What America’s Declining Happiness Means — and How Higher Education Fits In

A recent report has sounded an alarm: happiness in the United States is falling more sharply than in almost every other developed nation. According to coverage by CBS News, Americans increasingly report loneliness, deep political division, and diminished life satisfaction. While this trend is worrying in itself, a closer look shows that it’s not just a problem of individual melancholy — it reflects a broader weakening of social structures, civic trust, and community cohesion. Historically, these phenomena have been central to the nation’s sense of coherence; now, they may be eroding.

Historical Roots and the Social Capital Framework

To understand the scale of what’s happening, it helps to go back. Over two decades ago, Robert D. Putnam’s seminal Bowling Alone documented a dramatic decline in American “social capital” — the network of associations, civic participation, and interpersonal trust that undergirds a functioning democracy. Putnam traced declines in everything from civic organizations to informal social gatherings, arguing that this fraying of social infrastructure had profound consequences. 

Social capital theory provides a useful lens here: trust between citizens, engagement in local institutions, and time spent in shared civic life are not just feel‑good extras, but foundations for collective resilience.

Later empirical work has revisited these concerns. Weiss, Paxton, Velasco, and Ressler (2018) developed a newer measure of social capital and found evidence that the decline persists. Inequality also appears to play a role: as income gaps widen, interpersonal trust tends to decrease. In research published in Finance & Development, economists found that rising inequality explained a substantial portion of the decline in social trust in the United States.

More recently, political scientists have documented how perceived political polarization erodes social trust. In a nationally representative panel study, Amber Hye‑Yon Lee showed that when people believe their country is deeply divided, their trust in fellow citizens drops — even beyond partisan loyalties. Pew Research Center data further illustrate this generational shift: younger cohorts, raised in a more polarized and atomized society, report lower social trust than earlier generations. 

At the same time, the digital revolution hasn’t necessarily filled the gap. Sabatini and Sarracino (2014) found that while people are more active on social media, this does not compensate for lost in-person connection — and may even undermine trust. During the COVID-19 pandemic, researchers observed increased remote communication, but also stronger political echo chambers: in a study of 41,000 Americans’ social networks, political homophily (interacting mostly with those who share one’s partisan identity) increased. 

Well-Being, Health, and Mortality

The decline in social trust and cohesion is not just a sociological problem — it is deeply linked to health. A growing body of epidemiological research ties subjective well‑being to longevity and mortality. For instance, a widely cited study by Lawrence, Rogers, and Wadsworth found that lower happiness is associated with higher all‑cause mortality risk in U.S. adults. In another longitudinal study, researchers followed more than 30,000 adults over 14 years and found that individuals with low life satisfaction lived, on average, 8–10 years less than those with high satisfaction — even after controlling for sociodemographic and behavioral variables. 

These findings suggest that declining happiness is not just a matter of mental distress or cultural malaise — it translates into concrete health inequities and life expectancy gaps.

Recent Trends and the Global Context

Over the past decade, the United States has slid in global happiness rankings, according to the World Happiness Report. Some analyses suggest that the U.S. now falls behind peer nations on measures of life evaluation, meaning that Americans are increasingly less satisfied with their lives in a broad, reflective sense. 

Meanwhile, epidemiological studies of happy life expectancy — the number of years people spend in a state of subjective well‑being — show that although well-being improved from 1970–2000, gains were uneven by race and gender. The recent reversal or stagnation in happiness is thus especially alarming in light of these prior gains.

The Role of Higher Education: Past, Present, and Potential Futures

Given this historical and empirical context, higher education institutions have a complex and potentially pivotal role in responding to declining well-being.

On one hand, universities could help rebuild social capital. Institutions of higher learning have unique capacity to foster cross-partisan civic engagement, to embed community-building in pedagogy, and to support students’ social and emotional development. By investing in mental health infrastructure, peer networks, and service-based learning, colleges could act as local laboratories for restoring trust and social cohesion.

Higher education also has a research function: universities can produce evidence about what strengthens well-being, what interventions mitigate loneliness or political fragmentation, and how different models of community engagement impact long-term health outcomes. Through partnerships with public policy institutions, universities can help translate these findings into programs that bolster social infrastructure outside campus walls.

However, higher education also runs risks. If institutions remain fragmented, politically polarized, or focused on prestige rather than public mission, they may contribute to social fragmentation rather than healing it. Elite universities, in particular, may be perceived as disconnected from broader communities, undermining trust rather than reinforcing it. In such a scenario, higher education may reproduce the very inequalities and isolation that are driving declining well‑being.

Moreover, without deliberate strategies, campus networks may reinforce echo chambers: social connections among students may mirror broader partisan divides, especially in environments where political homogeneity is common.

Health Equity Implications

The decline in American happiness intersects directly with issues of health equity. Lower well-being and eroded trust disproportionately affect marginalized communities — those with fewer economic resources, less social support, and weaker civic infrastructure. When universities take an active role in promoting well-being and rebuilding social capital, they not only support individual students but may contribute to reducing structural health disparities.

Conversely, if higher education plays a passive role, or if access to supportive, socially rich campus environments is limited to privileged groups, the decline in happiness may deepen existing inequities. The gap in life expectancy tied to subjective well-being suggests that we cannot ignore the social determinants of happiness: economic inequality, community fragmentation, political polarization, and institutional trust all matter.

A Call to Action

To address this crisis, higher education leaders, policymakers, and public health practitioners should consider the following:

1. Reinforce community-building: Colleges should invest in programs that promote cross-group interaction, civic participation, and social trust.

2. Prioritize mental health: Expand counseling, peer support, and proactive well-being initiatives, especially for students who might otherwise fall through the cracks.

3. Align research with public value: Fund and promote research on social cohesion, well-being interventions, and the relationship between trust and health, and ensure that findings inform public policy.

4. Foster institutional humility and outreach: Universities should engage with local communities, not as isolated centers of prestige, but as partners in building social infrastructure and resilience.

5. Measure what matters: Beyond graduation rates and research output, institutions should track well-being metrics — social trust, belonging, mental health — as central indicators of their impact.

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It Doesn't Have to Be This Bad 

The decline in happiness across the United States is not a passing phase or a matter of individual pathology. Rather, it reflects deep shifts in social trust, political cohesion, and community infrastructure. Historically, scholars like Putnam sounded the alarm on social capital’s erosion. Today, health researchers warn that falling well‑being shortens lives and exacerbates inequalities.

Higher education, if reoriented toward building connections, purpose, and trust, could play a vital role in reversing this trajectory. But if universities remain inward-looking or inequality-driven, they risk accelerating the very forces that undermine societal well-being. The stakes are high — not only for individual students, but for the future health and cohesion of the nation.

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Scholarly Sources:

• Lee, Amber H. Y. “Social Trust in Polarized Times: How Perceptions of Political Polarization Affect Americans’ Trust in Each Other.” Political Behavior, 2022. PMC

• Weiss, Inbar, Pamela Paxton, Kristopher Velasco, and Robert W. Ressler. “Revisiting Declines in Social Capital: Evidence from a New Measure.” Social Indicators Research, 2018. PMC

• Lawrence, Elizabeth M., Richard G. Rogers, and Tim Wadsworth. “Happiness and Longevity in the United States.” Social Science & Medicine, 2015. PMC

• Study on life satisfaction and mortality (14-year follow-up): PMC

• Research on income inequality and trust: “In Equality, We Trust” (IMF / Finance & Development) IMF

• Study of happy life expectancy, 1970–2000: PMC

• Putnam, Robert D. Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community. (on social capital history) Wikipedia+1

Why People Under 35 Are Not Afraid of Democratic Socialism

For Americans under 35, the term “democratic socialism” triggers neither fear nor Cold War reflexes. It represents something far simpler: a demand for a functioning society. Younger generations have grown up in a world where basic pillars of American life—higher education, medicine, economic mobility, and even life expectancy—have deteriorated while inequality has soared. Democratic socialism, in their view, is not a fringe ideology but a practical response to systems that have ceased to serve the common good.

Nowhere is this clearer than in higher education. Millennials and Gen Z entered adulthood as universities became corporate enterprises, expanding administrative layers, pushing adjunct labor to the brink, and relying on debt-financed tuition increases to keep the machine running. Public investment collapsed, predatory for-profit chains proliferated, and nonprofit universities acted like hedge funds with classrooms attached. Students saw institutions with billion-dollar endowments operate as landlords and asset managers, all while passing costs onto working families. When Bernie Sanders called for tuition-free public college, young people did not hear utopianism—they heard a plan grounded in global reality, a model that exists in Germany, Sweden, Finland, and other social democracies that treat education as a public good rather than a revenue stream.

Healthcare tells an even harsher story. Americans under 35 watched their parents and grandparents navigate a system more focused on billing codes than care, one where an ambulance ride costs a week’s wages and a bout of illness can mean bankruptcy. They experienced the rise of corporatized university medical centers, private equity–owned emergency rooms, and insurance bureaucracies that ration access more cruelly than any state. They saw life-saving drugs priced like luxury goods and mental health services pushed out of reach. Compare this to nations with universal healthcare: longer life expectancy, lower infant mortality, and far less medical debt. Again, Sanders’ Medicare for All resonated not because of ideology but because young people recognized it as a plausible path toward the kind of humane medical system described by scholars like Harriet Washington, Elisabeth Rosenthal, and Mahmud Mamdani, who all critique the structural violence embedded in systems of unequal care.

Life expectancy itself has become a generational indictment. For the first time in modern U.S. history, it has fallen, driven by overdose deaths, suicide, preventable illness, and worsening inequities. Younger Americans know that friends and peers have died far earlier than their counterparts abroad. They see that countries with strong public services—childcare, unemployment insurance, housing supports, universal healthcare—live longer, healthier lives. They also see how austerity and privatization have hollowed out public health infrastructure in the United States, leaving communities vulnerable to crises large and small. The message is clear: societies that invest in people live longer; societies that treat health as a commodity do not.

Quality of Life (QOL) ties all of this together. People under 35 face rent burdens unimaginable to previous generations, debts that prevent them from forming families, stagnant wages, and a labor market defined by precarity. They face the erosion of public space, public transit, libraries, and social supports—what Mamdani would describe as the slow unraveling of the civic realm under neoliberalism. When they look abroad, they see countries with social democratic frameworks offering guaranteed parental leave, subsidized childcare, free or nearly free college, universal healthcare, and robust worker protections. These are not distant fantasies; they are functioning models that produce higher happiness levels, stronger social trust, and more stable democracies.

Older generations often accuse young people of radicalism, but the reality is the reverse. Millennials and Gen Z are pragmatic. They have lived through the failures of unfettered capitalism: historic inequality, monopolistic industries, soaring costs of living, and a political class unresponsive to their material conditions. They have read Sanders’ critiques of oligarchy and Mamdani’s analyses of state power and structural violence, and they see themselves reflected in those diagnoses. Democratic socialism appeals because it is rooted in material improvements to daily life rather than in abstract political theory. It promises a society where income does not determine survival, where education does not require lifelong debt, where parents can afford to raise children, and where basic health is not a luxury good.

People under 35 are not afraid of democratic socialism because they have already seen what the absence of a social democratic framework produces. They are not seeking revolution for its own sake. They are seeking a livable future. And increasingly, they view democratic socialism not as a radical break but as the only realistic path toward rebuilding public institutions, revitalizing democracy, and ensuring that future generations inherit a country worth living in.

Sources
Sanders, Bernie. Our Revolution: A Future to Believe In.
Sanders, Bernie. Where We Go from Here: Two Years in the Resistance.
Mamdani, Mahmood. Define and Rule: Native as Political Identity.
Mamdani, Mahmood. Neither Settler nor Native: The Making and Unmaking of Permanent Minorities.
Washington, Harriet. Medical Apartheid.
Rosenthal, Elisabeth. An American Sickness.
Skloot, Rebecca. The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks.
Baldwin, Davarian. In the Shadow of the Ivory Tower.
Bousquet, Marc. How the University Works.

Generation Z and the Fractured American Dream: Class Divide, Debt, and the Search for a Future

For Generation Z, the old story of social mobility—study hard, go to college, work your way up—has lost its certainty. The class divide that once seemed bridgeable through education now feels entrenched, as debt, precarious work, and economic volatility blur the promise of progress.

The new economy—dominated by artificial intelligence, speculative assets like cryptocurrency, and inflated housing markets—has not delivered stability for most. Instead, it’s widened gaps between those who own and those who owe. Many young Americans feel locked out of wealth-building entirely. Some have turned to riskier bets—digital assets, gig work, or start-ups powered by AI tools—to chase opportunities that traditional institutions no longer provide. Others have succumbed to despair. Suicide rates among young adults have climbed sharply in recent years, correlating with financial stress, debt, and social isolation.

And echoing through this uncertain landscape is a song that first rose from the coalfields of Kentucky during the Great Depression—Florence Reece’s 1931 protest hymn, “Which Side Are You On?”

Come all you good workers,
Good news to you I’ll tell,
Of how the good old union
Has come in here to dwell.

Which side are you on?
Which side are you on?

Nearly a century later, those verses feel newly urgent—because Gen Z is again being forced to pick a side: between solidarity and survival, between reforming a broken system or resigning themselves to it.

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The Class Divide and the Broken Ladder
Despite record levels of education, Gen Z faces limited social mobility. College remains a class marker, not an equalizer. Students from affluent families attend better-funded universities, graduate on time, and often receive help with housing or job placement. Working-class and first-generation students, meanwhile, navigate under-resourced campuses, heavier debt, and weaker professional networks.

The Pew Research Center found that first-generation college graduates have nearly $100,000 less in median wealth than peers whose parents also hold degrees. For many, the degree no longer guarantees a secure foothold in the middle class—it simply delays financial independence.

They say in Harlan County,
There are no neutrals there,
You’ll either be a union man,
Or a thug for J. H. Blair.

The metaphor still fits: there are no neutrals in the modern class struggle over debt, housing, and automation.

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Debt, Doubt, and the New Normal
Gen Z borrowers owe an average of around $23,000 in student loans, a figure growing faster than any other generation’s debt load. Over half regret taking on those loans. Many delay buying homes, having children, or even seeking medical care. Those who drop out without degrees are burdened with debt and little to show for it.

The debt-based model has become a defining feature of American life—especially for the working class. The price of entry to a better future is borrowing against one’s own.

Don’t scab for the bosses,
Don’t listen to their lies,
Us poor folks haven’t got a chance
Unless we organize.

If Reece’s song once called miners to unionize against coal barons, its spirit now calls borrowers, renters, adjuncts, and gig workers to collective resistance against financial systems that profit from their precarity.

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AI and the Erosion of Work
Artificial intelligence promises efficiency, but it also threatens to hollow out the entry-level job market Gen Z depends on. Automation in journalism, design, law, and customer service cuts off rungs of the career ladder just as young workers reach for them.

While elite graduates may move into roles that supervise or profit from AI, working-class Gen Zers are more likely to face displacement. AI amplifies the class divide: it rewards those who already have capital, coding skills, or connections—and sidelines those who don’t.

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Crypto Dreams and Financial Desperation
Locked out of traditional wealth paths, many young people turned to cryptocurrency during the pandemic. Platforms like Robinhood and Coinbase promised quick gains and independence from the “rigged” economy. But when crypto markets crashed in 2022, billions in speculative wealth evaporated. Some who had borrowed or used student loan refunds to invest lost everything.

Online forums chronicled not only the financial losses but also the psychological fallout—stories of panic, shame, and in some tragic cases, suicide. The new “digital gold rush” became another mechanism for transferring wealth upward.

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The Real Estate Wall
While digital markets rise and fall, real estate remains the ultimate symbol of exclusion. Home prices have climbed over 40 percent since 2020, while mortgage rates hover near 8 percent. For most of Gen Z, ownership is out of reach.

Older generations built equity through housing; Gen Z rents indefinitely, enriching landlords and institutional investors. Without intergenerational help, the “starter home” has become a myth. In America’s new class order, those who inherit property inherit mobility.

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Despair and the Silent Crisis
Behind the data lies a mental health emergency. The CDC reports that suicide among Americans aged 10–24 has risen nearly 60 percent in the past decade. Economic precarity, debt, housing insecurity, and climate anxiety all contribute.

Therapists describe “financial trauma” as a defining condition for Gen Z—chronic anxiety rooted in systemic instability. Universities respond with mindfulness workshops, but few confront the deeper issue: a society that privatized risk and monetized hope.

They say in Harlan County,
There are no neutrals there—
Which side are you on, my people,
Which side are you on?

The question lingers like a challenge to policymakers, educators, and investors alike.

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A Two-Tier Future
Today’s economy is splitting into two distinct realities:

• The secure class, buffered by family wealth, education, AI-driven income, and real estate assets.

• The precarious class, burdened by loans, high rents, unstable work, and psychological strain.

The supposed democratization of opportunity through technology and education has in practice entrenched a new feudalism—one coded in algorithms and contracts instead of coal and steel.

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Repairing the System, Not the Student
For Generation Z, the American Dream has become a high-interest loan. Education, technology, and financial innovation—once tools of liberation—now function as instruments of control.

Reforming higher education is necessary, but not sufficient. The deeper work lies in redistributing power: capping predatory interest rates, investing in affordable housing, curbing speculative bubbles, ensuring that AI’s gains benefit labor as well as capital, and confronting the mental health crisis that shadows all of it.

Florence Reece’s song endures because its question has never been answered—only updated. As Gen Z stands at the intersection of debt and digital capitalism, that question rings louder than ever:

Which side are you on?

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Sources

• Florence Reece, “Which Side Are You On?” (1931).

• Pew Research Center, “First-Generation College Graduates Lag Behind Their Peers on Key Economic Outcomes,” 2021.

• Dēmos, The Debt Divide: How Student Debt Impacts Opportunities for Black and White Borrowers, 2016.

• EducationData.org, “Student Loan Debt by Generation,” 2024.

• Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis, Gen Z Student Debt and Wealth Data Brief, 2022.

• CNBC, “Gen Z vs. Their Parents: How the Generations Stack Up Financially,” 2024.

• WUSF, “Generation Z’s Net Worth Is Being Undercut by College Debt,” 2024.

• Newsweek, “Student Loan Update: Gen Z Hit with Highest Payments,” 2024.

• The Kaplan Group, “How Student Debt Is Locking Millennials and Gen Z Out of Homeownership,” 2024.

• CDC, Suicide Mortality in the United States, 2001–2022, National Center for Health Statistics, 2023.

• Brookings Institution, “The Impact of AI on Labor Markets: Inequality and Automation,” 2024.

• CNBC, “Crypto Crash Wipes Out Billions in Investor Wealth, Gen Z Most Exposed,” 2023.

• Zillow, “U.S. Housing Affordability Reaches Lowest Point Since 1989,” 2024.

Growing Up Later, Paying Longer: How Extended Adolescence Deepens the Student Loan Crisis

Recent neuroscience is challenging everything we thought we knew about adulthood. A landmark study from the University of Cambridge finds that our brains remain in an “adolescent” phase until around age 32. During this extended period, the brain undergoes major structural rewiring, improving connectivity, executive function, and decision-making. In other words, young adults in their 20s and early 30s are still biologically refining the very skills society expects them to rely on for financial independence.

Yet economic realities tell a different story. In the United States, the average college graduate carries over $30,000 in student loan debt, with repayment often starting immediately after graduation. For students pursuing graduate or professional school — law, medicine, business, or PhDs — debt often doubles or triples, and repayment is further delayed, sometimes beginning in the late 20s or early 30s. This period coincides precisely with the brain’s extended adolescent development phase, when executive function, risk assessment, and long-term planning are still maturing.

For many working-class students, this biological-economic mismatch is compounded by trauma and systemic inequality. Students from lower-income families may enter college already carrying family debt, needing to work multiple jobs, or facing housing insecurity. Borrowing to attend graduate school can trigger stress responses in the brain, affecting decision-making, emotional regulation, and risk assessment at a time when these very circuits are still developing. Early-life adversity, including exposure to poverty, unstable housing, or family stress, can alter brain development and magnify the challenges of managing debt during the extended adolescent phase. The combination of prolonged brain maturation, massive student debt, and class-based stressors can increase anxiety, depression, and burnout, especially for first-generation and working-class students who may lack generational financial knowledge.

Graduate education intensifies these pressures. Graduate students often juggle heavy workloads, research obligations, and living costs while navigating large financial obligations at a developmental stage where executive functions are still stabilizing. High debt and extended schooling push milestones such as homeownership, family formation, and career stability into the early-to-mid 30s, overlapping with the final phase of brain maturation. For working-class students, who often have fewer safety nets, financial missteps or delayed income can be more consequential and stressful, amplifying the inequities embedded in higher education financing.

Addressing student loan burdens requires policies that recognize both neurodevelopmental science and socioeconomic realities. Repayment programs that delay full payments until the late 20s or early 30s would reduce stress during a critical brain development window. Income-contingent or progressive repayment plans can scale obligations with early-career earnings, particularly for graduate students carrying high debt burdens. Financial literacy and counseling programs must also integrate trauma-informed support, teaching budgeting and debt management while recognizing the emotional impacts of financial stress. Mental health resources should be accessible for students navigating the combined pressures of debt, class-based disadvantage, and developmental transitions. Systemic reform in higher education financing, including expanded grants, debt-free programs, fellowships, and living stipends, would reduce structural disadvantages for working-class students and support more equitable access to higher education.

Prolonged adolescence reframes the student debt crisis, particularly for graduate students and working-class borrowers. Our brains continue to mature into the early 30s, yet financial systems demand fully developed decision-making skills much earlier. For students from lower-income families, this gap is widened by trauma, structural inequality, and fewer safety nets. To support healthy, resilient, and economically secure generations, policymakers must recognize that growing up biologically and psychologically takes longer than society allows, and that debt obligations should not compound trauma or class disadvantage. Aligning financial policy with developmental science and social equity is not just fair — it is essential.
Sources


University of Cambridge. “Five Lifespan Phases of Brain Development Revealed by MRI Study.” Nature Communications, 2025. https://www.cam.ac.uk/stories/five-ages-human-brain


MSN / Independent. “Adolescence Lasts into Your 30s, Major New Study Finds.” 2025. https://www.msn.com/en-us/health/other/adolescence-lasts-into-your-30s-major-new-study-on-brain-finds/ar-AA1R9uhF


Arslan, S., et al. “Modular Segregation of Structural Brain Networks Supports Executive Function in Youth.” NeuroImage, 2016. https://arxiv.org/abs/1608.03619


Bethlehem, R.A.I., et al. “Preferential Detachment During Human Brain Development: Age- and Sex-Specific Structural Connectivity in DTI Data.” 2014. https://arxiv.org/abs/1404.0240


Aljazeera. “Does Adolescence Last Until 32? Scientists Unlock Brain’s Five Eras.” 2025. https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2025/11/26/does-adolescence-last-until-32-scientists-unlock-brains-five-eras


U.S. Federal Reserve. “Report on the Economic Well-Being of U.S. Households: 2025.” https://www.federalreserve.gov/publications/2025-economic-well-being-of-us-households.html

Preston Cooper Is Wrong: Enrollment Is Only One of Higher Education’s Many Crises

In a recent American Enterprise Institute article, Preston Cooper insists that the post-2010 collapse in college enrollment is “a correction, not a crisis.” According to Cooper, students are becoming more discerning consumers, abandoning low-value colleges and low-ROI degrees while flocking to higher-quality institutions and more lucrative majors. In this narrative, the system is simply shedding inefficiencies. The market is working.

But this argument is incomplete to the point of distortion. Enrollment decline is not a tidy market correction. It is a symptom of profound structural problems: affordability, inequality, political interference, labor exploitation, deteriorating academic quality, widespread cheating, and the growing reliance on “robocolleges” and automated learning platforms with questionable educational value. Cooper’s analysis ignores all of this and reduces higher education to a single variable—student choices—when the system is being reshaped by forces far larger and more corrosive than consumer preference.

Affordability remains the biggest barrier to access. Surveys repeatedly show that adults who never enrolled or who dropped out cite cost as their primary obstacle, and higher education leaders themselves acknowledge that families often do not understand the real price until they are already overwhelmed. Tuition, fees, housing, food, and transportation are enough to make college inaccessible for millions. This is not a sign of students shopping wisely; it is evidence of a system that has priced out vast segments of the population.

Cooper’s argument also ignores how structural inequalities determine who even reaches the point of decision-making. Research from multiple institutions shows that disparities in academic preparation—rooted in racial segregation, school funding inequity, socioeconomic status, and access to quality teachers—heavily influence college-going patterns. Students from under-resourced schools or low-income families do not have equal access to information, support systems, or opportunities. The idea that they are “choosing” not to attend low-value schools disregards the constraints that shape those choices.

Meanwhile, colleges themselves are destabilizing. Shrinking enrollments and stagnant public funding have produced financial crises across the sector. Even reputable institutions rely on aggressive discounting, program cuts, hiring freezes, and dependence on contingent faculty. Student support services shrink while administrative costs continue to rise. Cooper’s framing of “let the weak fail” overlooks the collateral damage: students denied needed resources, programs eliminated, and entire communities harmed when regional colleges collapse.

The crisis extends beyond finances. Students’ freedom of speech is increasingly under pressure as state legislatures, governors, and politically reactive boards restrict curricula, censor faculty, and monitor student organizations. Expression around race, inequality, gender, and geopolitical issues is under surveillance or actively punished. Whether driven by conservative politics, donor pressure, or administrative fear of controversy, the suppression of student and faculty voices undermines the university’s democratic mission.

Cooper also fails to address the degrading working conditions of adjunct faculty, who now make up the majority of instructors. Adjuncts often earn poverty-level wages, lack health insurance, and have no job security. Many teach at multiple institutions simply to survive. The system Cooper describes as “self-correcting” rests on the exploitation of the people responsible for delivering the education students are supposedly choosing.

Then there are the emerging problems he completely ignores: robocolleges and AI-driven instruction. As institutions cut costs, many outsource teaching to automated platforms, online mega-providers, and algorithmic tutoring systems. These “robocolleges” promise efficiency but often deliver shallow instruction, predatory recruitment, weakened student support, and minimal human interaction. They generate revenue, but not always learning. Cooper assumes that students are leaving low-value institutions, yet many of these automated systems are themselves low-value—and increasingly difficult to regulate or evaluate.

The rise of automated education connects directly to another crisis: academic integrity. AI-assisted cheating is now widespread across campuses. Students, overwhelmed by cost pressures, mental health struggles, large class sizes, and insufficient support, increasingly rely on AI tools to complete assignments without understanding the material. Instructors struggle to identify misconduct, institutions scramble to respond, and genuine learning becomes harder to guarantee. This is not the sign of a system “correcting” itself. It is evidence of a sector that has lost its footing and is failing to uphold educational standards.

Cooper’s argument rests on the assumption that higher education should primarily be judged by short-term labor-market returns. But higher education is more than a job-training pipeline. It is a public good that supports social mobility, civic participation, community development, scientific and cultural advancement, and democratic life. A system that suppresses speech, exploits faculty, overrelies on automated instruction, and cannot distinguish real learning from AI-generated work is not corrected. It is in crisis.

The enrollment decline is real, but it is only the surface. Beneath it lies a system plagued by affordability barriers, entrenched inequality, political intrusion, labor precarity, academic degradation, technological misuse, and rising distrust. To call this a “correction” is to look away from the deeper rot. For students, educators, and communities, it is a crisis—one that demands urgent structural reform rather than market-based optimism.

Sources
National Association of Student Financial Aid Administrators (NASFAA). “The Biggest Barriers to Higher Education Enrollment Are Cost and Lack of Financial Aid.”
Inside Higher Ed. “Student Success Leaders Worry About Affordability, AI, and DEI.”
Brookings Institution. “Persistent Gaps in Academic Preparation Generate College Enrollment Disparities.”
Deloitte Insights. “Top Risks in Higher Education.”
Independent Institute. “Higher Education’s Triple Crisis.”
PEN America. “Tracking Campus Free Speech Legislation and Suppression.”
American Federation of Teachers / AAUP. “The Gig Academy: Precarity and the Exploitation of Adjunct Labor.”
The Century Foundation. Analyses of Online Program Management (OPM) and automated higher education risks.
Inside Higher Ed and Times Higher Education reporting on AI-driven cheating and academic integrity.

The College Meltdown: A Retrospective

[In 2017, we collaborated with Crush the Street on a video describing the College Meltdown.]  

“Education is not merely a credentialing system; it is a humanizing act that fosters connection, purpose, and community.”

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Origins

The College Meltdown began in the mid-2010s as a blog chronicling the slow collapse of U.S. higher education. Rising tuition, mounting student debt, and corporatization were visible signs, but the deeper crisis was structural: the erosion of public accountability and mission.

By 2015, the warning signs were unmistakable to us. On some campuses, student spaces were closed to host corporate “best practices” conferences. At many schools, adjunct instructors carried the bulk of teaching responsibilities, often without benefits, while administrators celebrated innovation. Higher education was quietly being reshaped to benefit corporations over students and communities — a true meltdown.

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Patterns of the Meltdown

Enrollment in U.S. colleges began declining as early as 2011, reflecting broader demographic shifts: fewer children entering the system and a growing population of older adults. Small colleges, community colleges, and regional public universities were hardest hit, while flagship institutions consolidated wealth and prestige.

Corporate intermediaries known as Online Program Managers (OPMs) managed recruitment, marketing, and course design, taking large portions of tuition while universities retained risk. Fully automated robocolleges emerged, relying on AI-driven templates, predictive analytics, and outsourced grading. While efficient, these systems dehumanized education: students became data points, faculty became monitors, and mentorship disappeared.

“Robocolleges and AI-driven systems reduce humans to data points — an education stripped of connection is no education at all.”

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Feeding the AI Beast

As part of our effort to reclaim knowledge and influence public discourse, we actively contributed to Wikipedia. Over the years, we made more than 12,000 edits on higher education topics, ensuring accurate documentation of predatory practices, adjunct labor, OPMs, and corporatization. These edits both informed the public and, inadvertently, fed the AI beast — large language models and AI systems that scrape Wikipedia for training data now reflect our work, amplifying it in ways we could never have predicted.

“By documenting higher education rigorously, we shaped both public knowledge and the datasets powering AI systems — turning transparency into a tool of influence.”

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Anxiety, Anomie, and Alienation

The College Meltdown documented the mental health toll of these transformations. Rising anxiety, feelings of anomie, and widespread alienation were linked to AI reliance, dehumanized classrooms, insecure faculty labor, and societal pressures. Students felt like credential seekers; faculty suffered burnout.

“Addressing the psychological and social effects of dehumanized education is essential for ethical recovery.”

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Trump, Anti-Intellectualism, and Fear in the Era of Neoliberalism

The project also addressed the broader political and social climate. The Trump era brought rising anti-intellectualism, skepticism toward expertise, and a celebration of market logic over civic and moral education. For many, it was an era of fear: fear of surveillance, fear of litigation, fear of being marginalized in a rapidly corporatized, AI-driven educational system. Neoliberal policies exacerbated these pressures, emphasizing privatization, metrics, and competition over community and care.

“Living under Trump-era neoliberalism, with AI monitoring, corporate oversight, and mass surveillance, education became a space of anxiety as much as learning.”

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Quality of Life and the Call for Rehumanization

Education should serve human well-being, not just revenue. The blog emphasized Quality of Life and advocated for Rehumanization — restoring mentorship, personal connection, and ethical engagement.

“Rehumanization is not a luxury; it is the foundation of meaningful learning.”

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FOIA Requests and Whistleblowers

From the start, The College Meltdown relied on evidence-based reporting. FOIA (Freedom of Information Act) requests were used to obtain internal communications, budgets, and regulatory filings, shining light on opaque practices. Whistleblowers, including adjunct faculty and staff at universities and OPMs, provided firsthand testimony of misconduct, financial malfeasance, and educational dehumanization. Their courage was central to the project’s mission of transparency and accountability.

“Insider testimony and public records revealed the hidden forces reshaping higher education, from corporate influence to predatory practices.”

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Historical Sociology: Understanding the Systemic Collapse

The importance of historical sociology cannot be overstated in analyzing the decline of higher education. By examining the evolution of educational systems, we can identify patterns of inequality, the concentration of power, and the commodification of knowledge. Historical sociology provides the tools to understand how past decisions and structures have led to the current crisis.

“Historical sociology reveals, defines, and formulates patterns of social development, helping us understand the systemic forces at play in education.”

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Naming Bad Actors: Accountability and Reform

A critical aspect of The College Meltdown was the emphasis on naming bad actors — identifying and holding accountable those responsible for the exploitation and degradation of higher education. This included:

• University Administrators: Prioritizing profit over pedagogy.

• Corporate Entities: Robocolleges and OPMs profiting at the expense of educational quality.

• Political Figures and Ultraconservatives: Promoting policies that undermined public education and anti-intellectualism.

“Holding bad actors accountable is essential for meaningful reform and the restoration of education's ethical purpose.”

[In 2016, we called out several bad actors in for-profit higher education, including CEOs Jack Massimino, Kevin Modany, and Todd Nelson.] 

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Existential Aspects of Climate Change

The blog also examined the existential dimensions of climate change. Students and faculty face a dual challenge: preparing for uncertain futures while witnessing environmental degradation accelerate. Higher education itself is implicated, both as a contributor through consumption and as a forum for solutions. The looming climate crisis intensifies anxiety, alienation, and the urgency for ethical, human-centered education.

“Climate change makes the stakes of education existential: our survival, our knowledge, and our moral responsibility are intertwined.”

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Mass Speculation and Financialization

Another critical theme explored was mass speculation and financialization. The expansion of student debt markets, tuition-backed bonds, and corporate investments in higher education transformed students into financial instruments. These speculative dynamics mirrored broader economic instability, creating both a moral and systemic crisis for the educational sector.

“When education becomes a commodity for speculation, learning, mentorship, and ethical development are subordinated to profit and risk metrics.”

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Coverage of Protests and Nonviolent Resistance

The College Meltdown documented student and faculty resistance: tuition protests, adjunct labor actions, and campaigns against predatory OPM arrangements. Nonviolent action was central: teach-ins, sit-ins, and organized campaigns demonstrated moral authority and communal solidarity in the face of systemic pressures, litigation, and corporate intimidation.

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Collaboration and Resistance

Glen McGhee provided exceptional guidance, connecting insights on systemic collapse, inequality, and credential inflation. Guest authors contributed across disciplines and movements, making the blog a living archive of accountability and solidarity:

Guest Contributors:
Bryan Alexander, Ann Bowers, James Michael Brodie, Randall Collins, Garrett Fitzgerald, Erica Gallagher, Henry Giroux, David Halperin, Bill Harrington, Phil Hill, Robert Jensen, Hank Kalet, Neil Kraus, the LACCD Whistleblower, Wendy Lynne Lee, Annelise Orleck, Robert Kelchen, Debbi Potts, Jack Metzger, Derek Newton, Gary Roth, Mark Salisbury, Gary Stocker, Harry Targ, Heidi Weber, Richard Wolff, and Helena Worthen.

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Lessons from the Meltdown

The crisis was systemic. Technology amplified inequality. Corporate higher education rebranded rather than reformed. Adjunctification and labor precarity became normalized. Communities of color and working-class students suffered disproportionately.

Dehumanization emerged as a central theme. AI, automation, and robocolleges prioritized efficiency over mentorship, data over dialogue, and systems over human relationships. Rising anxiety, anomie, and alienation reflected the human toll.

“Rehumanization, mentorship, community, transparency, ethical accountability, and ecological awareness are essential to restore meaningful higher education.”

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Looking Forward

As higher education entered the Trump era, its future remained uncertain. Students, faculty, and communities faced fear under neoliberal policies, AI-driven monitoring, mass surveillance, litigation pressures, ultraconservative influence, climate crises, and financial speculation. Will universities reclaim their role as public goods, or continue as commodified services? The College Meltdown stands as a testament to those who resisted dehumanization and anti-intellectualism. It also calls for Quality of Life, ethical practice, mental well-being, environmental responsibility, and Rehumanization, ensuring education serves the whole person, not just the bottom line. 

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Sources and References

• Washington, Harriet A. Medical Apartheid. Doubleday, 2006.

• Rosenthal, Elisabeth. An American Sickness. Penguin, 2017.

• Skloot, Rebecca. The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. Crown, 2010.

• Nelson, Alondra. Body and Soul. University of Minnesota Press, 2011.

• Paucek, Chip. “2U and the Growth of OPMs.” EdSurge, 2021. link

• Ravitch, Diane. The Death and Life of the Great American School System. Basic Books, 2010.

• Alexander, Bryan. Academia Next. Johns Hopkins University Press, 2020.

• U.S. Department of Education. “Closed School Information.” 2016–2020. link

• Federal Reserve Bank of New York. Student Debt Statistics, 2024. link

• Wayback Machine Archive of College Meltdown Blog: link

The Grand Irony of Nursing Education and Burnout in U.S. Health Care

Nursing has long been romanticized as both a “calling” and a profession—an occupation where devotion to patients is assumed to be limitless. Nursing schools, hospitals, and media narratives often reinforce this ideal, framing the nurse as a tireless caregiver who sacrifices for the greater good. But behind the cultural image is a system that normalizes exhaustion, accepts overwork, and relies on the quiet suffering of an increasingly strained workforce.

The cultural expectation that nurses should sacrifice their own well-being has deep historical roots. Florence Nightingale’s legacy in the mid-19th century portrayed nursing as a noble vocation, tied as much to moral virtue as to medical skill. During World War I and World War II, nurses were celebrated as patriotic servants, enduring brutal conditions without complaint. By the late 20th century, popular culture reinforced the idea of the nurse as both saintly and stoic—expected to carry on through fatigue, trauma, and loss. This framing has carried into the 21st century. During the COVID-19 pandemic, nurses were lauded as “heroes” in speeches, advertisements, and nightly news coverage. But the rhetoric of heroism masked a harsher reality: nurses were sent into hospitals without adequate protective equipment, with overwhelming patient loads, and with little institutional support. The language of devotion was used as a shield against criticism, even as nurses themselves broke down from exhaustion.

The problem begins in nursing education. Students are taught the technical skills of patient care, but they are also socialized into a culture that emphasizes resilience, self-sacrifice, and “doing whatever it takes.” Clinical rotations often expose nursing students to chronic understaffing and unsafe patient loads, but instead of treating this as structural failure, students are told it is simply “the reality of nursing.” In effect, they are trained to adapt to dysfunction rather than challenge it.

Once in the workforce, the pressures intensify. Hospitals and clinics operate under tight staffing budgets, pushing nurses to manage far more patients than recommended. Shifts stretch from 12 to 16 hours, and mandatory overtime is not uncommon. Documentation demands, electronic medical record systems, and administrative oversight add layers of clerical work that take time away from direct patient care. The emotional toll of constantly navigating life-and-death decisions, combined with lack of rest, creates a perfect storm of burnout. The grand irony is that the profession celebrates devotion while neglecting the well-being of the devoted. Nurses are praised as “heroes” during crises, but when they ask for better staffing ratios, safer conditions, or mental health support, they are often dismissed as “not team players.” In non-unionized hospitals, the risks are magnified: nurses have little leverage to negotiate schedules, resist unsafe assignments, or push back against retaliation. Instead, they are expected to remain loyal, even as stress erodes their health and shortens their careers.

Recent years have shown that nurses are increasingly unwilling to accept this reality. In Oregon in 2025, nearly 5,000 unionized nurses, physicians, and midwives staged the largest health care worker strike in the state’s history, demanding higher wages, better staffing levels, and workload adjustments that reflect patient severity rather than just patient numbers. After six weeks, they secured a contract with substantial pay raises, penalty pay for missed breaks, and staffing reforms. In New Orleans, nurses at University Medical Center have launched repeated strikes as negotiations stall, citing unsafe staffing that puts both their health and their patients at risk. These actions are not isolated. In 2022, approximately 15,000 Minnesota nurses launched the largest private-sector nurses’ strike in U.S. history, and since 2020 the number of nurse strikes nationwide has more than tripled.

Alongside strikes, nurses are pushing for legislative solutions. At the federal level, the Nurse Staffing Standards for Hospital Patient Safety and Quality Care Act has been introduced, which would mandate minimum nurse-to-patient ratios and provide whistleblower protections. In New York, the Safe Staffing for Hospital Care Act seeks to set legally enforceable staffing levels and ban most mandatory overtime. Even California, long considered a leader in nurse staffing ratios, has faced crises in psychiatric hospitals so severe that Governor Gavin Newsom introduced emergency rules to address chronic understaffing linked to patient harm. Enforcement remains uneven, however. At Albany Medical Center in New York, chronic understaffing violations led to hundreds of thousands of dollars in fines, a reminder that without strong oversight, even well-crafted laws can be ignored.

The United States’ piecemeal and adversarial approach contrasts sharply with other countries. In Canada, provinces like British Columbia have legislated nurse-to-patient ratios similar to those in California, and in Quebec, unions won agreements that legally cap workloads for certain units. In the United Kingdom, the National Health Service has long recognized safe staffing as a matter of public accountability, and while austerity policies have strained the system, England, Wales, and Scotland all employ government-set nurse-to-patient standards to protect both patients and staff. Nordic countries go further, with Sweden and Norway integrating nurse well-being into health policy; short shifts, strong union protections, and publicly funded healthcare systems reduce the risk of burnout by design. While no system is perfect, these models show that burnout is not inevitable—it is a political and policy choice.

Union presence consistently makes a difference. Studies show that unionized nurses are more successful at securing safe staffing ratios, resisting exploitative scheduling, and advocating for patient safety. But unionization rates in nursing remain uneven, and in many states nurses are discouraged or even legally restricted from organizing. Without collective power, individual nurses are forced to rely on personal endurance, which is precisely what the system counts on.

The outcome is devastating not only for nurses but for patients. Burnout leads to higher turnover, staffing shortages, and medical errors—all while nursing schools continue to churn out new graduates to replace those driven from the profession. It is a cycle sustained by institutional denial and the myth of infinite devotion.

If U.S. higher education is serious about preparing nurses for the future, nursing programs must move beyond the rhetoric of sacrifice. They need to teach students not only how to care for patients but also how to advocate for themselves and their colleagues. They need to expose the structural causes of burnout and prepare nurses to demand better conditions, not simply endure them. Until then, the irony remains: a profession that celebrates care while sacrificing its caregivers.

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Sources

• American Nurses Association (ANA). “Workplace Stress & Burnout.” ANA Enterprise, 2023.

• National Nurses United. Nursing Staffing Crisis in the United States, 2022.

• Bae, S. “Nurse Staffing and Patient Outcomes: A Literature Review.” Nursing Outlook, Vol. 64, No. 3 (2016): 322-333.

• Bureau of Labor Statistics. “Union Members Summary.” U.S. Department of Labor, 2024.

• Shah, M.K., Gandrakota, N., Cimiotti, J.P., Ghose, N., Moore, M., Ali, M.K. “Prevalence of and Factors Associated With Nurse Burnout in the US.” JAMA Network Open, Vol. 4, No. 2 (2021): e2036469.

• Nelson, Sioban. Say Little, Do Much: Nursing, Nuns, and Hospitals in the Nineteenth Century. University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001.

• Kalisch, Philip A. & Kalisch, Beatrice J. The Advance of American Nursing. Little, Brown, 1986.

• Oregon Capital Chronicle, “Governor Kotek Criticizes Providence Over Largest Strike of Health Care Workers in State History,” January 2025.

• Associated Press, “Oregon Health Care Strike Ends After Six Weeks,” February 2025.

• National Nurses United, “New Orleans Nurses Deliver Notice for Third Strike at UMC,” 2025.

• NurseTogether, “Nurse Strikes: An Increasing Trend in the U.S.,” 2024.

• New York State Senate Bill S4003, “Safe Staffing for Hospital Care Act,” 2025.

• San Francisco Chronicle, “Newsom Imposes Emergency Staffing Rules at State Psychiatric Hospitals,” 2025.

• Times Union, “Editorial: Hospital’s Staffing Violations Show Need for Enforcement,” 2025.

• Oulton, J.A. “The Global Nursing Shortage: An Overview of Issues and Actions.” Policy, Politics, & Nursing Practice, Vol. 7, No. 3 (2006): 34S–39S.

• Rafferty, Anne Marie et al. “Outcomes of Variation in Hospital Nurse Staffing in English Hospitals.” BMJ Quality & Safety, 2007.

• Aiken, Linda H. et al. “Nurse Staffing and Education and Hospital Mortality in Nine European Countries.” The Lancet, Vol. 383, No. 9931 (2014): 1824–1830.

Defunded and Targeted: The 2025 Crisis Facing Minority-Serving Institutions

In a move that has rattled institutions, students, and advocates, the U.S. Department of Education under the Trump administration has announced it will eliminate approximately $350 million in discretionary grant funding for dozens of minority-serving institutions (MSIs) nationwide. The cuts affect seven major grant programs that support Hispanic-Serving Institutions, Predominantly Black Institutions, Alaska Native and Native Hawaiian-Serving Institutions, and Asian American, Native American, and Pacific Islander-Serving Institutions.

The administration’s stated rationale is that these programs violate constitutional equal protection principles by limiting eligibility based on race and ethnicity. A Solicitor General determination in July argued that some of these programs run afoul of the Fifth Amendment’s Equal Protection Clause. As a result, the Department of Education says it must terminate these discretionary funds and “reprogram” them into initiatives without race or ethnicity as eligibility criteria.

These grants have been essential for many MSIs: they have financed academic support services, facility improvements, staffing, mentoring and advising programs, and Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics pathways aimed at underrepresented students. They have also helped institutions meet accreditation requirements and federal compliance demands. In the California State University system, for instance, 21 of its 22 campuses qualify as Hispanic-Serving Institutions. CSU Chancellor Mildred García has warned that the loss of funding will cause “immediate impact and irreparable harm” across the system, with many of those campuses having Hispanic students constituting nearly half of their enrollment.

Legally, the Department of Justice has declined to defend several of these MSI programs in litigation filed by Tennessee and Students for Fair Admissions. The core legal claim is that race- or ethnicity-based eligibility constitutes an unconstitutional preference not sufficiently justified under strict scrutiny. The administration has portrayed its actions not only as legal necessities but as aligning with broader priorities that avoid what it sees as constitutionally weak race-based criteria.

The consequences are likely to be broad. Without this discretionary funding, many MSIs will struggle to maintain programs focused on student persistence, remedial education, and equity‐oriented innovation. Services and supports for students who already face systemic barriers risk being cut. For students, this could translate into higher dropout rates, longer time to degree, and fewer resources. More broadly, institutions serve as engines of social mobility; removing a key source of institutional support may disproportionately harm communities of color and rural or underserved areas.

These changes arrive amid growing concerns about campus safety and the psychological toll inflicted by fear and disruption. In recent days several Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs) have been forced into lockdown or canceled classes following hoax threat calls—“swatting” incidents—that mimic real violence but are ultimately false. Schools including Virginia State University, Hampton University, Alabama State University, Bethune-Cookman University, Spelman College, Morehouse, Clark Atlanta, Southern University & A&M College, and others faced terroristic threat letters or hoax calls that led to shelter-in-place orders, lockdowns, and heightened security measures. Though the FBI confirms that as of now no credible threat has been identified in many cases, the disruption has been real and traumatic for students, faculty, and administrators. These events underscore how fragile promises of safety can be, especially in institutions that already contend with systemic underfunding and inequity.

Administrations of affected universities have responded with caution. Some campuses suspended operations entirely, others canceled classes for multiple days, and many restricted access and tightened identification requirements. There are also broader legal and psychological costs: the stress, fear, and interruption to learning can exacerbate existing inequities in mental health and academic performance.

Even congressionally mandated funding—approximately $132 million that cannot immediately be reprogrammed—is under review for constitutionality. If more funding is cut or reallocated, more programs that target underrepresented populations by race or ethnicity may be dismantled.

Reaction from campus leaders, student advocates, and civil rights organizations has been swift. Many insist that these MSI programs are essential for closing equity gaps and forging institutional capacity that benefits all students. They argue that the cuts and these swatting-style threats combine to send a message: that institutions serving marginalized communities are especially vulnerable, legally and physically. The administration holds that it is compelled by constitutional law to end programs it deems indefensible, and that reprogramming funds to race-neutral programs is the correct path forward.

Looking ahead, legal challenges are almost certain. Questions include: what justifications are required under constitutional scrutiny; whether socioeconomic, geographic, or first-generation status metrics can be substituted for race or ethnicity eligibility; how institutions will respond financially and operationally; and what role Congress might play in defending or restructuring funding mandates. Meanwhile, ensuring physical and psychological safety on campuses—especially HBCUs—will remain a pressing concern in a climate where hoaxes and threats have become disturbingly frequent.

The elimination of $350 million in discretionary grants to minority-serving institutions marks a major shift in federal higher education policy. For MSIs, their students, and the communities they serve, the immediate effects may be devastating. But the broader questions raised—about constitutional limits, equity, race as public policy, and the safety of marginalized communities—are likely to echo well beyond this administration.

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Sources

• Diverse: Issues in Higher Education, “Trump Administration Cuts $350 Million in Grants to Minority-Serving Colleges,” September 2025.

• AP News, “Historically Black Colleges Issue Lockdown Orders, Cancel Classes After Receiving Threats,” September 2025. apnews.com

• Washington Post, “Multiple Historically Black Colleges Launch Lockdowns After ‘Terroristic’ Threat,” September 2025. washingtonpost.com

• Axios, “’Terroristic threats’ disrupt life at HBCUs across the U.S.” axios.com

• People Magazine, “Threats Force Multiple HBCUs Across Southern U.S. to Lock Down, Cancel Classes.” people.com

• The Guardian, “Black students and colleges across US targeted with racist threats day after Charlie Kirk killing.” theguardian.com