How a Capilano Instructor is Indigenizing Education
Rishi Mittal (any/all) // Crew Writer
Emilyn Lai (she//her) // Contributing Visuals
Bobbi-Lee Copeland didn’t always want to be a teacher. “If I had it my way, I would be a famous movie star or director,” she says. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in Theatre from the University of Lethbridge, where she directed her own play and fell in love with the medium. Afterwards, she worked at daycare centres and after-school programs, turning traditional Indigenous stories into plays.
She got gently pushed into teaching by her community. “My elders saw what I was doing and said, ‘You know what’s close to directing? Teaching. You would make an amazing teacher,’” she recalls. “If you think about directing and teaching, they’re quite similar. When I’m teaching, I feel like I’m presenting or doing a performance.”
To her, the purpose of a job is to make the community better, based on its needs and wants. She helped create a youth program back home—after-school clubs and other fun activities—and then pursued her Master’s in Indigenous Land-Based Education. She loves teaching but has been thinking about returning to theatre. “There is this Indigenous play I really want to direct when I have more time,” she reflects.
Copeland came to Capilano University three and a half years ago as an English instructor and has since been working to indigenize the curriculum. “What people have trouble with when they indigenize a course is [that] they add to it, but they forget to take things out.” Students end up doing double the work. She went back and looked at three years of courses when designing her own. Today, she teaches multiple courses in the English department. There were many reasons for her joining Capilano University, but number one is because the school is “international.”
She loves connecting with students from a variety of backgrounds, teaching them about Indigenous ways of life and learning and sharing what they have in common. She is also involved in Professional Development (Pro-D) for her colleagues. From traditional introductions last year to territory and land acknowledgements, relationship-building and land-based learning, she says it’s important for students, but “for colleagues to know as well.”
Her classes begin with a traditional introduction, an Indigenous practice she has adapted for the university. “When you’re in [the] community, like on a reservation or visiting, it’s always custom to introduce yourself.” You say who you are, who your ancestors are and where you’re from. It’s a way to build connections.
“I say my name, my traditional name, which is Tústine, which I was gifted by my grandmother. That already shows that I have a really good connection with my grandmother. Then I say my first and last name, and let them know that I’m from T’it’q’et band within the St’át’imc Nation.” Instantly, people know who you are.
In an education setting, the goal is to get the students to develop a relationship with her and with each other. To make them feel they can come to her and ask for help. “In English, we’re telling stories. I want my students to feel like their story matters [and] that they have something to share.” She considers the current generation lucky.
“I never got to see Indigenous representation when I was a kid,” she says. There were times when she wasn’t allowed to write her story. Above all, she wants her students to leave her class with confidence, like they’re also teachers. She loves learning about their culture and experiences, their way of life and perspective. Her approach and openness won her the 2026 Teaching Excellence Award, an annual award for exceptional Capilano University faculty. Students highlighted how she encourages them to share their stories, to connect and reflect with each other.
In Summer 2026, she and Dr. Alicia Fahey co-taught English 260: Decolonizing Creative Practice at the Squamish campus. It invited students from different disciplines to restore their relationship to land and water through storytelling. “Western society looks at land as being purchased, something we own,” she says. We’re taught that humans are above it all. “But from an Indigenous perspective, we’re part of the land.” Human beings, a bumblebee, a mountain, a pebble, “everything is connected and equally important.”
Within the classroom setting, with fluorescent lights, AC humming and distractions, students get into their heads. So, it’s important to go out. When you’re able to relax with the wind, the birds and the ground, “the writing just comes.” The North Vancouver campus is blessed. “We have a forest here, and not very far away we have a body of water.” She wants everyone to connect with, appreciate and care for nature. “I want my great-great-great-great-grandchildren to enjoy the ocean, to enjoy hiking up Joffre Lake.”
In the first week of English 260, she assigned her students a 30-minute exercise: “no talking, no cell phone, no pets, no children. Just you and Land, or you and [the] Water.” Getting used to it took some time, especially for those from the city who had no connection to nature. But after five days, students who used to be scared of bugs got over their fear. They built a connection to a specific tree or bird or a flower. In the words of the students, it was a very special course where people could be vulnerable and share, even more than other courses. She hopes to create more land and water-based courses like English 260.
On the North Vancouver campus, along with 100-level courses, she teaches English 359: Indigenous Resistance Narratives. It deals with heavy, important topics like residential schools, the Sixties Scoop and the Millennial Scoop. “It is really important to talk about that. We have a lot of Sixties Scoop survivors and Millennial Scoop survivors right now.” It’s a powerful example of how people can almost lose their language and culture, but it’s equally beautiful in that you can reclaim it as well. “When you’re ready, your community and family are going to want to support you.”
In class, navigating heavy topics requires vulnerability and a delicate hand. When things might get tense, they take a pause. “We just sit there and we’re comfortable with quietness. And then we move on.” Sharing her own experiences helps. “The biggest thing is storytelling. I think my students know me more than my coworkers do.”
She prays before class, especially when talking about those deep, heavy topics. “Anytime we talk about Indigenous education, I light a candle and I have water, because it’s an emotional thing.” She’s cried in front of her students and students have cried in her class. Above all, they appreciate her honesty, integrity and unorthodox but kind way of teaching. They appreciate how much space she gives people to be themselves. “Students didn’t realize that we all need to heal, not just Indigenous people, but everybody.” Healing is necessary to be an ally.
She is open about her own journey. There is resistance within ourselves. “Some people who went to residential school might be stuck in anger or pity or fear.” We have to be understanding and have to be there for them when they need [it]. She is still healing herself—she reveals—it’s an on-going process. “It took me a while,” she says. “I used to think, ‘I’m not colonized.’ Actually, I am.” Prayers, checking in with community, it all helps little by little. “When we bring our ancestors in with us” into the classrooms and into our lives, “we heal together.”
She grew up around fresh water: rivers, lakes and streams. Moving to the coast was a big change and she’s still scared of the oceans. She is a guest in these territories, much like the rest of us. And she takes every opportunity to learn and observe. “I don’t talk, I just watch. That’s how we traditionally learn.” As she has learned more from people in Squamish, Musqueam and Tsleil-Waututh Nations, she has slowly begun to ask small questions. It’s taken three and a half years; developing these relationships takes time.
Her advice to students seeking to be allies is to do your research and remember to observe. “Take as many courses as you can. Go to events. Go to the Bill Reid Gallery and the Museum of Anthropology. Everybody’s welcome to go to the Squamish Nation Powwow. Anytime anything’s advertised, you’re allowed to go.” Let people tell their story and just be supportive. If you learn a little bit of their language, “it will blow their mind.” Above all, “be yourself. That’s the most important thing. Don’t be shy to ask for help, and don’t be shy to speak up and share your story.”