Student Debt & the Art of Storytelling

This isn’t a student debt story (sorta).

It’s actually a story about storytelling (sorta).

Let’s say you’re writing a book that portrays higher education as “an obscene and nearly unwinnable gamble,” as a “broken” system and an “irresponsible” choice. Your book might focus on the trope that college students — universally, equally, and responsibly — are suffering beneath mountains of debt.[1] And to establish this trope, you might select 1 story that a) amplifies the burden and b) suggests the same for everyone on Earth.

In her book[2, 3] Burdened:[4] Student Debt and the Making of an American Crisis, Ryann Liebenthal plants the student loan trope with this 1 story about 1 student:

[Jordan] … should have graduated from Morehouse College on May 19, 2019. … At the end of his sophomore year, he had taken stock of his financial situation and come to a startling real-ization. He had already racked up $65,000 in student debt,[5] and he was on track to graduate with $150,000 or more, an almost unimaginable sum split among him and several family members who had taken out loans on his behalf.

Together Jordan and his mom, a health-research coordinator, decided that the situation was unsustainable. He took a few days to reflect, then let the school know he wouldn’t be returning. … When he came back to Oakland that summer, he enrolled at a local community college and began working at a Best Buy. Eventually, he earned his associate’s degree and transferred to the state university in Hayward to continue working toward his bachelor’s.

In telling Jordan’s 1 story,[6] Liebenthal doesn’t hide the details. Instead, she includes the numerous “choices” that were personally available to Jordan. With this, Liebenthal reveals a deeper story … that college debt, as an individual and personal decision[7], is often created when cheaper alternatives are dismissed.

A Story Is More Than Just the Story

Student debt results from both universities (tuition)[8] AND students (choice). On a case-by-case basis, this responsibility can shift more toward the student or more toward the university.[9] In the former scenario, many students “choose” a more expensive college — hoping it’ll become magically affordable — when a less expensive option is available. Returning to Jordan’s story, Liebenthal writes:

Jordan had been excited to go to Morehouse, an all-male historically Black college whose alumni include Martin Luther King Jr. and Spike Lee, and he’d thrived there, enrolling in business courses and serving on the board of Safe Space, the campus LGBTQ organization. But he just couldn’t see how any of that justified saddling his family with six figures and an interest rate. (emphasis added)[10]

Here, Liebenthal fails to acknowledge that nothing prevented Jordan’s “justification” BEFORE he chose Morehouse. Knowing Morehouse’s tuition, costs, and financial aid, the potential to “[saddle] his family with six figures and an interest rate” is something Jordan should have foreseen. Every year, thousands and thousands of high school students weigh the financial barriers of [insert “dream college”]. While some push forward despite the risks, others chose a very different (cheaper) story.

So did Jordan have a cheaper alternative? In telling Jordan’s story, Liebenthal reveals that instead of Morehouse (total residential costs (2024–2025): $52,545),[11] Jordan could have chosen very differently:

When he came back to Oakland that summer, he enrolled at a local community college and began working at a Best Buy. Eventually, he earned his associate’s degree and transferred to the state university in Hayward to continue working toward his bachelor’s.

These details reveal the cost-saving alternatives that Jordan could have chosen (BEFORE Morehouse) so as to NOT to “[saddle] his family with six figures and an interest rate”:

• Working while attending college
• Living rent-free at home instead of on campus
• Pursuing (first) an associates degree at a (cheaper) community college
• Transferring (later) to a cheaper, in-state college (California State University (in Hayward) prices its tuition, books, and supplies at $8600 (2024–2025))

One Story = One Pinhole

Liebenthal gets caught up in her storytelling,[12] and because of this, she transforms Jordan from a faceless everyman (the trope) into an individual with specific choices and circumstances. This widens the door to counterfactuals, counter-realities, and counter-stories … like Trace.

Trace is my son, currently a junior at the University of Oklahoma (OU). In his story, he applied to several “dream schools,” which included Boston College (cost of attendance: approx. $90,000 (2024–2025)) and Belmont (cost of attendance: approx. $60,000 (2025–2026)). As a family, we decided Boston College was beyond our means, and when Belmont offered just $10,000 in scholarship money, we (as a family) eliminated them from the list.

Eventually, Trace ended up at OU, and in his college story, Trace will graduate debt free. His outcome is the product of intentional choices, some of which are similar to the choices[13] revealed in Jordan’s story:

• By choosing OU, Trace maximized his scholarship money (Texas Christian University was also on his list, but with scholarships, tuition was still about $15,000/year).
• By choosing OU, Trace benefitted from the lower tuition of an in-state, public university.
• Because of Advanced Placement credits and dual-enrollment classes, Trace started college as a sophomore, skipping his freshman year.
• While at OU, Trace works as a tour guide, which helps defer our costs for food and expenses.
• After his freshman year, Trace moved off campus and chose to live with three other students, splitting rent four ways and reducing his housing/food costs.
• During Christmas and summer breaks, Trace enrolls in online classes, which moves him closer to graduation at a lower tuition price.

Of course, this is 1 story from 1 student (everyone is different), but it’s an important story to tell. Liebenthal’s 1 story from 1 student suffers from imbalance and bias;[14] it implies that everyone is a Jordan while nobody is a Trace. Liebenthal, in rebuttal, might argue that Trace is an exception to the rule or an outlier in the student debt “system.”[15] But this rebuttal suffers from facts:

Total annual education borrowing has been declining for the past 13 years.[16] … In 2023–24, after the 13th consecutive decline in annual education borrowing, students and parents borrowed $99.0 billion in federal and nonfederal loans, down from a peak of $159.2 billion (in 2023 dollars) in 2010–11. … Consistent with the trend in declines in annual borrowing, the average cumulative debt among bachelor’s degree recipients has been declining as well. [emphasis added] Among bachelor’s degree recipients who started and completed at the same public or private nonprofit four-year institution, [only!] 50% of 2022–23 graduates borrowed for their undergraduate study. — Trends in Student Aid — College Board Research

Higher Education Isn’t about Elite Education

According to Liebenthal:

College students like Jordan-–with the talent but not the wealth to make their way through America’s elite institutions — are urged to follow their dreams as far as they can go. … [T]hey’re on the hook for it [the debt], even if their degree, in spite of all the lofty rhetoric, doesn’t land them in the C suite. In that case, the choice was irresponsible, the debt is no good, and it will never, ever go away.

Despite Liebenthal’s implication, not all students choose to (nor can they afford to) “make their way through America’s elite institutions.” Many live a different story where they make the choice to attend “less elite” (but still educational) institutions, possibly Northeastern State University in Tahlequah, Oklahoma (total cost of in-state, residential attendance: $23,328 (2024–2025)) or Midland College in Midland, Texas (total cost of in-state, residential attendance: $15,902 (2024–2025)). This choice doesn’t make their lives less than even if someone’s “lofty rhetoric” implies otherwise. Likewise, many college graduates don’t deem their choices “irresponsible” simply because they never end up “in the C suite.” A teacher might have student debt, but that shouldn’t automatically label him/her “irresponsible.”

At first blush, it’s difficult to tell if Liebenthal’s lens of irresponsibility is academic or more personal. The latter is suggested by Jordan’s story, which is one-sided and above critique. But what about Liebenthal’s story, which is hidden in the back of her book? Were her irresponsibilities wholly systematic? Or were they partly her own?

When I graduated from Reed College[17, 18] in 2005, I had a little more than $20,000 in student loan debt. At the time this seemed an impossible amount,[19] which I would never repay[20] (indeed, nearly twenty years later, my undergraduate loan balance hovers around $5,000).[21] …

Eventually, I decided to attend a global journalism master’s program at NYU.[22] I did not, at that time, realize that terminal master’s programs are cash cows for their institutions, funding undergraduate scholarships and PhD fellowships. …

Most obviously, I shouldn’t have gone to grad school; I should have gone to a cheaper grad school; I should have threatened to drop out; I should have actually dropped out; I should have moved back in with my mom; and I most definitely should not have spent the year after graduating living on my leftover loan funds while I interned at various low-paying literary magazines. And when a five-month, full-time, unpaid stint at Harper’s Magazine resulted in a job offer the next fall, I should not have let go of my $42,000 fact-checker’s salary from Self magazine and taken an $11,000 pay cut for the same job at Harper’s. …

In short, I have made a lot of mistakes. Reading the paragraph above, it seems as if I’ve made exactly the wrong decision at literally every turn. The blame for my situation is almost too easy to place on my shoulders.

Despite everything I’ve said,[23] Liebenthal is right … student loan debt and college tuition are issues to address. And yes, higher ed shares some of the blame. BUT in raising these issues, Liebenthal and others tell a one-sided story. They spotlight the indebted but discount the millions of hard-working, debt-conscious, risk-averse families who do things differently.[24] They never tell a college story when the choice is “responsible.” For those who choose “sensible” over “elite,” their story is almost too easy to ignore.

[1] Liebenthal notes that this “byzantine system” “afflicts one in six American adults.” What she doesn’t note is that “one in six” falls upon a vast spectrum. You can look at these numbers in two different ways: 1) the lazy way … everyone is just “student debt,” which is a poor/faceless generalization or 2) the honest way … Americans #1, #2, #3, #4, #5, etc., are often different in their student debt stories. With more honesty, generalization fades, and we begin to see that:

• “one in six” includes any person(s) with low/nominal student debt.
• “one in six” includes any person(s) with trade school debt.
• “one in six” includes 40, 50, 60, and 70 year olds (not just 18–24 year olds).
• “one in six” includes doctors, lawyers, and post-grad professionals (FYI … borrowing rates and average debt are higher among graduate and professional degree students than undergraduates).
• “one in six” doesn’t reveal the number of Americans who manage their student debt successfully and without issue.
• “one in six” doesn’t reveal the number of Americans who graduate from college with zero debt.*

Despite the numbers, nuances, and complexities of student loan debt, Liebenthal places her hand on the scales. She implies that for every six American adults, one is “afflicted” with student debt. “Afflicted” is a loaded/biased term, and it’s simply untrue as a universal truth. “One in six American adults” might HAVE student debt, but logically, this doesn’t mean every “one in six” is AFFLICTED (defined as “to distress so severely as to cause persistent suffering or anguish”) by their debt.

*Regarding the final two points, if “one in six” is “afflicted” with student debt, this means “five in six” are not. What’s the story to be told from these faceless others? Liebenthal reports that forty-five million people in the U.S. — about one in six adults — owe a total of $1.7 trillion in student-loan debt. At the same time, more than 104 million Americans have college degrees. Comparing these numbers, this means that about 57% (six in ten college graduates/degree holders) have $0 in student-loan debt.

[2] Admittedly, I have (at this time) not read beyond Liebenthal’s introduction. It’s difficult to read further when (from page 1) you’re faced with biased/one-dimensional storytelling.

[3] Liebenthal says she’s attempting “to make sense of how it came to pass that some 45 million Americans now hold IOUs in addition to their diplomas, at a cost of $1.7 trillion, more than any other debt but home mortgages.” But making sense of it includes being transparent about it. The Council on Foreign Relations cites nearly the same data as Liebenthal:

As of September 2023, forty-three million U.S. borrowers collectively owed more than $1.6 trillion in federal student loans. Adding private loans brings that amount above $1.7 trillion, so that total student debt exceeds debt from auto loans and credit cards. Only home mortgage debt, at more than $12 trillion, is larger.

But then they go further:

[A] small portion of borrowers hold an outsize share of student debt. More than one-third of the total debt is held by the 7 percent of borrowers who owe more than $100,000, according to the Washington Post.

Additionally, the type of institution makes a difference in how much debt is owed. About half of outstanding student debt is held by people who went to private schools, which enrolled just 23 percent of higher education students in 2021.

Black college students generally take on more debt than white students, and they are more likely to struggle with loan repayment after graduating, in part because they typically have lower levels of family wealth.

[4] How should we define “burden”? Is it a “burden” to simply have student loan debt as Liebenthal implies (the “byzantine system” “afflicts one in six American adults”)? Or should that “burden” be on a sliding scale, one that’s transparent about the amount of debt for each individual? On a sliding scale (instead of a lump sum, catch-all statistic), one discovers that of the “one in six American adults” “afflicted” by student debt (source: College Board):

• 32% of borrowers (about a 1/3) currently have less than $10,000 in debt. 7.7 million of these borrowers have an average balance of $7,200. 6.8 million have an average balance of $2,800.
• 53% of borrowers (over half) currently have less than $20,000 in debt (well below the national average). Of the 24 million borrowers who owe less than $20,000, the debt average ranges from $14,600 to $2,800.
• A mere 10% carry nearly 50% of America’s student loan debt ($80,000 to $200,000 or more). This means that just 4.8M debtors (out of 45.2M) account for half of America’s student loan debt.

[5] Is Jordan’s story the norm or an outlier? In 2019, Jordan (after just 2 years in college) had “racked up $65,000 in student debt,” Five years later in 2025, as reported by the AP, just under half of students attending in-state public universities are graduating with some debt, down from 59% a decade earlier, according to the College Board figures. And among those who do borrow, the average loan balance has fallen by 17%, to $27,100. This means that Jordan’s 2-year debt was nearly 2.5x more than the average overall debt of today’s college students (i.e., from public four-year institutions).

[6] Liebenthal writes:

If Jordan’s loss felt especially poignant — garnering attention from People magazine and the New York Times — perhaps that was just because his choice had seemed so responsible.

This raises the question: Why aren’t the “especially poignant” stories of debt-free graduates garnering attention from People magazine and the New York Times? The reason: disaster (not success) sells!

[7] What I’m saying is that student debt isn’t simply a “system” problem; that word implies a “college system” and puts all the blame on higher education. However, even if it is a “system,” human choice (and personal responsibility) is a cog in this machine. On a case-by-base basis, some of these choices are good, bad, or misled. Because of this, part of fixing the system (if that involves student debt relief) is determining who (and why)–on an individual basis–makes good choices (the debtor who chooses a cheaper college and then defers his Paris vacation post-graduation) vs. bad choices (the debtor who chooses an expensive college and then buys a new Mercedes post-graduation) vs. misled choices (the debtor who’s lured into usurious student debt with aggressive tactics and/or misinformation).

[8] As reported by the Council on Foreign Relations:

College tuition has grown many times faster than income. The cost of college — and resulting debt — is higher in the United States than in almost all other wealthy countries.

[9] Universities can be complicit in student loan debt especially when an unaffordable choice is knowingly and aggressively pushed on a student/family. I have a friend whose son visited a Big 10 university, and during the visit, my friend questioned the tuition, saying he didn’t think it was affordable. A university representative shrugged off his concerns, then pushed student loans as an easy, automatic, and risk-free solution. Apparently, Liebenthal suffered a similar situation:

When I initially balked at the cost of NYU, the head of the journalism department contacted me directly, offering a one-semester tuition scholarship. Then I was put in touch with another professor. I asked him how most students financed the program’s costs, given NYU’s exorbitant tuition (about $35,000 a year in 2008). “Well,” he said sheepishly, “most of them take out student loans.”

[10] Nothing I say is intended to devalue Jordan’s personal difficulties or struggles. Nor am I attempting to write away the difficulties/risks of student debt; I don’t deny that they exist. However, I am condemning how the issue is talked about. Anti-college and student-debt writers often “storify” their arguments, which is a lazy way to generify the issues and, at the same time, replace objective numbers with emotionally charged pinholes. Likewise, in telling stories, they get to pick the ones they like while ignoring the ones they don’t like.

[11] Also, in attending Morehouse, Jordan could’ve saved thousands and thousands of dollars (i.e., less student debt) by enrolling online and living rent-free at home. Morehouse’s total online costs for tuition, books, supplies, and fees (2024–2025): approx $18,000.

[12] The College Board — in their Trends in College Pricing and Student Aid 2024 report — doesn’t start with a story. Instead, their introduction contains data and facts:

BORROWING TRENDS AND STUDENT DEBT

Total annual education borrowing has been declining for the past 13 years. In 2023–24, students and parents borrowed a total of $99.0 billion in federal and nonfederal loans, down from a peak of $159.2 billion (in 2023 dollars) in 2010–11 (Figure SA-6). In addition, the share of undergraduate students borrowing federal loans each year has been declining as well, from a peak of 38% in 2011–12 to 24% in 2023–24.

So when discussing student debt (the same subject as the College Board), why does Liebenthal begin with a story? One potential reason: data–unbiased, transparent, and feelingless–won’t sell books the way a good, emotional story will (FYI … there’s nothing wrong with wanting to sell your book). Another potential reason: a point of view (right or wrong) is easier to support with a colorful story because it a) sets an emotional tone, b) camouflages numbers, facts, and data, and c) conceals the fact that broad, societal issues are often complex, diverse, and full of distinctions. So if you want to hide the lottery odds (1 in 292.2 million) or the risks of gambling addiction (about 2.5M U.S. adults have a severe gambling problem), just tell 1 really good story about a Powerball winner.

[13] There are always choices-–a multitude of cost-saving choices — that student-debt writers never want to admit. Along with my son’s college choices, my wife and I chose to extend the life of our primary/used vehicle, pushing its mileage to 130K. This delayed a car payment for several years, which helped us save about $15,000, money we could then redirect to education expenses. We’ve also made choices to defer family vacations, home improvements, and luxury (non-essential) purchases.

[14] Of course, someone might ask, “Why would a book about student debt highlight a story about students without debt?” Because balance (when it exists) is critical to the “whole” story. Of course, if balance doesn’t matter, then don’t fault the admissions counselor who never mentions “debt” when discussing “tuition.”

[15] The same “outlier” argument can easily be made for Jordan, Liebenthal’s student-debt everyman:

• Jordan’s 2-year debt ($65,000) is approximately 2.5 times greater than today’s ($27,100) average student loan balance (i.e., for public four-year institutions).
• 80% of U.S. borrowers currently have less student debt ($59,999 to less than $5,000) than Jordan’s 2-years of student debt.

[16] Liebenthal might argue that student debt declined because college enrollment declined over the past decade (note: according to the National Student Clearinghouse Research Center, college enrollment and completion have rebounded and are now trending upward). However, this argument is weakened when you acknowledge that as debt decreased, grant aid — financial aid that generally doesn’t have to be repaid — increased (source: College Board):

• Grants rose from 53% of total funding in 2013–14 to 67% in 2023–24 for undergraduate students.
• Loans (including both federal and nonfederal) fell from 38% of the funds undergraduate students used to supplement their own and their family resources in 2013–14 to 28% in 2023–24.
• Between 2013–14 and 2023–24, institutional grant aid for undergraduate students increased by 30% ($15.1 billion in 2023 dollars).
• In 2023–24, undergraduate students received an average of $16,360 per full-time equivalent (FTE) student in financial aid: $11,610 in grants, $3,900 in federal loans, $760 in education tax benefits, and $90 in Federal Work-Study.

[17] Reed College is listed as one of the Top-25-Most-Expensive-Colleges in America (cost of attendance: approx. $90,000 (2024–2025)).

[18] Liebenthal doesn’t mention why she chose the more-expensive Reed College over a more-affordable university. Is it possible she simply chose to pay a premium for Reed College’s prestige? In discussing Jordan’s story, she laments the college student who lacks “the wealth to make their way through America’s elite institutions.” Apparently, an “elite” education is of greater importance than a “second-tier” education. Also, in discussing Reed College, Liebenthal tips her hand by elevating a Reed degree to a “pedigree”:

He [John Sperling] had pedigree: [emphasis added] undergrad at Reed College, thence to University of California Berkeley for grad school, and recipient of a prestigious fellowship to write his dissertation across the pond at Cambridge University.

[19] After I graduated from Oklahoma State University and the University of Tulsa Law School, I had (like Liebenthal) student loan debt. Together, my wife and I had about $40,000 in debt. At the time (as Liebenthal describes it), “this seemed an impossible amount.” But while Liebenthal’s undergraduate loan balance — nearly twenty years later — still hovers around $5,000, mine was $0 within five years. Because it seemed “impossible,” we aggressively worked to pay it off. This meant living on a budget; it also meant hard choices … a tiny first house, used cars, cheap travel, few luxuries, etc.

[20] After graduating from Reed College, Liebenthal says that she had:

very little to offer the professional world. For the next couple of years, I worked low-paying jobs-as a parking lot attendant, an assistant English teacher in rural France, a grunt at a twenty-four-hour Kinko’s in Portland, Oregon — never making more than $10 an hour. Between rent, health insurance premiums, and my $125 monthly student loan payment, I was left with less than $500 a month to spend on food, transportation, and everything else.

I would honestly like to ask Liebenthal this: Why did you move to France to teach for “never … more than $10 an hour” when the U.S. has a continuous teacher shortage AND pays much, much more? According to Salary.com, teaching salaries in Oregon (where Reed College is located) currently range from a low of $42,171 to a high of $87,519, with most professionals earning between $51,437 and $75,174. And please, my intent isn’t to belittle Liebenthal’s life-choices; rather, my point is that every story must be questioned beyond the mere art of storytelling, especially when a story hinges on numerous, unique, and voluntary choices.

[21] Liebenthal writes:

When I graduated from Reed College in 2005, I had a little more than $20,000 in student loan debt. … [N]early twenty years later, my undergraduate loan balance hovers around $5,000.

I would honestly like to ask Liebenthal about these numbers. As I calculate it, this would mean that over a twenty year period, Liebenthal has paid 75% ($15,000) of her $20,000 undergraduate loan balance. Over twenty years, that’s a payment of $750/year or just $63/month. Whether this does or does not include interest goes unsaid. However, even at 6% (the average student loan interest rate is 6.87% among all households with student debt,), $63/month doesn’t change a whole lot. This raises a couple questions:

• Was Liebenthal making a real effort to pay off and eliminate her undergraduate loan balance?
• At $63/month, does this reach the standard of “affliction” Liebenthal mentions?

[22] NYU is listed as one of the Top-10-Most-Expensive-Colleges in America (cost of attendance: approx. $93,000 (2024–2025)).

[23] I believe Liebenthal and I are two sides of the same coin. We both believe in the value and importance of higher education. Where we differ? … I can hold two opposing thoughts in my head. Jordan’s story should be told, but it should also be examined critically … why and how? At the same time, Trace’s story should be told; likewise, it should be examined critically … why and how? Ultimately, we learn much less when we focus on one side of things. Better to focus on both sides so each side can learn from the other.

Another place where we differ: I believe that college–right now–can be affordable for everyone (FYI … “affordable” doesn’t mean “free”). However, this affordability is dependent on choices and sacrifices. To ensure affordability, not everyone can choose “dream college.” Not everyone can choose greek life. Not everyone can choose out-of-state tuition. Not everyone can choose not to work. Not everyone can choose a five-year degree. Not everyone can choose New York’s cost of living, etc., etc., etc.

[24] My intent isn’t to throw under the bus all hard-working parents who try to deliver on their children's’ big dreams. There’s nothing wrong with this. However, when it comes to college, some choose to do this in a very risky and perilous way. Others choose to do it with less risk and with a tight grip on future/financial well-being.