degree programs rooted in American Indian culture, covering fields from sustainable agriculture to geoscience.
Degree programs also require a course in Menominee or Oneida, languages with only a few dozen native speakers left. Centuries of persecution and assimilation policies pushed many Indigenous languages to the brink of extinction. Revitalization efforts are gaining momentum across the U.S., and remain central to the missions of tribal colleges, leaders say.
Kristah Warrington, the college’s Indigenous wellness director, carefully laced a Menominee finger-woven belt in a sunlit room. Her hands danced through the yarn, a blur of blue and purple hues. She leads the activity for students weekly, and is also enrolled part time in Menominee language classes.
Uncertainty at the federal level looms heavily over the institution, Warrington said. But she’s tried to remain hopeful.
“We’re always going to have our culture and our language, no matter who the president is,” Warrington, 34, said. “That’s something that they can’t take from us. They did try to take it from us before, but they didn’t succeed. This is proof.”
Across campus, Brian Kowalkowski fed hundreds of flapping bass in a large water basin. The 53-year-old helps manage the college’s aquaponics greenhouse, nestled in a grassy clearing. Large pipes carry the fish’s nutrient-rich waste to an array of leafy plants, flourishing with the enriched water.
The process is a symbiotic approach to agriculture — reducing water use and soil erosion, and eliminating the need for chemical fertilizers. The goal is to identify more cost-effective ways to farm fish.
“It’s for how we can help the community, how we can help other rural areas and tribes,” said Kowalkowski, the dean of continuing education.
The greenhouse is open to community members, as is the library, which houses the Menominee Indian Tribe’s archives. Once a week, the college hosts a farmer’s market, which draws crowds from across the reservation.
“We are steeped in who we are,” Caldwell said. “It’s a land-based education.”
‘With bated breath’
Last month, an announcement from the Department of Education seemed to offer an unexpected reprieve. Education Secretary Linda McMahon pledged an infusion of $495 million in additional funding to historically Black colleges and universities and tribal colleges.
Tribal leaders are grateful, but struggling to make sense of the dramatic reversal. The Department of Education also specified that the funding is a “one-time” grant, and initially, offered colleges little information on how the funds would be disbursed or whether they would be restricted.
“It’s been challenging to know what to anticipate and how to prepare and budget … and so we’ve been waiting with bated breath to see what this looks like,” Rose said.
The other caveat: The grants are being diverted from other minority-serving institutions, which were based on “discriminatory racial and ethnic quotas,” the agency said. The move will reallocate millions from Hispanic-serving institutions, predominantly Black institutions, Alaska Native and Native Hawaiian-serving institutions and others.
Caldwell said an influx of funding would greatly benefit the college — but he recoiled at the prospect of setting minority-serving schools against each other.
“It is appreciated, but we also recognize the difficulties that this creates with the other institutions,” he said. The focus, Caldwell added, should remain on supporting students. He touched the beaded medallion necklace over his chest.
Back at the trade school, the pounding of Fuentez’s hammer blended into the steady chatter of her peers. She wiped her forehead, beaded with sweat from the hourslong electrical class.
The work is grueling, but Fuentez wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. She recently left her night job as a security officer at the reservation’s casino. An electrician certification could open new doors.
Besides, her mother and her sister live just a few miles away on the reservation. “Where else would I go?” she asked.