Tag: Inquirer

  • Higher Education Inquirer : Nonprofits and Nothingness: Follow the Money

    Higher Education Inquirer : Nonprofits and Nothingness: Follow the Money

    In the world of higher education and its orbiting industries—veteran-serving nonprofits, student-debt advocacy groups, educational charities, “policy” organizations, and campus-focused foundations—there is a great deal of motion but not always much movement. Press releases bloom, awards are distributed, partnerships are announced, and donors beam from stages and annual reports. Yet too often, the people who most need substantive support—servicemembers, student-loan borrowers, contingent faculty, low-income students, and other working-class communities—receive only fragments of what the glossy brochures promise.

    To understand why, you need only follow the money.

    The Neoliberal Philanthropy Trap

    Over the last four decades, American nonprofit culture has been reshaped and disciplined by neoliberal capital. So-called “impact philanthropy” and “venture philanthropy” introduced a corporate mindset: donors expect brand alignment, flattering metrics, and ideological safety. The result is a nonprofit sector that frequently mimics the institutions it claims to critique.

    Organizations become risk-averse. They avoid structural analysis. They sidestep direct confrontation with the powerful. They produce white papers instead of organizing. They praise the very elite funders who limit their scope.

    The most severe problems facing servicemembers and veterans—predatory for-profit schools, Pentagon-to-college corruption pipelines, GI Bill waste, chronic under-support—rarely get the oxygen they deserve. Advocacy groups that rely on neoliberal donors often focus on “financial literacy” workshops rather than taking on the multi-billion-dollar scams that actually trap servicemembers in debt.

    Student-debt nonprofits, similarly, lean into “awareness campaigns” and technocratic fixes that avoid challenging lenders, profiteering institutions, or federal policy failures. Many will deliver testimonials and infographics, but few will call out the philanthropic class whose own investments are entangled in servicing and securitizing student debt.

    And when it comes to helping working-class people more broadly—those navigating food insecurity, unstable housing, wage stagnation, and the crushing costs of education—the nonprofit sector too often does what neoliberal donors prefer: it performs compassion rather than redistributing power. It focuses on individual resilience rather than collective remedy.
    Appearance Over Impact

    This creates a strange ecosystem in which organizations are rewarded for looking productive rather than for being productive.

    • Events over empowerment.
    • Reports over results.
    • Branding over coalition-building.
    • Strategy sessions over structural change.

    The donor’s name gets its plaque, its press release, its tax receipt. The nonprofit gets to survive another cycle. But the problems—deep, persistent, systemic—remain unchallenged.

    Nonprofits that speak too directly about exploitation in higher education risk alienating the very people who write the checks. Some are nudged away from naming predatory universities. Others are steered toward “innovation,” “entrepreneurship,” or “student success” frameworks that sanitize the underlying issues. Many are encouraged to “partner” with the same institutions harming the people they were formed to help.

    In the end, we get a sector filled with earnest staff but hollowed-out missions—organizations doing just enough to appear active but rarely enough to threaten the arrangement that keeps donors comfortable and inequality intact.

     
    What Could Be—If Nonprofits Were Free

    Imagine a nonprofit sector liberated from neoliberal constraints:
    Organizations could openly challenge predatory colleges instead of courting them as sponsors.
    Veteran-serving groups could expose fraud rather than “collaborate” with federal contractors.
    Debt-advocacy groups could organize mass borrower actions rather than hold polite policy forums.
    Working-class students could find allies who fight for public investment, not piecemeal philanthropy.

    We could have watchdogs instead of window dressing.
    We could have mobilization instead of marketing.
    We could have justice instead of jargon.

    But as long as donor-driven nonprofits prioritize appearance over impact, we’re left with what might be called “nonprofits and nothingness”: organizations whose glossy public-facing work obscures the emptiness underneath.

     
    The Way Forward: Independent, Ground-Up Power

    Real change in higher education—on affordability, accountability, labor rights, and fairness—will not come from donor-managed nonprofits. It will come from independent journalism, grassroots organizing, debt-resistance movements, student-worker coalitions, and communities willing to challenge elite decision-makers directly.

    Those efforts don’t fit neatly into annual reports. They don’t flatter philanthropists. They don’t offer easy wins. But they build the kind of power that higher education, and the country, desperately needs.

    Until more nonprofits break free from the neoliberal donor leash, we should continue to follow the money—and then look beyond it, to the people whose work actually changes lives.

    Sources
    — Eikenberry, Angela. The Nonprofit Sector in an Age of Marketization.
    — Giridharadas, Anand. Winners Take All.
    — Reich, Rob. Just Giving: Why Philanthropy Is Failing Democracy.

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  • The Higher Education Inquirer is requesting all emails from the US Department of Education regarding selling off the student loan portfolio.

    The Higher Education Inquirer is requesting all emails from the US Department of Education regarding selling off the student loan portfolio.







    Higher Education Inquirer : The Higher Education Inquirer is requesting all emails from the US Department of Education regarding selling off the student loan portfolio.




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  • Higher Education Inquirer : The Ludwig Institute for Shared Economic Prosperity: Rethinking—and Challenging—America’s Economic Narrative

    Higher Education Inquirer : The Ludwig Institute for Shared Economic Prosperity: Rethinking—and Challenging—America’s Economic Narrative

    In a political moment defined by economic confusion, precarity, and widening inequality, the

    has positioned itself as one of the most forceful critics of how the U.S. government measures economic well-being. Founded in 2019 by Eugene “Gene” Ludwig—banking regulator, financier, and longtime critic of official labor statistics—the institute argues that the traditional indicators used by policymakers, economists, and the media no longer reflect the lived experience of most working and middle-class Americans.

    LISEP’s core mission is straightforward: to replace or supplement conventional economic indicators with metrics that measure whether ordinary people can live decent, stable, self-supporting lives. In place of headline unemployment levels that minimize underemployment and wage suppression, LISEP developed the True Rate of Unemployment (TRU). Instead of accepting the Consumer Price Index as an indicator of affordability, it created the True Living Cost (TLC). And to evaluate whether households can achieve a baseline level of dignity, the institute introduced its Minimal Quality of Life Index (MQL).

    Taken together, these indicators paint a sobering picture. LISEP’s most recent TRU data suggests that nearly one in four Americans—far more than the official unemployment rate—remains functionally unemployed or trapped in low-wage, unstable work. Its analysis of living costs shows that basic necessities such as housing, childcare, food, healthcare, and digital access are rising at rates that far outpace reported inflation. Its income distribution research finds that the bottom 60% of households fall severely short of the after-tax income required to meet even minimal quality-of-life thresholds.

    In a time when both parties often claim economic success—pointing to record stock markets, low headline unemployment, and steady GDP growth—LISEP argues that these triumphal narratives obscure the steady erosion of working-class security.

    But LISEP’s work does more than diagnose hardship; it challenges the legitimacy of the economic story that the United States tells about itself. That is precisely why its metrics have garnered attention—and controversy.
    Methodological Innovations and the Pushback They Attract

    Economists, policymakers, labor advocates, and academics have responded to LISEP’s work with a mixture of praise and skepticism. Some see LISEP as filling a critical gap—offering metrics that better capture the realities of gig workers, part-time workers, workers with unpredictable hours, and families priced out of life’s essentials. Others argue that LISEP’s approach risks injecting subjectivity into economic measurement and complicating long-established statistical frameworks.

    One major point of debate centers on LISEP’s definition of unemployment. Traditional unemployment statistics only count individuals actively seeking work. LISEP’s TRU metric, by contrast, includes the underemployed, part-time workers who want full-time jobs, and discouraged workers who have given up looking. Critics argue that combining these groups creates a metric that resembles a policy argument more than a neutral measurement. Supporters counter that ignoring these groups produces an artificially rosy portrait of economic health and undervalues persistent structural inequality.

    LISEP’s True Living Cost and Minimal Quality of Life indices face a different critique: they define “necessities” more broadly than some economists are comfortable with. Including internet access, basic technology, early childhood education, and modern transportation standards is, according to LISEP, essential to functioning in the 21st-century economy. Critics contend that because these standards go beyond subsistence, the metrics risk shifting from measuring need to measuring aspiration. The institute responds that “subsistence” is not an acceptable measure of human dignity in a wealthy nation.

    Other scholars raise questions about transparency. While LISEP publishes summaries and explanations of its methodologies, some economists argue that its approaches would require broader independent replication and peer review to become standard tools. Yet others note that the Bureau of Labor Statistics itself has long used imperfect methods that were never designed to measure well-being—only labor market participation.

    Where supporters and skeptics agree is on one point: LISEP has forced a deeply needed conversation about what economic dignity means in the United States today.
    Why LISEP Matters for Higher Education and Public Policy

    For institutions of higher learning—especially those that produce the economists, policymakers, and journalists who shape public discourse—LISEP’s challenge to economic orthodoxy is a call to scrutiny and humility. Universities continue to rely on traditional metrics in research, teaching, and policy labs, even when these metrics fail to capture the economic and social pressures facing students and their families.

    Students at community colleges, regional publics, and underfunded institutions live the realities LISEP describes: multiple jobs, unpredictable hours, rising food and housing insecurity, and persistent underemployment after graduation. Yet their struggles are too often minimized by conventional indicators that suggest a thriving labor market.

    If academia takes LISEP’s work seriously, it could shift research priorities, reshape debates on student debt, influence regional economic development strategies, guide labor-market forecasting, and elevate the experiences of the most economically vulnerable students.

    For policymakers, LISEP’s metrics offer a different foundation for assessing whether economic growth is reaching ordinary people. They provide tools for evaluating whether wages are livable, whether childcare is accessible, whether housing is affordable, and whether the economy produces stable, family-supporting jobs. If adopted or even partially embraced, LISEP’s indicators could inform legislation on minimum wage, labor protections, social services, tax reform, cost-of-living adjustments, and more.

    The institute’s broader message is simple: the United States cannot address inequality if it continues to celebrate misleading statistics.
    A New Economic Narrative

    Whether LISEP becomes a permanent influence or a dissenting voice will depend on how policymakers, journalists, and academic economists respond. If its metrics remain on the margins, they will serve as a moral indictment of traditional measures that ignore the reality of economic insecurity. If they are adopted, they could trigger a profound reevaluation of American economic policy—one grounded not in aggregate success but in shared prosperity.

    LISEP insists that a healthy economy is not one that grows on paper but one that allows ordinary people to live decently. That premise alone places the institute on the front lines of the battle over how the United States understands its own economic health.
    Sources

    Ludwig Institute for Shared Economic Prosperity, “True Rate of Unemployment (TRU),” 2025, lisep.org.
    Ludwig Institute for Shared Economic Prosperity, “True Living Cost (TLC),” 2025, lisep.org.
    Ludwig Institute for Shared Economic Prosperity, “Shared Economic Prosperity (SEP) Measure,” 2025, lisep.org.
    PR Newswire, “Majority of Americans Can’t Achieve a Minimal Quality of Life, According to New Ludwig Institute Research,” May 12, 2025.
    Ludwig Institute for Shared Economic Prosperity, “Wage Inequality Grows With Low-Income Workers Losing Ground,” Press Release, April 16, 2025.

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  • Higher Education Inquirer : Security Threats: Groypers on Campus

    Higher Education Inquirer : Security Threats: Groypers on Campus

    1. Transitional Vulnerability

    First-year students often experience isolation, uncertainty, and identity formation. Groypers prey on this transitional moment by offering belonging, brotherhood, and contrarian confidence.

    2. Political Vacuum
    As universities retreat from serious civic education and as student affairs offices shrink under austerity, space opens for fringe networks to fill the ideological void.

    3. Online Radicalization Pipelines
    Groypers thrive in places like:

    Discord
    Telegram
    X/Twitter
    anonymous forums
    niche livestream communities

    Campus life becomes an extension of these networks, where online provocations evolve into real-world harassment or orchestrated spectacle.

    4. Conservative Student Groups as Entry Points
    Mainstream Republican or “free speech” groups are often targeted for infiltration. Groypers show up:
    to push Q&A sessions into racist or antisemitic talking points,
    to pressure student Republicans to shift further right,
    to create rifts between libertarian, traditional conservative, and MAGA factions.

    The strategy is division, not dialogue.

    Common Groyper Tactics on Campus
    1. Ambush Questioning
    At public lectures or campus Republican events, Groypers coordinate to dominate Q&A sessions, posing racially charged or conspiratorial questions designed to go viral.

    2. Online Harassment and Dogpiling
    Students—often women, LGBTQ+ students, or activists—find themselves targeted with:

    brigade attacks,
    doxxing attempts,
    edited clips taken out of context,
    swarm-like intimidation.

    3. Misery Farming
    Groypers intentionally provoke negative reactions to harvest “proof” that campuses are hostile to conservatives. This content is then fed into national media pipelines.

    4. Grooming and Recruitment
    They seek out students who feel:
    lonely
    unsupported
    resentful
    ideologically adrift
    economically anxious

    A mix of dark humor, contrarian bravado, and “insider knowledge” becomes the grooming pathway.

    The Institutional Problem: Campuses Are Not Prepared
    Universities often misread these actors as:
    “just trolls,”
    “rowdy conservatives,”
    “free speech activists.”

    They’re not.

    Groypers are engaged in ideological recruitment and targeted harassment that can escalate into threats, coordinated disruption, and offline violence. Yet institutions remain slow to respond because:
    they lack digital literacy,
    they fear backlash from right-wing media,
    they outsource security and student affairs to PR firms,
    administrators underestimate decentralized extremist networks.

    Faculty—especially contingent or early-career academics—often feel unsupported or intimidated.

    How Groypers Fit into the Larger Campus Crisis
    The Groypers’ rise exposes deeper fractures:
    neoliberal hollowing of the university
    growing distrust in democratic institutions
    political polarization fueled by billionaire-backed media
    the decline of genuine civic education
    surveillance capitalism and algorithmic radicalization

    Campuses have become battlegrounds—not by accident, but because they sit at the intersection of youth, identity, technology, and national politics.

    What Higher Education Must Do Now
    Universities need to respond with clarity, not panic, and with structural solutions, not symbolic statements.

    1. Treat Digital Extremism as Part of Student Safety
    This means training staff, hiring specialists, and supporting targets of online harassment.

    2. Reinvest in Human Infrastructure
    Student Affairs, counseling centers, and campus journalism must be strengthened—not cut or replaced with outsourcing contracts.

    3. Support Independent Investigative Student Journalism
    Student reporters are often the first to detect radicalization trends—but only if their newsrooms are funded and protected.

    4. Protect Academic Freedom Without Ceding Ground to Harassment
    “Free speech” cannot be a shield for sustained intimidation campaigns.

    5. Strengthen Civic Education Rooted in Truth and Inclusion
    The real antidote to extremism is not censorship—it’s meaningful democratic literacy.

    Seeing the Threat Clearly
    Groypers are not the dominant force on campus. Most students reject their worldview. But they are a growing presence within a broader crisis where U.S. higher education lacks the stability, funding, and courage to defend its mission.

    The real danger is not the meme or the mascot—it’s the vacuum that allows extremist networks to flourish.

    The Higher Education Inquirer will continue monitoring this issue as the 2026 and 2028 election cycles approach, when radical groups often intensify campus recruitment and provocation.

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  • Higher Education Inquirer : American Christmas 2025

    Higher Education Inquirer : American Christmas 2025

    Mass surveillance is no longer a marginal concern in American life. It is the silent architecture of a society managed from above and distrusted from below. The cameras aimed at students, workers, and the precarious class reflect a deeper spiritual, political, and moral crisis among the elites who designed the systems now monitoring the rest of us.

    Universities, corporations, city governments, and federal agencies increasingly rely on surveillance tools to manage populations whose economic security has been gutted by the same leaders who now demand behavioral compliance. Cameras proliferate, keystrokes are tracked, movement is logged, and predictive algorithms follow people across campuses, workplaces, and public spaces. Yet those responsible for creating the conditions that justify surveillance—politicians, corporate boards, university trustees, executive donors, and policy consultants—operate in near total opacity. Their meetings take place behind closed doors, their decisions shielded from public scrutiny, their influence networks essentially invisible.

    This is not a coincidence. It is the logical extension of a neoliberal elite culture that elevates market logic above moral obligation. As the Higher Education Inquirer documented in “How Educated Neoliberals Built the Homelessness Crisis,” the architects of modern austerity—professionalized, credentialed, and trained in elite universities—constructed social systems that demand accountability from the poor while providing impunity for the powerful. Their policy models treat human beings as units to be managed, scored, nudged, and surveilled. Surveillance fits seamlessly into this worldview. It is the managerial substitute for solidarity.

    The moral void of this elite class is perhaps most visible in the realm of healthcare. The Affordable Care Act, whatever its limitations, represented a modest attempt to affirm that healthcare is a public good and that access should not depend entirely on wealth. But the undermining of Obamacare under Donald Trump laid bare how deeply the nation’s policy culture had descended into nihilism. Trump’s efforts to gut the ACA were not about ideology or fiscal prudence; they were an expression of power for its own sake. Funding for enrollment outreach was slashed. Navigator programs were dismantled. Work requirements for Medicaid were encouraged, despite overwhelming evidence that they punished the sick and disabled. The administration promoted junk insurance plans that offered no real protection, while lawsuits were advanced to overturn the ACA entirely, even if doing so meant millions would lose coverage.

    This assault revealed the moral collapse of a political and economic elite that had grown comfortable with cruelty. It was cruelty performed as policy, sanctioned by corporate donors, embraced by right-wing media, and tolerated by the broader professional class that rarely speaks out unless its own interests are threatened. Even many of the centrist neoliberal policymakers who originally shaped the ACA’s cost-sharing structure responded with timidity, reluctant to confront the underlying truth: that the American healthcare system had become an arena where profit mattered more than survival, and where surveillance of the poor replaced accountability for the rich.

    As traditional moral frameworks lose their authority—whether organized religion, civic duty, or shared ethical narratives—many Americans have drifted into agnosticism or atheism not enriched by humanist values, but hollowed out by a sense of futility. Without a shared moral anchor, people retreat into private meaning or abandon meaning altogether. In this void, conspiracy theories flourish. People know they are lied to. They sense power operating behind closed doors. They see elite institutions fail repeatedly without consequence. When institutions offer no transparency, alternatives emerge in the shadows.

    The elite response is predictable: condemn conspiracies, scold the public for irrationality, invoke the language of “misinformation.” But this reaction deepens the divide. The same elites who created opaque systems—financial, academic, political, and technological—now fault ordinary people for trying to make sense of the opacity. In a society where truth is managed, measured, branded, and optimized, conspiracy becomes a form of folk epistemology. It is not always correct, but it is often understandable.

    Mass surveillance is therefore not the root of the crisis but its mirror. It reflects a ruling class that no longer commands moral authority and a public that no longer trusts the institutions governing it. It reflects a society that treats the vulnerable as suspects and the powerful as untouchable. It reflects a political order in which the dismantling of healthcare protections is permissible while the monitoring of poor people’s bodies, behaviors, and spending is normalized.

    If the United States is to escape this downward spiral, the cameras must eventually be turned upward. Transparency must apply not only to individuals but to corporations, boards, agencies, foundations, and the political donors who shape public life. Higher education must cease functioning as a credentialing arm of elite impunity and reclaim its role as a defender of democratic inquiry and human dignity. Public institutions must anchor themselves in ethical commitments that do not depend on religious dogma but arise from the basic principle that every human being deserves respect, security, and care.

    Until that reconstruction begins, the nation will remain trapped. The elites will continue to rule through metrics and surveillance rather than legitimacy. The public will continue to oscillate between nihilism and suspicion. And the moral void at the center of American life will continue to widen, one camera at a time.

    Sources

    Shoshana Zuboff, The Age of Surveillance Capitalism

    David Lyon, Surveillance Studies

    Higher Education Inquirer, How Educated Neoliberals Built the Homelessness Crisis

    Wendy Brown, Undoing the Demos

    Christopher Lasch, The Revolt of the Elites

    Sarah Brayne, Predict and Surveil

    Elisabeth Rosenthal, An American Sickness

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  • Higher Education Inquirer : The College Meltdown: Pruning in Chernobyl

    Higher Education Inquirer : The College Meltdown: Pruning in Chernobyl

    Since the fallout of Occupy Wall Street in 2011, a small but persistent movement has sought to expose the widening inequities and systemic failures in U.S. higher education. We have agitated, analyzed, and educated, warning that the “market-driven” model championed by elite managers—presidents, trustees, CFOs, and state policymakers—would erode both academic quality and access. Today, that warning has become reality.

    The College Meltdown is not a metaphor. It is a literal unraveling of an ecosystem where public support has eroded, tuition has skyrocketed, and students are left with crushing debt. Colleges are shuttering campuses, programs are disappearing, and adjuncts—already the backbone of instruction—face insecure employment. Meanwhile, neoliberal administrators, entrusted with guiding institutions through turbulence, have mostly engaged in cosmetic pruning rather than systemic reform.

    This is not accidental. The managerial class in higher education—driven less by pedagogy than by budgets, branding, and financialization—has embraced austerity measures that protect elite interests while passing costs to students and staff. Endowment growth, athletics spending, and executive compensation often take priority over the academic mission. HBCUs and tribal colleges, already underfunded, bear the brunt of this mismanagement.

    Efforts to stabilize the system have been tepid at best. Proposals for meaningful structural reform, from debt relief to state reinvestment, are watered down by political and market pressures. Neoliberals tout efficiency and innovation, yet rarely address the underlying moral crisis: the deliberate prioritization of profit over learning, and the failure to cultivate a socially responsible citizenry.

    Our own engagement, since 2011, has aimed to shine light on these contradictions. We have chronicled how policies favoring privatization, corporate partnerships, and debt-financed tuition have created conditions ripe for collapse. We have amplified voices of students and faculty navigating these pressures. And we have challenged complacency in the academy, insisting that higher education be measured not just by financial metrics but by its capacity to educate, empower, and expand human potential.

    “Pruning in Chernobyl” captures the essence of this moment: managerial actors trimming the edges while radioactive structural failures spread unchecked. Unless institutions confront the root causes—inequality, extractive financial models, and an erosion of public purpose—the meltdown will deepen. Our work remains to educate the public, hold decision-makers accountable, and imagine a higher education system that nurtures learning rather than merely managing decline.

    Sources:

    1. Higher Education Inquirer Archives, 2016–2025.

    2. American Injustice Archives, 2008-2012. 

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  • Higher Education Inquirer : Remembering SNCC and CORE

    Higher Education Inquirer : Remembering SNCC and CORE

    To remember SNCC and CORE is to remember a democracy built not by elites but by everyday people—students, sharecroppers, domestic workers, bus drivers, teachers, and the poor and working class across the Jim Crow South and the segregated North. It is to remember Ella Baker’s wisdom, Diane Nash’s determination, Bob Moses’s quiet power, Fannie Lou Hamer’s moral force, James Farmer’s strategic brilliance—and also the thousands of unnamed organizers who risked everything without ever appearing in a textbook, a documentary, or a university lecture hall. Their names may not be widely known, but their work forms the backbone of the freedom struggle.

    SNCC and CORE were never celebrity movements. They were people-powered, grassroots engines of democracy. They were built by individuals who knocked on doors in rural counties where Black voter registration hovered near zero; who faced armed sheriffs, Klan mobs, and white citizens’ councils; who farmed during the day and attended movement meetings at night; who ferried activists to safe houses; who housed Freedom Riders despite threats of arson and lynching; who cooked for mass meetings; who walked into county courthouses where their presence alone was an act of political defiance. These unnamed contributors shaped history as much as the well-known leaders, and their invisibility in public memory is itself a measure of how selectively the United States remembers the struggle for justice.

    Ella Baker insisted from the beginning that the movement’s strength rested in ordinary people discovering their own power. That is why she pushed for “group-centered leadership,” refusing the myth that liberation depends on a single, heroic figure. Her practice of listening deeply—and her belief that the least recognized people held the deepest wisdom—permeated SNCC’s organizing culture. It is a challenge to institutions today, especially universities that still cling to hierarchical models of governance and expertise.

    CORE’s early commitment to interracial, nonviolent direct action emerged from a similar belief in collective action. Its activists—people like James Farmer, Bayard Rustin, and George Houser—helped introduce the tactics that would soon reverberate across the nation: sit-ins, freedom rides, boycotts, and jail-ins. CORE’s work in northern cities also exposed the hypocrisy of institutions—including universities—that claimed moral high ground while upholding segregation in housing, employment, and policing.

    SNCC’s field secretaries—Charles McDew, Ruby Doris Smith Robinson, Prathia Hall, Sam Block, and so many others—did work that higher education still struggles to fully comprehend. Their organizing went far beyond protest; it involved listening to community elders, teaching literacy classes, building independent political organizations, challenging disenfranchisement at every level, and nurturing local leadership. Behind each of those actions were dozens of unnamed individuals who opened their homes, shared their limited resources, and stood guard against retaliation.

    Remembering the unnamed is not sentimental. It is foundational. The freedom struggle was sustained by people whose names were never printed, whose stories never made the evening news, and whose families bore the consequences. Many were fired from their jobs, evicted from their homes, or harassed by police. Some disappeared from public life after the movement years, carrying trauma with little public recognition or support. Their sacrifices made the Civil Rights Movement possible, and higher education owes them a debt it has never acknowledged.

    Today’s universities still wrestle with the structures the movement confronted: racialized inequality, policing, surveillance, donor influence, and hierarchical authority. Many of the same dynamics SNCC and CORE challenged—white paternalism, economic exploitation, authoritarian governance—are alive in campus politics and in the broader “college meltdown,” where austerity, privatization, and predatory actors erode public trust and opportunity.

    To honor SNCC, CORE, and the thousands of unnamed organizers is to affirm that democracy emerges from the ground up. It means recognizing that real change requires more than symbolic gestures or PR-friendly “initiatives.” It demands revisiting Ella Baker’s core insight: strong people do not need strong leaders—they need structures that cultivate collective power.

    Remembering them means acknowledging that the freedoms we now take for granted—voting rights, desegregation, access to education—were won not by institutions, but by people who challenged institutions. And it means seeing the present clearly: that grassroots organizing, from campus movements to community struggles, remains essential to confronting the crises of inequality, debt, climate, surveillance, and governance that define our era.

    To remember SNCC and CORE is to remember not just the famous, but the countless unnamed: the hosts, the watchers, the singers, the marchers, the jailmates, the caretakers, the strategists, the frightened but determined teenagers, the elders who said “yes,” and the ones who insisted that freedom was worth the risk. Their legacy is the true measure of democracy—and a guide for what higher education must become if it is to serve justice rather than power.

    Sources

    Clayborne Carson, In Struggle: SNCC and the Black Awakening of the 1960s.

    Thomas F. Jackson, From Civil Rights to Human Rights: Martin Luther King Jr. and the Struggle for Economic Justice.

    Charles M. Payne, I’ve Got the Light of Freedom: The Organizing Tradition and the Mississippi Freedom Struggle.

    James Farmer, Lay Bare the Heart: An Autobiography of the Civil Rights Movement.

    Taylor Branch, Parting the Waters: America in the King Years.

    Barbara Ransby, Ella Baker and the Black Freedom Movement.

    Danielle L. McGuire, At the Dark End of the Street.

    SNCC Digital Gateway, Duke University.

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  • Higher Education Inquirer : America’s Creepiest College Presidents

    Higher Education Inquirer : America’s Creepiest College Presidents

     Across the United States, a quiet but unmistakable chill has settled over many college campuses. It isn’t the weather. It’s the behavior of a particular class of leaders—the college presidents whose decisions, priorities, and public personas have begun to feel, for lack of a better word, creepy. Not criminal, necessarily. Not always abusive in the legal sense. Just profoundly unsettling in ways that undermine trust, erode shared governance, and push higher education further into the shadows of authoritarianism and corporate capture.

    This piece introduces criteria for what makes a college president “creepy,” highlights examples of the types of leaders who fit the mold, and invites reader feedback to build a more accountable public record.

    Criteria for a “Creepy” College President

    “Creepy” here is not about personality quirks. It’s about behavior, power, and material consequences. Based on the reporting and analysis at HEI, we propose the following criteria:


    1. First Amendment Hostility

    Presidents who suppress speech, restrict student journalism, punish dissent, or hide behind overbroad “time, place, and manner” rules fall squarely into this category. The creepiness intensifies when universities hire outside PR firms or surveillance contractors to monitor campus critics, including students and faculty.

    2. Student Rights Violations

    Presidents who treat students as risks rather than people, who hide data on assaults, who enable over-policing by campus security, or who weaponize conduct codes to silence protest movements—from Palestine solidarity groups to climate activists—fit the profile.

    3. Civil Rights Erosion

    Administrators who undermine Title IX protections, retaliate against whistleblowers, protect abusive coaches, or ignore discrimination complaints are not just negligent—they’re institutionally creepy. Their public statements about “inclusion” often ring hollow when compared with their actions behind closed doors.

    4. Worker Rights Suppression

    Union busting. Outsourcing. Wage stagnation. Anti-transparency tactics. Presidents who preach community while crushing collective bargaining efforts, freezing staff pay, or firing outspoken employees through “restructuring” deserve a place on any such list.

    5. Climate Denial or Delay

    Presidents who sign glossy climate pledges yet continue fossil-fuel investments, partner with extractive corporations, or suppress environmental activism on campus epitomize a uniquely twenty-first-century creepiness: a willingness to sacrifice future generations to maintain donor relationships and boardroom comfort.

    Examples: The Multi-Modal Creep Typology

    Rather than name only individuals—something readers can help expand—we outline several recognizable types. These composites reflect the emerging patterns seen across U.S. higher education.

    The Surveillance Chancellor

    Obsessed with “campus safety,” this president quietly expands the university’s security apparatus: license plate readers at entrances, contracts with predictive-policing vendors, facial recognition “pilots,” and backdoor relationships with state or federal agencies. Their speeches emphasize “community,” but their emails say “monitoring.”

    The Union-Busting Visionary

    This leader talks the language of innovation and social mobility while hiring anti-union law firms to intimidate graduate workers and dining staff. Their glossy strategic plans promise “belonging,” but their HR memos rewrite job classifications to avoid paying benefits.

    The Donor-Driven Speech Regulator

    Terrified of upsetting trustees, corporate sponsors, or wealthy alumni, this president cracks down on student protests, bans certain speakers, or manipulates disciplinary procedures to neutralize campus activism. They invoke “civility” while undermining the First Amendment.

    The DEI-Washing Chief Executive

    This president loves diversity statements—for marketing. Meanwhile, they ignore racial harassment complaints, target outspoken faculty of color, or cut ethnic studies under the guise of “realignment.” Their commitment to equity is perfectly proportional to the next accreditation review.

    The Climate Hypocrite

    At Earth Day, they pose with solar panels. In the boardroom, they argue that divesting from fossil fuels is “unrealistic.” Student climate groups often face administrative smothering, and sustainability staffers are rotated out when they ask uncomfortable questions.

    Why “Creepiness” Matters

    Creepy leaders normalize:

    • an erosion of democratic rights on campus,

    • the quiet expansion of surveillance,

    • the targeting of vulnerable students and workers, and

    • a form of managerial governance that undermines the public purpose of higher education.

    Higher education is supposed to be a refuge for inquiry, dissent, creativity, and collective imagination. Presidents who govern through fear—whether subtle or overt—pose a deeper threat than those who merely mismanage budgets. They hollow out the civic core of academic life.

    A Call for Reader Feedback

    HEI is building a more comprehensive and accountable registry of America’s Creepiest College Presidents, and we want your help.

    • Who on your campus fits these criteria?

    • Which presidents (past or present) deserve examination?

    • What specific stories, patterns, or documents should be highlighted?

    • What additional criteria should be added for future reporting?

    Send your confidential tips, analyses, and suggestions. Together, we can shine light into administrative corners that have remained dark for far too long.

    Higher Education Inquirer welcomes further input and encourages readers to share this article with colleagues, student groups, labor organizers, and university newspapers.

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  • Higher Education Inquirer : Divestment from Predatory Education Stocks: A Moral Imperative

    Higher Education Inquirer : Divestment from Predatory Education Stocks: A Moral Imperative

    Calls for divestment from exploitative industries have long been part of movements for social and economic justice—whether opposing apartheid, fossil fuels, or private prisons. Today, another sector demands moral scrutiny: the network of for-profit education corporations and student loan servicers that have turned higher learning into a site of mass indebtedness and despair. From predatory colleges to the companies that profit from collecting on student debt, the system functions as a pipeline of extraction. For those who believe education should serve the public good, the issue is not merely financial—it is moral.

    The Human Cost of Predatory Education

    For decades, for-profit college chains such as Corinthian Colleges, ITT Tech, the University of Phoenix, DeVry, and Capella targeted low-income students, veterans, single parents, and people of color with high-pressure marketing and promises of career advancement. These institutions, funded primarily through federal student aid, often charged premium tuition for substandard programs that left graduates worse off than when they began.

    When Corinthian and ITT Tech collapsed, they left hundreds of thousands of students with worthless credits and mountains of debt. But the collapse did not end the exploitation—it simply shifted it. The business model has re-emerged in online form through education technology and “online program management” (OPM) firms such as 2U, Coursera, and Academic Partnerships. These firms, in partnership with elite universities like Harvard, Yale, and USC, replicate the same dynamics of inflated costs, opaque contracts, and limited accountability.

    The Servicing of Debt as a Business Model

    Beyond the schools themselves, student loan servicers and collectors—Maximus, Sallie Mae, and Navient among them—have built immense profits from managing and pursuing student debt. Sallie Mae, once a government-sponsored enterprise, was privatized in the 2000s and evolved into a powerful lender and loan securitizer. Navient, its spinoff, became notorious for deceptive practices and aggressive collections that trapped borrowers in cycles of delinquency.

    Maximus, a major federal contractor, now services defaulted student loans on behalf of the U.S. Department of Education. These companies profit directly from the misery of borrowers—many of whom are victims of predatory schools or structural inequality. Their incentive is not to liberate students from debt, but to sustain and expand it.

    The Role of Institutional Investors

    The complicity of institutional investors cannot be ignored. Pension funds, endowments, and major asset managers have consistently financed both for-profit colleges and loan servicers, even after repeated scandals and lawsuits. Public sector pension funds—ironically funded by educators—have held stock in Navient, Maximus, and large for-profit college operators. Endowments that pride themselves on ethical or ESG investing have too often overlooked education profiteering.

    Investment firms like BlackRock, Vanguard, and State Street collectively hold billions of dollars in these companies, stabilizing an industry that thrives on the financial vulnerability of students. To profit from predatory education is to participate, however indirectly, in the commodification of aspiration.

    Divestment as a Moral and Educational Act

    Divesting from predatory education companies and loan servicers is not just an act of conscience—it is an educational statement in itself. It affirms that learning should be a vehicle for liberation, not a mechanism of debt servitude. When universities, pension boards, and faith-based investors divest from corporations like Maximus, Navient, and 2U, they are reclaiming education’s moral purpose.

    The divestment movement offers a broader civic lesson: that profit and progress are not synonymous, and that investment must align with justice. Faith communities, student debt activists, and labor unions have made similar stands before—against apartheid, tobacco, and fossil fuels. The same principle applies here. An enterprise that depends on deception, coercion, and financial harm has no place in a socially responsible portfolio.

    A Call to Action

    Transparency is essential. Pension boards, university endowments, and foundations must disclose their holdings in for-profit education and student loan servicing companies. Independent investigations should assess the human consequences of these investments, particularly their disproportionate impact on women, veterans, and people of color.

    The next step is moral divestment. Educational institutions, public pension systems, and religious organizations should commit to withdrawing investments from predatory education stocks and debt servicers. Funds should be redirected to debt relief, community college programs, and initiatives that restore trust in education as a public good.

    The corporate education complex—spanning recruitment, instruction, lending, and collection—has monetized both hope and hardship. The time has come to sever public and institutional complicity in this cycle. Education should empower, not impoverish. Divestment is not merely symbolic—it is a declaration of values, a demand for accountability, and a reaffirmation of education’s original promise: to serve humanity rather than exploit it.

    Sources:

    • U.S. Department of Education, Borrower Defense to Repayment Reports

    • Senate HELP Committee, For Profit Higher Education: The Failure to Safeguard the Federal Investment and Ensure Student Success (2012)

    • Consumer Financial Protection Bureau (CFPB) enforcement actions against Navient and Sallie Mae

    • The Century Foundation, Online Program Managers and the Public Interest

    • Student Borrower Protection Center, Profiting from Pain: The Financialization of the Student Debt Crisis

    • Higher Education Inquirer archives

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  • Higher Education Inquirer : University of Phoenix’s “TransferPath” App: Convenience or Marketing Hype?

    Higher Education Inquirer : University of Phoenix’s “TransferPath” App: Convenience or Marketing Hype?

    The University of Phoenix has launched TransferPath, a mobile app promising prospective students a quick estimate of how many previous college credits might transfer toward a Phoenix degree. At first glance, it sounds like a win: upload your transcripts, get a pre-evaluation, and move faster toward completing your degree. The EdTech Innovation Hub article covering the launch presents the app as an unambiguously positive innovation—but a closer look raises serious questions.

    The EdTech piece reads more like a press release than investigative reporting. It offers no insight into how pre-evaluations are calculated, whether faculty are involved, or how often initial predictions align with final credit acceptance. Without this transparency, students risk developing false confidence and making financial or academic decisions based on incomplete or misleading information.

    The app also reflects the asymmetry of power between institution and student. While marketed as a convenience, it is ultimately a recruitment tool. The University of Phoenix controls which credits are accepted, and the app’s messaging may funnel students into its programs regardless of whether other paths would better serve their educational goals.

    Missing from the coverage is context. Phoenix’s history as a for-profit institution has drawn scrutiny over retention rates, student debt, and degree outcomes. Presenting TransferPath without acknowledging this background creates a misleading narrative that the app is purely a student-centered innovation. Equity concerns are similarly absent. Students without smartphones, stable internet, or digital literacy may be excluded or misled. There is no evidence that the app serves all students fairly or that its credit predictions are accurate across diverse educational backgrounds.

    TransferPath may indeed offer some convenience, but convenience alone does not equal value. Prospective students deserve clarity, honesty, and rigorous evaluation of how tools like this actually function. They need more than marketing optimism—they need realistic guidance to navigate the complexities of credit transfer, institutional incentives, and long-term outcomes.

    Until such transparency and accountability are provided, TransferPath risks being more of a recruitment gimmick than a meaningful step forward in higher education.

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