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The U.S. Senate’s vote to reopen the federal government on Sunday will likely end a painful 40-day shutdown, but it does so at a cost that goes far beyond missed paychecks and delayed services. The deal, driven by pressure to restore “normalcy,” comes with an implicit betrayal: millions of Americans who rely on Affordable Care Act (ACA) subsidies are being left in limbo.
Those subsidies—lifelines for low- and middle-income Americans—are now set to expire at the end of the year. The so-called “continuing resolution” passed the Senate with bipartisan relief, but no guarantee that these critical supports will continue. In practical terms, Congress chose to reopen the government by walking away from those who most need its help.
The 2025 shutdown was the longest in modern U.S. history, the result of partisan fights over spending and political maneuvering around health care. During that time, millions of Americans faced uncertainty: furloughed workers, delayed SNAP benefits, shuttered Head Start centers, and frozen federal contracts.
Now that the government is back in business, the same austerity logic remains intact. While defense spending and tax breaks for the wealthy are protected, basic supports like subsidized health insurance are treated as optional. It’s a familiar story—one that echoes through higher education, housing, and labor markets.
The ACA subsidies that expanded during the pandemic allowed millions of Americans—often those working multiple jobs without employer coverage—to afford health care for the first time. With their expiration looming, premiums are expected to skyrocket. For some, costs could double or triple.
This isn’t just about “health care.” It’s about how the American system continually shifts burdens downward. Families will make impossible choices: health coverage or rent, insulin or food, doctor visits or student loan payments.
At the same time, Senate Republicans have embraced Donald Trump’s renewed call to “replace Obamacare”—a move that could dismantle what’s left of the safety net altogether.
The Senate’s actions fit a larger pattern of bipartisan neglect. Each “deal” that avoids short-term crisis seems to deepen long-term inequity.
In health care: subsidies expire, Medicaid rolls shrink, and hospital mergers raise costs.
In higher education: student debtors are promised relief but face new barriers, while for-profit and “online program management” companies continue to profit.
In housing: low-income tenants are told to prove future earnings or risk eviction, even as rent outpaces inflation.
In labor: wage stagnation persists, union power declines, and automation and AI make employment more precarious.
For Generation Z and millennials—already burdened with debt, low job security, and unaffordable housing—the message is consistent: you’re on your own.
Health and education are supposed to be public goods, but both have become profit centers managed by corporate intermediaries and politicians chasing donors.
In health care, private insurers dominate ACA marketplaces. In higher ed, the same dynamic exists: online program managers (OPMs) and corporate lenders extract money while students shoulder debt. The government’s role becomes one of stabilizing markets—not stabilizing lives.
And when the working class pushes back—through union drives, debt strikes, or demands for universal health care—they’re met with the same refrain: “We can’t afford it.”
What’s striking is that this “fiscal responsibility” always targets the vulnerable. There’s no serious debate about clawing back corporate tax breaks or limiting Pentagon contracts. But when it comes to healthcare subsidies or student loan forgiveness, the belt suddenly tightens.
The working class subsidizes the rich, while being told that government aid is an indulgence. This political economy of scarcity has consequences—measured in bankruptcies, untreated illness, and despair.
When Woody Guthrie’s generation faced inequality, they had a rallying cry:
“Which side are you on, boys, which side are you on?”
That question remains as urgent as ever. The Senate’s decision to reopen government while discarding health care protections for millions tells us whose side Washington is on—and it’s not the side of the working class.
Until policymakers see health, housing, and education as human rights rather than bargaining chips, “reopening government” will be little more than a hollow ritual of restoration—for a system that keeps leaving its people behind.
Sources:
Time: “What to Know About the Deal to End the Shutdown” (Nov. 2025)
Al Jazeera: “US Senate nears vote on bill to end 40-day government shutdown” (Nov. 2025)
Financial Times: “Senators take first step to end US government shutdown” (Nov. 2025)
The Guardian: “Senate Republicans embrace Trump’s call to replace Obamacare” (Nov. 2025)
Detroit Free Press: “Michigan's U.S. senators reject deal to end shutdown” (Nov. 2025)
From the Gilded Age to the digital era, muckraking has served as a check on concentrated power. It has exposed exploitation in factories, corruption in government, racial terror, and corporate deceit. Today, that same spirit is urgently needed in higher education—an industry that has become both immensely wealthy and profoundly unequal.
Modern investigative reporting begins with Ida B. Wells, who in the late 19th century documented the horrors of lynching and the complicity of institutions in perpetuating racial terror. In Southern Horrors (1892) and The Red Record (1895), Wells used data, testimony, and moral clarity to challenge both white supremacy and institutional silence.
Her courage established muckraking not just as journalism but as moral resistance—a template for confronting systemic injustice, whether in government, business, or education.
By the early 20th century, universities themselves had become powerful institutions. Thorstein Veblen, in The Higher Learning in America (1918), described how trustees, presidents, and donors increasingly treated scholarship as a commodity. The pursuit of truth was subordinated to the pursuit of prestige and profit. Veblen’s critique presaged the administrative bloat, branding culture, and market-driven priorities now standard in higher education.
Upton Sinclair, in The Goosestep: A Study of American Education (1923), argued that elite universities were “factories for the ruling class.” Trustees dictated policy, suppressed dissenting faculty, and produced graduates conditioned to serve wealth and power. Sinclair’s critique resonates a century later, as universities remain highly responsive to donors and financial interests rather than the public good.
Jessica Mitford, best known for The American Way of Death (1963), brought investigative rigor to industries that relied on secrecy, public trust, and consumer inattention. Her work exposed how profit motives could exploit vulnerability and regulatory gaps. Mitford’s methodology—meticulous documentation, ethical outrage, and clear writing—provides a model for exposing modern higher education practices that prioritize revenue over students’ welfare.
In the 21st century, online program managers (OPMs) like 2U, Inc. have commercialized education in new ways. Chip Paucek, co-founder and longtime CEO of 2U, built partnerships with elite universities offering certificates and degrees that were sometimes of questionable value, while profiting from revenue-sharing agreements.
When independent journalists examined these arrangements and their implications for students and adjunct labor, they sometimes faced threats of litigation. The ongoing Paucek v. Shaulis case (filed 2024, and still pending) illustrates the modern challenge: exposing systemic issues in higher education can trigger lawsuits designed to intimidate or silence critics.
Even unfounded lawsuits can suppress critical reporting. Independent journalists, adjuncts, and whistleblowers often lack the resources to defend themselves against legal pressure. This modern form of censorship echoes the intimidation faced by Wells, Sinclair, and Mitford in their respective eras.
Higher education, increasingly operated like a business, has become vulnerable to this kind of silencing. Public interest and accountability require journalists who are willing to persist despite the risks.
From Wells’ moral courage, to Veblen’s economic critique, Sinclair’s exposé of elite conformity, and Mitford’s corporate investigations, muckrakers have shaped public understanding and accountability. Today, independent journalism is one of the few mechanisms capable of exposing predatory practices, financial manipulation, and labor exploitation in higher education.
As Wells wrote, “The way to right wrongs is to turn the light of truth upon them.” That light has always been costly—but without it, universities risk becoming oligarchies rather than public institutions.
Muckraking is civic duty. It insists that higher education be judged not by prestige or endowment size, but by service to students and society. Independent journalists must continue the Wells–Veblen–Sinclair–Mitford tradition, confronting power, exposing exploitation, and demanding accountability.
Sources
Ida B. Wells, Southern Horrors (1892); The Red Record (1895)
Thorstein Veblen, The Higher Learning in America (1918)
Upton Sinclair, The Goosestep: A Study of American Education (1923)
Jessica Mitford, The American Way of Death (1963)
Harriet A. Washington, Medical Apartheid (2006)
Elisabeth Rosenthal, An American Sickness (2017)
Higher Education Inquirer archives, 2014–2025
Paucek v. Shaulis (filed October 2024, pending 2025)
[Editor's note: On October 29, 2025, the Higher Education Inquirer emailed South University for a status update. South University did not respond.]
South University, a former for-profit college network now operating under nonprofit ownership, is facing a $35 million balloon payment this month on a loan obtained through the Federal Reserve’s Main Street Lending Program. The looming debt and the school’s status on Heightened Cash Monitoring (HCM) raise questions about financial stability and the adequacy of regulatory oversight in the nonprofit higher education sector.
According to publicly available financial statements, South University carries more than $35 million in long-term debt maturing this month, part of a $50 million Main Street loan issued during the COVID-19 pandemic. The approaching balloon payment represents a major financial test for an institution already under federal scrutiny and struggling with declining enrollment.
South University is currently listed under Heightened Cash Monitoring (HCM) by the U.S. Department of Education, a status that requires extra documentation before federal aid funds are released. While the designation signals potential financial or compliance issues, it does not necessarily result in strong day-to-day oversight.
The school remains accredited by the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools Commission on Colleges (SACSCOC)—an accreditor known for minimal intervention in institutional finances unless there is clear evidence of collapse. This means that despite the HCM flag, South University continues to operate with significant autonomy, even as federal and student aid dollars flow through additional administrative checks.
South University’s story is deeply tied to the rise and fall of the for-profit college industry. Once part of Education Management Corporation (EDMC), the school was sold in 2017 to the ill-fated Dream Center Education Holdings (DCEH). When DCEH collapsed in 2019, the Education Principle Foundation (EPF)—a nonprofit—took over South University and The Art Institutes. South University is now an independent non-profit enterprise.
South University’s precarious position reflects a larger trend: the conversion of failing for-profit schools into nominal nonprofits that rely on tuition, federal aid, and private service contracts to survive. These conversions often preserve the same management structures and business practices while benefiting from the public trust and tax advantages of nonprofit status.
The $35 million balloon payment highlights the risks of these financial engineering strategies—especially when public money is involved but public accountability is weak.
With the 2025 deadline approaching, South University faces a pivotal decision: refinance the Main Street loan, restructure operations, or seek new capital through other partners.
If the institution falters, students could once again be caught in the aftermath of a sector-wide collapse—echoing the failures of EDMC, DCEH, and the Art Institutes.
For now, South University continues to operate with limited transparency, under a light-touch accreditor, and with a multimillion-dollar federal debt hanging over its future.
Sources:
In the neoliberal era, higher education has become less a public good and more a marketplace of promises. The ideology of “lifelong learning” has been weaponized into an endless treadmill of hyper-credentialism — a cycle in which students, workers, and institutions are trapped in perpetual pursuit of new degrees, certificates, and micro-badges.