| ||||||||||||||||
|
"No Kings" Day of Protest June 14, 2025 across the US. #NoKings. Send tips to Glen McGhee at gmcghee@aya.yale.edu.
| ||||||||||||||||
|
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.
Reforming the U.S. legal profession and improving access to justice is a daunting, nearly impossible challenge. The (in)justice system is increasingly overwhelmed by massive case backlogs and a growing pattern of decisions that disproportionately disadvantage working-class individuals, raising serious concerns about equal access to justice and the erosion of public trust in legal institutions. Despite the pressing need for change, the entrenched interests and structural flaws within the system have created a legal landscape that is resistant to meaningful reform. While there are various proposals for change, they often run headfirst into the vast power of those who benefit from the current system, making true progress an uphill battle.
The UPL laws, which are intended to protect consumers from unqualified legal advice, are often wielded as a weapon to preserve the monopoly that licensed lawyers have on legal services. While reform proposals suggest allowing non-lawyers, such as paralegals, to provide more services or revising enforcement to make it easier for people to access affordable help, these changes face steep opposition. Law firms, bar associations, and the established legal profession are unlikely to willingly give up the control they have over legal services, even if it means denying access to justice for those who cannot afford traditional legal representation. These reforms threaten their profitable business models, and as such, they are fiercely guarded by the very people who would be most affected by their implementation. Any meaningful reform would have to overcome a deeply entrenched system that profits off maintaining high barriers to entry and costly services.
The idea of expanding legal aid or incentivizing pro bono work to improve access to legal services is a noble one, but it does little to address the core issues of systemic inefficiency. Legal aid organizations are underfunded and overburdened, often unable to meet the needs of the most vulnerable. While pro bono work is often lauded as a solution, it is not a reliable or sustainable path forward. Law firms that participate in pro bono work typically do so on their terms, taking on cases that have high visibility or public interest, while the overwhelming majority of low-income individuals continue to be left without adequate representation.
Furthermore, proposals for sliding-scale fees or flat-rate pricing models for legal services are unlikely to disrupt the deeply embedded billable-hour model. Law firms and lawyers are incentivized to keep clients in the system for as long as possible, maximizing profits rather than minimizing the cost of services. Until there is substantial reform to the way legal services are priced and delivered, accessibility will remain a distant dream for those who need it most.
Technological innovation has been touted as a potential solution to the access-to-justice crisis, with companies like LegalZoom and Rocket Lawyer offering affordable alternatives to traditional legal services. However, these platforms, while helpful for basic services, only scratch the surface of the larger problem. They focus on simple tasks like document preparation, leaving individuals with complex legal issues still in the dark. The reality is that these tools often do more to reinforce the current system than to dismantle it.
Moreover, the reliance on technology fails to account for the digital divide. Many low-income individuals, particularly in rural areas, do not have access to the necessary tools or internet connections to utilize these services effectively. In addition, these services still do not provide the level of personalized, professional legal representation that many people require. As such, legal technology remains an inadequate solution to the underlying problems of accessibility and affordability.
The exorbitant cost of law school remains one of the most significant barriers to diversifying the legal profession and addressing the oversupply of lawyers. While proposals to reduce tuition or offer more affordable paths to the profession, such as apprenticeships or clerkships, sound appealing, the reality is that the legal education system is unlikely to change without substantial disruption. Law schools, driven by high tuition fees, have little incentive to lower costs, and the established power structures within the profession work to preserve the current educational model.
Diversity initiatives in law schools, while important, often fail to address the broader issues of accessibility. The overwhelming cost of legal education prevents many individuals from underrepresented communities from entering the profession, despite efforts to provide scholarships and outreach programs. Until the cost of legal education is addressed on a systemic level, any attempts at increasing diversity in the profession will be little more than a Band-Aid solution to a much larger problem.
Anti-SLAPP laws, which protect individuals from frivolous lawsuits aimed at stifling free speech, are essential for ensuring that individuals can criticize powerful interests without fear of retribution. However, these laws are not universally applied, and in many states, they are weak or difficult to enforce. The reality is that powerful corporations and wealthy individuals often use their resources to exploit the legal system, silencing critics with the threat of costly litigation.
The expansion of Anti-SLAPP protections nationwide is an uphill battle, especially given the powerful lobbying interests that benefit from the status quo. Even when such laws exist, they are often undermined by a system that favors the wealthy and the powerful. Stronger enforcement measures are needed to deter the use of lawsuits as a tool for silencing dissent, but the legal system remains far too vulnerable to exploitation by those with the resources to manipulate it.
Advocating for comprehensive legal reforms in the current political climate seems like a futile endeavor. Lawmakers are entrenched in partisan battles, with little interest in tackling the structural problems within the legal profession. While some reforms, such as revising UPL laws or increasing funding for legal aid, might garner some support, the overall political environment makes it exceedingly difficult to achieve anything substantial.
Powerful lobbying groups, including the American Bar Association, hold significant sway over the legislative process, ensuring that any efforts to reform the legal system are watered down or blocked altogether. Those who would benefit from reform—namely, low-income individuals and marginalized communities—have little political power compared to the well-funded entities that protect the status quo.
The idea of encouraging law firms to adopt new business models—such as flat fees or subscription services—has gained some traction, but it faces considerable opposition. Traditional law firms, particularly large ones, rely heavily on billable hours and high fees. The financial incentives built into the legal system make it difficult for firms to move away from these models, even if it means improving access for the public. Any attempts to make legal services more affordable are met with resistance from the industry, which benefits from its highly profitable business model.
Collaborations between law firms and nonprofits to provide legal services to underserved communities are a step in the right direction, but they are often limited in scope. Nonprofit legal organizations are themselves underfunded and overburdened, and the ability of law firms to significantly alter the landscape of legal access is hindered by the systemic forces working against change.
Reforming the legal profession in today’s political climate is a near-impossible task. The systemic issues within the profession—entrenched business models, political polarization, and the deep financial interests that benefit from the current system—make significant reform highly unlikely. Though there are some proposals for change, they often face immense resistance from the very entities that stand to lose from these changes.
While the need for reform is urgent, meaningful change will not come easily. The road to reform is littered with powerful vested interests, both within and outside the legal profession, that will fight tooth and nail to maintain the status quo. Despite the calls for a more accessible, affordable, and equitable legal system, the reality is that, without major disruption, the legal system will continue to serve the interests of the wealthy and powerful, leaving the rest to fend for themselves.
In a system that so often seems to work against the people it is meant to serve, the prospects for true reform remain distant, and the barriers to achieving it are higher than ever. Until the broader political environment shifts to support fundamental change, the legal profession will remain one of the most entrenched, self-serving industries in America.
As housing costs soar and faculty wages stagnate, colleges and universities are turning to a so-called solution: workforce housing. Marketed as a win-win to help recruit and retain middle-income academic workers—those priced out of both subsidized and market-rate housing—this trend has quietly become a major land grab. But behind the rhetoric of affordability and institutional care lies a troubling truth: big banks and universities are partnering to privatize housing and reshape cities in ways that displace vulnerable communities.
According to Tucker Kaufmann of JPMorganChase—one of the largest financial institutions in the world—universities are "well-positioned" to take on this new real estate role. Kaufmann frames this as a shift in mindset: “It’s about getting people to think about it differently.” But we should be asking: who is doing the thinking—and who is left out of the conversation?
Deverian Baldwin, author of In the Shadow of the Ivory Tower, has spent years exposing how higher education institutions act as unregulated city-builders. Far from being benevolent employers or “anchor institutions,” universities often operate more like corporations—accumulating land, avoiding taxes, and driving gentrification under the guise of community development. Workforce housing is just the latest vehicle for this expansion.
Workforce housing is aimed at those earning 60–120% of area median income (AMI)—a group Baldwin might describe as "precarious professionals," squeezed by rising costs but not considered poor enough for traditional subsidies. In theory, this model helps faculty, staff, and grad students live closer to campus. In practice, it creates new market pressures on neighborhoods that are already facing displacement.
In 2022, a third of U.S. renter households were cost-burdened. But instead of addressing root causes—like stagnant wages, predatory lending, or the commodification of housing—universities are stepping in as landlords. With land and capital at their disposal, they can build new developments or purchase existing ones, positioning themselves as the solution to a crisis they help perpetuate.
And let’s be clear: this isn’t just about meeting employee needs. It’s about revenue. Workforce housing offers steady cash flow, and in many cases, universities don’t even pay property taxes on their holdings—leaving cities to foot the bill for infrastructure, schools, and services.
Baldwin’s research underscores a stark reality: universities increasingly behave like corporate developers. Their real estate strategies—cloaked in the language of public service—have devastating consequences for low-income communities, especially Black and brown neighborhoods near urban campuses.
When universities build workforce housing, they often do so on underutilized or “surplus” land. But in cities where land is scarce, that often means expanding into working-class areas. As higher-paid university employees move in, property values rise, rent hikes follow, and long-standing residents are pushed out.
The narrative of “revitalization” ignores the cost to these communities. It also masks the power imbalance: universities operate without public accountability, shielded by their nonprofit status and backed by powerful financial institutions like JPMorganChase. This is not just housing policy—it’s economic displacement, dressed in institutional branding.
Universities claim that workforce housing improves “town-gown” relations and helps them recruit talent. But Baldwin warns that these justifications often hide a more cynical calculus: expand the brand, grow the endowment, and control the neighborhood. Whether through public-private partnerships or nonprofit intermediaries, universities are carving out real estate empires while sidestepping democratic oversight.
Some institutions purchase existing multifamily housing, like a California university-affiliated nonprofit that bought 120 units for faculty. Others build from scratch, such as a New England campus partnering with developers to erect new housing complexes. In both cases, the university gains influence over local housing markets—without bearing the responsibilities of a traditional landlord or civic entity.
These projects are rarely subject to community input. And when they are, the concerns of low-income residents are often sidelined in favor of institutional priorities. Even well-intentioned efforts risk accelerating the very gentrification they claim to mitigate.
To avoid deepening inequality, universities must fundamentally rethink their role—not just as employers, but as power brokers in urban space. That means moving beyond token stakeholder meetings and isolated affordability set-asides. It means asking who gets to live in a neighborhood, and who gets pushed out.
Baldwin argues for stronger oversight, tax reform, and truly democratic planning processes. Universities should be held accountable for the social and economic impacts of their development—especially when public money, land, or resources are involved.
Mixed-income housing, community land trusts, and partnerships with tenant groups are one path forward. But even these must be guided by the principle that housing is a human right—not a recruitment tool or investment strategy.
Workforce housing, at its best, is a patch on a broken system. At its worst, it’s a real estate strategy that deepens inequality while shielding powerful institutions from scrutiny. Universities claim to serve the public good—but when they act like landlords and developers, they erode the very communities they’re supposed to uplift.
As Baldwin reminds us, we must resist the myth of the benevolent university. Institutions of higher education are not neutral actors—they are central players in urban displacement and economic exclusion. If they want to help solve the housing crisis, they must start by relinquishing power, paying their fair share, and prioritizing justice overgrowth.
In recent years, the rise of organizations like Canary Mission has raised serious concerns about the state of free speech, academic freedom, and democracy on American college campuses. Operating under the guise of combating anti-Semitism and extremism, Canary Mission’s tactics and objectives have sparked widespread debate about its impact on campus life and the broader implications for democracy in the U.S.
Founded in 2015, Canary Mission is a controversial online platform that compiles and publishes dossiers on students, professors, and organizations it deems to be associated with anti-Semitism or support for groups like Hamas or Hezbollah. While it claims to be an anti-extremist initiative, critics argue that Canary Mission’s activities are part of a broader, coordinated effort to silence pro-Palestinian voices, suppress critical discourse, and undermine academic freedom.
The organization's name derives from the "canary in the coal mine" metaphor, suggesting that it is warning the public about supposed dangers related to individuals and groups it monitors. But in practice, Canary Mission’s database often targets individuals solely for their political views on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, with no proven ties to terrorism or violence. Students, particularly those involved in pro-Palestinian activism or who criticize Israel’s policies, have found themselves the subject of detailed and often misleading profiles that can haunt their careers.
The impact of Canary Mission is far-reaching: students who appear on the site have reported facing backlash in the form of social ostracism, job discrimination, and even legal action, all because their political activities or beliefs have been highlighted on this platform. Canary Mission’s website claims to provide a “public service” by exposing individuals “advocating for hate,” but its methods often conflate political activism with extremism, which can create an atmosphere of fear and self-censorship within academic circles.
Canary Mission’s funding sources remain somewhat opaque, which raises questions about its backing and potential influence. According to investigative reports and public disclosures, it is widely believed that the organization is funded by a network of right-wing pro-Israel groups, including wealthy donors, philanthropic organizations, and think tanks like the Simon Wiesenthal Center and the Foundation for Defense of Democracies. These connections underscore a broader ideological agenda that aligns with certain political interests, particularly those that aim to stifle critical discussions surrounding Israel’s policies and its occupation of Palestine.
The secrecy surrounding its financial backing and the lack of transparency in its operations have led many to draw parallels between Canary Mission and other shadowy entities designed to police speech and dissent. It appears to operate in the shadows, with little public oversight or accountability. This lack of transparency further erodes trust in its motivations and methods.
At its core, Canary Mission's activities are a direct attack on the fundamental principles of democracy: free speech and the right to dissent. In a healthy democracy, universities serve as incubators for diverse ideas, where students are encouraged to debate and challenge ideas without fear of retribution. However, by tracking and blacklisting individuals who express views about Israel, Palestine, or other sensitive geopolitical issues, Canary Mission is chilling free expression on campuses across the country.
The organization’s efforts to publicly shame individuals who participate in peaceful political activism not only threatens their personal and professional futures but also discourages others from speaking out. In effect, it promotes an atmosphere of fear where students are reluctant to engage in legitimate political discourse out of concern for being targeted.
Moreover, Canary Mission’s activities can create a toxic, polarized environment on campuses. By labeling individuals as extremists based on their political positions rather than their actions or behaviors, the organization fuels division and resentment. This undermines the civil discourse that should thrive in academic settings, where ideas are meant to be debated and critically examined. Instead, it creates an echo chamber that only accepts one viewpoint, forcing out dissent and opposition.
The claim that Canary Mission is a controversial organization that undermines democracy on U.S. campuses can be supported by multiple sources from investigative journalists, academic scholars, and civil rights organizations who have analyzed the organization's activities. Here are a few sources that substantiate the concerns regarding Canary Mission:
The New York Times (2016) – An article titled "A Shadowy Online Group Is Targeting American Students" highlights the growing concerns about Canary Mission's activities and its impact on free speech on campuses. The piece discusses how students, particularly those involved in pro-Palestinian activism, are being targeted and profiled on the platform, leading to career and personal repercussions.
The Electronic Intifada (2016) – This online news platform dedicated to issues surrounding Palestine and Israel published several articles that discuss how Canary Mission disproportionately targets students and activists critical of Israeli policies. The site’s reports argue that the platform acts as an intimidation tool against those who challenge mainstream narratives regarding Israel.
The Center for Constitutional Rights (CCR) – The CCR has expressed concern over the chilling effects Canary Mission has on academic freedom and free speech. They highlight how the organization often labels political activism as extremism, without proper evidence, and argues that it is a form of political repression aimed at silencing certain voices.
The Forward (2018) – A Jewish publication, The Forward ran a story detailing how Canary Mission had led to the harassment and blacklisting of students, and how its methods were drawing criticism from many who saw it as an attack on academic freedom.
Anti-Defamation League (ADL) Reports – While the ADL has supported efforts to combat anti-Semitism, they have also raised concerns about the unintended consequences of organizations like Canary Mission, suggesting that their approach to monitoring student activism can blur the line between legitimate political expression and hate speech.
The Guardian (2017) – A Guardian article explored how Canary Mission's controversial practices affected student life, particularly those involved in the Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions (BDS) movement. The article discusses the potential damage to reputations and careers due to Canary Mission's online blacklist.
The Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) – The SPLC has been vocal about the ways in which Canary Mission’s tactics align with other surveillance programs aimed at quelling dissent. The SPLC has voiced concern about its potential for misusing "extremism" labels to stifle legitimate political views, undermining democracy and the right to free speech.
Canary Mission's efforts to stifle free speech and intimidate those who hold opposing views on sensitive political issues like the Israeli-Palestinian conflict represent a dangerous erosion of democratic values in American higher education. By using fear, intimidation, and a lack of transparency to silence critical voices, it undermines the very foundation of academic freedom and democratic engagement.
Universities should be spaces where open dialogue and differing opinions are encouraged, not spaces where students are targeted for their political beliefs. As the influence of groups like Canary Mission continues to grow, it is imperative that the broader academic community pushes back against these efforts and defends the principles of free speech, democratic engagement, and intellectual diversity. Without these values, our campuses—and our democracy—will be all the poorer for it.