The first weeks of fall at Arlie Boggs Elementary School in rural Eolie, Kentucky, are usually filled with back-to-school routines. New names line the cubbies, and the hallways gleam with a fresh coat of wax. The sounds of a new school year fill the classrooms.

But not this year. Today, Arlie Boggs sits empty. The school, located deep in coal country, was facing enrollment declines, and, in April, its school board voted to shutter it.

Arlie Boggs is not alone. Before the pandemic, about two thousand U.S. public schools were closed yearly. Now, we’re likely to surpass that rate. This year, officials in communities large and small—Eolie, Denver, El Paso, Texas, and Fairbanks, Alaska—shuttered schools. And more closures are coming. School districts are facing unprecedented budget crises, exacerbated by threats to federal funding. Populations are dropping in many places, and policies that expand voucher programs are siphoning off public school students.

So, the St. Louis School Board is considering closing more than half of its 68 public schools in 2026-27. In Texas, the Austin Independent School District recommends closing 13 schools. Norfolk, Virginia, is considering nine closures. In West Virginia, where 53 schools have closed in the past five years, another seven are slated for closure in the coming years. Vermont just passed legislation that could close dozens of schools.

As a researcher studying school closures, I know they can be difficult to oppose. Amid declining enrollments and tight budgets, cutting costs and shuttering buildings seems logical—even responsible.

But not always—and perhaps not even usually.

There’s a wealth of faulty assumptions about what happens after schools close. Research suggests that closing schools doesn’t save much money. It typically doesn’t reduce personnel—a district’s largest line item—and many schools require renovation to accommodate students leaving shuttered facilities. Transportation costs increase, and selling the old school building can be hard. In fact, the president of a rural New England school board that recently decided to shut one of its schools—due to concerns about the cost of its operation—told me that, in the end, the closure would save the district nothing. But the assumed logic of closure was too powerful to counter.

Closing schools also negatively affects students. Many spend more time commuting—sometimes over four hours daily—reducing time for extracurricular activities or family dinners. This travel can be dangerous, especially through neighborhoods with higher crime rates or over risky mountain passes. Absenteeism and behavioral problems tend to rise. Studies indicate short-term declines in achievement test scores. In the long run, school closures can harm college completion, job prospects, and earnings.

Closures hurt communities, too. When a school closes, local jobs are lost, and businesses that depend on a nearby school—such as local diners, banks, and gas stations—may also close. Families move to be closer to their children’s school. Schools are also places where people gather, engage politically, and make memories. It’s no wonder that school closures often face fierce resistance—even hunger strikes.

And then there’s this: school closures can often be discriminatory. Researchers Rachel Greene-Bell and Francis Pearman found that, from 2000 to 2018, majority Black schools were more than three times as likely to close as majority non-Black schools. Other studies show that low-income students and communities are disproportionately affected by closures. The closures may be particularly damaging for rural communities, where losing a school requires parents to choose between long commutes and homeschooling. The burden of school closure, then, is not felt equally.

Despite officials’ rhetoric, school closures aren’t about enrollment, budgets, or academic quality. These closures are the so-called “solution” to problems that policymakers helped create, often over decades: white flight, the privatization of education, and the neglect of our public institutions. And this “solution” only perpetuates the injustice.

Now we find ourselves in a crisis, with budgets that can’t pass and enrollments that won’t recover. At this point, some districts may now have few options but closure. But we can take a fairer, more measured approach. First, we should question the assumptions about closure. Projections of savings need to be thorough, honest, and rigorously examined. All costs associated with closure, including those for the surrounding communities, must be included. Promises regarding academics or extracurriculars—such as improved test scores or expanded opportunities—must be supported by evidence, and have clear methods of accountability. Educational quality should be the goal, not arbitrary enrollment minimums.

School boards and other municipal authorities should engage students and families in complex discussions about the fate of their schools from the start, not after rendering a decision. They should acknowledge the critical economic and social roles that schools play in communities and keep them in the places that need them most. If closure must happen, the burden should be shared equally, regardless of race or income.

Closure isn’t a convenient solution—it’s a nuclear option. It should be the last resort.

Note: For research backing up most claims about closure’s effects, see: https://eric.ed.gov/?id=EJ1233167. Research supporting remaining claims is linked above.