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From the other center, I received an email last week from the director asking for an urgent meeting. They’re reviewing the titles of grants, and they have been advised by their program officer from DOT to make sure that those words are not included or there is a risk that DOT will just pull it. I had a grant, and I was told to remove the word “climate.”
We brainstormed with the director of the center, and she suggested that “disaster resilience” was a safer term without changing significantly what the content of the grant would be. Not only can my project not include “climate” in the title, but as it stands right now, I can’t use the word “climate change” or “climate” or “environmental justice” in any publication that is funded for that project. God forbid somebody uses the word “climate” in the interviews that I have to do — am I supposed to redact that?
Students are freaking out. Once they graduate, will there be any funding for this kind of work? Because climate and equity are central to urban planning. There are very few things in urban planning that don’t involve climate and equity together.
I am concerned that if I don’t have a section in a paper that acknowledges climate change when talking about disasters, that I will have a paper rejected. We’re going to have to mention in the cover letter to the editor that this is funded by the DOT, and there are certain words we cannot use.
This is a major issue for the communication of the findings, and it risks biasing the results if we can’t use those terms.
I am constantly uncertain about what I can and cannot do. I’m in an environment where my words are being erased, and I’m unsure if I’ll have a job in two or three years with things going this way.
I feel like I’m under attack for being a professor.
— as told to Christa Dutton
It was, I swear to God, the hardest day of my life. Our administration had to go around and tell people at 3:30 that you were going to be cut and that you need to pack your stuff and leave the campus.
Haskell lost, I think, seven instructors. The rest were staff, from housing to janitorial to food service to IT, student success. We lost a dean of students that we just got. We lost our campus advocate, who was dealing with sexual harassment. The art department is completely gone. The music and theater department is completely gone.
We were also told that we can’t hire. Their positions are gone, and there’s a federal hiring freeze. Basically, we’re stuck.
There’s a lot of volunteers in our Haskell community that have doctoral degrees and master’s degrees. They’ve stepped up and said they want to volunteer to help teach or do whatever needs to be helped out with. Some people are picking up additional workloads in their department and carrying more classes.
Yes, we’ve always dealt with a very, very, very, very tight budget. That’s not a big deal; we muddle through it every year. But this was not a funding issue.
Me talking to you right now, it’s under a cloak, so to say. It’s like, “How do you respond, Haskell?” The problem is, we can’t, because we’re federal. It’s not that we don’t want to talk about things. We want to, but we just can’t.
— as told to Megan Zahneis
I am worried because I have started seeing news of hiring freezes. That was the thing that I was most worried about immediately: Are there going to even be jobs?
I think we all felt like this funding was going to be pretty safe, considering everything else that was going on. HHMI is a private organization that’s been doing work related to inclusive teaching for decades. So it was really shocking. HHMI hasn’t put out a statement, as far as I’m aware, about why they did this.
I’ve had to have the conversation with many people on campus about how: My position is getting cut early; I am currently looking for a job; I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be here, so you’ll need to plan accordingly for whatever it is you need. They ask, “How can we help you? What can we do?”
I don’t know. I don’t want to keep talking about it. I just want to keep doing the work without having to constantly reflect on this.
— as told to Megan Zahneis
I have been in communication with an immigration lawyer. If you actually read the text of the executive order, it’s very different from how it’s marketed. There is no clear mechanism for them to be able to revoke my visa without reason. They could still try to do it, but obviously we will fight it in the courts.
If you read the executive order, I don’t think it says the word “deport” in it at all. It’s a fear tactic. The goal of the executive order is to chill speech and make people scared. Unless they come up with an actual policy, it’s toothless and means nothing.
The problem is bigger than Trump. That same rhetoric and the same tendencies of repressing speech that is critical of Zionism and Israel is also very well entrenched in the Democratic party.
We’re the group of people who have been willing to face suspension, arrests, things like that. We’re not the people who are going to be scared by this.
My therapist a couple of weeks ago was like, “Aren’t you worried? You don’t seem worried; what’s going on?” And I agreed. I’m generally a reasonable person, and I’m thinking about all the different things that could happen. But I’m doing this to fight against an apartheid system and what I believe to be a genocide. The suffering that’s happening in Gaza and the West Bank — both the suffering over the last 16 months but also the suffering they suffered from since 1948 — is immeasurable compared to me being deported. Fundamentally, that makes the calculus of it all pretty simple.
— as told to Christa Dutton
It’s a big deal to get these grants. Every dollar that the feds give, you have to match. It takes a lot of effort to pull in-kind resources from the university. You need to get letters from school districts that they will provide jobs for the students. It takes very sustained, collaborative partners. It’s layered and complicated, but it’s the most worthwhile.
You write a grant to the call, and we scored a perfect score. There was no way to write this grant and not include diversity, equity, or inclusion. We were awarded in September. We’re a summer-start program, so the only silver lining is nobody had been promised this money.
Our county has over 75,000 students. We have a large migrant population. Some of our schools are majority English learners. A lot of our students are first generation; their parents worked in the fields.
We give money to students who didn’t know if they were going to get to go to college. Then they go back to where they went to school and say, Look at what I did, and you can do it, too. Seeing someone who grew up like you be successful inspires all people to want to be successful.
Our program still exists; students can still come and get their master’s degree. But I’m a little worried about what our numbers will be in terms of admissions because this was a big selling point for our program. We were offering nearly 100 scholarships over the course of five years.
I don’t think people realize how this will ripple. This is a work-force-development grant to help with critical shortages in teachers — in special ed, general ed, student success. This administration likes to say our students don’t know how to do anything. Well, cutting funding to highly qualified teachers isn’t going to fix that problem. This is going to exacerbate the teacher shortage in California. Class sizes are going to get larger.
It’s basically a stop-work order. But that doesn’t mean our dreams and aspirations stop. We have 30 days to do an appeal. I’m not giving up.
I try to mobilize during the day. I feel my feelings at night because otherwise it’s too much.
— as told to Karin Fischer
I knew that priorities and requirements would change with the new administration, but I would still expect that helping address the glaring need in the area of special ed and elementary teachers would remain a priority. I was hoping we would have a chance to bring the grant into compliance with the new administration’s requirements around DEI because, like I said, I don’t view this as a DEI initiative.
We have 185 students this semester who were affected by the cancellation. So we’re scrambling on multiple fronts: One, to explore what’s required for an appeal. And two, if there’s any way we could establish lines of communication with the department to try to get the decision revisited, even apart from an appeal, and then exploring other sources of funding. We still don’t know exactly the outcome of those efforts, but we have committed to the students that we will ensure that they are able to finish this academic year in the program, even if we’re not successful on an appeal.
We still don’t know the particular path for funding the scholarships this semester. St. Thomas will be in a position to cover the gap, either through philanthropy or through our own institutional funds. We have had a few alumni step up and say, given what’s happened, they want to help us make it possible for these students to finish the year. Next year is another story, and we’ll have to sit down with the students to explore what options they have for those who will not be finished with the program this year.
I’ve found that wherever someone is on the political spectrum, when you explain what the program did, there’s always some befuddlement as to why this was a program that was canceled.
We’re not interested in getting brought into a partisan take on this. We’re just trying to focus on the facts and say, I think that Republicans and Democrats can both agree that producing more special-ed teachers for the state of Minnesota is a good thing, and we should figure out how universities can partner with the federal government and state government in order to make that happen.
— as told to Megan Zahneis
There were a couple days when we were told that it wasn’t safe to be on campus either for work or for school. I know sometimes students don’t want to go to class, but it’s a different feeling when someone tells you that you can’t because you’re not safe. I wanted to be with everyone again, and not being able to do that broke my heart. Not having that safe space brought me back to a lot of those feelings. It was anger and sadness.
There have been a lot of loud voices that have said that they don’t like immigrants, that we’re criminals. I felt attacked because I’m not any of the things that people are saying. Why do all these people hate me and my community when they don’t know us?
I was a year old when I came. My mom told me that my first steps were on the border. I don’t know anything but California.
The first couple of weeks [after the election] I pushed my thoughts down and numbed myself and tried not to let it get to me. But after the raids began, it started to become something that wasn’t able to be ignored. It’s become harder not to panic, honestly.
It’s been hard to turn it off after my shift is over when all I want to do is scream at the top of my lungs. But I’m trying my best to keep it together for my students — to try and be the hope for them that sometimes I struggle to have for myself.
[During the first Trump administration] I attended protests to advocate for our community. I felt like a lot of what he was saying was just that, just words. But because of all of the actions that he has done this time around, I don’t feel like I can be outspoken. I don’t feel like I can be the same type of advocate that I was in the past. It’s a lot scarier this time around.
— as told to Karin Fischer
I’ve always worked in state public education before Wesleyan, and [my colleagues across the country] and I are talking every day. More than offering advice, we’re being advocates for one another. We are comparing strategies. We don’t have any answers yet.
This could become law, and our university is not going to break the law. Our plan is to bring partners and teams together to talk about how we’re to remain compliant to whatever laws and mandates come out of our new administration and how we will do that in a way that allows all of us to continue to be true to the integrity of the work that we’ve always done.
There is a truth that isn’t being spoken right now — that this work has always benefited everyone. I am thinking about how we communicate that more effectively. There isn’t any one group that has benefited more or less. That is misinformation. It was always about how to become stronger communities across our difference.
— as told to Karin Fischer
I don’t feel at the moment — and I can’t imagine I will for a while — comfortable getting on a plane to the U.S. That’s not because I think I’m at any particular risk. But is this worth it — for some archives, for a fly-in visit, for a conference? Do I want to roll the dice on the possibility not just of being denied access to archives but risk getting held up by officials in some legal gray area where I’m waiting for my embassy to bail me out? Probably not.
As a Canadian, it’s not the natural choice. During the first Trump presidency. I was in D.C. on a visiting fellowship. Trump 2.0 is quite distinct. Sometimes I wake up and I can’t quite believe the remarkable rapidity with which the rule of law, democratic structures, and other fundamental guardrails are being undermined.
There are historians who are brave enough to try and get into the Russian archives, who are willing to go into authoritarian states to get access and write histories. I have a lot of respect for that. And I’m starting to feel like I should be putting the U.S. in the category of unsafe states.
I’m far from alone. There are scholars around the world whose research agendas intersect with the United States who are probably looking at the situation and thinking, I’d rather not go there. And that might have an effect. It changes the decision structures for academics more broadly.
This isn’t a “boycott American academe” thing. This isn’t about academics in America at all, who I do not blame. I doubt they were the voters who tipped the scales here. This is much more about my sense that the rule of law is no longer functioning.
— as told to Karin Fischer
Rebooting the National Nature Assessment with some other name means finding an institutional home, building partnerships, finding funding, developing a new governing structure, setting out the procedures and the timeline for our work going forward, identifying publication plans.
But on top of those uncertainties is the sense of opportunity, because a nonfederal document can be potentially more nimble, more creative, higher impact than a highly formulaic federal document.
I personally had mixed reactions about the cancellation. Partly, I was mystified, because the love of our natural heritage is shared across the country, across the ideological divide, across every demographic and social category you can imagine. Natural heritage isn’t a very political thing.
So it was mystifying and deeply disappointing that it would be killed. Another part of me felt determined to continue, a sense of being resolute. We need to deliver this product to the American public because it will have great utility. And then there was a little bit of anger and defiance. If they want to kill this, we’re going to go ahead anyway.
We’ve received unsolicited offers from a range of publishers to publish it, unsolicited offers from scientists who want to do peer review, from graphic designers, artists, illustrators who are willing to provide pro bono services to help finish it. I’ve gotten dozens of emails from members of the public asking, “Is there a GoFundMe account so I can contribute? I want to see this finished.”
I’m optimistic because I think we can do a really good job completing the assessment. And I’m happy that there is a concrete way to make a contribution in the face of all of the destruction and chaos that’s emanating from Washington right now.
— as told to Megan Zahneis
I interpreted it all day Tuesday. I had another staff meeting on Wednesday and said, “OK, we just have to idle in place. It’s not bad news. Yes, we can’t talk to our partners; that’s not good. But we can clean our databases up, get our software projects done.”
But by early the next week, the federal payment system was shut down. Then I said, “OK, full stop.” The university is able to pay hourly employees until March 15 and the rest of the staff until April 15. So I have them focused on themselves and their families, finding jobs. Mothball software, physically clean out offices, that sort of thing. In total, 30 people lost their jobs.
We’d just been through our annual meeting in December. We were talking about renewals and funding through 2032. So it was 180 degrees. We just hired a new data scientist in January. Her second staff meeting was, “Well, we’re shuttering it.”
The temporary restraining order hasn’t changed anything. We can’t access a dime.
One mentor took me to coffee. He said, “Don’t be sad for all that’s been destroyed. Be happy and proud of all you’ve accomplished.” But it’s loss, grief. That’s what it is.
I retired from the faculty side of my job on December 31, 2024. I was just going to do this — work on the soybean lab and a related software project. That’s over. I’ve got two little kids, five and one-and-a-half years old. I’ll focus on them, shop for mulch. I didn’t have a plan B.
— as told to Megan Zahneis
