The Worst Bill in History: Trump’s giant budget-busting, Medicaid-shattering, shafting-the-poor-and-working-class, making-the-rich-even richer bill is a travesty. (Robert Reich)

Friends,

One of my objectives in this daily letter is to equip you with the facts you need. As the Senate approaches a vote on Trump’s giant “big beautiful” tax and budget bill, I want to be as clear as possible about it.

First, it will cost a budget-busting $3.3 trillion. According to new estimates by the nonpartisan Congressional Budget Office, the Senate bill would add at least $3.3 trillion to the already out-of-control national debt over a decade. That’s nearly $1 trillion more than the House-passed version.

Second, it will cause 11.8 million Americans to lose their health coverage. The Senate version would result in even deeper cuts in federal support for health insurance, and more Americans losing coverage, than the House version. Federal spending on Medicaid, Medicare, and Obamacare would be reduced by more than $1.1 trillion over that period — with more than $1 trillion of those cuts coming from Medicaid alone.

All told, this will leave 11.8 million more Americans uninsured by 2034.

Third, it will cut food stamps and other nutrition assistance for lower-income Americans. According to the CBO, the legislation will not only cut Medicaid by about 18 percent, it will cut Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (food stamps) by roughly 20 percent. These cuts will constitute the most dramatic reductions in safety net spending in modern U.S. history.

Fourth, it will overwhelmingly benefit the rich and big corporations. The CBO projects that those in the bottom tenth of the income distribution will end up poorer, while the top tenth will be substantially richer.

The bill also makes permanent the business tax cuts from the 2017 legislation, further benefiting the largest corporations.

Finally, it will not help the economy. Trickle-down economics has proven to be a cruel hoax. Over the last 50 years, Congress has passed four major bills that cut taxes: the 1981 Reagan tax cuts; the 2001 and 2003 George W. Bush tax cuts; and the 2017 Trump tax cuts. Each time, the same three arguments were made in favor of the tax cuts: (1) They’d pay for themselves. (2) They’d supercharge economic growth. (3) They’d benefit everyone.

All have been proven wrong. Here’s what in fact happened:

(1) Did the tax cuts pay for themselves?

No. Rather than paying for themselves, the Reagan, Bush, and Trump tax cuts each significantly increased the federal deficit. In total, those tax cuts have added over $10.4 trillion to the federal deficit since 1981 compared to the Congressional Budget Office’s baseline projections.

(2) Did the tax cuts supercharge economic growth, create millions of jobs, and raise wages?

Absolutely not. Rather than growing, the economy shrank after passage of the Reagan tax cuts. And unemployment surged to over 10 percent. Following the enactment of the Bush and Trump tax cuts, the economy did grow a bit, but at rates much lower than their supporters predicted.

(3) Did the tax cuts benefit everyone?

Heavens, no. Rather than benefiting everyone, the savings from the Reagan, Bush, and Trump tax cuts flowed mainly to the richest Americans. The average tax cut for households in the top 1 percent under the Reagan tax cut ($47,147) was 68 times larger than the average tax cut for middle-class households ($695). The Bush tax cut for households in the top 1 percent was 16 times larger than the average tax cut for the middle class. The 2017 Trump tax cut for households in the top 1 percent was 36 times larger than for middle-class households.

Summary: If the bill now being considered by the Senate is enacted, 11.8 million Americans will lose their health insurance, millions will fall into poverty, and the national debt will increase by $3.3 trillion, all to provide a major tax cut mainly to the rich and big corporations. There is no justification for this.

Never before in the history of this nation has such a large redistribution of income been directed upward, for no reason at all. It comes at a time of near-record inequalities of income and wealth.

What you can do: Call your senators and tell them to vote “no” on this calamitous tax and budget bill. Congressional switchboard: (202) 224-3121.

Beyond this, help ensure that senators who vote in favor of this monstrosity are booted out of the Senate as soon as they’re up for reelection.

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Will Maximus and Its Subsidiary AidVantage See Cuts?

Maximus Inc., the parent company of federal student loan servicer Aidvantage, is facing growing financial and existential threats as the Trump administration completes a radical budget proposal that would slash Medicaid by hundreds of billions of dollars and cut the U.S. Department of Education in half. These proposed changes could gut the very federal contracts that have fueled Maximus's revenue and investor confidence over the last two decades. Once seen as a steady player in the outsourcing of public services, Maximus now stands at the edge of a political and technological cliff.

The proposed Trump budget includes a plan to eliminate the Office of Federal Student Aid and transfer the $1.6 trillion federal student loan portfolio to the Small Business Administration. This proposed restructuring would remove Aidvantage and other servicers from their current roles, replacing them with yet-unnamed alternatives. While Maximus has profited enormously from servicing loans through Aidvantage—one of the major federal loan servicers—it is unclear whether the company has any role in this new Trump-led student loan regime. The SBA, which lacks experience managing consumer lending and repayment infrastructure, could subcontract to politically favored firms or simply allow artificial intelligence to replace human collectors altogether.

This possibility is not far-fetched. A 2023 study by Yale Insights explored how AI systems are already outperforming human debt collectors in efficiency, compliance, and scalability. The report examined the growing use of bots to handle borrower communication, account resolution, and payment tracking. These developments could render Maximus’s human-heavy servicing model obsolete. If the federal government shifts toward automated collection, it could bypass Maximus entirely, either through privatized tech-driven firms or through internal platforms that require fewer labor-intensive contracts.

On the health and human services side of the business, Maximus is also exposed. The company has long served as a contractor for Medicaid programs across several states, managing call centers and eligibility support. But with Medicaid facing potentially devastating cuts in the proposed Trump budget, Maximus’s largest and most stable contracts could disappear. The company’s TES-RCM division has already shown signs of unraveling, with anonymous reports suggesting a steep drop-off in clients and the departure of long-time employees. One insider claimed, “Customers are dropping like flies as are longtime employees. Not enough people to do the little work we have.”

Remote Maximus employees are also reporting layoffs and instability, particularly in Iowa, where 34 remote workers were terminated after two decades of contract work on state Medicaid programs. Anxiety is spreading across internal forums and layoff boards, as workers fear they may soon be out of a job in a shrinking and increasingly automated industry. Posts on TheLayoff.com and in investor forums indicate growing unease about the company’s long-term viability, particularly in light of the federal budget priorities now taking shape in Washington.

While Maximus stock (MMS) continues to trade with relative strength and still appears profitable on paper, it is increasingly reliant on government spending that may no longer exist under a Trump administration intent on dismantling large parts of the federal bureaucracy. If student loan servicing is eliminated, transferred, or automated, and Medicaid contracts dry up due to funding cuts, Maximus could lose two of its biggest revenue streams in a matter of months. The company’s contract with the Department of Education, once seen as a long-term asset, may become a political liability in a system being restructured to reward loyalty and reduce regulatory oversight.

The question now is not whether Maximus will be forced to downsize—it already is—but whether it will remain a relevant player in the new federal landscape at all. As artificial intelligence, austerity, and ideological realignment converge, Maximus may be remembered less for its dominance and more for how quickly it became unnecessary.

The Higher Education Inquirer will continue tracking developments affecting federal student loan servicers, government contractors, and the broader collapse of the administrative state.

Birth, Control, and Power: A Quick Look at Right-Wing Reproductive Politics

In the modern United States, reproductive politics reveal stark ideological divides, but both the right and the left have histories rooted in controlling human reproduction—often to serve the interests of power. Whether framed as “pro-natalist” family values or “pro-choice” empowerment, these approaches have frequently masked deeper agendas tied to class, race, and social engineering. As the political center collapses, reproductive ideology continues to play a key role in shaping American society, often with lasting consequences for working-class families and marginalized groups.

Right-Wing Natalism and the Specter of Eugenics

Contemporary right-wing natalist movements promote traditional family structures, religious values, and demographic anxieties. Often rooted in white Christian nationalism, this ideology champions increased birth rates among "desirable" populations—namely white, middle-class families—while condemning abortion, birth control, and non-traditional family arrangements. Political figures like J.D. Vance and media figures such as Tucker Carlson have echoed fears of “population collapse,” blaming feminism and liberalism for declining birthrates.

While overt eugenics is largely discredited, its influence persists. The right has shifted from scientific racism to cultural essentialism, but the underlying message remains: certain populations are seen as more valuable than others. Immigration restrictions, anti-abortion laws, and attacks on trans and queer rights are framed as moral issues but functionally serve to preserve a narrow vision of the American demographic future—white, heterosexual, and Christian.

Natalist rhetoric also intersects with state coercion. In states like Texas and Florida, reproductive restrictions disproportionately affect poor women and women of color, echoing older eugenic practices under a new guise. Mass incarceration, forced sterilization of incarcerated women (as recently as the 2010s in California), and limited access to maternal healthcare all suggest that control—not life—is the central concern.

Overpopulation: A Weaponized Narrative

Since the mid-20th century, overpopulation has been a dominant frame in global discourse. Books like The Population Bomb (1968) by Paul Ehrlich warned of mass starvation and environmental collapse due to unchecked population growth. These fears, while partly grounded in real ecological concerns, often served to justify draconian population control policies, particularly in the Global South.

In the U.S., overpopulation rhetoric was used to rationalize sterilization programs aimed at welfare recipients, disabled people, and communities of color. These efforts were framed as humanitarian or scientific, but they disproportionately targeted those deemed unproductive or undesirable by elites.

Today, overpopulation remains a contentious issue. On the right, it's often reframed as a problem of immigration and "replacement theory"—xenophobic ideas suggesting that white populations are being “outbred” by non-white groups. On the left, it's still tied to environmental collapse, but often without sufficient attention to the vastly unequal consumption patterns between the wealthy and the poor.

For college students, the overpopulation narrative intersects with rising eco-anxiety and economic precarity. Some students are choosing to remain child-free due to fears about climate change, resource scarcity, or financial instability. Yet this “choice” is not made in a vacuum—it is shaped by decades of messaging that human reproduction is a threat to planetary survival, even while corporations and elites continue to pollute without consequence.

The result is a generational bind: students are told to postpone or forgo family life for the greater good, even as they face mounting student debt, poor job prospects, and a degraded public sphere. The message is clear: the future is too bleak, too crowded, too uncertain—and it’s your responsibility not to make it worse.

College Students and the New Reproductive Landscape

College students—especially first-generation, low-income, or minority students—are caught between conflicting reproductive ideologies and economic realities. They are pressured to delay or avoid parenthood in order to complete their degrees, often while facing mounting debt and precarious living conditions.

Student parents—particularly single mothers—face enormous obstacles, from lack of campus childcare to inflexible class schedules and financial aid rules that penalize dependents. The unspoken message: reproduction and higher education are incompatible, unless one is wealthy enough to afford both.

At the same time, some conservative institutions and religious colleges promote pro-natalist ideologies, pressuring students—especially women—to embrace early motherhood and traditional family roles. In both cases, the student’s autonomy is sidelined by institutional agendas: either to create compliant future workers or to produce ideologically aligned citizens.

Public funding cuts, rising tuition, and the gig economy have made the promise of “upward mobility through education” increasingly hollow. For many, the decision to have a child while in college is less about personal freedom than about economic calculation—one shaped by the policies, ideologies, and silences of both the political left and right.

Two Sides of the Same Coin?

While the rhetoric differs—moral purity on the right, liberation on the left—both camps have historically supported forms of population management, often justified through appeals to science, economics, or national interest. Whether through coercive sterilizations or technocratic birth control initiatives, these policies have frequently dehumanized the very people they claim to help.

For the growing educated underclass—trapped between low-wage work and rising debt—the terrain of reproduction is fraught. On one side, there are calls to breed for the nation. On the other, offers of chemical and surgical solutions to economic despair. Neither speaks to the structural problems of inequality, environmental crisis, or a broken social contract.

Beyond Reproduction as Control

A truly humane reproductive politics would begin with material support for families of all kinds—paid parental leave, universal healthcare, free childcare, and the end of punitive welfare systems. It would recognize that real choice requires real power: over time, bodies, labor, education, and futures.

Until then, both right-wing natalism and liberal reproductive policy risk reproducing old hierarchies under new names. They are less about life, liberty, or autonomy—and more about managing who gets to live, and under what conditions.

How the 940-Page Senate Bill Accelerates the College Meltdown

In the midst of economic uncertainty, demographic decline, and ballooning student debt, the U.S. Senate has introduced a 940-page spending and tax reconciliation bill—dubbed by some lawmakers as the “One Big Beautiful Bill Act.” But behind the political branding lies a sweeping blueprint for disinvestment in working-class Americans, especially in higher education. If passed, the bill would not only accelerate the ongoing College Meltdown—it would codify it.

Slashing the Ladder: Pell Grant Restrictions

At the heart of the bill is a deceptively simple change: redefining full-time college attendance from 12 credits per semester to 15 credits. This shift may sound technical, but its consequences are enormous.

According to the Congressional Budget Office and the National Association of Student Financial Aid Administrators (NASFAA), this new definition would result in more than 4.4 million Pell Grant recipients receiving either reduced aid or losing eligibility entirely. An estimated 1.4 million students—mostly community college attendees, part-time students, older learners, and single parents—could lose access to Pell Grants altogether.

In a nation already grappling with declining college enrollments and rising student attrition, these changes will likely push thousands more out of the system and close the door for many before they ever step into a classroom.

Medicaid, SNAP, and the Vanishing Safety Net

Higher education does not exist in a vacuum. The Senate bill proposes more than $930 billion in cuts to Medicaid over the next decade. These cuts come alongside the imposition of work requirements and cost-sharing mandates that will affect millions of low-income Americans—including a significant share of college students.

Many students depend on Medicaid for mental health support, primary care, and prescriptions. Others rely on SNAP to eat. Under the proposed legislation, these essential supports would be stripped from the very students who need them to persist in school.

A 2023 GAO report found that over 30 percent of U.S. college students experience food or housing insecurity. This bill doesn’t just ignore that crisis—it actively worsens it.

Starving Public Colleges

The federal Medicaid cuts would ripple through state budgets, forcing legislatures to make difficult decisions. In many cases, that will mean diverting funds away from public higher education systems.

Already under strain from declining enrollment and years of austerity, public colleges—especially regional universities and community colleges—would face even deeper cuts. The likely result: tuition increases, faculty layoffs, program closures, and the elimination of student services.

In effect, the bill shifts the cost burden of public education from the collective public to individual students and families, reinforcing a model of privatized risk and public abandonment.

Loans Over Grants, Profits Over People

In parallel with Pell Grant restrictions, the bill unwinds critical student loan protections put in place over the last five years. It reverses enhancements to Income-Driven Repayment (IDR) plans and proposes the elimination of Biden-era loan forgiveness programs.

These changes benefit the student loan servicing industry, which stands to profit from lengthened repayment timelines and reduced cancellation pathways. Meanwhile, borrowers—especially those from low-income backgrounds—are pushed deeper into long-term debt peonage.

For a generation already saddled with debt and entering a labor market rife with instability, the Senate bill amounts to a massive wealth transfer upward—from struggling students to banks and servicers.

Enabling the Rise of Robocolleges

The weakening of financial aid and public support creates fertile ground for low-cost, low-quality alternatives: online diploma mills, edtech credential vendors, and "robocolleges" that replace faculty with algorithms.

Without adequate Pell funding or public college access, desperate students will be more likely to fall into the traps of for-profit institutions and unaccredited providers that promise quick credentials—but often deliver worthless degrees and predatory loans.

This shift doesn’t just hurt students. It undermines the quality of the U.S. workforce, degrades academic labor, and cedes the future of education to automation and private equity.

A Future for the Few

Ultimately, the “One Big Beautiful Bill” cements a two-tiered higher education system: elite universities insulated by billion-dollar endowments, and a gutted public sector limping along under austerity, privatization, and surveillance.

It is no coincidence that these policies are being introduced as the population ages, racial and economic inequality deepens, and faith in democratic institutions erodes. Higher education, once framed as a ladder of mobility, is becoming a narrow gangplank—offering escape only to the few who can afford it.

Meltdown Legislation 

The College Meltdown is no longer a slow decline. It’s being legislated into crisis.

If passed, the Senate’s 940-page bill would mark a turning point: a systemic dismantling of the supports that make higher education possible for working-class Americans. From financial aid to public health, from state colleges to community safety nets, the tools of educational access are being hollowed out by design.

And while elite donors and legislators continue to fund their own children's paths to Princeton and Stanford, millions of other Americans will be left out—again.

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Sources:

• NASFAA: Pell Grant Aid Analysis

• Congressional Budget Office (CBO) Medicaid Cut Estimates

• Inside Higher Ed: “Community Colleges Fear Pell Changes”

• GAO Report: “Food and Housing Insecurity Among College Students”

• Brookings Institution: “Cuts to the Social Safety Net and the Future of Higher Education”

Supreme Court Ruling Threatens Healthcare Access for Working-Class College Women

In a landmark ruling on June 26, the U.S. Supreme Court sided with South Carolina in its effort to defund Planned Parenthood by excluding it from the state’s Medicaid program. The Court’s 6-3 decision, issued along ideological lines, has far-reaching consequences that extend well beyond the politics of abortion. At stake is the ability of Medicaid recipients to challenge state actions that restrict access to qualified healthcare providers, and among those most affected are working-class women—particularly those trying to build better futures through higher education.

For millions of low-income students, particularly women attending community colleges, for-profit institutions, and public universities, Medicaid and Planned Parenthood are vital safety nets. These students often juggle full course loads with jobs, caregiving responsibilities, and personal financial struggles. For them, Planned Parenthood has been more than a provider of abortion services. It offers birth control, cancer screenings, STI testing, reproductive counseling, and referrals for other necessary medical care. In many areas, especially in the South and rural regions like South Carolina, Planned Parenthood is one of the few accessible providers that treat Medicaid patients with dignity and without judgment.

The Supreme Court’s ruling removes the legal power of those patients to sue when a state excludes such providers from the Medicaid program, even if those providers are otherwise qualified. In her dissent, Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson wrote that this decision would result in "tangible harm to real people," depriving Medicaid recipients of their only meaningful way to enforce rights Congress granted them. And she’s right. The ruling effectively silences the most vulnerable people in the healthcare system—people who are too poor to pay out of pocket and too marginalized to be heard in political decision-making.

For working-class women in college, this decision could be devastating. When they lose access to affordable reproductive healthcare, their academic goals are put at risk. The ability to plan pregnancies, receive prenatal care, or treat chronic reproductive health issues is foundational to educational persistence and success. Without it, students may drop out due to unplanned pregnancies, untreated health conditions, or overwhelming financial strain. This outcome is particularly likely for women of color, who are already overrepresented in low-income student populations and underrepresented in graduation rates.

The myth that working-class women have “plenty of other options” falls apart under scrutiny. In South Carolina, nearly 40 percent of counties are considered “contraceptive deserts,” areas where access to affordable contraception is limited or nonexistent. While the state claims there are over a hundred other clinics available, many of these lack the staffing, specialization, or welcoming environment of Planned Parenthood. In practice, the choice is not between providers—it’s between care and no care.

Beyond immediate healthcare impacts, the ruling has structural implications for the political economy of both education and health. It reveals how deeply interlinked these systems are, and how the erosion of rights in one domain—healthcare—directly undermines access and equity in another—education. This is not an isolated case. It fits into a broader strategy by right-wing legislators and courts to control reproductive autonomy, silence poor people’s legal recourse, and undermine public systems that serve the working class.

It also exposes the hypocrisy of institutions and corporations that profit from inequality. As this ruling was being issued, ads for Hillsdale College and the University of Phoenix appeared alongside the coverage, promoting liberty and career advancement while healthcare infrastructure for their target demographics crumbles. This is the business model of disaster capitalism—undermine public goods, then monetize the chaos.

The consequences will be real and immediate. A working mother studying to become a nurse or teacher may now have to miss classes or drop out because she cannot get a Pap smear, refill her birth control, or find prenatal care. A young Black student in a Southern community college may now have no place to turn when she needs reproductive health services. A low-income family may be forced into debt to treat a preventable condition that would have been caught in a routine screening at Planned Parenthood. These are not hypothetical scenarios. They are the daily realities of an educated underclass pushed further to the margins.

The Higher Education Inquirer will continue to follow this story as GOP-led states are expected to follow South Carolina’s lead, and as advocacy organizations brace for a long and difficult fight. For now, the Supreme Court’s decision stands as a sobering reminder that health, education, and justice in America remain deeply entangled—and increasingly inaccessible—for those without wealth or political power.

Does higher ed still make sense for students, financially? (Bryan Alexander)

[Editor's note: This article first appeared at BryanAlexander.org.]

Is a college degree still worth it?

The radio program/podcast Marketplace hosted me as a guest last week to speak to the question.  You can listen to it* or read my notes below, or both.  I have one reflection at the end of this post building on one interview question.

One caveat or clarification before I get hate mail: the focus of the show was entirely on higher education’s economics.  We didn’t discuss the non-financial functions of post-secondary schooling because that’s not what the show (called “Marketplace”) is about, nor did we talk about justifying academic study for reasons of personal development, family formation, the public good, etc.  The conversation was devoted strictly to the economic proposition.

The hosts, Kimberly Adams and Reema Khrais, began by asking if higher ed still made financial sense.  Yes, I answered, for a good number of people – but not everyone.  Much depends on your degree and your institution’s reputation.  And I hammered home the problem of some college but no degree.  The hosts asked if that value proposition was declining.  My response: the perception of that value is dropping.  Here I emphasized the reality, and the specter, of student debt, along with anxieties about AI and politics.  Then I added my hypothesis that the “college for all” consensus is breaking up.

Next the hosts asked me what changing (declining) attitudes about higher education mean for campuses.  I responded by outlining the many problems, centered around the financial pressures many schools are under.  I noted Trump’s damages then cited my peak higher education model.  Marketplace asked me to explain the appeal of alternatives to college (the skilled trades, certificates, boot camps, etc), which I did, and then we turned to automation, which I broke up into AI vs robotics, before noting gender differences.

Back to college for all: which narrative succeeds it?  I didn’t have a good, single answer right away.  We touched on a resurgence of vocational technology, then I sang the praises of liberal education.  We also talked about the changing value of different degrees – is the BA the new high school diploma? Is a master’s degree still a good idea?  I cited the move to reduce degree demands from certain fields, as well as the decline of the humanities, the crisis of computer science, and the growing importance of allied health.

After my part ended, Adams and Khrais pondered the role of higher education as a culture war battlefield.  Different populations might respond in varied ways – perhaps adults are more into the culture war issues, and maybe women (already the majority of students) are at greater risk of automation.

So what follows the end of college for all?

If the American consensus that K-12 should prepare every student for college breaks down, if we no longer have a rough agreement that the more post-secondary experience people get, the better, the next phase seems to be… mixed.  Perhaps we’re entering an intermediary phase before a new settlement becomes clear.

One component seems to be a resurgence in the skilled trades, requiring either apprenticeship, a short community college course of study, or on the job training.  Demand is still solid, at least until robotics become reliable and cost-effective in these fields, which doesn’t seem to be happening in at least the short term.  This needs preparation in K-12, and we’re already seeing the most prominent voices calling for a return to secondary school trades training.  There’s a retro dimension to this which might appeal to older folks. (I’ve experienced this in conversations with Boomers and my fellow Gen Xers, as people reminisce about shop class and home ec.)

A second piece of the puzzle would be businesses and the public sector expanding their education functions.  There is already an ecosystem of corporate campuses, online training, chief learning officers, and more; that could simply grow as employers seek to wean employees away from college.

A third might be a greater focus on skills across the board. Employers demand certain skills to a higher degree of clarity, perhaps including measurements for soft skills.  K-12 schools better articulate student skill achievement, possibly through microcredentials and/or expanded (portfolio) certification. Higher education expands its use of prior learning assessment for adult learners and transfer students, while also following or paralleling K-12 in more clearly identifying skills within the curriculum and through outcomes.

A fourth would be greater politicization of higher education.  If America pulls back from college for all, college for some arrives and the question of who gets to go to campus becomes a culture war battlefield.  Already a solid majority of students are women, so we might expect gender politics to intensify, with Republicans and men’s rights activists increasingly calling on male teenagers to skip college while young women view university as an even more appropriate stage of their lives.  Academics might buck 2025’s trends and more clearly proclaim the progressive aims they see postsecondary education fulfilling, joined by progressive politicians and cultural figures.  Popular culture might echo this, with movies/TV shows/songs/bestsellers depicting the academy as either a grim ideological factory turning students into fiery liberals or as a safe place for the flowering of justice and identity.

Connecting these elements makes me recall and imagine stories.  I can envision two teenagers, male and female, talking through their expectations of college. One sees it as mandatory “pink collar” preparation while the other dreads it for that reason.  The former was tracked into academic classes while the latter appreciated maker space time and field trips to work sites. Or we might follow a young man as he enters woodworking and succeeds in that field for years, feeling himself supported in his masculinity and also avoiding student debt, until he decides to return to school after health problems limit his professional abilities.  Perhaps one business sets up a campus and an apprenticeship system which it codes politically, such as claiming a focus on merit and not DEI, on manly virtues and traditional culture. In contrast another firm does the same but without any political coding, instead carefully anchoring everything in measured and certified skill development.

Over all of these options looms the specter of AI, and here the picture is more muddy.  Do “pink collar” jobs persist as alternatives to the experience of chatbots, or do we automate those functions?  Does post-secondary education become mandatory for jobs handling AIs, which I’ve been calling “AI wranglers”?  If automation depresses the labor force, do we come to see college as a gamble on scoring a rare, well paying job?

I’ll stop here.  My thanks to Marketplace for the kind interview on a vital topic.

*My audio quality isn’t the best because I fumbled the recording. Sigh.

The Confidence Crisis: Why Young Workers Are Losing Faith in the Job Market

In May 2025, worker confidence in the U.S. labor market sank to its lowest point in nearly a decade. Glassdoor reports that only 44.1% of employees expressed a positive six-month business outlook, citing mounting economic instability, tariff threats, and rising layoffs. For entry-level workers—the newest entrants into the workforce—the numbers were even worse: just 43.4% expressed confidence, the lowest since Glassdoor began tracking this data in 2016.

These numbers reflect more than just a cyclical downturn—they point to a deeper structural issue at the heart of the U.S. economy and higher education system.

Layoffs Rising, Job Growth Slowing

According to Challenger, Gray & Christmas, U.S.-based employers cut 93,816 jobs in May, a 47% increase over the same month last year. Meanwhile, the U.S. added just 139,000 jobs, down from April’s total of 147,000, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. Despite headlines touting “full employment,” many workers—especially younger ones—see fewer opportunities and reduced mobility.

The Collapse of Upward Mobility

For recent college graduates, the path from education to employment is increasingly blocked. Hiring has slowed across multiple sectors, particularly in roles that were once considered reliable entry points into the professional world. According to Daniel Zhao, lead economist at Glassdoor, “The low hiring environment we’re in right now means it’s hard for young grads to get onto the career ladder in the first place.”

For those who do land jobs, internal advancement has become more difficult. Companies are not promoting or hiring at the same rates as before, and competition has intensified as experienced workers, displaced by layoffs, vie for the same positions.

As Zhao notes, this creates “more bunching at the bottom of the career ladder,” further reducing the chances for advancement. The result is a stagnant and oversaturated early-career labor market that undermines the basic assumption that education leads to mobility.

The Rise of the Educated Underclass

This moment underscores what sociologist Gary Roth has called the emergence of an “educated underclass”—a growing segment of workers with college degrees who find themselves in precarious, low-wage, or unstable employment. The promise that higher education guarantees success in the labor market has unraveled for many, replaced by a cycle of job insecurity, career stagnation, and rising debt.

Colleges and universities continue to promote degree attainment as the key to upward mobility, yet millions of graduates are discovering that the market does not need, or will not absorb, their skills at a level commensurate with their education. What began as a student debt crisis is now a broader economic phenomenon: the creation of a surplus class of credentialed workers whose aspirations exceed the system’s capacity to deliver.

This “educated underclass” is not simply the result of poor individual choices or bad timing—it is a structural outcome of a labor market and education system misaligned with one another and increasingly shaped by financialized logics. As more employers demand degrees for routine work, and as automation and outsourcing reduce the number of stable middle-class jobs, the role of college becomes less about opportunity and more about gatekeeping and economic sorting.

Higher Education’s Complicity

The current crisis also raises hard questions about the higher education industry itself. Institutions have continued to expand enrollment and raise tuition, fueling a multi-trillion-dollar student debt industry, while offering little accountability for post-graduation outcomes. Marketing campaigns still sell the dream of transformation through education—even as graduates enter a labor market defined by instability, underemployment, and diminished returns on investment.

A System in Crisis

The ongoing decline in worker confidence, especially among the young, may signal not just temporary economic anxiety, but a legitimacy crisis for both the labor market and the education system that feeds it. As job cuts increase and growth stagnates, more Americans—especially those carrying degrees and debt—are beginning to question the rules of the game.

At the Higher Education Inquirer, we continue to track the rise of the educated underclass, the erosion of labor market mobility, and the complicity of institutions that have sold debt-financed credentials as a ticket to the middle class. The gap between educational promise and economic reality has become too large to ignore.

Disruption to Power: SoFi’s Ascendance in the Student Loan Industrial Complex

In the shadow of America’s $1.6 trillion student debt crisis, a once-disruptive fintech startup has transformed into a dominant force in the education-finance nexus. SoFi, short for Social Finance, Inc., began in 2011 as a Stanford alumni experiment to refinance student loans for well-off students. Today, it is a publicly traded financial firm with a national bank charter, major marketing campaigns, and increasing influence in Washington, D.C.

SoFi presents itself as a modern financial ally, promising to help borrowers achieve independence and long-term wealth. But beneath its sleek branding lies a business model that benefits most from refinancing the federal student debt of high-earning professionals. This approach has left millions of vulnerable borrowers behind—those who don’t attend elite institutions, who work in low-paying or public-service jobs, or who are first-generation students with higher default risks.

The core of SoFi’s business depends on moving borrowers out of the federal student loan system, where they’re entitled to income-driven repayment plans and possible loan forgiveness. Once these loans are refinanced with SoFi, those protections vanish. Private loans with SoFi offer no forgiveness options, limited hardship forbearance, and terms that shift with the whims of the financial markets. While this may work for doctors and lawyers with stable incomes, it’s a precarious arrangement for most Americans saddled with educational debt.

Over the past few years, SoFi has done more than just expand its loan offerings. It has aggressively stepped into the political arena. In 2023, the company sued the U.S. Department of Education, arguing that the federal student loan payment pause hurt its profits by reducing demand for refinancing. This legal move highlighted SoFi’s priorities and sparked public criticism, especially from borrower advocates who saw the company as putting its bottom line above public relief.

SoFi’s lobbying efforts have expanded alongside its ambitions. As federal policymakers debated student loan forgiveness and payment pause extensions, SoFi worked behind the scenes to influence the outcome in its favor. The company also lobbied to shape regulations around its other financial services, including personal loans, investing products, and even cryptocurrency offerings.

In 2022, SoFi reached a major milestone when it received a national bank charter. This shift allowed the company to operate more like a traditional bank, accepting deposits and issuing loans directly. While this expanded SoFi’s profit potential, it also blurred the lines between the fintech startup it once was and the entrenched financial institutions it claimed to disrupt.

Despite its diversification into broader financial services, student loan refinancing remains a major part of SoFi’s revenue. That core product reflects a broader trend in American higher education: a two-tiered system where financial tools are increasingly tailored to those who are already advantaged. SoFi’s ideal borrower is someone with high credit, high income, and a degree from a prestigious school. Meanwhile, millions of others—disproportionately Black and Latino borrowers, women, first-generation students, and those who left school without graduating—remain stuck in cycles of debt that SoFi has little incentive to address.

While legacy loan servicers like Navient and Nelnet have faced criticism and regulatory scrutiny, newer fintech players like SoFi have largely avoided such attention. With their slick apps, celebrity endorsements, and polished messaging, they appear modern and benevolent. But their growing influence over student lending policy and their efforts to shape federal loan programs raise serious concerns about whose interests they truly serve.

As political debates continue over the future of student debt relief, SoFi is positioning itself to thrive no matter the outcome. Its success tells a larger story about the privatization of higher education finance and the quiet consolidation of power by private firms in what was once seen as a public good.

The Higher Education Inquirer will continue to report on the forces reshaping higher ed finance. In the case of SoFi, the question remains: is this innovation—or exploitation?

The Hidden Crisis of Functional Unemployment in the U.S.: A Wake-Up Call for Higher Education and Policy Leaders

 A recent article by Hugh Cameron in Newsweek brings urgent attention to a labor market crisis that conventional statistics obscure: millions of Americans are “functionally unemployed.” While the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics reports a headline unemployment rate of 4.2 percent, the Ludwig Institute for Shared Economic Prosperity (LISEP) paints a far bleaker picture. 

According to LISEP, 24.3 percent of working-age Americans are either unemployed, underemployed, or trapped in poverty-wage jobs.

True Rate of Unemployment Tells a Different Story

This alternative measurement, known as the True Rate of Unemployment (TRU), includes people who are officially jobless, those seeking full-time work but only finding part-time jobs, and those earning less than a livable income—defined here as $25,000 annually before taxes. Based on that definition, more than 66 million Americans fall under the category of functionally unemployed. These are not edge cases or statistical outliers; they represent a quarter of the working population, living with economic insecurity and eroded opportunities.

The findings challenge the conventional wisdom promoted by policymakers and education leaders, particularly the long-standing belief that higher education is a guaranteed pathway to upward mobility. In reality, the American credential system continues to churn out degrees while failing to deliver economic stability to millions of graduates. Students are told that education is the answer, yet the outcome for many is low-wage or precarious work, often coupled with lifelong debt. The disconnect between academic credentials and actual job quality has become impossible to ignore.

LISEP’s data also reveals significant disparities along racial and gender lines. While 23.6 percent of White Americans are functionally unemployed, that number rises to 26.7 percent for Black Americans and 27.3 percent for Hispanic Americans. The divide is even more striking along gender lines: nearly 30 percent of women fall into this category, compared to 19.3 percent of men. These disparities reflect deep systemic inequities that persist across labor markets and educational access.

Gene Ludwig, chair of LISEP, warned that the stagnation of living-wage employment is pushing working families to the brink. Wages are not keeping pace with inflation, and the jobs being created often don’t pay enough to lift people out of poverty. This is the unspoken backdrop to much of the current political discourse around jobs and education: a structurally flawed economy that leaves millions with few viable options, regardless of their education level or work ethic.

Critics of the TRU metric, including labor economist David Card, argue that the Bureau of Labor Statistics already publishes supplemental indicators that capture underemployment and low wages. But LISEP’s integrated approach offers a broader, more accessible view of economic well-being—one that challenges overly simplistic narratives about a “strong” labor market. Whether or not policymakers embrace the TRU as a primary indicator, the conditions it reveals are real and worsening for many.

Uncomfortable Truths

This data forces higher education to confront uncomfortable truths. If degrees are no longer reliable gateways to decent jobs, what is the purpose of mass credentialing? Why do we continue to promote the college-to-career pipeline when the pipeline increasingly empties into dead-end or unstable work? These are not abstract questions. They strike at the heart of what higher education claims to offer in exchange for rising tuition, student loan debt, and years of sacrifice.

The United States faces a reckoning. LISEP’s report may not change the way official statistics are presented, but it exposes the growing distance between public optimism and private hardship. The challenge now is to ensure that educational institutions, labor advocates, and policymakers move beyond slogans and begin addressing the structural rot beneath the surface of the labor market. That means rethinking the function of education, redefining economic success, and rebuilding an economy where work—and learning—actually pays off.

Karen Kelsky and The Professor Is In — A Lifeline for Academics Navigating a Broken System

In an era when academia feels more like a gauntlet than a pathway to discovery, Karen Kelsky and her business The Professor Is In have become a critical resource for scholars seeking clarity, survival, and agency within the increasingly precarious world of higher education.

Kelsky, a former tenured professor turned consultant, brings both authority and empathy to her work. With hard-won experience from inside the academy and a fearless critique of its toxic structures, she guides graduate students, postdocs, adjuncts, and even early-career faculty through the brutal and often demoralizing job market. Whether through her blog, her popular book, or one-on-one consulting, Kelsky offers practical advice with an edge of realism that many in the field desperately need.

What distinguishes The Professor Is In is its unapologetic honesty. Kelsky does not peddle false hope about a tenure-track system that is shrinking year by year. Instead, she helps clients develop marketable application materials, strategize their careers, and even consider life outside the ivory tower—without shame or illusion. Her business fills a gaping void left by institutions that fail to adequately prepare scholars for the job market they will actually face.

Moreover, Kelsky has used her platform to address systemic abuses in academia, including racism, sexism, and exploitation. Her amplification of the #MeTooPhD movement brought attention to widespread harassment and power imbalances that still pervade graduate education. Her advocacy is not just about individual career advancement—it’s about exposing the rot within the system and pushing for transformation.

For readers of the Higher Education Inquirer, many of whom are concerned with the exploitation of contingent labor, student debt, and the corporatization of universities, Kelsky’s work is both affirming and mobilizing. She names the dysfunction, helps people navigate it, and encourages a broader conversation about what higher education should be.

While The Professor Is In may not be able to fix the systemic failures of academia on its own, Karen Kelsky has carved out a space of support, strategy, and solidarity. For countless academics trying to make sense of a disorienting professional landscape, that space has become indispensable.

McDonald’s Faces National Boycott as Economic Justice Movement Builds Momentum

McDonald’s, the fast-food titan with global reach and billion-dollar profits, is the latest corporate target in an escalating campaign of economic resistance. Starting June 24, grassroots advocacy organization The People's Union USA has called for a weeklong boycott of the chain, citing the need for “corporate accountability, real justice for the working class, and economic fairness.”

Branded the Economic Blackout Tour, the campaign seeks to channel consumer power into political and structural change. According to The People’s Union USA, Americans are urged to avoid not only McDonald’s restaurants but also fast food in general during the June 24–30 protest window. Previous actions have focused on companies like Walmart, Amazon, and Target—corporate behemoths long criticized for their low wages, union-busting tactics, and monopolistic behavior.

John Schwarz, founder of The People’s Union USA, has emerged as a vocal critic of corporate greed. In a recent video statement, Schwarz accused McDonald’s and its peers of dodging taxes and lobbying against wage increases. “Economic resistance is working,” he declared. “They’re feeling it. They’re talking about it.”

The movement is tapping into deep and widespread frustration—fueled by stagnant wages, rising living costs, and mounting corporate profits. While many Americans struggle with student loan debt, inadequate healthcare, and job insecurity, companies like McDonald’s have been accused of shielding their profits offshore and benefiting from political influence in Washington.

This is not the first time McDonald’s has come under fire. The company has faced criticism from labor rights groups for paying low wages, offering unpredictable schedules, and relying heavily on part-time or precarious employment. More recently, pro-Palestinian activists have also launched boycotts, citing alleged ties between McDonald’s franchises and Israeli military actions in Gaza.

As part of the current boycott, The People's Union USA is pushing for a broader shift in spending—away from multinational corporations and toward local businesses and cooperatives. In line with previous actions, the group is also encouraging Americans to cut back on streaming, online shopping, and all fast-food purchases during the boycott period.

With Independence Day on the horizon, Schwarz and his allies are framing the protest as not just economic, but patriotic. “It’s time to demand fairness,” Schwarz said, “and to use our economic power as leverage to fight for real freedom—the kind that includes fair wages, democratic workplaces, and tax justice.”

While McDonald’s has not released an official response to the boycott, a 2019 letter from company lobbyist Genna Gent suggested the chain would not actively oppose federal minimum wage increases. For Schwarz and his supporters, such declarations ring hollow without meaningful action.

The July target for The People’s Union USA? Starbucks, Amazon, and Home Depot—three more corporate giants with long histories of labor disputes and political entanglements. The next wave of boycotts will extend throughout the entire month, further testing the staying power and impact of this new consumer-led resistance.

At a time when higher education, particularly the for-profit and online sectors, often channels students into low-wage service jobs with crushing debt, these campaigns raise larger questions about the role of universities in perpetuating corporate power and economic inequality.

The Higher Education Inquirer will continue to follow these developments, especially as they intersect with issues of labor, student debt, corporate influence, and the broader fight for economic justice in the United States.

COLLEGE MANIA! America’s Legal High for Families

In America, the pursuit of a college degree has become more than just a step toward a stable future—it’s a culturally sanctioned high, a ritual of aspiration, and a national obsession. “College mania,” as we call it, doesn’t just grip students. It draws in entire families, especially parents who never had the opportunity to attend college themselves. For them, college is a dream they couldn’t fulfill—so they pass it on to their children like a sacred torch.

In today’s America, college mania ranks alongside the thrill of legal marijuana, the rush of sports betting, or the intense puzzle-solving of escape rooms. But while those highs are seen as distractions or vices, the college high is viewed as noble. It’s the American Dream repackaged for the 21st century, and it’s addictive.

The Parents’ Fix

Many parents, especially from working-class or immigrant backgrounds, have internalized the belief that college is the only legitimate path to a better life. Even if they never attended themselves—or perhaps because they didn’t—they want their children to have “more.” More options. More money. More dignity. More safety.

For them, college is the ultimate symbol of success. It’s a way out of generational struggle, an antidote to low-wage work and economic precarity. These parents attend college fairs they don’t understand, cry during campus tours, and invest their savings—and sometimes retirement funds—into test prep, tutoring, and private admissions consultants.

And why wouldn’t they? The entire system—from high school counselors to state and federal policymakers—tells them that college is not just a good idea, but a moral imperative. Not sending your child to college becomes a form of parental failure.

From Hope to Hysteria

College mania often starts early. Children are told in elementary school that their GPA will “matter someday.” By middle school, they’re crafting résumés. High school becomes a war zone of advanced placement courses, volunteer hours, and résumé-building internships. College becomes the grand finale—and parents are cast as both financiers and emotional support staff for the show.

The process has become so intense that some parents—often those who didn’t go to college themselves—feel powerless, swept up in a world of rankings, deadlines, jargon, and predatory loan offers. Many turn to social media for answers, which only fuels the pressure with glossy images of Ivy League acceptance letters and first-day dorm selfies.

The high hits when the letter of acceptance comes. The name-brand college. The merit scholarship. The status symbol. But what comes next isn’t always a soft landing.

The Come-Down

Just like legal highs, the rush of college mania fades fast. Students often find themselves isolated, overwhelmed, or stuck in majors that don’t translate into real employment. Debt piles up. Mental health declines. Parents—who only wanted the best—find themselves watching their children struggle with uncertain futures despite the promise they were sold.

And in the background, an entire industry profits: textbook publishers, loan servicers, admissions consultants, and real estate developers building luxury student housing. Parents and students carry the emotional and financial burden. Institutions rarely do.

The Illusion of Escape

College is marketed as an escape room for the working class—a solvable puzzle with a promised reward at the end. But unlike escape rooms, there are no clues, no guaranteed exit, and often no prize. The thrill comes from trying. The letdown comes from realizing that the door might not open at all.

And yet, families return to the game, generation after generation. College remains the one culturally approved addiction—an expensive, emotionally loaded, legally protected gamble on the future.

College Mania: The American Fixation

College mania isn’t just about education—it’s about class mobility, identity, parental love, and social status. It’s a dopamine rush wrapped in moral virtue, sanctioned by school boards and senators alike. For parents who never went to college, the dream lives on not in themselves, but in their kids. The dream is still alive—but the system surrounding it is broken, bloated, and often brutal.

Until we can rethink what education means—and who it's really for—college mania will continue to dominate American family life. And like all highs, it will leave too many people coming down hard.

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The Higher Education Inquirer documents the myths, markets, and mechanisms of higher education in the United States.

Tracking the Elusive Truth: The Higher Education Inquirer Seeks Decades of Bankruptcy Loan Forgiveness Data

In a modest but potentially revealing inquiry, the Higher Education Inquirer has submitted a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request to the U.S. Department of Education asking for a count of the number of student loans discharged in bankruptcy from 1965 to 2024. The request, dated June 10, 2025, was acknowledged the same day by the Department’s FOIA Service Center under FOIA Request No. 25-03954-F.

“The Higher Education Inquirer is requesting a count of the number of student loans forgiven in bankruptcy per year from 1965 to 2024.”

It’s a simple request with profound implications. While the nation debates student loan forgiveness through executive action and legislative reforms, the forgotten path of bankruptcy discharge—once a legally viable option for debt relief—has been quietly buried over the past several decades.

A Timeline of Restriction: The Death of Bankruptcy Relief

When the Higher Education Act of 1965 established federal student loans, they were treated like other forms of consumer debt. Borrowers could, in principle, discharge them through bankruptcy just like credit card debt or medical bills.

But that began to change in the late 1970s, as concerns over potential abuse of the system gained traction in Congress. In 1976, a new law prohibited the discharge of federal student loans in bankruptcy within the first five years of repayment unless the borrower could prove “undue hardship”—a vague standard that was rarely met.

From there, the restrictions only grew tighter:

• 1990: The waiting period for dischargeability was extended to seven years.

• 1998: The option to discharge federal student loans in bankruptcy for any reason other than “undue hardship” was eliminated entirely. This meant student loan borrowers had to meet the strict and often inaccessible hardship standard at all times.

• 2005: Under the Bankruptcy Abuse Prevention and Consumer Protection Act (BAPCPA), Congress extended the “undue hardship” requirement to most private student loans as well—effectively removing nearly all forms of bankruptcy relief from the table for student debtors.

These changes did not result from clear evidence of widespread abuse. Rather, they were fueled by myths of “deadbeat graduates” walking away from their obligations and by lobbying from banks, guaranty agencies, and debt collection firms that profited from non-dischargeable debt. Meanwhile, evidence of hardship among borrowers grew, especially for those who attended predatory for-profit colleges or dropped out without a degree.

The Brunner Barrier

The biggest obstacle for borrowers remains the so-called “Brunner test,” a three-prong legal standard established in a 1987 court case, Brunner v. New York State Higher Education Services Corp. It requires borrowers to prove:

1. They cannot maintain a minimal standard of living if forced to repay the loans,

2. Their financial situation is unlikely to improve, and

3. They made a good-faith effort to repay the loans.

Many judges interpreted these criteria narrowly, creating a virtually insurmountable hurdle. Borrowers with severe disabilities, advanced age, or long-term unemployment have been denied relief even when destitute.

What We Still Don’t Know

Despite these legal developments and the hardship they created, data on how many people have succeeded in discharging their student loans through bankruptcy remains remarkably scarce. Advocacy groups and journalists have long questioned why no federal agency tracks this information in a clear, public-facing format.

That’s what prompted the Higher Education Inquirer’s FOIA request—an effort to establish a factual baseline. We asked the Department of Education for an annual count of bankruptcy discharges involving student loans over a 60-year period, from 1965 to 2024.

The Bureaucratic Wall

According to the Department’s FOIA Service Center, the average processing time for such requests is currently 185 business days—about nine months. While the Department did not ask for clarification immediately, it reserves the right to do so within ten business days. Failure to respond to such a request would result in administrative closure of the FOIA—yet another form of delay that keeps the public in the dark.

This bureaucratic stonewalling is part of a larger pattern. While the Department of Education has been quick to announce student loan forgiveness programs under executive orders or settlement agreements, it remains reluctant to shine a light on longstanding failures—especially the erosion of legal remedies like bankruptcy.

A Step Toward Truth and Accountability

The public deserves a clear view of the history and consequences of stripping bankruptcy protections from student borrowers. It’s not just a legal matter—it’s a story of systemic neglect, political pressure, and financial exploitation. Without access to historical data, reform remains a guesswork operation and accountability remains elusive.

We at the Higher Education Inquirer will continue to press for answers. If and when the FOIA request is fulfilled, we will publish the data and conduct a thorough analysis, year by year. We believe that exposing the truth about student loan bankruptcy isn’t just a matter of curiosity—it’s a step toward justice.

If you have experience with student loan bankruptcy, data that could assist our investigation, or simply want to share your story, contact us at gmcghee@aya.yale.edu.

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.