President & Fellows, Overseers and Endowment: Harvard's Centers of Power

Harvard University, established in 1636, has long been a symbol of educational excellence and intellectual leadership. Yet, the power that underpins its prestige stretches beyond academia. It is shaped by a long history of governance, financial influence, and deep connections to elite sectors of politics, business, and finance. To understand Harvard’s true power, one must look at how its governance structures—its President & Fellows, Board of Overseers, and massive endowment—have evolved over time, and how these forces have perpetuated the university’s dominance, often at odds with its own stated ideals of inclusivity and social responsibility.

The Founding of Harvard: Roots in Slavery and Colonial Power

Harvard’s origins lie in the colonial era, when it was founded to train clergy and lay leaders for the Massachusetts Bay Colony. However, the university’s initial wealth and influence were, in part, fueled by the profits generated through slavery. Early benefactors of the institution were heavily invested in the slave trade, with their wealth derived from industries that relied on slave labor, particularly in the Caribbean and Southern American colonies. Harvard, as a result, was built upon the legacies of slavery—a complex and often forgotten chapter of its history.

In its early years, Harvard was a small, insular institution designed to cater to the colonial elite, focused largely on producing educated men who could serve in various clerical and academic positions. However, it was clear even then that those in positions of financial power held influence over the institution’s trajectory, a pattern that would only grow as Harvard expanded.

The Rise of Harvard's Governance: The Corporation and Overseers

By the 18th century, Harvard’s governance structure began to take shape. The President & Fellows of Harvard College, later known as the Harvard Corporation, became the central executive body. Comprised of the university's president and a small group of influential fellows, the Corporation held fiduciary responsibility for all decisions related to the university’s finances, policies, and strategic direction. This elite group, made up largely of wealthy businessmen, political leaders, and intellectuals, has continued to shape the university’s priorities ever since.

Meanwhile, the Board of Overseers, a larger and more advisory body, began to assume responsibility for providing guidance on academic matters and representing the interests of the broader Harvard community. Unlike the Fellows, the Overseers were elected by alumni and served as a check on the Corporation’s power. However, even the Overseers, while influential, were ultimately subordinate to the Corporation’s authority in matters of governance and institutional decisions.

This structure of governance—executive authority in the hands of a small, wealthy group—would prove to be a critical force in shaping the university’s development throughout the centuries. It also marked the beginning of a deep connection between Harvard and elite sectors of society, from local Boston elites to national political and financial figures.

Harvard's Endowment: A Financial Powerhouse

As the university grew in stature, so too did its endowment. By the 19th century, Harvard had begun to accumulate substantial wealth, much of it invested in land, property, and businesses tied to global trade. As a result, Harvard’s endowment began to wield increasing influence over the university’s operations. The Harvard Management Company (HMC), created to oversee the university’s massive endowment, became an essential player in Harvard’s financial operations.

The growth of the endowment allowed Harvard to operate with considerable financial independence. It could fund research, increase faculty salaries, and provide scholarships—all while maintaining a powerful influence over the broader academic world. As the endowment ballooned throughout the 20th century, it also gave Harvard an outsized role in global financial markets, reflecting the university’s transition from a regional educational institution to a global financial player.

However, the immense wealth of the endowment also raised ethical questions. Critics pointed out that the vast sums invested by Harvard often came from industries with questionable ethical practices, including fossil fuels, arms manufacturing, and exploitative labor practices. In recent decades, Harvard’s financial management has come under scrutiny for perpetuating global systems of inequality and environmental degradation—problems that often run counter to its educational and social missions.

Harvard's Complicated Legacy: Slavery, Assimilation of Native Americans, Neoliberalism

The legacy of slavery has continued to haunt Harvard well into the modern era. As the university's wealth grew, so too did the visibility of its entanglements with slavery. In recent years, historians and scholars have begun to reveal how Harvard's early benefactors—including major donors and founders—derived their fortunes from the slave trade. In 2021, the university published a report that detailed its historical ties to slavery, acknowledging that its financial success was built on the backs of enslaved people. The recognition of this history has led to calls for reparations, and for Harvard to take responsibility for its role in perpetuating systems of racial oppression.

Simultaneously, as Harvard’s financial and political clout grew, the university became increasingly aligned with neoliberal economic policies—policies that prioritize free markets, deregulation, and privatization. In the 1980s and 1990s, this embrace of neoliberalism became particularly visible as the university shifted focus from providing affordable, publicly accessible education to catering to the needs of a global elite. Harvard’s massive endowment, now managed in ways that often emphasized profitability above social responsibility, began to reflect broader trends within American society, where wealth became increasingly concentrated in the hands of the few.

Harvard’s relationship with Indigenous peoples has also been a source of significant controversy. In the 19th century, the university became involved in the forced assimilation of Native Americans through education. Harvard and other American institutions took part in programs designed to "civilize" Indigenous children, often by removing them from their families and communities and erasing their languages and cultures. This legacy of colonialism and cultural genocide, which was part of broader U.S. government policies, continues to shape Harvard’s interactions with Native American communities to this day. Despite recent initiatives aimed at improving outreach to Native students, Harvard has yet to fully reconcile with its historical role in this tragic chapter of U.S. history.

The Evolution of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) and Harvard’s Recent Backlash

In the latter half of the 20th century and into the 21st, Harvard made efforts to reform its policies and create a more inclusive environment for students of all backgrounds. Diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) became core tenets of the university’s public identity, and significant strides were made in opening the institution to historically marginalized groups. However, this commitment began to fray as political and financial pressures mounted.

The most high-profile challenge came in the form of legal battles surrounding affirmative action. In 2014, the group Students for Fair Admissions filed a lawsuit alleging that Harvard discriminated against Asian American applicants in favor of Black and Latino students. The case drew national attention, and Harvard's DEI policies became a lightning rod for conservative critics, who argued that such efforts undermined meritocracy.

In response to the lawsuit and increasing scrutiny from corporate donors, Harvard's commitment to DEI efforts began to wane. Critics argue that Harvard has increasingly prioritized maintaining its relationships with powerful financial backers, many of whom have conservative views on race and education. DEI initiatives, which were once central to Harvard’s mission, have become a flashpoint in the broader cultural wars that shape American politics.

The Pritzker Family and Harvard’s Connections to Wall Street and Political Power

Among the most influential figures on Harvard’s Board of Overseers is Penny Pritzker, a billionaire businesswoman and former U.S. Secretary of Commerce. A member of the powerful Pritzker family, whose wealth originates from the Hyatt hotel chain, Pritzker’s role highlights the intersection of wealth, politics, and education. Her tenure on the Board of Overseers has been marked by her advocacy for policies that align with neoliberal values—emphasizing corporate partnerships, privatization, and economic growth.

Harvard’s growing connections to Wall Street and corporate elites have further cemented its position as a key player in U.S. economic and political spheres. Many of the university’s alumni go on to hold influential positions in major corporations, government, and financial institutions. These connections have allowed Harvard to play a central role in shaping the policies of both local governments, like the city of Boston, and national politics. In turn, Harvard’s vast wealth—much of it untaxed due to its nonprofit status—has raised concerns about its influence in local communities and the broader national political landscape.

Reluctance to Pay Taxes and Its Influence in Boston

Harvard’s tax-exempt status has long been a source of controversy. As a nonprofit institution, Harvard does not pay property taxes, a decision that has caused tension with local residents in Boston. The university owns significant amounts of real estate in the city, and critics argue that Harvard’s tax exemptions deprive the city of revenue that could be used to fund essential services. Furthermore, the university’s presence in Boston has driven up property values, contributing to gentrification and the displacement of lower-income residents.

At the same time, Harvard’s influence extends far beyond Boston. Through its financial ties, political connections, and network of alumni, the university wields significant power in shaping U.S. policies on everything from education to economic regulation. This has led to concerns about the concentration of power at elite institutions like Harvard, which continue to act as gatekeepers for access to political and economic power.

Looking Ahead: Harvard’s Continued Influence and the Future of Higher Education

As Harvard navigates these complicated legacies, questions about its future remain. The university’s governance structures—the Corporation, the Board of Overseers, and the endowment—will continue to shape the direction of the institution for generations to come. However, the institution will have to grapple with the contradictions between its immense power and wealth and its claims to be an institution committed to social good. Can Harvard reconcile its past and present with the values of diversity, equity, and inclusion? Will the concentration of power and wealth within the university’s governance structure continue to undermine its claims to progressive ideals?

As the world watches, Harvard's next steps will be crucial not just for the future of the university, but for the broader role that elite institutions play in shaping global financial, political, and social systems. Only time will tell if Harvard can evolve into an institution that truly reflects the ideals it claims to uphold—or if it will continue to wield its immense power in service of a narrow, elite agenda.

A Brief History of U.S. Financial Downturns and Collapses: Speculation, Deregulation, Environmental Stress, and the Crises to Come

Since the Treaty of Paris in 1783, the United States has experienced repeated financial collapses—economic convulsions shaped by cycles of speculation, deregulation, and systemic inequality. While official narratives often frame these crises as isolated, unexpected events, the truth is more systemic. Time and again, economic downturns have been driven by elite greed, weakened regulatory institutions, and the exploitation of both people and the planet. Today, amid climate chaos, digital finance, and eroding public trust, the United States stands on the brink of another, potentially greater, financial reckoning.

The country’s first financial panic, in 1792, was triggered by speculative schemes in government securities. Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton’s efforts to stabilize the new economy through the Bank of the United States led to rampant speculation on public debt. A brief crisis followed when overextended investors panicked. A few years later, the Panic of 1797 resulted from overleveraged land investments and a tightening of British credit. These early shocks revealed a fundamental pattern: deregulated markets rewarded insiders and punished everyone else.

Throughout the 19th century, financial panics became a fixture of American capitalism. The Panic of 1819, the nation’s first true depression, followed a credit boom tied to western land speculation and aggressive lending by the Second Bank of the United States. As cotton prices collapsed and farmers defaulted on loans, banks failed, and mass unemployment followed. The Panic of 1837, catalyzed by President Andrew Jackson’s dismantling of the national bank and his hard-money policies, triggered a deep depression that lasted through most of the 1840s. The financial collapse of 1857, in turn, stemmed from global trade imbalances, railroad speculation, and the failure of major financial institutions like the Ohio Life Insurance and Trust Company.

Even at this early stage, economic expansion was fueled by environmental exploitation. Railroads cut through forests and Indigenous territories. Monoculture farming destroyed topsoil. Western land, viewed as limitless, was extracted for immediate profit, with no regard for sustainability or stewardship.

The late 19th century’s Gilded Age brought a series of devastating crashes that reflected the unchecked power of monopolists and financiers. The Panic of 1873, known as the beginning of the Long Depression, began with the collapse of Jay Cooke & Company, a bank overinvested in railroads. The depression persisted for years and was marked by widespread unemployment, strikes, and a backlash against corporate excess. In 1893, another railroad bubble burst, leading to bank runs, industrial failures, and one of the worst economic downturns of the century. At every turn, environmental damage—from deforestation to mining disasters—intensified.

The 20th century began with new waves of speculation and consolidation, culminating in the infamous crash of 1929 and the Great Depression. In the 1920s, the U.S. economy boomed on the back of industrial expansion, easy credit, and a largely unregulated stock market. Wall Street profits masked deep inequality and rural poverty. When the bubble burst in October 1929, the collapse wiped out millions of investors and plunged the country into a decade-long depression. Environmental catastrophe followed in the form of the Dust Bowl, a man-made disaster brought about by overfarming and soil mismanagement across the Great Plains. Families lost both their farms and their future, creating a mass migration of the economically displaced.

In response, the Roosevelt administration implemented the New Deal, which included financial reforms like the Glass-Steagall Act, the Securities and Exchange Commission, and public investment in infrastructure. But by the late 20th century, many of these safeguards were systematically dismantled. The wave of deregulation began in earnest during the Reagan era. The Savings and Loan Crisis of the 1980s, a direct result of financial deregulation and speculative lending, cost American taxpayers more than $160 billion. At the same time, environmental protections were weakened, leading to an explosion of toxic sites and a spike in chronic health problems, especially in low-income communities.

In the 1990s and early 2000s, the rise of Silicon Valley and the dot-com bubble marked a new chapter in speculative capitalism. Investors poured money into tech startups with little revenue or product. The bubble burst in 2000, wiping out trillions in paper wealth and exposing the fragility of digital economies built on hype rather than value. This was followed by the more devastating crash of 2008, the result of subprime mortgage fraud, unregulated derivatives, and the repeal of Glass-Steagall in 1999. Wall Street firms packaged risky home loans into complex securities and sold them across the globe. When the housing market collapsed, so did the global financial system.

The 2008 crash led to the Great Recession, which resulted in millions of foreclosures, lost jobs, and deep cuts to public services. African American and Latinx communities, already targeted by predatory lenders, were especially hard hit. At the same time, sprawling housing developments—many built in environmentally fragile areas—were abandoned or devalued, further highlighting the links between financial speculation and ecological risk.

More recently, the COVID-19 pandemic triggered a sharp recession in 2020. Lockdowns and mass illness disrupted labor markets, supply chains, and public institutions. The federal government responded with massive fiscal and monetary stimulus, which lifted financial markets even as millions lost jobs or left the workforce. Low interest rates and stimulus checks fueled speculative booms in housing, stocks, and digital assets like cryptocurrency.

Cryptocurrency, originally touted as a decentralized alternative to Wall Street, became a magnet for speculative excess. Bitcoin and Ethereum surged to record highs, only to crash repeatedly. The collapse of major crypto exchanges like FTX in 2022 revealed rampant fraud, regulatory gaps, and a new frontier of financial exploitation. In addition to its financial instability, cryptocurrency mining has significant environmental costs, consuming more electricity than many small nations and accelerating carbon emissions in areas powered by fossil fuels.

The current moment is defined by overlapping crises: speculative bubbles in tech and crypto, a fragile labor market, worsening inequality, and a rapidly destabilizing climate. Insurance companies are retreating from high-risk areas due to wildfires, floods, and hurricanes. Crop failures and water shortages threaten food security. Global supply chains are vulnerable to both pandemics and extreme weather. At the same time, deregulatory fervor continues, with efforts to weaken environmental laws, consumer protections, and financial oversight.

If history is any guide, these trends point toward the likelihood of a greater collapse—one not confined to Wall Street but cascading through housing, education, healthcare, and global systems. Future downturns may not be triggered by a single event like a stock crash or pandemic but by an interconnected series of shocks: climate disaster, resource wars, digital speculation, and institutional failure.

Higher education will not be spared. Universities increasingly rely on endowments tied to volatile markets, student debt, and partnerships with speculative industries. The growth of for-profit colleges, online "robocolleges," and gig-economy credentialism has created a hollow system that produces degrees but not economic security. Many young Americans—especially those from working-class and marginalized communities—now face a lifetime of debt and precarious employment. They are the product of a financialized education system that promised upward mobility and delivered downward pressure.

In the end, financial collapses in the U.S. have never been merely economic—they have been moral and political failures as well. They reflect a system that too often prioritizes speculation over stability, deregulation over justice, and private gain over public good. Some of the wealthiest figures in this system—like Peter Thiel and other techno-libertarian futurists—actively invest in escape plans: buying bunkers in New Zealand, funding longevity startups, or betting on crypto anarchy, all while anticipating societal collapse. But most Americans don’t have the luxury of opting out. What we need instead is a commitment to rebuilding systems grounded in equity, sustainability, and democratic accountability. While the risks ahead are real, so are the opportunities—especially if the people most affected by past collapses organize, speak out, and help shape a more resilient and just future.

For more critical perspectives on inequality, education, and economic justice, follow the Higher Education Inquirer.

Cybersecurity Threats, Fascism, and Higher Education

American higher education stands at a dangerous crossroads—caught between the encroachment of authoritarian surveillance at home and the very real cybersecurity threats from adversarial states abroad. On one side, we see the growth of data collection and domestic monitoring that risks silencing dissent and undermining academic freedom. On the other, sophisticated cyberattacks from nation-states like Russia, China, Iran, Israel, and North Korea present significant threats to intellectual property, national security, and the safety of digital infrastructure on campus.

This double-edged sword raises urgent questions about the role of higher education in a time of rising fascism, geopolitical instability, and digital vulnerability.

In recent years, colleges and universities have become sites of intensified digital monitoring. Student protesters, faculty activists, and visiting scholars find themselves increasingly under surveillance by both state agencies and private contractors. Under the guise of “safety” and “cybersecurity,” dissident voices—especially those speaking out on issues like Palestine, racial justice, climate collapse, and labor rights—are monitored, flagged, and at times disciplined.

Campus security partnerships with local police and federal agencies like the FBI, DHS, and ICE have created a new surveillance architecture that chills free speech and suppresses organizing. Social media is mined. Emails are monitored. Student groups that once flourished in the open now meet with the paranoia of being watched or labeled as threats. This chilling effect is especially acute for international students and scholars from the Global South, who face disproportionate scrutiny, travel restrictions, and visa denials. These policies don’t just protect against threats—they enforce a top-down political orthodoxy. In some cases, administrators have even turned over data to law enforcement in response to political pressure, lawsuits, or fear of reputational harm. The dream of the university as a bastion of free inquiry is fading in the fog of surveillance capitalism and political fear.

Particularly concerning is the growing role of powerful tech firms like Palantir Technologies in higher education's security infrastructure. Originally developed with backing from the CIA’s venture capital arm, In-Q-Tel, Palantir’s software is designed for mass data aggregation, predictive policing, and counterinsurgency-style surveillance. While marketed as tools for campus safety and data management, Palantir’s platforms can also be used to monitor student behavior, track political activism, and identify so-called “threats” that align more with ideological dissent than legitimate security concerns. The company has existing contracts with numerous universities and research institutions, embedding itself in the heart of higher ed’s decision-making and information systems with little public accountability.

At the same time, the threat from foreign actors is not imaginary. Russian disinformation campaigns have targeted U.S. universities, attempting to sow discord through social media and exploit political divisions on campus. Iranian state-sponsored hackers have stolen research from American institutions, targeting fields like nuclear science, engineering, and public health. Chinese entities have been accused of both cyberespionage and aggressive recruitment of U.S.-trained researchers through programs like the Thousand Talents Plan, sparking controversy and xenophobic backlash. While some fears have been overstated or politically weaponized, evidence shows that intellectual property theft and cyber intrusion are persistent issues.

Meanwhile, Israel’s cyber industry—including firms founded by former Israeli intelligence operatives—has sold spyware and surveillance tools to governments and corporations worldwide. NSO Group’s Pegasus spyware, for instance, has reportedly been used to target academics, journalists, and activists. American campuses are not exempt from these tools’ reach—particularly when it comes to Palestine advocacy and international collaborations.

The paradox is clear: The same institutions that should be defending democratic ideals and global collaboration are being co-opted into both authoritarian domestic surveillance and militarized cyberdefense. There is an alarming convergence of corporate cybersecurity contractors, intelligence agencies, and university bureaucracies—often with little transparency or oversight. Federal funding tied to defense and homeland security has made some universities complicit in this surveillance regime. Others have turned to private cybersecurity vendors like Palantir, which quietly build intrusive systems that blur the lines between threat detection and political policing. In this environment, real cybersecurity is essential—but it must not become a tool for repression.

What is needed is a dual approach that protects against foreign and criminal cyberthreats without succumbing to the authoritarian logic of mass surveillance. Universities must protect academic freedom by enforcing strict policies against political monitoring and reaffirming the rights of students and faculty to speak, organize, and dissent. They must ensure transparency and oversight over cybersecurity operations and external partnerships, particularly those involving military and intelligence-linked firms. They must support digital security for activists and marginalized groups, not just administrative systems. And they must strengthen internal cyberdefenses through open-source tools, decentralized networks, and ethical cybersecurity education—not just corporate solutions that prioritize control over community.

We cannot allow the logic of the Cold War to be reborn in the form of digital McCarthyism. Higher education must be a firewall against fascism—not a pipeline for it. As we confront 21st-century cyberconflicts and political extremism, universities must ask themselves: Are we defending truth and inquiry—or enabling the very systems that undermine them? The answer will shape the future of higher education—and democracy itself.

EducationDynamics: Still Shilling for Subprime Robocolleges

In 2021, The Higher Education Inquirer published an investigative report exposing the operations of EducationDynamics (“EDDY”), a for-profit lead generation and marketing firm with deep ties to some of the most controversial colleges in American higher education. Four years later, that story has not only held up—it demands a deeper and more urgent follow-up.

EDDY now claims that over the past five years, its clients have experienced an average of 47% enrollment growth above industry benchmarks, attributing this success to its “research-driven, continuous optimization process.” But behind that growth lies a troubling blend of aggressive marketing, deceptive lead generation, and exploitative labor practices—practices that appear to have only intensified.

A History of Bait and Switch

EDDY’s core operations remain rooted in multichannel marketing and lead generation for colleges—especially for-profit and formerly for-profit online institutions. These include Purdue University Global (formerly Kaplan University), University of Arizona Global (formerly Ashford University), American Intercontinental University, Colorado Technical Institute, and South University—all institutions with checkered histories of student outcomes, loan defaults, and regulatory scrutiny.

As previously reported by The Higher Education Inquirer, EDDY—originally known as Halyard Education—has been under ethical clouds for more than a decade. The company funneled leads to shuttered schools like Corinthian Colleges, ITT Technical Institute, and Virginia College, all of which collapsed under regulatory and legal pressure for defrauding students.

EDDY has expanded by acquiring other dubious operations. In 2019 and 2020, it bought up assets from Thruline and QuinStreet, the latter of which had been prosecuted by 20 state attorneys general in 2012 for deceiving military veterans through a phony education site, GIBill.com.

At least one source has linked EDDY to Alec Defrawi, a lead generator sued by the Federal Trade Commission in 2016 for job-application bait-and-switch tactics. Defrawi collected data from people seeking jobs, then sold it to education marketers who aggressively pitched them school enrollment instead. While the FTC complaint didn’t name EDDY directly, a public comment on the FTC’s site suggests a relationship between Defrawi and Halyard/EducationDynamics.

The 2025 Workforce Machine: Exploiting the Exploited

New accounts from Glassdoor and Indeed, along with internal conversations with former employees, show that EDDY's call centers in Boca Raton, Florida and Lenexa, Kansas continue to engage in bait-and-switch tactics. People looking for jobs are redirected to enrollment pitches for schools—many of which offer low graduation rates, high debt burdens, and little return on investment.

The call centers are described as toxic, high-pressure environments, where workers are paid $10 an hour, offered no real commission, and are charged up to $225 per day from their commission pool just to keep their jobs. According to workers, “good leads” are reserved for long-timers and favorites, while new and lower-ranked workers are left dialing disconnected numbers or harassing desperate job seekers.

“They want you to do a lot for $10 an hour,” said one former employee. “They’ll micromanage everything, and if you speak up about the shady stuff, you get punished or iced out.”

Former employees describe being instructed to use aliases and different company names to avoid regulatory detection and consumer suspicion. Others say they were explicitly told not to submit job applications that consumers had filled out, so they could be redirected toward school enrollments instead.

The Kansas location appears to mirror many of the Florida call center's tactics. One sales associate in Lenexa noted they were “getting shady and uninterested leads” and claimed that management was fully aware of the source and quality of these leads.

A Rigged System, Disguised as Opportunity

EDDY hides behind slick language and upbeat metrics, claiming to help students “adapt to the changing needs of today.” But the company’s model thrives on a population of vulnerable, low-income Americans—people simply looking for a job—who are rerouted into student loan debt for education they didn’t want or need.

Meanwhile, the people doing this marketing—call center employees—are also trapped. Lured in with promises of stability and advancement, they find a micromanaged workplace with no real raises, little upward mobility, and workplace retaliation for dissent.

The Better Business Bureau (BBB) gives EducationDynamics an A+ rating, which seems absurd given the overwhelming volume of worker testimonies and student complaints. It’s a glaring example of how the education marketing sector continues to operate with minimal oversight, even as its practices echo the discredited tactics of predatory for-profit colleges from the 2000s and 2010s.

The Bigger Picture

The collapse of Corinthian Colleges and ITT Tech was supposed to signal the end of an era. But EducationDynamics proves that the infrastructure of exploitation never disappeared—it simply rebranded, consolidated, and evolved. Today, it masquerades as a data-driven enrollment consultancy helping colleges grow, while quietly fueling the same pipeline of debt and despair for working-class Americans seeking stability.

Colleges desperate for enrollments, workers desperate for jobs, and the education marketing complex that profits from both—that is the dangerous triangle in which EDDY operates.

Final Thoughts

EDDY’s reported 47% enrollment growth comes with a heavy cost: false hopes, student debt, and labor exploitation. As the higher ed crisis deepens and more colleges seek lifelines, it’s imperative that watchdogs, regulators, and journalists remain vigilant about who’s behind the scenes pulling the strings.

EducationDynamics is not just a marketing firm. It is a relic of the for-profit college era—one that never really ended.

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If you've worked for EducationDynamics or were misled by their marketing, the Higher Education Inquirer wants to hear from you. Contact us confidentially at gmcghee@aya.yale.edu.

Juneteenth in New Jersey: The Complicity of Higher Education in Slavery

New Jersey’s legacy as a “slave state of the North” is often overlooked, especially in the sanitized histories of its most prestigious universities. Yet a closer examination reveals that the state’s institutions of higher education—particularly Princeton University and Rutgers University—were not only complicit in slavery, but were active beneficiaries of racial exploitation. Their histories are deeply intertwined with a system that built wealth and social power through the bondage of Black people.

This article is based on the findings of For Such a Time as This: The Nowness of Reparations for Black People in New Jersey, a landmark report from the New Jersey Reparations Council. The report is an urgent call for transformative change through reparative justice. It draws a direct throughline from New Jersey’s foundational embrace of slavery, through its Jim Crow era and more recent forms of structural racism, to today’s reality of “Two New Jerseys”—one Black, one white, separated by a staggering $643,000 racial wealth gap between median Black and white family wealth.

Princeton University: Built by the Enslaved, for the Elite

Founded in 1746 as the College of New Jersey, Princeton University’s early leadership reads like a roll call of slaveholders. Nine of its first presidents enslaved Black people. At least five brought enslaved individuals to live and labor on campus—including Aaron Burr Sr., who in 1756 purchased a man named Caesar to work in the newly built President’s House. Another, John Witherspoon, signer of the Declaration of Independence and president from 1768 to 1794, kept two people in bondage and spoke out against emancipation, claiming that freeing enslaved people would bring “ruin.”

Financially and culturally, Princeton thrived on slavery. Many of its trustees, donors, and faculty enriched themselves through plantation economies and the transatlantic slave trade. Historian Craig Steven Wilder has shown that the university’s enrollment strategy was deliberately skewed toward elite southern families who owned enslaved people. From 1768 to 1794, the proportion of southern students doubled, while the number of students from New Jersey declined. Princeton became a finishing school for the sons of America’s racial aristocracy.

Slavery was not just in the background—it was present in the daily life of the institution. Enslaved Black people worked in kitchens, cleaned dormitories, and served food at official university events. Human beings were bought and sold in full view of Nassau Hall. These men and women, their names often lost to history, were the invisible labor force that built the foundation for one of the wealthiest universities in the world.

The results of this complicity are measurable. Princeton graduates shaped the American Republic—including President James Madison, three U.S. Supreme Court justices, 13 governors, 20 senators, and 23 congressmen. Many of them carried forward the ideologies of white supremacy and anti-Black violence they absorbed in their youth.

Rutgers University: Queen’s College and the Profits of Enslavement

Rutgers University, originally established as Queen’s College in 1766, shares a similarly grim legacy. The college’s early survival depended on donations and labor directly tied to slavery. Prominent among its early trustees was Philip Livingston, a signer of the Declaration of Independence who made his fortune by trading enslaved people and operating Caribbean plantations.

Enslaved labor helped build Rutgers, too. A man named Will, enslaved by the family of a college trustee, is among the few individuals whose name has survived. His work helped construct the early physical campus, though his story, like so many others, is only briefly mentioned in account books and correspondence.

The intellectual environment of Queen’s College mirrored the dominant racial attitudes of the time. While some students and faculty opposed slavery, their voices were overwhelmed by an institution that upheld the social, political, and economic status quo. Rutgers, like Princeton, prepared white elites to rule a society built on racial exclusion.

Toward Reparative Justice

The For Such a Time as This report from the New Jersey Reparations Council underscores that the legacy of slavery is not a relic of the past—it is embedded in the material realities of today. New Jersey’s racial wealth gap—$643,000 between Black and white families—is not accidental. It is the result of centuries of dispossession, disinvestment, and discrimination.

The state’s leading universities played a formative role in that history. Acknowledgment of this fact is only a first step. True reckoning means meaningful reparative action. It means directing resources and power toward the communities that have been systematically denied them. It means funding education, housing, healthcare, and business development in Black communities, and making structural changes to how wealth and opportunity are distributed.

Princeton and Rutgers are not just relics of the past; they are major economic and political actors in the present. As institutions with billion-dollar endowments and vast influence, they have both the means and the moral obligation to contribute to a just future.

The question now is whether they will answer the call. 

Trump, Hegseth, and the Bombing of Iran: Taking the Bait at America’s Peril

The sudden arrival of the U.S. Air Force's E-4B “Doomsday Plane” at Joint Base Andrews this week has reignited fears of impending military escalation in the Middle East. As speculation swirls online and among defense analysts, President Donald Trump and his Fox News consigliere Pete Hegseth appear to be inching dangerously close to embracing a war plan that plays into the hands of both their domestic political ambitions and the geopolitical strategies of their adversaries.

The E-4B, also known as “Nightwatch,” is no ordinary aircraft. Built to survive a nuclear attack, maintain satellite command and control in the event of total ground disruption, and oversee the execution of emergency war orders, its presence near Washington, D.C. signals something far more than routine military procedure. The use of a rare callsign—"ORDER01"—instead of the standard "ORDER6" only stokes the sense that we are on the brink of another catastrophic foreign policy decision.

This show of force comes amid rising tensions with Iran, exacerbated by ongoing Israeli aggression and increased Iranian defiance. But rather than de-escalate or seek diplomatic offramps, Trump and Hegseth—cheered on by neoconservative holdovers and MAGA populists—seem eager to provoke or retaliate with military might.

Political Theater with Global Consequences

The specter of bombing Iran isn’t just about foreign policy—it’s political theater. In the lead-up to a contentious election cycle, Trump is once again playing the wartime president, wielding fear and nationalism to consolidate support. For Hegseth, a veteran turned right-wing media figure, the promise of patriotic glory and "restoring American strength" makes for good ratings and even better branding. Both men are using the possibility of war as a campaign tool—recklessly gambling with global stability.

Yet the U.S. has nothing to gain from an expanded conflict with Iran. If anything, such an act plays directly into the strategic interests of hardliners in Tehran and Tel Aviv alike. For Iran’s theocratic regime, American aggression would bolster internal solidarity and justify further authoritarian crackdowns. For Israel’s leadership, it would secure unwavering U.S. allegiance in their own campaign of regional dominance. For both, American bombs would mean the end of diplomatic ambiguity.

Higher Education and the Fog of War

War is also profitable—for defense contractors, media networks, and privatized universities that specialize in churning out online degrees in homeland security and intelligence studies. Institutions like the Liberty University, whose ads routinely appear alongside war reporting, are the educational arm of the war economy, training an underpaid, precariously employed labor force in service of endless conflict. These for-profit institutions have long aligned themselves with militarism, offering “education benefits” that function as recruitment tools for the armed forces.

Meanwhile, real intellectual inquiry is under siege. Faculty who question U.S. foreign policy—particularly in the Middle East—face surveillance, harassment, and cancellation. Dissenting students are monitored. Grants for critical research dry up, while think tanks funded by the arms industry flourish. Universities become staging grounds for ideological conformity, not bastions of free thought.

Taking the Bait

Trump and Hegseth are being lured into a trap—one that benefits the very global elites they claim to oppose. Escalating with Iran serves the military-industrial complex, shores up Israeli hardliners, and consolidates state power under the guise of national emergency. At home, it means more surveillance, more censorship, and more austerity for working families already reeling from inflation and housing insecurity.

In the end, the cost of war will not be borne by Trump or Hegseth. It will be borne by low-income soldiers, the people of Iran, and the students who forgo education for military service. It will be paid for by cutting healthcare, housing, and higher education. And it will hollow out American democracy, all while propping up the illusion of strength.

This is not leadership. This is entrapment. And it’s time we said so—loudly, before the next bombs drop.

The Rise of Joe Rogan, AI, and Distrust: What It Means for Traditional Journalism and Higher Education

The media landscape in the United States continues to shift rapidly, with significant implications not only for journalism but also for education, politics, and civic engagement. A recent Reuters Institute Digital News Report reveals a dramatic change in how Americans—especially younger citizens—consume news. For the first time, more Americans reported getting their news from social and video networks than from traditional television and news websites or apps. In the post-inauguration week of January 2025, this milestone marked a sobering moment for legacy media and higher education institutions tied to conventional notions of media literacy and journalistic integrity.

One of the most visible signs of this transformation is the prominence of podcasters and online influencers such as Joe Rogan, whose reach now rivals—and often surpasses—that of network anchors and seasoned reporters. According to the report, one in five Americans encountered news or commentary from Rogan during the week after the presidential inauguration. Other influential figures included Tucker Carlson, Candace Owens, Megyn Kelly, Ben Shapiro, and Brian Tyler Cohen—names that draw significant loyalty from ideological audiences but also raise concerns about bias, misinformation, and the growing power of personality-driven content.

The influence of these creators extends beyond simple popularity. As Nic Newman of the Reuters Institute noted, they attract demographics that traditional media often fail to reach—particularly young men, conservative audiences, and those with low trust in what they see as a "liberal elite" mainstream press. This trend has a direct bearing on the mission and structure of American higher education, which has historically aligned itself with liberal democratic norms, academic rigor, and journalistic objectivity.

While university journalism programs and public radio stations have long been the training grounds for reporters, the new wave of content creators is largely self-taught, algorithm-amplified, and commercially successful—often without journalistic credentials or institutional backing. The implications for higher ed are profound: students may no longer see value in traditional journalism degrees or media studies if alternative paths offer greater visibility and profitability. This further challenges colleges and universities already struggling with enrollment declines, public distrust, and questions about ideological bias.

Another significant development is the role of artificial intelligence in news consumption. The report found that 15% of those under 25 now rely on AI chatbots and interfaces like ChatGPT, Google Gemini, and Meta AI for news weekly. While AI can provide quick and customized information, it also raises concerns about the decline of direct traffic to publisher websites, the risk of disinformation, and the erosion of context and investigative depth that traditional outlets once provided.

Meanwhile, over 70% of Americans expressed concern about their ability to discern truth from falsehood online. Despite—or perhaps because of—the abundance of content, trust in the news remains at a stagnant 40% across global markets. In the U.S., politicians are viewed as the leading source of false or misleading information, followed closely by online influencers. This environment has created a digital Wild West in which news, propaganda, entertainment, and advertising are increasingly indistinguishable.

Social media platform X (formerly Twitter) has also seen a resurgence as a news source, particularly among right-leaning users and young men. Twenty-three percent of Americans now use X for news, a jump of 8 percentage points from last year. In contrast, platforms like Threads, Bluesky, and Mastodon have failed to gain similar traction.

The implications for higher education go beyond media studies departments. Civic literacy, critical thinking, and democratic engagement are all at risk when information is consumed without vetting or context. Universities and public educators must now grapple with how to teach digital literacy in an age where the loudest voices—and not the most factual—command attention.

At the same time, institutions must reflect on their own roles in this shift. The traditional media’s alignment with elite academic and political cultures has alienated large segments of the population, especially those who feel economically or culturally marginalized. The rise of Rogan and others is as much a symptom of that alienation as it is a media phenomenon.

For the Higher Education Inquirer, the message is clear: if truth still matters, then new strategies for reaching the public—especially younger generations—must be developed. That means embracing new technologies without surrendering to them, and fostering independent, investigative voices that hold power accountable, wherever it resides.

The old media model is collapsing. But the need for trustworthy information, critical analysis, and bold reporting has never been more urgent.

Young Graduates Face Rising Unemployment Amidst Neoliberal Pressures and Elite Narratives

A recent Fortune article by Eleanor Pringle, highlighting the alarming rise in unemployment among recent college graduates, underscores a growing crisis that institutions of higher education can no longer afford to ignore. With the jobless rate for bachelor’s degree holders spiking to 6.1%—and even higher for those with advanced degrees or some college but no degree—this trend is more than a post-pandemic ripple. It’s a signal that the college-to-career pipeline is faltering, especially for Gen Z.

But while the numbers tell one story, the public narrative is increasingly shaped by powerful voices in American business—voices like JPMorgan Chase CEO Jamie Dimon, Home Depot’s Ted Decker, and Walmart U.S. CEO John Furner. These executives have become some of the most visible champions of “skills over degrees,” calling for a shift in focus from academic credentials to job readiness and alternative career paths.

We would do well, however, to approach their arguments with caution.

Elite Narratives in a Neoliberal Economy

Dimon, Decker, and Furner are not wrong to critique a higher education system that too often overpromises and underdelivers. They are correct to point out that the U.S. has neglected non-degree pathways and vocational training. But their critiques also reflect a broader neoliberal ideology—one that places the burden of employability on the individual while absolving employers and policymakers of structural responsibility.

In this framework, it's not the economy that fails young graduates—it's graduates who fail to align themselves with market demands. It's not corporations underinvesting in training or offering substandard wages—it's colleges miseducating and students mischoosing. These narratives, while seductive in their simplicity, risk obscuring deeper systemic issues: wage stagnation, job precarity, labor casualization, and the erosion of worker protections.

Dimon’s call to “measure schools by whether students get jobs” is emblematic of this thinking. It reduces education to a transaction and a worker pipeline—ignoring the broader civic, intellectual, and ethical missions of higher learning. Meanwhile, companies like JPMorgan, Home Depot, and Walmart have long histories of low-wage employment and union resistance. Their newfound concern for youth opportunity must be understood in the context of maintaining control over the terms of labor.

A System Out of Sync

Still, the data is troubling. Young graduates are struggling, and even those who find work are often underemployed—working jobs that do not require their degrees and offer limited upward mobility. The system, as it currently functions, is out of sync with both the labor market and student expectations.

But if college is failing to deliver secure employment, it’s not because education has too many ideals. It’s because the broader economy has too few guarantees. Young workers are increasingly caught in a no-win situation: Take on crushing student debt to chase credentials that may not yield career security—or forgo college and risk being excluded from many white-collar opportunities altogether.

A Different Conversation

The calls from corporate elites to “rethink” college are not entirely misplaced—but they are incomplete and self-serving. We must instead ask: What kind of economy do we want for young people? One where education is a public good and decent work is a right? Or one where economic survival hinges on which company-approved credential a person has managed to obtain?

Policymakers, educators, and advocates must seize this moment to widen the conversation. We need expanded public investment in both college and non-college pathways. We need labor reforms that strengthen worker protections and bargaining power. And we need to challenge the idea that economic justice can be achieved solely through personal skill acquisition.

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Stay with the Higher Education Inquirer for ongoing analysis of higher education, labor, and the evolving American economy.

Tech Titans, Ideologues, and the Future of American Higher Education

American higher education is under pressure from within and without—squeezed by financial strain, declining enrollment, political hostility, and technological disruption. But the greatest challenge may be coming from a group of powerful outsiders—figures with deep influence in politics, technology, and media—who are actively reshaping how education is perceived, delivered, and valued. Among them: Donald Trump, Elon Musk, Peter Thiel, Sam Altman, Alex Karp, and Charlie Kirk. Each brings a different ideology and strategy, but their combined influence represents an existential threat to traditional colleges and universities.

Donald Trump’s second rise to power has included a full-spectrum attack on elite and public institutions of higher learning. From threats to strip funding from schools that promote diversity, equity, and inclusion, to freezing billions in research grants at elite institutions like Harvard, Trump has positioned universities as enemies in a broader cultural and political war. His proposed education policy emphasizes trade schools and short-term credentials over liberal arts and research, while his administration has floated revoking accreditation from institutions that resist his agenda. Rather than investing in public education, the Trump agenda calls for punishment, privatization, and obedience. And for institutions that don’t comply, there are growing threats of taxation, defunding, and public humiliation.

Elon Musk is undermining higher education in a different way. Musk has openly mocked the need for college degrees, suggesting that “you can learn anything online for free.” While that’s partly rhetoric, it’s also a blueprint for disruption. His experimental school Astra Nova already offers a glimpse into a post-institutional future—one that favors creative, independent thinking over traditional credentialing. Now, with plans to launch the Texas Institute of Technology & Science, Musk is betting that elite training can happen outside the bounds of accreditation and federal oversight. Musk’s future is technocratic and libertarian, with universities seen as bloated, slow-moving, and culturally out of touch.

Peter Thiel’s vision is even more radical. Thiel has compared American higher education to the Catholic Church before the Reformation—rich, corrupt, and intellectually bankrupt. His Thiel Fellowship pays young people to skip college entirely, offering $100,000 to start companies instead of accumulating debt. He argues that universities reward conformity and delay adulthood. For Thiel, colleges don’t just fail to prepare students—they actively mislead them. His endgame is a decentralized, market-driven system in which talent rises through initiative and capital, not credentials.

Sam Altman, CEO of OpenAI, presents yet another threat—this time from artificial intelligence. Altman doesn’t reject learning, but he does question the institutions that monopolize it. With tools like ChatGPT and future AI tutors, Altman envisions personalized, real-time learning for everyone, everywhere. In this model, universities risk becoming obsolete—not because they are wrong, but because they are too slow and too expensive. Altman has also pushed universities to take a more active role in shaping AI policy; if they don’t, the tech industry will do it for them. The message is clear: adapt or be replaced.

Alex Karp, CEO of Palantir, is building a new kind of corporate university. Through programs like the Palantir Meritocracy Fellowship and “Semester at Palantir,” Karp is recruiting students directly out of elite schools—particularly those disillusioned by what he sees as anti-Israel sentiment or campus censorship. These programs offer practical, high-paid experience that bypasses traditional academic pathways. Karp’s vision doesn’t require the elimination of universities—it just renders them unnecessary for the most competitive jobs in tech and intelligence. His model suggests a future in which corporations, not universities, decide who is qualified.

Charlie Kirk, founder of Turning Point USA, has weaponized the culture war to delegitimize higher education entirely. Kirk’s brand of activism portrays universities as corrupt, anti-American indoctrination centers. Through social media campaigns, donor networks, and student chapters, he has built an infrastructure of resistance against academic institutions. His goal isn’t reform—it’s replacement. Through efforts like the Freedom College Alliance, Kirk is helping to build a parallel educational system rooted in conservative Christian values, classical curricula, and ideological purity. In Kirk’s world, higher education isn’t broken—it’s the enemy.

Together, these six men are shaping a new, fragmented future for American education. Some want to burn it down. Some want to replace it. Some want to privatize it or profit from its collapse. What they share is a conviction that traditional universities no longer serve their intended purpose—and that a new model, rooted in tech, politics, or religion, must take its place.

This isn’t a theoretical debate. Universities are already responding—cutting liberal arts programs, racing to implement AI tools, rebranding themselves as career accelerators, and seeking favor with donors who increasingly resemble these disruptive outsiders. For those who resist, the future may include not just funding cuts, but political investigations, lawsuits, and public smear campaigns.

Higher education faces a stark choice. It can double down on its public mission—defending critical thinking, civic engagement, and social mobility—or it can retreat into elite credentialing and survival mode. What it cannot do is ignore the forces gathering at its gates. These forces are rich, powerful, ideologically driven—and they are not waiting for permission to remake the system.

Fintech’s Student Loan Empire in the Age of Trump

As the second Trump administration wages war on the Department of Education, disbands regulatory protections, and openly courts billionaires over borrowers, another machine continues humming in the background—one that rarely makes headlines but stands to profit from the coming deluge of student loan defaults.

Enter Credible, LendKey, Purefy, and Splash Financial—a quartet of fintech firms with shiny websites, soothing interfaces, and predatory precision. Together, they represent a new face of student debt capitalism, where algorithms replace accountability and refinancing replaces relief.

With federal repayment programs in disarray and income-driven repayment options under political attack, these platforms are poised to scoop up disoriented borrowers, offering them lower rates in exchange for their last shred of protection. In this era, fintech isn’t just a workaround to broken federal systems. It’s a weaponized mechanism of privatization, hiding in plain sight.

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Credible: Fox News Meets Finance

Credible, a loan comparison site launched in 2012 and bought by Fox Corporation for $265 million, exemplifies the corporate convergence of media, politics, and predatory finance. Its business model is simple: steer borrowers to private lenders and collect a fee.

What makes Credible especially dangerous now is its backing by Rupert Murdoch’s empire, giving it privileged placement across conservative media. In the Trump era, where truth and financial ethics are negotiable, Credible becomes part of the machinery: a platform peddling student loan refinancing under the banner of “freedom” and “individual responsibility.”

Its prequalified offers may seem consumer-friendly, but the reality is more sinister: borrowers lose access to Public Service Loan Forgiveness (PSLF), income-driven repayment, and federal deferment rights—often without full disclosure. And there’s no federal watchdog left with the teeth to stop it.

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LendKey: Privatization via Local Lending

Once hailed as a democratizing force in student lending, LendKey now serves as the gateway for credit unions and small banks to enter the refinancing market. By providing digital infrastructure and loan servicing, LendKey enables even the smallest financial institution to compete in the debt arms race.

But it’s no populist hero. In a Trumpian economy where regulatory oversight is gutted, LendKey helps funnel borrowers from federal protections into private debt with fewer rights and more risk. Its loans are marketed with community-friendly language, but behind the scenes they’re just another piece in a growing puzzle of financialization.

As the default rate ticks up—and it will, with millions unprepared for repayment—LendKey's partner institutions may face waves of delinquency. But LendKey still profits, regardless of whether its borrowers sink.

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Purefy: Elite Refinancing in an Age of Collapse

Purefy, partnered closely with Pentagon Federal Credit Union (PenFed), continues to focus on white-collar borrowers and high-income households. With its niche offerings—like spousal loan refinancing and Parent PLUS buyouts—Purefy doesn’t hide its demographic targets. It’s a platform for the haves—not the have-nots.

Now, in a Trump-led America where debt relief is dead on arrival, Purefy serves as a lifeboat for select borrowers, mostly those with six-figure incomes and perfect credit. For everyone else, there’s no rescue—just rising interest, frozen wages, and default letters.

What’s worse: Purefy’s slick interface masks its private lending alliances, and borrowers often don’t know whether their servicer is PenFed, ELFI, or someone else entirely. Transparency, once a fintech virtue, has eroded into strategic ambiguity.

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Splash Financial: A Fintech Platform for the 1%

Initially built to refinance medical school debt, Splash Financial has expanded into a broader fintech infrastructure role, helping banks and credit unions deploy private loan products under white-label brands. Recently acquired by Nymbus, Splash is less about helping borrowers and more about selling digital weaponry to lenders.

Its target demographic—doctors, dentists, tech professionals—is largely insulated from the coming crash. But as student loan interest rates climb and defaults spike, Splash stands to gain by filtering the "creditworthy" from the desperate, feeding clean data to lenders while offloading risk onto consumers.

In the new political regime, where borrowers are told to “pay what they owe” and compassion is framed as weakness, Splash’s business model looks less like innovation and more like extraction by design.

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The Coming Storm: Defaults and Deregulation

Federal student loan payments have resumed, but millions are behind or confused. The SAVE plan is under legal attack. Forbearance options are shrinking. Servicers are overwhelmed or deliberately opaque. The Biden-era reforms are being dismantled, and debt relief promises are evaporating under Trump’s budget cuts and executive orders.

This is a perfect storm for fintech lenders. As traditional repayment plans implode, desperate borrowers will turn to refinancing offers—many not realizing that by switching to private loans, they’re permanently shutting the door on cancellation, forgiveness, or manageable repayment plans.

In this new default economy, the winners are not educators or students—but platforms like Credible, Purefy, LendKey, and Splash. They won’t bear the burden of broken promises or economic ruin. They’ll take their cut, rinse, and repeat.

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An Engine of Extraction

This is not innovation. It is not disruption. It is digital debt peonage, dressed in Silicon Valley branding and sold as financial freedom.

In the second Trump administration, student loan fintech is flourishing, not in spite of the chaos—but because of it. These companies are the beneficiaries of policy neglect, privatization, and regulatory retreat. They are the corporate middlemen of misery, accelerating the financial collapse of an entire generation.

If there’s a future reckoning for student debt in America, it won’t begin on a campaign trail or in a press conference. It will begin with the simple question: Who profits when borrowers fail?

Why gen-Z men are turning far right and women far left (Money & Macro-Dr. Joeri Schasfoort)

The Higher Education Inquirer’s Dramatic Rise in Viewership

The Higher Education Inquirer has experienced a dramatic surge in readership in recent months, defying the odds in a media ecosystem dominated by corporate influence, algorithmic manipulation, and declining public trust. Without the benefit of advertising dollars, search engine optimization tactics, or institutional backing, the Inquirer has built an expanding audience on the strength of its investigative rigor, academic credibility, and fearless confrontation of power in higher education.

The Inquirer’s success lies in its refusal to chase headlines or appease stakeholders. Instead, it examines the underlying systems that have shaped the American higher education crisis—escalating student debt, the exploitation of adjunct faculty, administrative overreach, the encroachment of private equity, and the weakening of regulatory oversight. Its reporting draws directly from primary source documents: internal university records, SEC filings, FOIA requests, and government data from the U.S. Department of Education, Department of Veterans Affairs, and other public institutions. Readers trust the Higher Education Inquirer not simply because it is independent, but because it is evidence-based and relentlessly honest.

This journalistic integrity has attracted a diverse and influential group of contributors whose work amplifies the publication’s reach and credibility. Among them is David Halperin, an attorney, journalist, and watchdog who has long held the for-profit college industry accountable. Halperin’s sharp investigative writing has helped shape federal policy, inform regulatory action, and expose the inner workings of a powerful, often unregulated sector of higher education.

Other essential contributors include Henry Giroux, whose writing connects neoliberalism, authoritarianism, and education policy; Bryan Alexander, who offers foresight into technological and demographic changes shaping the future of academia; and Michael Hainline, who combines investigative rigor with grassroots activism. Together, these voices reflect a commitment to intellectual diversity grounded in a shared mission: to make sense of a higher education system in crisis, and to imagine alternatives.

HEI's timing could not be more significant. As student loan debt hits historic levels, public confidence in higher education erodes, and international students reassess their futures in the United States, people are seeking answers—and not from the usual pundits or PR firms. They’re turning to sources like the Inquirer that offer clarity, accountability, and a refusal to look away from injustice.

With more than 700 articles and videos in its growing archive, the Inquirer has become a vital resource for researchers, journalists, educators, and activists alike. And unlike many mainstream outlets, it remains open-access, free of paywalls and advertising clutter. It encourages participation from readers through anonymous tips, public commentary, and shared research, building a collaborative community that extends beyond the screen.

Last week, more than 30,000 readers visited the site—a significant number for an independent, ad-free platform. But more than numbers, this growth signals a shift in how people consume and value journalism. It shows that there is a real appetite for media that holds power accountable, that prioritizes substance over spectacle, and that dares to tell the truth even when it’s inconvenient.

The Higher Education Inquirer is not chasing influence—it’s earning it. Through fearless reporting, scholarly insight, and a commitment to justice, it has become a trusted voice in the fight to reclaim higher education as a public good. And with its core group of contributors continuing to inform and inspire, the Inquirer is poised to grow even further, serving as a beacon for those who believe that education—and journalism—should serve the people, not the powerful.

Parental Pushback: Liberal Resistance to Right-Wing Indoctrination in Oklahoma Schools

In the heart of red-state America, a quiet rebellion is taking shape—led not by liberal politicians or university activists, but by parents of K-12 students. In Oklahoma, a growing number of families are fighting back against what they see as an aggressive ideological campaign by far-right leaders to insert misinformation, religious doctrine, and partisan propaganda into public school classrooms.

This resistance is not coming through marches or lawsuits alone, but through the very legal tools that conservatives once championed: parental rights. Families across the state are opting their children out of controversial new social studies standards that they claim distort U.S. history, undermine democratic institutions, and promote Christian nationalism.

Tulsa parent Lauren Parker is among the voices leading this countercharge. “Now that it’s being codified and now that it’s being brought more into the public eye, the liberals have realized that those are our rights too,” she said.

Her main concern: language recently added to Oklahoma’s social studies curriculum that questions the legitimacy of the 2020 presidential election. The standards require students to "identify discrepancies" in the results, echoing discredited claims advanced by Donald Trump and his supporters. These include references to “sudden halting of ballot-counting,” “sudden batch dumps,” and “security risks of mail-in balloting”—all without factual basis, and all now embedded in state-mandated education.

These standards were quietly introduced by State Superintendent Ryan Walters and passed by the Oklahoma State Board of Education, some of whom now claim they were unaware of the changes at the time of the vote. A legal challenge is pending in Oklahoma County District Court, questioning the procedures used to approve the new standards.

The opt-out movement has been fueled by organizations like We’re Oklahoma Education—WOKE—formed as a progressive response to right-wing parent groups like Moms for Liberty. WOKE provides parents with templated letters to exempt their children from lessons that include election misinformation, Biblical teachings, and content produced by conservative media outlets like PragerU and ideologically driven institutions like Hillsdale College and Turning Point USA.

“If you believe parents know best, then that applies to all parents,” said WOKE director Erica Watkins, a mother of two public school students in Jenks. Watkins, who describes her family as non-religious, said she won’t allow her children to be taught about Christian scripture in a public school classroom.

Walters has defended the addition of Biblical content as a way to provide historical context, arguing that the teachings of Jesus and the Bible shaped the country’s founding values. But parents like Parker see it differently: “This isn’t about history and facts. It’s about pushing their faith on us, and that’s unacceptable. It’s un-American.”

WOKE members are extending their efforts beyond classrooms. Their opt-out letters also reject any “interaction” with Walters and reject the use of content linked to partisan or religious agendas. In some districts, including Stillwater and Tulsa, school officials have indicated a willingness to honor these requests while awaiting clearer guidance on how to implement the new standards.

Ironically, the legal protections that parents are now invoking stem from Republican-led legislation designed to protect children from what conservatives labeled as “woke indoctrination.” Now, the same legal framework is being used to resist the imposition of a narrow, ideologically driven curriculum. As Senate Minority Leader Julia Kirt noted, “If we have separate schools for everybody who has different beliefs, we’re going to have some real challenges.”

That challenge isn't just philosophical. The battle for K-12 curriculum is already shaping higher education outcomes. Students trained in a politically skewed version of American history may enter college unprepared for academic rigor, especially in disciplines like political science, history, and journalism. Public universities in red states could increasingly find themselves in conflict with the ideological pressures shaping their incoming student populations. Faculty, already under scrutiny in places like Florida and Texas, may have to navigate a new wave of cultural and political tension on campus.

Meanwhile, the polarization of public education is reinforcing broader national divides—between those who see schools as places of civic development and democratic inquiry, and those who view them as battlegrounds in a culture war.

The resistance in Oklahoma marks a new chapter in that war. It's a reminder that parental rights are not the sole property of any political party—and that misinformation, no matter how it’s packaged, won’t go unchallenged. The pushback from parents like Parker and Watkins reflects a broader struggle for control over public education, truth, and the future of American democracy.

And in this fight, the line between K-12 and higher education grows thinner every day.

How Right-Wing Ideology is Reshaping K–12 Education in Conservative States

In red states across the country, conservative ideology is reshaping K–12 education. Legislatures and governors have used their political power to exert greater control over what children learn in public schools. These changes reflect a broader cultural war playing out in classrooms, as political leaders seek to influence the future of American identity, history, and morality—often at the expense of marginalized students and professional educators.

In Texas, lawmakers have pushed for sweeping restrictions on how race, gender, and history are taught. Laws such as HB 3979 and Senate Bill 3 prohibit teachers from discussing so-called “divisive concepts,” including systemic racism and white privilege. These laws also mandate that educators present controversial historical topics in a “neutral” manner, which critics argue whitewashes the truth and undermines historical accuracy. Meanwhile, efforts by the Texas State Board of Education have promoted materials with religious overtones, such as the optional Bluebonnet Learning curriculum, which includes biblical references and is seen by many as a step toward religious indoctrination in public schools.

In Florida, Governor Ron DeSantis has led an aggressive campaign to root out what he calls “woke ideology” in public education. Florida’s “Stop WOKE Act” prohibits instruction that could make students feel discomfort based on their race or sex, effectively chilling honest discussions about American history and inequality. The state has also expanded the so-called “Don’t Say Gay” law to restrict classroom discussion on gender identity and sexual orientation from kindergarten through high school. At the same time, Florida has approved conservative content from groups like PragerU, a media organization criticized for promoting historical revisionism and partisan propaganda. Book bans and library censorship have surged under the pretext of parental rights, with thousands of titles—often involving LGBTQ characters or themes of racial justice—removed from shelves across the state.

In Oklahoma, State Superintendent Ryan Walters has become a national symbol of Christian nationalist education policy. Under his leadership, Oklahoma has moved to require Bible instruction in classrooms and to place physical copies of the Bible in every public school, a decision halted by the courts but still championed by Walters. The state’s curriculum standards now include directives for students to examine supposed discrepancies in the 2020 presidential election, encouraging distrust in democratic institutions. Walters has also made inflammatory public statements against teachers who discuss racism or gender identity, creating a hostile climate for educators and students alike.

Similar measures have taken hold in other Republican-led states. Arizona, Tennessee, Idaho, and Iowa have passed legislation banning instruction on critical race theory, even in schools where CRT was never part of the curriculum. These laws are often written vaguely, leading to confusion and fear among educators about what is permissible in the classroom. Across these states, teacher resignations are rising, and lawsuits are mounting, as educators refuse to remain silent in the face of increasing state surveillance and ideological control.

The rise of privatization further complicates the picture. Voucher programs and education savings accounts are being promoted under the banner of “school choice,” which critics argue undermines public education by redirecting taxpayer dollars to private and religious schools. In Florida and Texas especially, these efforts coincide with the ideological push to dismantle public trust in public education.

Christian nationalism has become an undercurrent of the new educational movement, with politicians and advocacy groups pushing for prayer in schools, Bible-based curricula, and faith-oriented discipline policies. In some cases, this aligns with efforts to incorporate conservative Christian morality into science education, including the promotion of abstinence-only sex education and skepticism about evolution.

The cumulative effect of these actions is the erosion of academic freedom, the marginalization of LGBTQ and nonwhite students, and the politicization of what should be a fact-based and inclusive educational system. Teachers are under pressure to self-censor. Students are being taught a sanitized, sometimes distorted version of American history. School libraries are being stripped of diverse perspectives. And voters are often unaware of the long-term damage being done in the name of “parental rights” and “traditional values.”

These changes are not merely symbolic. They reflect a fundamental struggle over who controls the narrative of American identity. As right-wing politicians in Texas, Florida, Oklahoma, and other red states reshape K–12 education, they are laying the groundwork for a future electorate steeped in selective memory, limited exposure to diversity, and an education system more responsive to political power than to pedagogy.

This ideological restructuring of K–12 education carries deep and lasting consequences for higher education. Students emerging from these red-state school systems may come to college with significant gaps in knowledge, diminished critical thinking skills, and exposure to misinformation presented as fact. A student who has never been taught about systemic racism, who has been told to question the legitimacy of the 2020 election, or who has grown up fearing open conversations about gender and sexuality, may find the university classroom bewildering—or threatening.

As a result, colleges and universities, particularly public institutions, are seeing increasing polarization in their student bodies. Some students enter ready for open discourse and academic exploration, while others arrive suspicious of professors, defensive about their beliefs, or wholly unprepared for the demands of college-level coursework. Faculty, in turn, face the difficult task of correcting misinformation without triggering political backlash or student grievances rooted in the ideological conditioning of their high school years.

There are broader administrative and cultural consequences. As universities work to build inclusive campuses that serve diverse student populations, they are being accused by conservative lawmakers and media outlets of promoting “woke indoctrination.” Funding for diversity, equity, and inclusion programs is being cut in states like Florida and Texas, as political leaders seek to exert greater control over what happens on college campuses. The message is clear: challenge the narrative, and you risk losing public support and state money.

Meanwhile, teacher shortages—already critical in many parts of the country—are worsening as qualified educators flee repressive school environments. The erosion of K–12 education quality leads to declining college readiness, which in turn affects admissions, retention, and graduation rates. Colleges may have to invest more in remedial programs and rethink traditional academic benchmarks to accommodate students whose schooling was stunted by political interference.

Higher education is also at risk of becoming a battlefield in the next phase of the culture war. As red states seek to bring public universities “in line” with state-approved ideologies, academic freedom and institutional autonomy are increasingly under threat. What begins in elementary classrooms does not stay there—it eventually shapes the electorate, the labor force, and the national discourse.

The right-wing assault on public education is not only a challenge to teachers and students—it is a challenge to democracy and the free exchange of ideas. As the K–12 system becomes a proving ground for ideological control, the mission of higher education as a space for critical inquiry and social mobility is being steadily undermined. What’s at stake is not just what children learn—but whether future generations will be allowed to think freely at all.

Immigrants on the Rise: Social Mobility, Backlash, and the Shifting Landscape of Inequality in America

Since the 1990s, a quiet but powerful transformation has been taking place in the United States—one that speaks volumes about who gets ahead in American society, who gets left behind, and why. Immigrants from countries like Mexico, China, India, Vietnam, the Philippines, El Salvador, and Nigeria have been arriving with a mix of ambition, desperation, and determination. Many have brought with them strong family networks, deep cultural commitments to education and work, and, in some cases, professional or entrepreneurial skills. 

Decades later, many of these immigrants—and increasingly, their U.S.-born children—are outperforming large segments of the American-born population, including Native Americans, African Americans, and poor white communities.

The reasons behind this upward mobility are multifaceted and rooted in global inequality, U.S. immigration policy, and institutional breakdowns at home.

Some groups, particularly immigrants from India, China, and increasingly Vietnam, have entered the U.S. through highly selective pathways such as the H-1B visa or academic routes, often arriving with advanced degrees or technical skills. These immigrants tend to settle in urban centers or near research hubs, where their educational capital can translate into high-paying jobs, business ownership, and access to elite schools. Indian Americans, for example, now have the highest median household income of any racial or ethnic group in the country.

Meanwhile, other immigrants—such as those from El Salvador, Mexico, and parts of West Africa—have taken more difficult paths. Fleeing violence, economic collapse, or environmental crisis, many came with little more than survival in mind. Yet even among these groups, strong kinship networks, informal economies, and a relentless push for education and homeownership have helped many families gain a foothold over time. Salvadoran Americans, often stereotyped as stuck in low-wage work, have quietly built churches, businesses, and extended support systems that span cities like Los Angeles, Houston, and Washington, D.C.

By contrast, large portions of the American-born underclass—especially in deindustrialized towns and marginalized rural communities—have faced a steady erosion of economic opportunity and institutional support. Factory closures, crumbling public schools, the opioid crisis, and stagnant wages have all contributed to a deep sense of betrayal. For these groups, the American Dream no longer feels like a promise. It feels like a cruel bait-and-switch.

Higher education, once a ladder out of poverty, has not kept up. Public colleges are more expensive than ever. Student debt burdens are crushing. And for many first-generation American students from poor communities, the system feels rigged. While some immigrants use education as a springboard, others born into multigenerational poverty are more likely to experience it as a burden with no clear return.

This uneven access to mobility is generating resentment, especially among people who feel they have been “skipped over.” Poor white Americans in Appalachia and the Rust Belt, working-class Black families in segregated urban areas, and Native American communities locked in cycles of poverty see immigrant success not just as another demographic trend—but as a challenge to their own legitimacy as Americans.

The backlash has been growing. It's heard in chants to “close the border,” seen in rising support for nativist candidates, and reflected in policies that seek to block even legal immigration. But the backlash isn’t confined to white conservatives. It is increasingly surfacing among immigrant-descended communities themselves. Some second-generation Americans, especially from East and South Asia and increasingly from Latin American backgrounds, are moving rightward—opposing affirmative action, supporting police crackdowns, and calling for stricter immigration enforcement. The shift often comes with a sense of, “We did it the right way. Why should we pay for others’ mistakes?”

This reconfiguration of the American Dream is reshaping political coalitions and social identities. Success is no longer guaranteed by ancestry or even citizenship, but by one’s ability to adapt to a hyper-competitive global economy. Those who can leverage transnational family ties, accumulate credentials, or build businesses are climbing. Others are stuck in place or falling behind.

As this stratification continues, American higher education finds itself at the center of the divide. For immigrants and their children, a college degree can still be a passport to the middle class. But for too many native-born students, higher ed is a financial gamble—one with poor odds and limited support.

The tensions are real, and they are growing. The idea that immigrant success is somehow a threat to national cohesion is not new. But in this era of heightened inequality and political volatility, it has taken on a sharper edge. Old racial hierarchies are being challenged. Class structures are being reordered. And the question of who belongs—who truly deserves a place in the American story—is more contested than ever.

In this climate, it’s easy to default to zero-sum thinking: that someone else’s gain must mean your loss. But that framing obscures the deeper truth. The real problem is not that immigrants are succeeding. It’s that America’s institutions—especially in education and economic development—have failed to lift everyone else.

Until we confront those failures head-on, resentment will continue to grow. So too will the appeal of false solutions—like closing borders, slashing diversity programs, or blaming “outsiders” for structural collapse. A more honest reckoning would ask: Why are so many American-born communities struggling to survive in the wealthiest country in the world? And why have we come to depend on immigrant determination to sustain what should be shared opportunities?

Immigrant success should not be a threat. It should be a challenge—to build a country where mobility isn't reserved for the newest, the luckiest, or the best-positioned, but is truly available to all.