You frame the student debt crisis not simply as an economic issue, but as one of the most pressing civil rights questions of our time: who gets to go to college. What led you to approach the issue through that lens?

When the publisher first approached me about writing a book on student debt, I hesitated. The issue has already been explored in thoughtful ways by many authors. But I agreed on one condition: that we frame the crisis not simply as an economic issue, but as a civil rights and moral issue.

When you look closely at who is most affected by student debt, the disparities are impossible to ignore. Black borrowers—particularly Black women—carry some of the heaviest burdens. Four years after graduation, Black graduates owe an average of $52,726 compared to $28,006 for White graduates. They carry 50 percent more debt on average than their White counterparts. What’s more, the average Black student borrower owes 95 percent of their original loan statement after twenty years of payment. We see disparities across gender, too. Women hold about two-thirds of all student debt in the United States, and Black women often take on the largest balances while also serving as caregivers and economic anchors in their families and communities.

At the same time, higher education has historically been one of the most powerful engines of opportunity in this country—especially for communities that were excluded from it for generations. When access to that opportunity becomes tied to decades of debt, we have to ask deeper questions about fairness, access, and equity.

So for me, framing the student debt crisis as a civil rights issue simply reflects a larger truth: economic barriers to education can limit people’s ability to fully participate in American life.

Rev. Al Sharpton describes student debt as “the new economic segregation.” For readers who may not have thought about debt in those terms before, what does that phrase capture about the current moment?

One of the things that struck me while researching this book is just the sheer scale of the problem. Today, roughly 45 million Americans carry student loan debt, and collectively they owe more than $1.7 trillion.

Many students do exactly what we tell them to do. They work hard in high school, get accepted into college, and pursue an education in hopes of building a better life. But at 18 years old, they are often asked to sign promissory notes committing them to tens of thousands of dollars in debt—sometimes $70,000, $80,000, even $100,000.

We would never allow an 18-year-old to sign a car loan for that amount. Yet we routinely ask young people to do exactly that in order to access higher education.

For many borrowers, that debt shapes major life decisions—whether to buy a home, start a family, or pursue certain careers. And when you layer that reality on top of racial wealth gaps and broader economic inequality, you begin to see how student debt can function as a kind of economic barrier that reinforces existing inequities.

That’s what Reverend Sharpton is getting at when he calls it the “new economic segregation.” It’s a call to broaden how we think about civil rights—not just in terms of access, but in terms of the financial structures that shape opportunity.

You also note the troubling role that some for-profit colleges have played in enrolling large numbers of Black students while leaving them with outsized debt and fewer economic returns. What should policymakers and students understand about that dynamic?

The issue of predatory recruitment by some for-profit institutions has been documented for decades. These schools have often used aggressive marketing tactics—particularly targeting first-generation students, working adults, and communities of color.

In many cases, students leave with significant debt but without a credential, or with a credential that carries limited value in the labor market. That’s devastating, because it means borrowers are left with financial obligations but without the economic mobility that higher education is supposed to provide.

Recent research continues to show that Black students are disproportionately enrolled in for-profit colleges, in some cases at higher rates than at historically Black colleges and universities or public land-grant institutions.

There have been efforts in recent years to strengthen oversight and hold predatory institutions accountable, but it remains an area where policymakers need to stay vigilant. Students deserve transparency about outcomes, and taxpayers deserve assurance that federal financial aid is supporting institutions that actually deliver on their promises.

One statistic that really stands out is the decline in Pell Grant purchasing power—from covering the majority of college costs decades ago to a much smaller share today. What does that shift tell us about how we’ve changed our approach to financing higher education?

The story of the Pell Grant tells us a lot about how our national priorities have shifted.

When Pell Grants were first introduced in the 1970s, they covered nearly 80 percent of the cost of attending a public college. Today, that figure is closer to 30 percent.

In other words, the federal government once treated higher education as a public investment—something worth supporting because it benefited society as a whole.

Over time, that philosophy shifted toward a model where higher education is viewed more as a private investment, with individuals and families expected to shoulder a greater share of the cost.

The result is that grants no longer keep pace with rising tuition, and students increasingly rely on loans to fill the gap. That’s why many advocates—including myself—support proposals to significantly increase or even double the Pell Grant so that it can once again play a meaningful role in making college affordable.

You also raise the idea of student debt relief as a form of repair or even as a reparation. How should we think about that idea in the broader context of historical injustice?

The word “reparations” can make people uncomfortable, but when we talk about the history of higher education, it’s important to recognize that many institutions were not originally designed to serve the full diversity of the American public.

Women were excluded from many universities well into the twentieth century. Black Americans faced legal segregation and systemic barriers to admission for generations. So when we talk about expanding access today, we are really talking about correcting historical exclusions.

My argument is that student debt relief can be understood as a form of economic repair—not limited to any one group, but designed to help people who have been locked out of opportunity by structural inequalities.

If we frame the conversation in economic terms—helping working-class families, first-generation students, and those struggling under the weight of debt—it becomes easier to build broader political support across ideological lines.

Despite the challenges, you also point out that the economic value of a college degree remains strong. So the question becomes: how do we ensure access without trapping people in decades of debt?

Despite all the challenges we’ve been discussing, the data is still very clear: higher education remains one of the strongest pathways to economic mobility in the United States.

For many people—including myself and many of the students I grew up within Philadelphia—a college education opened doors that would have otherwise remained closed.

At the same time, we can’t ignore the rising cost of college. Policymakers, institutions, and advocates need to have serious conversations about affordability—from tuition levels to textbooks to housing and food costs.

But we also need to remember that education has always been a community investment. In my own life, my church community in Camden raised money to help me go to college. And there was a woman in my church, Sister Mattie Kelly, who sent me a handwritten note and $20 every single week while I was in school.

She never missed a week for four years.

Those small acts of generosity meant everything. They reminded me that education isn’t just about individual success—it’s about communities investing in the next generation.

If policymakers, university leaders, and advocates listening today could take one lesson from this book, what would you want it to be?

One lesson is that solving the student debt crisis will require collaboration across sectors.

Government has a role to play—through policies like strengthening Pell Grants and improving oversight of predatory institutions. But the private sector and philanthropy also have an important role.

We’ve seen powerful examples of this in recent years. Philanthropists like MacKenzie Scott have made historic investments in higher education, and Robert Smith’s decision to eliminate the student debt of Morehouse College’s graduating class showed what bold action can look like.

At the end of the day, the stories in this book are about real people—students who are working incredibly hard to pursue the American dream despite enormous obstacles.

What gives me hope is that many of them are also becoming advocates themselves, pushing our institutions to do better. And in many ways, that kind of civic engagement is exactly what higher education is supposed to inspire.