Was it worth it, SCOTUS?

In 1969, my father graduated high school and was accepted at a local junior college for his freshman year. When it came time to pay for the tuition for 18 hours that semester, he wrote a check for $75. After attending for two years, he transferred to Southwest Texas State University, where he paid an amount he admittedly cannot remember — “Don’t remember, but it wasn’t much!” he said in a text — again, this time, with a check. A check! My dad graduated without a single penny owed. But that was then. And this is now.

Going to college was expected in my family. No, demanded. My mom has a Ph.D. and works in higher education, my oldest brother has a master’s and my dad and brother graduated with a bachelor’s. In my family, getting a bachelor’s degree was the least you could do to achieve what you wanted in life. A high school degree just wouldn’t cut it. For what I wanted to do with my life, getting a degree was just the ante to play the game. And there are tens of millions of more people just like me who needed a degree in this economy to do what they felt in their bones was the right choice for them.

And so, at 18, I did everything right to accumulate the least amount of debt I could. When I graduated high school in December of 2008, I, too, decided to go to a community college first. It was the cheaper option. I tried to be sensible in pursuing higher education; I was a part of Americorps, hoping that the grant would cover at least a year or two of my tuition. But that didn’t work out. Little did I know at the time, I had a burgeoning illness that would change the trajectory of my entire life. In a moment of desperation, I did what millions of Americans do: I took out a loan. It’s a familiar story. Mine isn’t so different, after all.

I distinctly remember the day I dropped out of college. While that time is a blur, the memories of that day are sharpened through a lens of heartbreak, not only because I was dropping out, but because I was clinically depressed and realized, I can’t do this. I only had a year left. I thought I’d be back soon, but I didn’t know how sick I really was then. I remember how the warm April sun felt on my face when I came to the realization that I’d have to take a mental health withdrawal. I also remember the day that the University of Texas at San Antonio decided that, because I wasn’t “sick” — by their own estimation — before the final refund deadline, I would not get my money back for that semester. I left San Antonio, bereft of a degree, dignity, my health and thousands of dollars — money that I borrowed. Wasted.

For years after that day, I watched everyone around me graduate. I celebrated their amazing accomplishment alongside them, hoping that one day, I’d share their courage and perseverance. I got a full-time job at the El Campo Leaders News and I thought, this works for now. I was paid minimum wage and it wasn’t soon until I got my first bill for my student loans — hundreds of dollars I didn’t have. What was I going to do? What could I do? My dream was journalism. What had I just spent the last four years doing, other than accruing debt I now couldn’t pay?

Nearly eight years after I graduated from high school and four years since I dropped out of college the first time, I asked, What would I have to pay to finally get my degree? I enrolled in the journalism program at Arizona State University in 2017 while working more than 40 hours for a B2B magazine in Broomfield, Colorado. But I only lasted a semester. Alright, strike two, I thought. This is what I am supposed to do, right? This is what I was taught to do. Try and try again, but I never thought I’d graduate. I would die owing money in student loans without ever having a degree. In fact, it took a pandemic for me to reconsider my hardened stance.

After COVID-19 hit and I was left without a job, I decided it was time. If not now, when? Even at 31 years old, I still felt that pressure to succeed, to be on par with the rest of my family, to live up to that seemingly impossible standard of higher education. “Getting a bachelor’s degree isn’t about how smart you are, it just shows an employer how tenacious you are,” my mom, an associate dean, told me over and over again. Perhaps out of boredom and a “f*&! it” attitude, I decided to enroll at Lamar University. Something stuck this time. I graduated with my bachelor’s degree on Dec. 9, 2022 — a full 14 years after I walked the stage in high school. It wouldn’t have been possible without the support and understanding of generous professors that accommodated my unique needs. And hey, things were looking up — finally! In August, President Joe Biden told desperate borrowers that the U.S. government would cancel a chunk of debt — $20,000 of debt for Pell Grant recipients and $10,000 for the vast majority of remaining borrowers. I heard the grumbles, but they were not louder than the overwhelming sighs of relief.

Now, the Supreme Court of the United States has decided — among a slew of sad decisions — to reject Biden’s promise, ruling he did not have the authority under a 2003 federal law to forgive hundreds of billions of dollars of student debt.

“The HEROES Act allows the Secretary [of Education] to ‘waive or modify’ existing statutory or regulatory provisions applicable to financial assistance programs under the Education Act,” the ruling states, “but it does not allow the Secretary to rewrite that statute to the extent of canceling $430 billion of student loan principal.”

Without even going into the legality of SCOTUS hearing this case, I want to talk about its emotional effects. Now, as many as 43 million people feel a collective disappointment and disillusionment that is palpable. Here’s the thing: there is a mental weight that you carry with a student loan. It cannot be forgiven, even if you declare bankruptcy. Think about that — it is literally unforgivable. The choice to take out a loan to pay for college is one you first make when you’re a teenager. Are you still suffering the consequences of the decisions you made at 18 years old?

While the pause on student loans was helpful and millions of us let out a collective breath of relief during COVID (yes — during COVID! The irony here is not lost), student loan interest will resume on Sept. 1 and payments will be due starting in October. As I struggle to pay bills, for my apartment in Kyle and medications that keep me gainfully employed, I ask, At what cost? What bones must break?

I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. But what can I say? What can I say that will actually matter? Yoke around my neck, I don’t really believe that my opinion matters. So, I turn to the data.

According to the Center for Law and Social Policy, research has shown that cancellation would boost GDP by billions of dollars and add up to 1.5 million new jobs, reducing the unemployment rate. Not only is this a national crisis, but the debt has significant intergenerational, poverty effects. Canceling debt would advance gender and racial equity, benefiting those who need it the most — those who are struggling the most. Not to mention that, above all, access to higher education should be a fundamental human right.

But hey, who cares, really? I’ll be enslaved to my debt for decades, but I’m just one voice among millions who have been failed by the system of higher education. While borrowers are paying tooth and nail for the next forty-odd years — falling through the cracks — our collective pain will only be heard as a gentle thud when we finally reach rock bottom. This? This is just one whimper on the long way down.

Frels is the editor of the Hays Free Press/News-Dispatch and happily welcomes other opinions on this matter. She can be reached at [email protected].