The daughter who got the government to cancel her mother’s debt

“I’m getting my mom’s loans forgiven,” read the email that landed in my inbox ten months ago. “So if you need a success story by May 2023, when I turn 28, feel free to reach out.”

In the many years that I have described the appalling state of the federal government Government loan forgiveness program, I’ve heard of many student loan debtors in their 20s who couldn’t navigate their way through the thicket of complex rules and bureaucracy. Desperate parents are also enrolling, having taken over the often part-time job of navigating the system for their children from soldiers, public defenders, or educators who work 60 to 80 hours a week.

But that email from Arianna Miskin was a first: She was trying to help her mother, Susan Miskin, a retired New York City public school teacher, get rid of her $92,000 balance. That debt was older than her daughter.

What had given her hope was a temporary waiver that the Biden administration had put in place, changing some of the rules that had hindered her mother.

I admired Arianna’s brashness. I was moved by her quest. And I wasn’t at all sure that she would pull it off.

So here’s what happened.

Susan Miskin first started borrowing in the late 1980s to attend community college and attend classes at two colleges in the City University of New York system to earn her undergraduate degree. To further increase her earning potential, she received her master’s degree from Adelphi, a private university that allowed her to attend school for nine hours every Saturday when she was not working.

Arianna arrived in the middle of it all, and by the time she was born, Susan and Arianna’s father had split up. Student loan debt — just over $30,000 in initial loans — paid in addition to tuition for a Saturday babysitter.

For a while, the mother-daughter pair followed this routine: at 5 a.m. at Staten Island, out at 6 a.m., at 7 a.m. to school for Arianna in Brooklyn. Mrs. LaCerrato let her come in early and read a book before breakfast in headquarters,” Susan said.) Then, by 8, Susan arrived at the school where she worked as a speech therapist.

After that, Susan went to her second job with autistic toddlers, while her daughter was in after-school care. The pickup was at 7 a.m., sometimes earlier, and then the slog of traffic came back across the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge to their home, a modest mansion in the Huguenot neighborhood that Susan had purchased in 2004.

The debt repayment process had begun while she was raising Arianna, just like the confusion so many borrowers have faced over the years. There are different types of loans and different interest rates for each of them. There are a number of ways you can pay them back, different ways to consolidate them and different ways to cancel the loans. The cancellation programs have different eligibility rules and it’s not always clear if you meet them. Due to all the complexity, people on the phone with the lending managers often distributed incorrect or incomplete information.

In the midst of it all, Susan made some choices that continued to haunt her. An employee of one of the four entities that had paid off her loans suggested consolidating her debt so she could only make one payment per month. This may be good advice for many people, depending on the circumstances. But postpartum and sleep deprivation, she said yes without asking enough questions. As a result, her interest rate shot up.

Then, in the first twelve years of Arianna’s life—when expenses were high and Susan’s income hadn’t risen to a more comfortable range—she often drew up her loans when expenses overwhelmed her. During those 86 months, interest accrued and the balance grew, even when she started paying again. Last year it had risen to more than $90,000 even though she had made more than $30,000 in payments.

“I was the cliche single mom,” Susan said. “You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.”

It’s so easy to question other people’s choices when you haven’t faced a similar set of sub-optimal conditions yourself. But in case you’re wondering, Susan took on mortgage and tax payments to stabilize her housing costs and avoid unpredictable rents and landlords in New York City.

She stayed in New York City—after moving to the less expensive outermost regions—because her family was there, because she was building up a pension there, and because Arianna eventually gained entry to a competitive public high school for outstanding students.

Child benefits? She said she almost got fired early in her career for spending too many days in court to get more than the small amount she collected — and paid a fair amount in legal fees for her efforts.

Debtors must, under most circumstances, repay the debts they voluntarily incur. But it was the voters who appointed President George W. Bush to sign the bill in 2007, that brought the PSLF program to life. Similar loan cancellation programs are also common at the state level, red, blue or purple. Encouraging people to take up teaching or other work to serve the needy or the nation is common sense.

However, Susan was not eligible. Among other things, she had the wrong type of loan and wrong payment plan. PSLF has very specific rules.

Then Arianna dove in. She was, Susan told me, the kind of kid who walked and talked when she was 10 months old, potty trained herself, and hugged the bullies when they started crying.

That waivers that the Biden administration put in place last year seemed like they could erase any confusing problem Susan had. They could give people credit if they paid late and if they had a wrong loan. And, especially helpful to Susan, they were able to count the time in forbearance toward the 120 payments it took to cancel a loan.

Arianna went to work. She spent hours on hold with the four trustees who had managed Susan’s loans. They often sent Arianna back and forth in dizzying circles as she tried to track down payment records from 10 years or more ago. Gatekeepers wanted her to use fax numbers to prove her eligibility. The fax numbers did not work.

Finally, Arianna handed everything over to a final administrator and waited. Months later, while on the phone with her boss in Los Angeles, where she now lives, she received a text from her mother. It was a picture of the payoff letter. Arianna’s plan had worked.

Arianna burst into tears. Susan, who had picked up the mail as she headed out the door, held up the letter and booed with joy in the restaurant parking lot where she was stuck with a flat tire. People stared. She didn’t care.

“I’m so proud she didn’t let me give up,” Susan said.

Arianna, who has a master’s degree in public health, has more than $100,000 in student debt, even though Susan juggled loans from two different retirement plans while trying to help with Arianna’s college bills. “You can’t get a good job if you don’t go to school,” Susan said. “But you can’t get a degree because you can’t afford it. So it is a vicious circle.”

However, because Arianna works at a health-related non-profit organization, she has forgiven almost a quarter of her own loans through PSLF. Now that Arianna is practically a certified expert, she’s pretty comfortable with the guilt.

But her mother’s – after a life of sacrifice and a career helping people who had a harder time than her – had never been right. “I’ll never repay her for everything she’s done for me,” Arianna said. “She always tells me that’s not the point of parenting, but I’ve always wanted to do it somehow.”

Now she has. It makes a great gift – for herself for her birthday and for Susan for Mother’s Day. Arianna also received a present in return. Her mother had loaned her $6,000 for cross-country travel expenses and the down payment she needed for a rental apartment.

“I told her to keep it,” Susan said. “You saved me $92,000 so this one’s for Mom.”