HBCU Dreams Are Being Priced Out

Across the country, college acceptance letters have been opened, financial aid portals refreshed, and family group chats set ablaze. As enrollment decision deadlines approach, one reality is becoming increasingly clear: for many students considering a Historically Black College or University, the choice is driven less by academic fit and more by financial survival.

Consider that the four-year HBCU graduation rate stands at just 23.2% — one of the lowest in higher education. This is not a reflection of talent or ambition. It reflects financial strain. Increasingly, students are having to forfeit an education at these colleges and universities because they simply cannot afford it. But philanthropy can help disrupt this trend by funding direct, debt-free scholarships for HBCU students and, in doing so, fundamentally reshape graduation outcomes.

This year, HBCUs have experienced a long-overdue surge in attention and investment. Billionaire philanthropist MacKenzie Scott alone has donated more than $700 million in unrestricted gifts, allowing these HBCUs to invest where they need it most, including research infrastructure, building upgrades, faculty hiring, and support for students in crisis. As an alumna of two HBCUs, I’m grateful for this infusion of funding. But if students cannot afford to enroll, remain enrolled, and graduate, institutional stability alone is not enough.

Because predatory loans and lack of financial options disproportionately burden Black families, HBCU graduates carry an average of $32,000 in student loan debt — about 19% more than their peers at non-HBCUs. And when cost becomes a deterrent, enrollment suffers. For example, Black male college attendance has hit historic lows, with many citing a lack of financial support as a primary barrier.

I count myself among the lucky ones. When I applied to Howard University in 2012, I received a Legacy Scholarship that covered full tuition, room and board, and books—everything but meals. That scholarship gave me economic security and freedom. I didn’t need to juggle part-time jobs or work-study shifts between classes. Instead, I joined a sorority, studied abroad in Costa Rica and fully immersed myself in campus life. When graduation approached, I didn’t even check my balance for fees — a privilege too few students ever experience.

Debt-free schooling creates economic freedom. In my case, I was able to choose my desired career in education, a notoriously underpaid field, because I never had to worry about mounting undergraduate debt. And I was able to purchase a home at age 25 because I wasn’t burdened with crushing student loan repayments. This economic success is the kind of famed opportunity that draws applicants to HBCUs. Yet it is a reality thousands of HBCU students have not and never will experience under our current financial aid system.

HBCU applications and enrollments are up by double digit percentages since the Supreme Court struck down affirmative action and DEI initiatives. Students want and, given the political climate, need to attend institutions that provide them safety, affirm their identity, and uplift their potential. But enrollment gains mean little if students ultimately enroll elsewhere to avoid decades of debt.

Even when students do enroll, mounting debt forces too many to stop out, transfer, or abandon higher education altogether. And students who fall behind on tuition payments are being plunged into increasingly unforgiving circumstances. Last July, for example, Howard University purged thousands of students from its system due to unpaid balances. My social media feed was filled with teary-eyed students learning they would lose housing, classes, and financial aid overnight. I felt a deep ache realizing what was at stake — not just enrollment, but access to the lifelong networks, traditions, and the promise of success that defines the HBCU experience.

This is a crisis that should matter deeply to philanthropists, policymakers, and higher education leaders because the consequences extend beyond individual students. Graduates burdened by debt struggle to build wealth, limiting their ability to give back as alumni.

This past homecoming season, I attended the alumni centennial auction at Xavier University where I sat at a table of high-profile doctors, lawyers, and engineers as they lamented about their inability to give higher donations because their student loan debts were simply too high. When you multiply those decisions across several alumni classes, it’s easy to see how institutions then face tighter budgets, fewer resources, and increased pressure to compete primarily on price rather than mission. Over time, this cycle weakens the very institutions philanthropy, policymakers, and higher education leaders seek to strengthen.

This is not a failure of individual HBCUs. It is a systemic failure — one that cannot be solved by institutional investments alone. Models like the Blank Foundation and the Student Freedom Initiative point toward a more transformative approach: direct investment in students that reduces debt at the point of entry and sustains them through graduation.

Indeed, MacKenzie Scott’s philanthropy has helped reshape what is possible for HBCUs as institutions. But philanthropists, foundations, and policymakers need to make different choices in the next admissions and fundraising cycles — ones where scholarships, tuition guarantees, and debt-free pathways are central to how access is defined.

If we truly believe in the future of HBCUs, we must invest not only in buildings and balance sheets — but in the students deciding, right now, whether they can afford to say “yes.”

Julienne Louis Anderson is an alumna of Howard University and Xavier University of Louisiana. She is also a fellow of The OpEd Project in partnership with the National Black Child Development Institute.

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