Anonymous wrote:
Anonymous wrote:https://www.newyorker.com/news/us-journal/the-aging-student-debtors-of-america?
They need to forgive these student loans for those who are seniors. There are 80 and 90 year olds who can’t pay it off.
How the hell do 80 and 90 year olds have student loans. College was so much cheaper when they were in college.
Graduate school loans.
The woman in the story borrowed $29,000 to go to law school in her 50s in the 1980s.
I don't see exactly why she wasn't able to pay it off. The article doesn't mention if she completed law school, but says she worked for 30 years at minimum wage. So I don't know what happened.
In 1983, at the age of fifty-two, Betty Ann enrolled in New York University’s law school. As a middle-aged Black woman, she wasn’t exactly the typical N.Y.U. law student. Her white male classmates would slyly elbow her books off the long library tables, and once, while standing at her locker, a classmate waved a ten-thousand-dollar tuition check, signed by his father, in her face. Betty Ann had borrowed twenty-nine thousand dollars in federal loans. Today, she owes $329,309.69 in student debt. She is ninety-one years old.
(snip)
Betty Ann and I spent an afternoon in early July poring over the thicket of loan statements and letters she had amassed from the Department of Education, guaranty agencies, and various loan servicers. Her payment history has been poorly documented; the partial records available to us showed $11,507 of payments since 2010. Years ago, she sold her family furniture to make loan payments, and the apartment she now rents in suburban Pennsylvania remains sparsely decorated: a coffee table doubles as a bookcase, and a wobbly dining table served as her home office during the pandemic. (Until she retired a few months ago, Betty Ann spent the last thirty years working full time at a nonprofit for near-minimum wage.) At one point, we tried to set up her online federal student-aid account: over and over, Betty Ann would read me her information as I typed it into the computer, only to have the systems glitch and freeze.
As the sun lowered on the apartment blocks and sounds of dinner filled the courtyard, I leaned back and asked Betty Ann what she made of all of this, this puzzle of paperwork and the ominous threats that wafted from it—the ensuing damage to her credit, the rising fees, the warning of more letters to come. “Oh, I never expected it would go like this!” she told me. She hadn’t anticipated that her dream of getting a law degree would crash so directly into the realities of being an older woman of color on the job market. My mind flashed to Robert’s wish for her and her sisters to attend college, his belief that education was the most powerful tool for Black women to thrive in an unjust world. What would he make of his retired daughter spending a summer day squinting at her student loans?
Betty Ann’s debt, in some ways, casts a shadow over her life, inviting doubt to hover over her decisions to pursue law school and leave a bad relationship despite its financial securities. She wonders if, without debt, she could have stayed in the home she once owned, rather than spending her final years in a rented apartment that needs new carpet and a paint job. Could she have retired earlier and caught up on her reading? Could she have finally written her family history, a story which blazes through the Trail of Tears, Reconstruction, and redlining? These matters are material.
But the debt is also an abstraction—something incomprehensible and alien to Betty Ann’s daily life. How does one possibly understand the mutation of a modest loan into a figure more than ten times its original size? As Betty Ann’s balance has grown exponentially larger, the servicing companies and guaranty agencies have made profits many times the amount of her original loan. The colossal sum being demanded from her bears little resemblance to the sum she took out nearly four decades ago. It is now something else entirely.