Higher education has experienced a surge of university closures in recent times. While data has been useful in comprehending the extent of these challenges, there are real individuals and locations behind the statistics. Last summer, I embarked on a traditional American road trip to visit defunct and dying colleges, documenting what the sector was losing through ethnographic research.
The road trip spanned over 3,000 miles and took me to 12 campuses, leading me through the Rust Belt region—including Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Buffalo, Syracuse, and Cincinnati—to Plains cities like St. Louis, Oklahoma City, and Tulsa, and finally back to the West Coast, with stops in Santa Fe and Albuquerque along the way.
The Eeriness of Dead Campuses
There was no one awaiting me at the campus welcome centers during my tour. I did come across weathered signs welcoming visitors. However, these signs were no longer aimed at students but rather at construction crews clearing out buildings.
As I physically traversed these spaces, I sensed the enormity of their history. Campuses were often vast and situated in remote areas, even more so now that they had closed down.
There is a concept of liminal spaces—empty yet normal settings that evoke a sense of unease. Walking through these uninhabited campuses and buildings, I couldn’t help but imagine that they were once bustling with hundreds, if not thousands, of people. It felt like exploring a forgotten civilization—abandoned symbols and broken artifacts in deteriorating structures.
These decaying buildings were part of what led to the downfall of these institutions. When maintenance is neglected, the costs of repair can escalate. I witnessed firsthand the cracks in the sidewalk at Notre Dame College in Ohio and the crumbling concrete at Bacone College in Oklahoma.
Returning to Nature
On some of the campuses, nature was reclaiming what once belonged to students. Instead of undergraduates lounging on the campus quad, I encountered buzzing insects and chirping birds in tall grass.
At Urbana University in Ohio, I stumbled upon a herd of deer grazing. It was a majestic sight, especially when alone and at sunset.
At the Santa Fe University of Art and Design, a prairie dog-like creature popped its head up as I wandered across the scorching desert campus. It emitted a loud click, warning the rest of its group that a human had arrived, before darting back into its burrow.
Plants also thrived in the absence of lost freshmen cutting across the grass in a hurry to get to class. Although none of the campuses I visited were completely overrun, they often appeared more unkempt compared to the well-manicured lawns I am accustomed to at thriving universities. The journey served as a reminder that grounds crews might be the unsung heroes of our campuses.
Lost Space, Lost Memory, Lost Icons
It was disheartening to witness cherished civic institutions, integral to local identities, being shut down. The colleges I visited were third places that locals enjoyed for recreation or gatherings. Unfortunately, not anymore.
Cazenovia College once occupied a prominent location in the walkable downtown area of Cazenovia, N.Y., before closing its doors in 2023. Locals shared that they used to appreciate the campus greenery, walking their dogs or letting their children play on the grass. However, the New York State Police has since taken over the campus for use as a police academy. With heightened security measures in place, locals have been deprived of their leisurely strolls.
The campus spaces I explored held significant cultural significance and memories. I encountered numerous signs for the “Class of …” or “In Memory of…” and even gravestones.
Bacone College in Muskogee, Okla.—once the nation’s “oldest American Indian institution of higher learning”—houses a small graveyard and a memorial for tribal members lost in wars.
At Urbana University, there was a memorial for three Chinese students who tragically lost their lives in a car accident in 2007. The stone carving read, “Gone but Not Forgotten.” The story of these international students, far from home on an adventure, at the beginning of their lives, cut short by tragedy, touched me deeply.
I stumbled upon what could be likened to a funeral for Wells College, as a group of alumni gathered for a final tradition of ringing the dinner bell before the campus closed for good. Many were leaving flowers and messages where a beloved Minerva statue had stood for over 150 years, now decapitated just days prior during a botched moving process.
The symbolism was almost too poignant for the attendees.
Rebirth
The visits often evoked sadness, but that was only one aspect of the narrative. Some institutions were making the most of their transitions.
In Shawnee, Okla., after St. Gregory’s University closed in 2017, the campus was controversially sold to the owners of Hobby Lobby and donated to nearby Oklahoma Baptist University.
I had anticipated encountering a desolate abandoned college similar to others I had seen on the trip. However, the reality was quite the opposite.
Upon arrival, the campus was bustling with volunteers clearing brush and debris left by a recent storm. There was even a museum founded by a globetrotting Benedictine monk over a century ago that was still operational, housing an impressive collection that families were enjoying.
The monks who continue to operate St. Gregory’s Abbey struck a deal with the Baptist institution for a land swap, regaining possession of their former college buildings.
The monks and volunteers were enthusiastic about the return and the potential for a new direction. Although no longer a university, it could still serve as an important anchor for the community. There were hopes that the dormitories could be repurposed into housing for seniors or affordable accommodation.
I felt a similar sense of optimism at Medaille University in Buffalo, N.Y., which was undergoing conversion into a charter school. An administrator even extended an invitation for a return visit in the fall to witness their successful launch.
What’s Next?
As I concluded my journey, I visited the former Marymount California University, situated atop the bluffs of the Palos Verdes Peninsula overlooking the Pacific Ocean. On clear days, Catalina Island is visible from the campus grounds. Despite being located on some of the most sought-after land in the U.S., the affluent area resulted in high upkeep costs and student residences located farther inland.
The University of California, Los Angeles, has since taken over the campus with a focus on sustainability research.
Many individuals I spoke with had hoped that their closed institution would be taken over by other educational entities, whether another university or a K-12 school. Even then, the former legacy of these spaces may fade away.
In Cincinnati, Edgecliff College merged with Xavier University long ago (in 1980), with its former campus becoming the site of luxury high-rise condominiums.
More colleges will face closures in the years to come. Some will find adaptive reuses that will carry on their educational or service legacies. Unfortunately, many will not. These places, the campuses, the communities, and their cultures all deserve to be remembered beyond mere entries on a spreadsheet.
Ryan M. Allen is an associate professor of comparative and international education and leadership at Soka University. His writings can be found on the College Towns Substack.