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How to Fix a Typewriter and Your Life
Eleven years ago, Paul Lundy was dying a slow, workingman’s death under fluorescent light.
For three decades, he had worked in facilities management — an honest trade that ground him down until, in his mid-50s, he had money, an authoritative title and a soul that was being sucked dry. He managed buildings for Seattle-area biotech firms, where people in lab coats made discoveries that saved lives. He kept the infrastructure running. He was good at it, maybe great, but facilities managers are overhead, essential but invisible. Nobody notices until something breaks.
Lundy had reached a ceiling. No college degree meant no room to grow in a world that valued credentials above experience. Retirement at 65 stretched before him like a prison sentence. The three-hour commute was killing him — a ritual that thousands endure to afford living near Seattle.
“Fun was not what you would call it anymore,” allows Lundy, a trim, neatly pleated man with a soft, welcoming face.
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One Sunday morning in 2014, he opened The Seattle Times and found a feature story about Bob Montgomery, age 92, known to friends, customers and locals simply as Mr. Montgomery. The article read like an obituary for a vanishing trade — fixing typewriters — suggesting that when Mr. Montgomery went, seven decades of expertise would vanish into the digital ether.
Lundy read it once, then a second time. He had never given old typewriters much thought, but something stirred in him that he could not quite name. He showed the story to his wife, Lisa.
“I think this might be it,” he told her. The next weekend, he drove to Bremerton, a weary naval town an hour’s ferry ride away and a world apart from gleaming, digitized Seattle.
Finding Mr. Montgomery’s shop required determination. No sign marked the building; no indication that inside, five floors up, a master craftsman was keeping alive skills that predated the computer age. You took an elevator that groaned. When the doors opened, you knew immediately you were in the right place: a 1916 Royal Model 10 typewriter stood guard outside an open door, and the air smelled like oil. Once inside, you encountered a shop stacked and stuffed with typewriters — Underwoods and Coronas, Royal KMMs and Remington Portable 3s.
And there, at a workbench, sat Mr. Montgomery.
He was small, frail, bent by osteoporosis enough that “he had a right angle,” Lundy says.
But his hands moved across the typewriter before him with unconscious grace, removing screws without looking, adjusting linkages by feel alone.
“Welcome to the crazy house,” Mr. Montgomery said, his standard greeting.
Lundy had planned to stay 20 minutes. He stayed four hours. What captured him was not nostalgia. What captured him was watching Mr. Montgomery work, the old man dismantling a machine while carrying on a conversation, barely glancing at the complexity beneath his fingers.
“WELCOME TO THE CRAZY HOUSE.”
Mr. Montgomery had grown up in Depression-era Seattle, the son of a typewriter repairman who had a shop in the city’s downtown. When he was not learning the trade, he would sneak through alleyways into grand old theaters to watch rehearsals, developing a love for performance that would shape his life nearly as much as typewriters.
Then came World War II. Drafted at 18, he expected to carry a rifle through Europe. But the Army discovered his skill and put him to work fixing typewriters at Supreme Allied Command. “Probably saved his life,” Lundy says. After the war, his family opened Bremerton Office Machine Company in 1947. For the next 70 years, Mr. Montgomery stayed within a few blocks of downtown Bremerton, always fixing typewriters, even as the world abandoned them.
What Lundy discovered over the following months was that Mr. Montgomery knew how to patiently stretch everything — even a meal. Lundy began taking him to lunch every Saturday, and their meals became meditations. Mr. Montgomery would order a BLT with avocado and make it last 90 minutes, telling stories between bites and savoring every morsel as only someone who had grown up without much could.
Other than a sister in California, he had no family. He slept in the back of his shop on an orange vinyl hide-a-bed couch. At 92, he existed almost completely outside the system.
Lundy had been a 20-minute lunch guy his entire career — eat fast, back to work, back to the grind. Now, somehow, he found himself slowing down, learning a different rhythm. Lunches became a practice in patience, a different way of being in the world.
“Mr. Montgomery was such a nice guy,” Lundy says, emphasizing “such.” The old man made him feel seen. And listened to. Like everything mattered.
After a few months, Lundy noticed typewriters stacking up faster than Mr. Montgomery could repair them. Business had surged after the article. “Can I help?” Lundy asked one day.
Mr. Montgomery said yes. Lundy started coming after his facilities job, heading straight to the shop. Mr. Montgomery set him up a bench with a typewriter and photocopied repair manual pages. He left him to figure things out.
Lundy’s hands, accustomed to managing air-conditioning systems, had to learn a new language — to feel the difference between correct tension and too loose or too tight. When he thought a repair was perfect, he brought it to Mr. Montgomery, who tested it with quick fingers dancing across the keys and, invariably, pronounced: “That is not what I would have done.”
He showed Lundy the right way. No anger. No frustration. Just quiet insistence that good enough was not good enough.
Sometimes Mr. Montgomery would partly disassemble a machine and leave it on Lundy’s bench — a test, a puzzle, a method of teaching as old as apprenticeship itself.
“It’s like Zen,” Lundy says about those hours at the bench. “There are times when it is just very relaxing to be standing in front of the machine and slowly cleaning it, tweaking the adjustment so visually things start to really line up.”
One Saturday Lundy arrived at the shop to find men with clipboards pointing at Mr. Montgomery’s equipment. They were evicting him, readying everything for the dumpster; 13 months of unpaid rent had finally caught up.
Lundy could not abide the thought of all that knowledge lost, all that skill and history being tossed away. He called his wife. “They’re kicking him out!” he said. “My whole opportunity might be lost. I think this might be what I want to do.”
“You’ve done crazier things,” she replied. “Do it.”
The building manager arrived next, spelling out the cost: 13 months at $200 per month, equaling $2,600 total. For Mr. Montgomery, who had maybe $200 in the bank, this was insurmountable. For Lundy, with his steady salary, it was doable.
“I will pay his back rent if I buy his business,” Lundy told the manager. “I’ll pay monthly rent going forward.”
Deal.
The eviction crew left. Mr. Montgomery, who had watched the chaos with the remote calm of an elder, looked at Lundy and said just one word: “OK.”
Lundy bought the business at the end of 2014. Soon, he quit his job and walked away from its stultifying steadiness, its salary and benefits. His colleagues were sure he had lost his mind. But Lundy knew he was trading security for meaning, predictability for possibility. “I was happy,” he says simply.
For the next few years, Lundy and Mr. Montgomery worked side by side in that cramped fifth-floor shop. Mr. Montgomery was still the master, but he was slowing, taking longer naps. More and more often, he would look at a typewriter that had come in for repair and turn to Lundy: “You do this one.”
The teaching continued, deeper now, Mr. Montgomery pulling tools off the pegboard — tools he had organized decades ago, many he had made himself, his initials etched in the handles. “He knew everything about every typewriter, just off the top of his head,” Lundy says. “I know maybe 10 percent of what he knew. Maybe.”
Eventually Mr. Montgomery would watch his student work and deliver his highest praise: “You are OK.”
By the time Mr. Montgomery reached his mid-90s, life was catching up with him. His friends had intervened, helping him sign up for the veteran and Social Security benefits he had never claimed and finding him subsidized housing at a nearby retirement home — his first real home in decades. But he kept coming to the shop regularly, taking the bus in the morning. The bus drivers knew Mr. Montgomery and seemed to have memorized his routine — if he was running a bit late, they would wait.
Mr. Montgomery fell and broke his hip. His health declined fast, the way it does when the very old finally succumb to gravity. One afternoon, Lundy visited him in his apartment and threw out uneaten food that had accumulated in the refrigerator. Mr. Montgomery watched for a while, then said quietly: “I’m glad you did this.”
Both men knew he was talking about Lundy continuing the tradition at the shop.
Mr. Montgomery died in September 2018, at age 96. Full military honors were held at the cemetery. Lundy gave the eulogy, his voice breaking as he tried to convey the sum of a man who had lived through the Depression and World War II, who had become an iconic community fixture and spent 70 years fixing machines the world had forgotten, who had worked until the very end because work was who he was.
What neither man could have known was that they had been standing at the edge of the typewriter’s unlikely resurrection. The revival began quietly in temples of analog nostalgia — think Brooklyn coffee shops and Portland boutique hotels. Tom Hanks became an unlikely patron saint, writing a book about typewriters, collecting hundreds of them. Then came 2020. Everyone stuck at home, screens everywhere, Zoom fatigue setting in. People craved something tangible. Typewriter sales exploded.
“The kids get it,” Lundy says. “They’re not trying to be nostalgic for something they never experienced. They’re trying to escape what they experience every day.”
Now it is a Saturday morning. October 2025. Paul Lundy hunches over an IBM Selectric, a machine nearly 50 years old, probing its guts with the delicate touch he learned from Mr. Montgomery. The machine has taken its share of falls. Oil and dust have conspired over decades to form clogging sludge. Dog hair, too — there always seems to be dog hair.
He keeps solvent flowing, working back and forth through the brown muck, treating the dirt not as debris but as the accumulated record of life lived hunched over a keyboard — the residue of a marriage proposal, a first novel, a military order, a last will and testament.
His shop is different now. Brighter, airier, on the main floor of a building that was wasting away in downtown Bremerton until Lundy cobbled together enough savings to buy and renovate it, using all those facilities management skills he thought he’d left behind. He had kept the business in that cramped fifth-floor space for six years after Mr. Montgomery’s death. Management was planning apartments, Lundy says, so he wound up here — in a 1910 building that once housed a local electric utility’s headquarters.
“IT’LL ALWAYS BE HIS.”
From the basement below his wooden floors comes the thump of bass guitar, the crash of drums. Rock bands practice during many of his working hours. The structure shakes with enthusiasm. He smiles, tugs on his workman’s apron, adjusts his black-framed glasses and does not lose attention.
He clicks a return button. The Selectric whirs. He listens.
“The problems you see — and sometimes the problems you hear,” he says, wryly, as he adjusts the operational shaft, “are not always the real problem.”
Now the stubborn machine is yielding its secrets at last. Lundy has flushed its brown sludge, freed its operational shaft, oiled the precise points where metal meets metal.
Mr. Montgomery’s soul fills this space. The 1916 Royal Model 10 that stood guard at the old shop stands here now. There’s his woolen hat. There’s a photo from Bremerton’s Bob Montgomery Day, which he bristled at because he didn’t like attention. There are his community theater awards — best director, again and again — testament to the love of performance that began in those old Seattle theaters. There sit his notes, repair manuals and tools: blue-handled wrenches, metallic probes, soft-bristled brushes. Mr. Montgomery’s bench is where Lundy works.
“It’ll always be his,” Lundy says of the shop, now called Bremerton Typewriter Company. “I am just borrowing it.”
Lundy’s wife, Lisa, works at her own bench. She started learning repair work during the pandemic and became proficient, helping with the backlog.
The phone rings steadily; customers call from as far as Florida, New York and beyond. The novelist who needs an escape from the internet’s magnetic pull; the screenwriter convinced that only keys that fight back can force out good work; the teenagers who have just found a grandmother’s pristine Corona, a grandfather’s portable Hermes.
It is Lundy who takes on apprentices now. He teaches the way Mr. Montgomery did: patiently letting mistakes happen because mistakes educate best. It’s a steady transfer of knowledge, a careful passing of the seemingly arcane, a customer-is-always-right way of doing business.
Want to come in and type a poem on a 1920s Underwood? Sure, take a seat, don’t rush.
You’re over 90? Front of the queue.
“Gotta lay out the red carpet for our elderly customers,” Lundy says. “People forget that when you were younger, you did things. You made a difference. Then you get old and society just sees an old guy waiting for the bus, and it’s almost like you don’t exist.”
This year, Paul Lundy turned 65. Had he stayed in his old job he would have retired, probably on his birthday. Instead, he is working six days a week and smiling through it: “I cannot imagine stopping.”
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Trump issues fiery new threat against Iran as details of US aviator’s rescue emerge
TEHRAN, Iran (AP) — U.S. President Donald Trump on Sunday made expletive-laden new threats to escalate strikes on Iran and its infrastructure if it doesn’t open the Strait of Hormuz by his deadline, after American forces rescued an aviator whose Iran-downed plane fell behind enemy lines.
A defiant Iran struck infrastructure targets in neighboring Gulf Arab countries, challenged the U.S. account of the rescue and threatened to restrict another heavily used waterway in the region, the Bab el-Mandeb Strait off the Arabian Peninsula.
In a social media post, Trump vowed to hit Iran’s power plants and bridges and said the country would be “living in Hell” if the Strait of Hormuz, crucial for global trade, isn’t opened by Tuesday. He ended with “Praise be to Allah.”
Trump has issued such deadlines before but extended them when mediators have claimed progress toward ending the war, which has killed thousands, shaken global markets and spiked fuel prices in just over five weeks.
“It seems Trump has become a phenomenon that neither Iranians nor Americans are able to fully analyze,” Iranian Culture Minister Sayed Reza Salihi-Amiri told visiting Associated Press journalists in an interview in Tehran, adding that the president “constantly shifts between contradictory positions.”
Both sides have threatened and hit civilian targets like oil fields and desalination plants critical for drinking water. Iran’s U.N. mission called Trump’s threat “clear evidence of intent to commit war crime.”
Iran’s military joint command warned of stepped-up attacks on regional oil and civilian infrastructure if the U.S. and Israel attack such targets there, according to state television.
The laws of armed conflict allow attacks on civilian infrastructure only if the military advantage outweighs the civilian harm, legal scholars say. It’s considered a high bar to clear, and causing excessive suffering to civilians can constitute a war crime.
U.S. describes a dramatic rescue
An intense search followed Friday’s crash of the F-15E Strike Eagle, while Iran promised a reward for the “enemy pilot.” It was the first known American aircraft to crash in Iranian territory since the U.S. and Israel launched the war on Feb. 28.
Trump said that the service member was “seriously wounded and really brave” and rescued from “deep inside the mountains” in an operation involving dozens of armed aircraft. He said a second crew member was rescued in “broad daylight” within hours of the crash.
A senior U.S. administration official said that prior to locating the pilot, the CIA spread word inside Iran that U.S. forces had found him and were moving him for exfiltration, confusing Iranian officials. The official spoke on the condition of anonymity to discuss details not yet made public.
Iran also shot down another U.S. military plane, demonstrating both the perils of the bombing campaign and the ability of Iran’s degraded military to hit back. Neither the status of the A-10 attack aircraft’s crew nor where it crashed is known.
On Sunday, Iran’s state television aired a video showing what it claimed were parts of U.S. aircraft — a transport plane and two helicopters — shot down by Iranian forces during the rescue operation.
However, a regional intelligence official briefed on the mission told the AP that the U.S. military blew up two transport planes because of a technical malfunction and brought in additional aircraft to complete the rescue. The official spoke on condition of anonymity to discuss the covert mission.
Two Black Hawk helicopters were hit but navigated to safe airspace, according to a person familiar with the situation who spoke on condition of anonymity to discuss the sensitive information.
Diplomatic efforts continue
Trump’s deadline centers on growing alarm over Iran’s grip on the Strait of Hormuz, critical for shipments of oil and gas from the Persian Gulf to Europe and Asia as well as humanitarian supplies. Some ships have paid Iran for passage.
An Iranian presidential spokesperson, Seyyed Mohammad Mehdi Tabatabaei, said on social media that the strait can reopen only if some transit revenues compensate Iran for war damages.
A top Iranian adviser, Ali Akbar Velayati, warned on social media that Tehran also could disrupt trade on the Bab el-Mandeb, a key waterway to and from the Suez Canal.
Diplomatic efforts continued. Oman’s Foreign Ministry said that deputy foreign ministers and experts from Iran and Oman met to discuss proposals to ensure “smooth transit” through the strait. Oman has often served as a mediator between the U.S. and Iran.
Egypt said that Foreign Minister Badr Abdelatty had spoken with U.S. envoy Steve Witkoff and Iranian Foreign Minister Abbas Araghchi, and with Turkish and Pakistani counterparts. Russia said that Araghchi also spoke with Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov.
Iran strikes Gulf targets
In the United Arab Emirates, authorities said that four people — one Nepali and three Pakistani — were hurt in fires caused by debris from the interception of an Iranian projectile at Khor Fakkan port, and intercepted debris caused fires at a petrochemical plant in Ruwais, halting operations.
In Kuwait, Iranian drone attacks caused significant damage to power plants and a petrochemical plant. They also put a water desalination station out of service, according to the Ministry of Electricity.
In Bahrain, a drone attack caused a fire at one of the national oil company’s storage facilities and a state-run petrochemical plant, the kingdom’s official news agency said.
In Israel, rescue authorities said that they were searching for three people in the northern city of Haifa after an apartment building was hit. It wasn’t immediately clear what struck it.
Meanwhile, more than 1,900 people have been killed in Iran since the war began.
In Gulf Arab states and the occupied West Bank, more than two dozen people have died, while 19 have been reported dead in Israel and 13 U.S. service members have been killed. In Lebanon, more than 1,400 people have been killed and more than 1 million people have been displaced. Eleven Israeli soldiers have died there.
___
Bassem Mroue reported from Tehran, Iran, Sam Metz from Jerusalem and Samy Magdy from Cairo. Jon Gambrell in Dubai, United Arab Emirates; Lisa Mascaro and Seung Min Kim in Washington; Munir Ahmed in Islamabad; and Farnoush Amiri in New York; contributed to this report.
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After the Minnesota surge, ICE is moving to a quieter enforcement approach
A Florida Highway Patrol officer looks at pictures of undocumented immigrants accused of crimes before a press conference at the ICE Enforcement and Removal Operations building on November 13, 2025 in Miramar, Florida. Florida law enforcement agencies have among the highest ICE cooperation rates in the nation, with state troopers making a significant number of immigration arrests.
Joe Raedle/Getty Images North America
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Joe Raedle/Getty Images North America
A shift appears to be underway in how the federal government does immigration enforcement – away from the high-profile show of force seen during the Immigration and Customs Enforcement operation in Minnesota and toward a less visible approach, relying more on local police.
“Partnership is vitally important,” Markwayne Mullin, the new secretary for the Department of Homeland Security, told Congress at his confirmation hearing last month. “I would love to see ICE become a transport more than the front line. If we can get back into just simply working with law enforcement, we’re going to them, we’re picking up these criminals from their jail.”
In a statement to NPR this week, a DHS spokesperson echoed Mullin’s line of thinking: “ICE has supercharged efforts with state and local law enforcement to assist federal immigration officers in our efforts to make America safe again.”
Here’s what to know about how that shift is taking place – and what it might look like in communities around the country.
Why is this shift happening?
The enforcement operation in Minnesota was aggressive and highly visible: federal immigration officers slammed protesters to the ground, deployed tear gas in neighborhoods and outside schools, dragged people from their cars, and ultimately killed two U.S. citizens.
These tactics were also very politically unpopular. In February, an NPR/PBS News/Marist poll found that two thirds of Americans said ICE had gone too far.
How do ICE officers work with local and state police?
Mullin’s comments point to increased emphasis on the federal 287(g) program, which allows state and local law enforcement officers to take on some of the duties of ICE officers.
Though the program has existed for decades, the number of police and sheriff’s departments signing up for the program during President Trump’s second term has grown exponentially. During his first term in 2019, there were only 45 agreements. In 2025 alone, there were more than 1,100 agreements, a previous NPR analysis showed. Now, there are more than 1,600 agreements across 39 states, according to ICE.
About a third of the entire U.S. population now lives in a county where a local law enforcement agency has signed a 287(g) agreement, according to an ACLU report released in February.
The most intensive version of the program, called the Task Force Model, deputizes local police to enforce immigration law, including arresting people on ICE’s behalf during regular law enforcement work, like traffic stops. On its website, ICE refers to this model as a “force multiplier.”
That model, discontinued during the Obama administration, was revived when Trump took office again, and now makes up the majority of 287(g) agreements. More than 13,000 police officers around the country are taking part in that model, according to an analysis released earlier this year from FWD.us, an organization that advocates for immigration and criminal justice reform.
How does it affect communities when local police work with ICE?
It’s not uncommon for U.S. law enforcement to work with federal immigration authorities, even without a signed agreement. What has changed in recent years are mandates in states like Florida and Texas, where state officials required some or all law enforcement agencies to join a 287(g) program. In those two states alone, the ACLU report estimates that more than 40 million people live in a place where their local law enforcement signed one of these agreements.
Florida has among the most 287(g) agreements in the nation, along with Texas, according to the latest ICE data.
Coinciding with new enthusiasm from ICE for local partners, Gov. Ron DeSantis’ administration ramped up pressure on all Florida law enforcement agencies to sign up, despite only sheriffs being required. There were carrots in the form of bonuses for officers that received 287(g) training, and sticks in the form of threats to remove elected officials from office who didn’t sign on.
The campaign was successful. Agencies from the Florida Highway Patrol, to the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, to university campus police departments have all signed up to work with ICE.
On the ground, the seemingly ubiquitous partnerships have created a sea change in local policing.
At least 1,800 state troopers on Florida highways are trained to enforce immigration law alongside their regular police duties. That has created situations where traffic stops for minor offenses — like tinted windows or failing to use a turn signal — turn into inquiries into a person’s immigration status, an occurrence happening in Texas as well.
Arrests have risen sharply, with the Florida State Board of Immigration Enforcement reporting at least 10,000 immigration arrests by local agencies alone, not ICE, since last August. The majority of those arrests are made by Florida Highway Patrol troopers.
One county particularly affected is Palm Beach County and the majority-Hispanic city of Lake Worth Beach, where advocates with the Guatemalan-Maya Center have said Florida state troopers are profiling residents.
“ They’ve been the most aggressive in our cities,” Mariana Blanco, director of operations for the center, said at an event earlier this year. “They’re the ones that are targeting, racially profiling our people.”
Additionally, when local police work with ICE, it makes it harder for the community to be aware of immigration enforcement happening near them, says Kristin Etter, director of policy and legal services at the Texas Immigration Law Council.
She says that’s been the case in Texas for years, where local police cooperation with federal authorities represents a much quieter approach than the tactics seen in Minnesota – where observers would track ICE and use whistles to alert neighbors to their presence.
“Your whistle doesn’t work in Texas. You’re not going to need a whistle in Texas because you’re never going to have that Minneapolis moment. They’re going to try to keep this hidden as much as possible,” Etter says.
The fear, she says, is this more hidden form of enforcement will ramp up elsewhere in the country.
How do state and local police feel about working with ICE?
Some agencies that sign up for 287(g) agreements have been offered incentives from the federal government, including reimbursements for salaries, benefits and overtime pay for each officer trained for the Task Force Model, as well as thousands of dollars for new equipment and vehicles.
But beyond the monetary benefits, some sheriffs are also staunch ideological supporters of the Trump administration’s immigration approach.
“They came here to the United States illegally. A crime was committed every minute, every day and every year that that person is still here, they’re still committing the crime. They did not come here the right way,” Sheriff Billy Woods, of Marion County, Fla., said of undocumented immigrants.
Some police leaders across the country have expressed concerns that cooperating with federal immigration authorities erodes community trust – and could make undocumented immigrants and others afraid to call 911 when they are victims of a crime or to participate as witnesses in criminal investigations. Some states, like Maryland, have banned 287(g) agreements.
In Florida, the large number of people arrested by local police has also made some of DeSantis’ most fervent supporters uncomfortable.
“There are those here that are working hard. They have their kids in college or in school. They’re going to church on Sunday. They’re not violating the law. They are living the American dream,” Sheriff Grady Judd, of Polk County, Fla., said at a state immigration board meeting last month.
Judd stressed that he still felt strongly about detaining those who have committed crimes, but said “maybe there needs to be a path” for immigrants who are law-abiding and add to society, though it’s unclear what the sheriff meant specifically.
It’s also unclear if the recent pushback in Florida from several conservative sheriffs will change how immigration enforcement is conducted in the state. So far, immigrant advocates say not much has changed.
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Judge halts Trump effort requiring colleges to show they don’t consider race in admissions
President Donald Trump arrives to speak about the Iran war from the Cross Hall of the White House on Wednesday, April 1, 2026, in Washington. (AP Photo/Alex Brandon, Pool)
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BOSTON — A federal judge has halted efforts by the Trump administration to collect data that proves higher education institutions aren’t considering race in admissions.
The ruling from U.S. District Court Judge F. Dennis Saylor IV in Boston on Friday granting the preliminary injunction follows a lawsuit filed earlier this month by a coalition of 17 Democratic state attorneys general. It will only apply to public universities in plaintiffs
The federal judge said the federal government likely has the authority to collect the data, but the demand was rolled out to universities in a “rushed and chaotic” manner.
“The 120-day deadline imposed by the President led directly to the failure of NCES (National Center for Education Statistics) to engage meaningfully with the institutions during the notice-and-comment process to address the multitude of problems presented by the new requirements,” Saylor wrote.
President Donald Trump ordered the data collection in August after he raised concerns that colleges and universities were using personal statements and other proxies to consider race, which he views as illegal discrimination.

In 2023, the Supreme Court ruled against the use of affirmative action in admissions but said colleges could still consider how race has shaped students’ lives if applicants share that information in their admissions essays.
The states argue the data collection risks invading student privacy and leading to baseless investigations of colleges and universities. They also argued that universities have not been given enough time to collect the data.
“The data has been sought in such a hasty and irresponsible way that it will create problems for universities,” a lawyer for the plaintiffs, Michelle Pascucci, told the court, adding that the effort seem was aimed at uncovering unlawful practices.
The Education Department has defended the effort, arguing taxpayers deserve transparency on how money is spent at institutions that receive federal funding.
The administration’s policy echoes settlement agreements the government negotiated with Brown University and Columbia University, restoring their federal research money. The universities agreed to give the government data on the race, grade-point average and standardized test scores of applicants, admitted students and enrolled students. The schools also agreed to be audited by the government and to release admissions statistics to the public.
The National Center for Education Statistics is to collect the new data, including the race and sex of colleges’ applicants, admitted students and enrolled students. Education Secretary Linda McMahon has said the data, which was originally due by March 18, must be disaggregated by race and sex and retroactively reported for the past seven years.
If colleges fail to submit timely, complete and accurate data, the administration has said McMahon can take action under Title IV of the Higher Education Act of 1965, which outlines requirements for colleges receiving federal financial aid for students.
The Trump administration separately has sued Harvard University over similar data, saying it refused to provide admissions records the Justice Department demanded to ensure the school stopped using affirmative action. Harvard has said the university has been responding to the government’s requests and is in compliance with the high court ruling against affirmative action. On Monday, the Education Department’s Office for Civil Rights directed Harvard to comply with the data requests within 20 days for face referral to the U.S. Justice Department.
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