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Class conflict has always been woven into the fabric of American higher education. The struggle over access, affordability, and control of knowledge production has long pitted economic elites against working-class and middle-class students, faculty, and staff. Since the 1960s, these tensions have only deepened, exacerbated by policy shifts that have served to entrench inequality rather than dismantle it.
The 1960s marked a critical turning point in the political battle over higher education. Ronald Reagan’s war on the University of California system while he was governor set the tone for a broader conservative backlash against public higher education, which had been expanding to accommodate the postwar baby boom and increasing calls for racial and economic justice. Reagan’s attacks on free tuition and student activism foreshadowed decades of policies designed to limit public investment in higher education while encouraging privatization and corporate influence.
Since the 1970s, economic inequality in the US has grown dramatically, and higher education has been both a battleground and a casualty in this ongoing class war. Today, the sector is experiencing a long-running meltdown, with no signs of reversal. The following key issues illustrate the breadth of the crisis:
The promise of higher education as a pathway to economic security has eroded. A growing segment of college graduates, particularly those from working-class backgrounds, find themselves in precarious employment, often saddled with student debt and working jobs that do not require a degree. The rise of the educated underclass reflects a broader trend of economic stratification in the US, where social mobility is increasingly constrained.
Student loan debt has surpassed $1.7 trillion, shackling millions of Americans to a lifetime of financial insecurity. The cost of higher education has skyrocketed, while wages have stagnated, leaving many borrowers unable to pay off their loans. Rather than addressing this crisis with systemic reform, policymakers have largely chosen half-measures and band-aid solutions that fail to address the structural drivers of student debt.
The influx of international students, particularly from wealthy families abroad, has been used as a revenue stream for cash-strapped universities. While diversity in higher education is valuable, the prioritization of full-tuition-paying international students over domestic students, especially those from working-class backgrounds, reflects a troubling shift in university priorities from public good to profit-seeking.
Higher education’s labor crisis is one of its most glaring failures. Over the past several decades, universities have replaced tenured faculty with contingent faculty—adjuncts and lecturers who work for low wages with no job security. This adjunctification has degraded the quality of education while exacerbating economic precarity for instructors, who now make up the majority of faculty positions in the US.
Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives have become a central focus of university policies, yet they often serve as a superficial substitute for genuine racial and economic justice. Originating in part from efforts like those of Ward Connerly in California, DEI programs provide cover for institutions that continue to perpetuate racial and economic inequities, while failing to address core issues such as wealth redistribution, labor rights, and equitable access to higher education.
Public funding for universities has declined, and in its place, privatization has surged. Universities have increasingly outsourced services, partnered with corporations, and relied on private donors and endowments to stay afloat. This shift has transformed higher education into a commodity rather than a public good, further marginalizing low-income students and faculty who cannot compete in a system driven by financial interests.
The rise of online education, fueled by for-profit colleges and Online Program Managers (OPMs), has introduced new layers of exploitation and inequality. While online education promises accessibility, in practice, it has been used to cut costs, lower instructional quality, and extract profits from students—many of whom are left with degrees of questionable value and significant debt.
As economic pressures mount and academic work becomes more precarious, feelings of alienation and anomie have intensified. Students and faculty alike find themselves disconnected from the traditional mission of higher education as a space for critical thought and democratic engagement. The result is a crisis of meaning that extends beyond the university into broader society.
At the other end of the spectrum, elite universities continue to amass enormous endowments, wielding disproportionate influence over higher education policy and urban development. These institutions contribute to gentrification, driving up housing costs in surrounding areas while serving as gatekeepers to elite status. Their governing structures—dominated by trustees from finance, industry, and politics—reflect the interests of the wealthy rather than the needs of students and faculty.
To avoid the full entrenchment of an oligarchic system, those who hold power in higher education must step aside and allow for systemic transformation. This means prioritizing policies that restore public investment in education, dismantle student debt, protect academic labor, and democratize decision-making processes. The fight for a more just and equitable higher education system is inseparable from the broader struggle for democracy itself.
As history has shown, real change will not come from those at the top—it will come from the courageous efforts of students, faculty, and workers who refuse to accept a system built on exploitation and inequality. The time to act is now.
In this so-called Age of Information, we find ourselves plunged into a paradoxical darkness—a time when myth increasingly triumphs over truth, and justice is routinely deformed or deferred. At The Higher Education Inquirer, we call it the Digital Dark Ages.
Despite the unprecedented access to data and connectivity, we’re witnessing a decay in critical thought, a rise in disinformation, and the erosion of institutions once thought to be champions of intellectual rigor. Higher education, far from being immune, is now entangled in this digital storm—none more so than in the rise of robocolleges and the assault on public universities themselves.
The myths of the Digital Dark Ages come packaged as innovation and access. Online education is heralded as the great equalizer—a tool to democratize knowledge and reach underserved students. But as the dust settles, a darker truth emerges: many of these online programs are not centers of enlightenment, but factories of debt and disillusionment. Myth has become a business model.
The fantasy of upward mobility through a flexible online degree masks a grim reality. The students—often working-class professionals juggling jobs and families—become robostudents, herded through algorithmic coursework with minimal human interaction. The faculty, increasingly adjunct or contract-based, become roboworkers, ghosting in and out of online discussion boards, often managing hundreds of students with little support. And behind it all stands the robocollege—a machine optimized not for education, but for profit.
The rapid growth of online-only education has introduced a new breed of institutions: for-profit, non-profit, secular, and religious, all sharing a similar DNA. Among the most prominent are Southern New Hampshire University, Grand Canyon University, Liberty University Online, University of Maryland Global Campus, Purdue University Global, Walden University, Capella University, Colorado Tech, and the rebranded former for-profits now operating under public university names, like University of Phoenix and University of Arizona Global Campus.
These robocolleges promise convenience and career readiness. In practice, they churn out thousands of credentials in fields like education, healthcare, business, and public administration—often leaving behind hundreds of billions of dollars in student loan debt.
The Robocollege Model is defined by:
Automation Over Education
Aggressive Marketing and Recruitment
High Tuition with Low Return
Shallow Curricula and Limited Academic Support
Poor Job Placement and Overburdened Students
These institutions optimize for profit and political protection, not pedagogy. Many align themselves with right-wing agendas, blending Christian nationalism with capitalist pragmatism, while marketing themselves as the moral antidote to “woke” education.
Former President Donald Trump didn’t just attack political rivals—he waged an ideological war against higher education itself. Under his administration and continuing through his influence, the right has cast universities as hotbeds of liberal indoctrination, cultural decay, and bureaucratic excess. Public universities and their faculties have been relentlessly vilified as enemies of “real America.”
Central to Trump’s campaign was the targeting of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives. Executive orders banned federally funded diversity training, and right-wing media amplified the narrative that DEI was a form of “reverse racism” and leftist brainwashing. That playbook has since been adopted by Republican governors and legislatures across the country, leading to:
Defunding DEI Offices: Entire departments dedicated to equity have been dismantled in states like Florida and Texas.
Censorship of Curriculum: Academic freedom is under siege as laws restrict the teaching of race, gender, and American history.
Chilling Effects on Faculty: Scholars of color, queer faculty, and those doing critical theory face retaliation, termination, or self-censorship.
Hostile Campus Environments: Students in marginalized groups are increasingly isolated, unsupported, and surveilled.
This culture war is not simply rhetorical—it’s institutional. It weakens public confidence in higher education, strips protections for vulnerable communities, and drives talent out of teaching and research. It also feeds directly into the robocollege model, which offers a sanitized, uncritical, and commodified version of education to replace the messy, vital work of civic learning and self-reflection.
Today, more than 45 million Americans are trapped in a cycle of student loan debt servitude, collectively owing over $1.7 trillion. Robocolleges have played a central role in inflating this debt by promising career transformation and delivering questionable outcomes.
Debt has become a silent form of social control—disabling an entire generation’s ability to invest, build, or dissent.
Delayed Life Milestones
Psychological Toll
Stalled Economic Mobility
This is not just a personal burden—it is the product of decades of deregulation, privatization, and a bipartisan consensus that treats education as a private good rather than a public right.
Over time, and especially under Trump-aligned officials like Betsy DeVos, the U.S. Department of Education has been hollowed out, repurposed to protect predatory institutions rather than students. Key actions include:
Rolling Back Protections for borrowers defrauded by for-profit colleges.
Weakening Oversight of accreditation and accountability metrics.
Empowering Loan Servicers to act with impunity.
Undermining Public Education in favor of vouchers, charters, and online alternatives.
The result? Robocolleges and their corporate allies are given free rein to exploit. Students are caught in the machinery. And the very institution charged with protecting educational integrity has been turned into a clearinghouse for deregulated profiteering.
This is where we are: in a Digital Dark Age where myths drive markets, and education has become a shell of its democratic promise. But all is not lost.
Resistance lives—in underfunded community colleges, independent media, academic unions, student debt collectives, and grassroots movements that refuse to accept the commodification of learning.
What’s needed now is not another tech “solution” or rebranding campaign. We need a recommitment to education as a public good. That means:
Rebuilding and funding public universities
Protecting academic freedom and DEI efforts
Canceling student debt and regulating private actors
Restoring the Department of Education as a tool for justice
Rethinking accreditation, equity, and access through a democratic lens
Because if we do not act now—if we do not call the Digital Dark Ages by name—we may soon forget what truth, justice, and education ever meant.
If you value this kind of reporting, support independent voices like The Higher Education Inquirer. Share this piece with others fighting to reclaim truth, equity, and public education from the shadows.
In a stirring call to action, more than 100 distinguished former college and university leaders from across the nation have joined PEN America to launch A Pledge to Our Democracy, a unified stand against the growing threats of authoritarianism. Representing every corner of American higher education—from flagship research universities to HBCUs and community colleges—these Champions of Higher Education are rising above politics to defend democratic values, academic freedom, and civic integrity. Backed by PEN America, the Pledge urges Americans to form the broadest possible coalition—students, educators, labor unions, and local leaders alike—to protect the rule of law and ensure the political independence of our institutions. At a time when core liberties are under siege, these seasoned stewards of education are sending a clear message: silence is complicity, and the time to act is now.
The ongoing faculty strike at Wellesley College reveals, in stark terms, the reality of the two-tier faculty system that has come to define much of American higher education. Despite its reputation as a progressive liberal arts institution, Wellesley—like many of its peers—relies heavily on contingent faculty to carry out the core educational mission, while systematically denying them the security and respect afforded to their tenured counterparts.
At Wellesley, non-tenure-track (NTT) faculty make up about 30 percent of the teaching staff but are responsible for teaching 40 percent of the college’s classes. These educators are essential to the functioning of the institution, yet they are paid less, enjoy fewer benefits, and live with little to no job security. Only in January 2024 did they formally unionize, and since May, they have been negotiating what would be their first collective bargaining agreement. The protracted nature of these negotiations—and the college administration’s sluggish response—led to the strike, now stretching into its fourth week.
The strike has exposed the deep fissures between NTT and tenure-track faculty. In response to the disruption, the administration asked tenured professors to take on additional students, offer independent studies, or otherwise fill in for their striking colleagues. No additional compensation was offered. Faculty were given less than 48 hours to decide whether to participate. The move created a moral and professional dilemma: Should tenured faculty support their striking colleagues by refusing to cross the picket line, or should they prioritize the needs of students—particularly those whose immigration status or financial aid depended on maintaining full-time academic standing?
In many ways, this is the real function of the two-tier system. It doesn't just allow institutions to save money by underpaying a significant portion of their teaching workforce. It also creates structural divisions that can be exploited in times of labor unrest. The privileged position of tenured faculty makes them natural pressure points for the administration, able to be guilted or coerced into mitigating the effects of a strike without fundamentally changing the system that caused it.
Driving this system are university presidents and senior administrators who increasingly adopt corporate, anti-labor management styles. These leaders often frame themselves as neutral actors mediating between stakeholders, but their actions tell a different story. In their refusal to negotiate in good faith, their last-minute crisis planning, and their strategic deployment of fear—around students’ financial aid, immigration status, and graduation timelines—they reveal a deep alignment with union-busting tactics more often seen in the private sector. These administrative strategies not only weaken labor solidarity, but also erode the educational environment they claim to protect.
What’s happening at Wellesley is not unique. It mirrors a broader pattern across higher education, where elite institutions rely on the labor of contingent faculty while denying them the protections and prestige of tenure. This isn’t a bug in the system—it is the system. The two-tier model is not about flexibility or innovation, as administrators often claim. It’s about control and cost containment, and when challenged, colleges will invoke crisis—whether financial, academic, or humanitarian—to maintain that control.
In this moment, Wellesley’s administration has positioned tenured faculty as potential strikebreakers, students as bargaining chips, and contingent faculty as expendable. The strike, and the response to it, underscores the urgent need to dismantle the exploitative structures that underpin so many American colleges. Until that happens—and until college presidents are held accountable for anti-labor tactics—students and faculty alike will continue to suffer, not only from instability, but from the erosion of trust and shared purpose in the academic community.
When teachers search for help with lesson plans, parents look for answers on school policies, or researchers dig into the roots of America’s education system, many unknowingly rely on a public treasure: ERIC, the Education Resources Information Center. Behind nearly every meaningful Google result about U.S. education lies this carefully curated public database, an open-access archive of more than 2.1 million education documents funded by the U.S. Department of Education.
But this essential public good—free, accessible, nonpartisan—is now on the chopping block.
Unless something changes in the coming days, ERIC will stop being updated after April 23, marking the end of a 60-year-old institution that has helped educators, researchers, and policymakers base decisions on evidence, not ideology. The shutdown is not the result of budget shortfalls or Congressional gridlock. It’s a deliberate act of sabotage by the Trump administration, hiding behind the bland bureaucratic label of “efficiency.”
ERIC has been a mainstay of U.S. education since the 1960s, originally distributed on microfiche and now operating as a seamless, open-access website used by 14 million people each year. Think of it as the education world’s PubMed—a foundational, publicly funded resource that supports millions of decisions in classrooms and boardrooms alike.
The platform is funded through a five-year contract set to run through 2028. But that contract is now functionally dead thanks to DOGE, the so-called Department of Government Efficiency, a newly created unit within the Trump Department of Education. Though Congress authorized the money, DOGE has refused to release it, effectively forcing ERIC into paralysis.
“After 60 years of gathering hard-to-find education literature and sharing it broadly, the website could stop being updated,” said Erin Pollard Young, the longtime Education Department staffer who oversaw ERIC until she was terminated in a mass layoff of more than 1,300 federal education employees in March.
Let’s be clear: this isn’t just about saving a database. This is about obliterating public access to knowledge—especially knowledge that challenges right-wing narratives about education in America.
This is not an isolated incident. The Trump administration’s hostility toward public institutions, academic research, and intellectual labor has been a central feature of its governance. From banning diversity training to rewriting U.S. history standards, this White House has repeatedly attacked education systems that promote nuance, evidence, or inclusion.
ERIC is now the latest victim in a broader war on independent knowledge. It doesn’t just house peer-reviewed journal articles. It archives what’s known as gray literature—unpublished reports, independent studies, and school district evaluations that are often the only public record of how education really works in practice. These materials often tell inconvenient truths: about inequality, segregation, charter school corruption, and failed policies pushed by corporate reformers.
“Big, important RCTs [randomized controlled trials] are in white papers,” said Pollard Young. “Google and AI can’t replicate what ERIC does.”
But gray literature doesn’t fit neatly into Trumpworld’s political project. It can’t be weaponized into culture war talking points. And perhaps that’s why it’s being buried.
Before being fired, Pollard Young was ordered by DOGE to cut ERIC’s budget nearly in half—from $5.5 million to $2.25 million—a demand she tried to meet, despite knowing the consequences. Forty-five percent of journals would have been removed from the indexing pipeline. The help desk would vanish. Pollard Young herself agreed to take over publisher outreach from contractors to keep the program alive.
Her plan was rejected with a single email in all caps: “THIS IS NOT APPROVED.” Then, silence.
“Without constant curation and updating, so much information will be lost,” she warned. And with her termination, ERIC has no federal steward left.
Make no mistake—ERIC is being suffocated, not because it failed, but because it succeeded too well. It made knowledge available to anyone with an internet connection. And for an administration that thrives on disinformation and division, that’s a threat.
Educators, researchers, and school leaders will lose the most. But the real tragedy is what this means for public education as a democratic institution. When vital information disappears or becomes inaccessible, it opens the door to policy based on myth and ideology, not reality.
“Defunding ERIC would limit public access to critical education research, hindering evidence-based practices and informed policy decisions,” said Gladys Cruz, past president of the AASA, The School Superintendents Association.
The Department of Education responded not with a defense of ERIC, but with a political attack on its parent agency, the Institute of Education Sciences (IES). A spokesperson claimed IES has “failed to effectively fulfill its mandate,” echoing the administration’s now-familiar strategy: discredit the institution, defund it, then destroy it.
Pollard Young, who is still technically on administrative leave, has chosen to speak out, risking retaliation from a vindictive administration to warn the public.
“To me, it is important for the field to know that I am doing everything in my power to save ERIC,” she said. “And also for the country to understand what is happening.”
We should listen.
ERIC is more than a database—it’s a record of our educational history, a safeguard against ignorance, and a tool for building a more equitable future. Killing it isn’t just reckless. It’s ideological.
This is what authoritarianism looks like in the 21st century. Not just book bans and curriculum gag orders, but the slow, quiet erasure of public knowledge—done in the name of “efficiency,” while the lights go out on truth.