Terminal Automated Indoctrination
Manufacturing Consent in the Age of Digital Admissions—A Republic Responds
Written by: Andrew B. Raupp / @stemceo
Author’s Note
The American university system, once a citadel of enlightenment, now stands as one of the nation’s most bloated and least accountable institutions. Reform is no longer optional—it is an act of preservation. The path forward demands drastic reduction: fewer campuses, fewer bureaucrats, and far fewer taxpayer dollars diverted to ideological luxuries.
Transparency must replace secrecy. Any institution that receives public funds must fully disclose its financial partners, foreign contracts, and affiliations with intelligence agencies or government programs. The classroom must never again serve as a front for covert operations.
And perhaps most importantly, the vast endowments hoarded by universities—wealth measured in the hundreds of billions—must be dismantled. No school should live as a perpetual trust insulated from consequence. Education must return to service, not speculation; to virtue, not valuation.
The survival of a free republic depends on it.
For liberty to endure, its guardians must think for themselves.
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California has long imagined itself the vanguard of progress—a land where new ideas are born, tested, and imposed upon the rest of the nation. But in the name of progress, it has become something else entirely: a proving ground for control. The state that once exported culture and innovation now exports conformity. Its latest experiment, conducted quietly through the legislature and cloaked in moral language, reveals the next frontier of social engineering—the automation of consent itself.
Under Senate Bill 640, California will now automatically enroll every “qualified” high school senior into the California State University (CSU) system. No essays, no applications, no aspiration required. The act is sold as reform, but its function is replacement: the substitution of free choice with procedural inevitability. Once the student’s name enters the digital ledger, his future ceases to be his own. What used to be an act of intention—deciding where and how to study—becomes a matter of bureaucratic automation. The state extends its hand not to elevate the citizen, but to draft him.
The gesture is marketed as benevolence: a way to “close equity gaps,” to ensure that every Californian has a “pathway to success.” But beneath the language of inclusion lies the same logic that animated every great system of control—that liberty is inefficient, and that the common man must be guided toward what is “best” for him. It is a new form of conscription, subtler than the draft but no less coercive. Only this time, the war is for the mind.
The Machine That Educates Itself
What California has built is not an education system but a conveyor belt. The machinery of automatic enrollment serves two masters: the bureaucrats who need higher numbers to justify funding, and the universities desperate to fill empty seats as public trust collapses. The young are processed like inventory—sorted, assigned, and delivered into lecture halls that now resemble training camps for ideological compliance.
The universities claim they are “modernizing access.” In truth, they are mechanizing obedience. They have mistaken education for engineering—engineering of attitudes, beliefs, and allegiances. And so the process moves without pause: the high school feeds the university, the university feeds the bureaucracy, and the bureaucracy feeds upon itself. The machine educates itself, not the citizen.
Once, the purpose of higher learning was to refine intellect and character. Now it is to ensure that the citizen’s worldview conforms to administrative orthodoxy. The student who dares to think independently soon learns that dissent carries social cost. Grades become not a measure of knowledge but of ideological alignment. A generation is conditioned not to seek truth, but to manage it—to sanitize, repackage, and redistribute it according to the sensitivities of others. In the digital era, this is not enlightenment but programming.
The Collapse of Relevance
The very institutions demanding loyalty have forfeited relevance. The average American family now understands what bureaucrats refuse to admit: that the university has become the least efficient way to prepare for life in a free society. Tuition rises as standards fall. Degrees multiply as competence diminishes. Administrators bloat while teachers vanish. It is not a system of learning—it is an industry of dependency.
Automatic enrollment does not fix this; it conceals it. The policy ensures a steady stream of students, not because they choose the university, but because the university cannot afford to be chosen. The CSU system is a network of twenty-three campuses with an annual budget exceeding $8 billion. Each student swept into the system becomes both a data point and a dollar sign. Their enrollment sustains the structure, but their education sustains nothing at all.
Meanwhile, the trades and community colleges—the true engines of middle-class stability—are starved of esteem and funding. The man who learns to weld, to wire, to repair, to build, to think with his hands, is now treated as lesser than the one who learns to protest, to post, or to parrot. Yet when the lights go out, it is not the sociologist who restores them.
In a nation once defined by innovation, the hierarchy of respect has inverted. Skill is scorned; rhetoric is rewarded. And so, a policy like Senate Bill 640 is inevitable—it institutionalizes the illusion that college is synonymous with intelligence and that all other paths are failures to be remediated. In doing so, it condemns entire generations to debt, dependency, and directionless labor, while those who teach practical arts are left to perish on the margins.
From Campus to Command Post
Universities once stood apart from power. They challenged it, scrutinized it, and occasionally improved it. Today they merge with it. The infiltration of federal intelligence agencies into academia is no longer speculation—it is documented fact. At Utah Valley University, for instance, the Center for National Security Studies collaborates directly with the FBI’s Internet Crime Complaint Center and the Department of Homeland Security. Its founder, Ryan Vogel, formerly of the Pentagon, launched what he calls the Intermountain Intelligence, Industry, and Security Consortium, a program that channels students from classroom to clearance badge. As revealed in “Inside the CIA–UVU Pipeline” and “The Intelligence Nexus: Utah’s Universities”, faculty directories have been scrubbed and records altered to obscure affiliations. The academic sphere has become an extension of the surveillance state.
The Death of Trust
Public faith in universities has collapsed, and rightly so. Gallup reports that confidence in higher education has plunged to record lows. Only a third of Americans now say they have “a great deal” or “quite a lot” of trust in colleges. This decline is not a symptom of ignorance; it is evidence of awakening. Citizens have begun to recognize that the promise of “education for all” has been replaced by indoctrination for each.
Parents see the signs. The child who enters college idealistic and eager emerges anxious and alienated. He has learned the vocabulary of justice but not the discipline of judgment. He can recite the lexicon of equality but cannot balance a budget or build a bridge. He is fluent in slogans but illiterate in substance. In short, he is employable only by the same bureaucracies that shaped him.
The tragedy is not that universities teach ideology; it is that they no longer teach anything else. Critical thinking has been replaced by critical theory, and the pursuit of truth by the pursuit of grievance. Where education once invited disagreement as a path to wisdom, it now punishes it as an act of harm. And yet the remedy proposed by policymakers is not reform but automation—another layer of bureaucracy atop the ruins.
This transformation is not accidental—it is structural. When universities depend upon government contracts and grants, their allegiance shifts from inquiry to compliance. Professors learn that skepticism about official narratives can cost funding; students learn that rebellion costs recommendation letters. The university ceases to cultivate truth and becomes a custodian of secrecy.
California’s automatic-enrollment system fits neatly into this architecture. It normalizes the idea that the individual’s path can be predetermined by bureaucratic logic—that consent is implied by eligibility. Once that principle takes root in education, it metastasizes elsewhere. The same justification that enrolls a student without consent can someday enroll a citizen into any program deemed “beneficial.” The precedent is the peril.
The Birth of Alternatives
In response to the collapse, a new ecosystem of learning is emerging—organic, decentralized, and defiantly American. Homeschooling, apprenticeships, private micro-schools, and online academies are rising at unprecedented rates. Families are reclaiming responsibility for education once surrendered to the state. Employers are rediscovering that competence cannot be credentialed by decree. Knowledge is once again being earned, not distributed.
Among the most dynamic of these new institutions is Turning Point USA, which began as a student movement and has evolved into a full-spectrum alternative to the university complex. Its network of training centers, leadership academies, and civic initiatives forms a parallel infrastructure of cultural formation. Where universities teach compliance, Turning Point teaches conviction. It cultivates enterprise, patriotism, and unapologetic debate—virtues that have been exiled from the modern campus.
The organization’s strategy mirrors the genius of early American innovation: build outside the system, then surpass it. Its leadership understands that the cultural vacuum left by academia can be filled only by institutions that combine education with purpose. Through conferences, media networks, and youth summits, it has created a sense of belonging that no bureaucratic campus can replicate. Its reach into entertainment—even producing its own halftime spectacles—signals something deeper than showmanship: the emergence of a self-sustaining cultural economy, independent of the institutions it rejects.
In this, Turning Point represents more than an organization; it is a prototype of the coming realignment. As traditional academia dissolves into debt and disillusionment, new movements are forming not around ideology but around independence. They are rediscovering what the founders knew—that education is not a right granted by the state, but a duty assumed by free men to preserve their own liberty.
The State of Desperation
California’s automatic-enrollment plan is the educational equivalent of quantitative easing: an attempt to stabilize a collapsing system by inflating its numbers. Each new enrollment props up a crumbling edifice of administration, pensions, and debt. But no amount of automation can restore meaning to an institution that has abandoned merit. You cannot code your way out of moral decay.
It is a pattern repeated across every domain the state touches. When families abandon public schools, officials respond not by asking why, but by mandating attendance. When citizens lose faith in public health, they respond not by rebuilding trust, but by enforcing compliance. The bureaucratic mind cannot conceive of freedom as a solution, because freedom cannot be measured, monetized, or centrally managed.
The irony is that California, once the symbol of individual possibility, now engineers sameness as policy. Its spirit of innovation has been bureaucratized into a system of supervised thought. The dreamer who once came west to build is now processed through forms designed to ensure he never stands apart. He is “included,” yes—but inclusion without individuality is captivity with better branding.
The Republic of the Mind
The American Republic was conceived not as a managerial state but as a moral experiment in self-governance. Its success depends not on institutions, but on the integrity of those who inhabit them. Education, in that framework, was meant to form citizens capable of reasoned choice. To mechanize education is to mechanize citizenship—to reduce the human spirit to a line item in a data set.
California’s automatic-enrollment scheme reveals what happens when democracy forgets that distinction. The student becomes a managed subject; the teacher becomes a bureaucrat; the university becomes an organ of administration. In such a system, truth becomes whatever sustains authority, and inquiry becomes whatever justifies it. It is the slow death of republican virtue under the weight of procedural kindness.
Yet history teaches that control is never total. Beneath every imposed order, there stirs the instinct to be free. Across this country, that instinct is awakening—in shop floors where craftsmen mentor apprentices, in kitchens where parents teach their children the old arithmetic of effort and reward, in workshops and small businesses where learning still means doing. These are the new laboratories of liberty, the places where the republic renews itself one independent mind at a time.
California may automate enrollment, but it cannot automate conviction. It may conscript students, but it cannot command souls. A society that worships systems forgets that systems are built by men—and men can build anew. The next great chapter of American education will not be written in committee reports or algorithmic dashboards, but in the quiet determination of citizens who refuse to outsource their judgment.
The republic of the mind endures wherever one man still thinks freely, teaches honestly, and speaks without fear. That, in the end, is the only enrollment that matters.
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