The Promise of Access by Daniel Greene critically examines the widespread belief that digital access and skills training can solve economic inequality. Through extensive ethnographic research in Washington, DC, Greene explores how schools, libraries, and tech startups promote technology as a pathway to opportunity despite little evidence that it improves long-term economic outcomes. The book introduces the concept of the access doctrine—the idea that poverty is a problem of lacking technology or skills rather than structural inequality. It argues that institutions adopt this doctrine not because it works but because it helps them secure funding and remain relevant in an era of austerity. The book begins by tracing the historical rise of the digital divide narrative, showing how access to technology became a political and economic priority. It then follows how different institutions apply this logic: tech startups operate on the principle of constant pivoting, schools emphasize test scores and workforce readiness, and libraries reshape themselves as digital learning hubs. By comparing these spaces, Greene reveals how public institutions are forced to function like private startups, prioritizing survival over social justice. The book concludes by examining the limitations of these approaches and suggesting alternative ways to address inequality beyond simply expanding digital access.

Introduction: "The Internet: Your Future Depends on It"

The book examines the widespread belief that internet access and digital skills can help people escape poverty. Using Washington, DC's Connect.DC program, as an example, shows how technology training was promoted as a path to economic success. However, for many, the internet was more of a survival tool rather than a ticket to a better future. This belief, called the access doctrine, is embraced by politicians and institutions, but it overlooks deeper issues like structural inequality.
The book argues that while digital skills training is marketed as a solution to economic inequality, there is little evidence that it actually helps people secure better jobs. In the past, people were told that simply having internet access would improve their opportunities, but wages have remained low, and social mobility has not improved. Instead of addressing systemic issues like job market inequalities, policies continue to push digital training as a personal responsibility.
Despite its failure to reduce inequality, the access doctrine remains popular because it benefits institutions like schools and libraries. These organizations, struggling with budget cuts, promote digital skills programs to stay relevant and secure funding. This process, called bootstrapping, forces them to reshape their missions around technology rather than addressing real social needs.
DC's government embraced the access doctrine as part of a broader strategy to attract tech companies and professionals. After the 2008 recession, wealthier white workers moved in, gentrifying neighborhoods and pushing out many Black residents. While digital skills training was promoted as a way to help low-income residents, the job market remained divided—offering high wages for some while leaving others with stagnant pay and fewer opportunities.
The book traces how the access doctrine emerged in the 1990s and how schools, libraries, and even tech startups adopted it. It explores how these institutions increasingly operate like businesses, prioritizing digital training over their original missions. It also highlights the struggles of students, workers, and homeless patrons who navigate these systems in their own ways.
Between 2012 and 2015, the author conducted fieldwork in DC, interviewing 55 people and observing institutions like libraries, schools, and tech startups. The study focuses on how these organizations function and how policies affect real people. While the book documents these experiences, it does not claim to speak on behalf of the individuals studied—they are fully aware of their struggles and often organize their own protests and campaigns.
The book challenges the idea that technology alone can solve poverty and argues that real change requires addressing the root causes of economic inequality, not just offering more digital training programs.

Discovering the Divide: Technology and Poverty in the New Economy

In 2014, Connect.DC held an event to discuss internet access in Washington, DC, but the real conversation was about deeper social issues. While some parts of the city thrived after the 2008 recession, many Black residents faced unemployment and rising housing costs. Though 150,000 households lacked internet, speakers emphasized that digital inequality wasn't just about access—without technology and digital skills, many were locked out of opportunities. Libraries played a key role in bridging the gap, but some questioned the idea that simply providing internet and training could fix poverty.
This belief, known as the "access doctrine", emerged under Clinton in the 1990s. It suggested that technology and skills could lift people from poverty, shifting attention away from systemic issues like wage stagnation and shrinking social programs. Since the 1970s, US poverty policy has followed a contradictory path—promising that anyone could succeed with the right skills while cutting welfare and increasing policing for those who struggled. Clinton's reforms reinforced this by forcing people into low-wage jobs and treating poverty as a personal failure rather than a structural issue.
During this period, internet access was framed as an economic necessity. The Clinton administration argued that people without access couldn't compete in a global market, leading to investments in digital infrastructure. However, the government prioritized military and prison spending over these initiatives and relied on private companies to expand internet access. This approach benefited corporations like Microsoft and Apple but did little to address affordability. At the same time, the Democratic Party shifted its focus from working-class voters to wealthier, tech-savvy professionals, while digital access became a tool for spreading US economic influence abroad.
Clinton's policies reflected a broader belief in human capital theory—that poverty was due to a lack of skills rather than systemic barriers. Schools became training centers for the job market, and digital access was positioned as a tool for economic productivity rather than a public good. The government promoted market-driven solutions, believing competition would lower internet costs. Instead, access remained expensive and unequal, with libraries and schools serving as inadequate substitutes for real broadband expansion.
The 1996 Telecommunications Act further deregulated the industry, leading to fewer providers, higher prices, and slower speeds. Meanwhile, the government blocked efforts to build public internet networks, limiting affordable options for low-income communities. In contrast, countries like Brazil invested in public access centers and treated internet access as part of a broader social safety net.
Under Bush, digital access programs were cut further, reinforcing the idea that technology was a privilege, not a right. Today, digital inequality is still framed as an issue of individual skills rather than systemic barriers. Schools, libraries, and cities have had to act like tech startups to survive, and the belief that the right digital tools can fix poverty continues to shape policy—keeping the focus on individuals rather than the larger economic forces that keep inequality in place.

The Pivot and the Trouble with "Tech"

In 2014, Travis and his team at InCrowd celebrated moving into their own office, using the event to recruit new talent. At the time, the company was making a big shift from serving individual party planners to working with catering businesses. This transition, or "pivot", required changes in software, marketing, and training. Though challenging, the team was optimistic, backed by recent investments. In the startup world, pivots are common and often necessary for survival. Travis believed investors supported the company because they trusted him, reflecting how deeply founders identify with their businesses.
Another founder, Ji, faced similar struggles with her app, Hearth. She had to shift from focusing on meaningful conversations to making money, a change that felt like a compromise. She also had to relocate to San Francisco to access investors, leaving behind her supportive community. Founders learn to embrace these changes through startup incubators, coworking spaces, and networking events, where they are encouraged to adapt constantly. At InCrowd, Travis reinforced this mindset by giving employees small ownership stakes, making them feel personally invested in the company's growth.
Flexibility wasn't just a business strategy; it shaped the entire company culture. Employees like Beth and Vijay thrived in this fast-changing environment. Beth's role shifted constantly, from teaching clients to collecting payments, while Vijay moved from policy work to software development, drawn by the immediate impact of his work. The ability to pivot—whether adjusting software features or handling customer relationships—was key to the company's success.
However, not all roles were equally valued. Women in non-technical positions, like Beth, took on additional emotional labor, organizing team events and maintaining morale. Their work helped sustain InCrowd's fast-paced culture but wasn't always recognized. Meanwhile, the open-office setup encouraged constant adaptation, with employees tweaking their work based on real-time feedback. InCrowd was in "permanent beta", always testing and improving.
Beyond individual companies, Washington, DC, also embraced the startup model, seeing tech as a way to transform the city's economy. Programs like 1776 trained entrepreneurs and promoted DC as a tech hub. However, this growth was uneven—mostly benefiting wealthier, White neighborhoods while leaving historically Black communities behind. Even public institutions like schools and libraries tried to adopt startup-like strategies, but unlike tech companies, they couldn't pivot as easily. In the end, while startups brought innovation and opportunity, they also reinforced economic divides, showing that not everyone could benefit equally from the startup mindset.

More Than Just a Building to Sit In for the Day

In 2004, Washington, DC, was changing fast. Mayor Anthony Williams focused on big projects like a baseball stadium to boost redevelopment, but public services like the DC Public Library (DCPL) struggled. Budget cuts left libraries understaffed and outdated, symbolized by a month-long system-wide computer failure. The library, especially the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library (MLK), was in poor shape, with few resources for the city's growing homeless population.
By 2015, MLK Library had transformed. It introduced tech spaces like the Dream Lab and Fab Lab, offering 3D printers, coding classes, and makerspaces to prepare people for the digital economy. This shift wasn't just about adding technology; it was about changing the library's role. The library adopted the access doctrine, the belief that poverty can be solved by providing the right tools and skills. However, this new focus didn't benefit everyone equally. While the tech spaces promised opportunities, many still relied on the library for basic needs. Without enough resources for mental health or shelter, homeless patrons were often pushed to the margins.
The library's transformation reflected DC's broader changes. As the city embraced tech and gentrification, libraries tried to adopt a "startup mindset" like companies such as InCrowd. But unlike startups, libraries couldn't simply pivot to a new business model—they had to serve everyone. To survive, MLK rebranded itself as a professional training center, securing funding but shifting away from its role as a community refuge.
This shift was called bootstrapping—reorganizing public institutions around technology to secure political support. The $208 million renovation modernized the library, but decisions about its future were made by government and business leaders rather than the people who used it daily. Homeless patrons, the library's most consistent visitors, had little say in these changes. The library focused on "productive" activities, offering digital skills training while limiting spaces for rest and socialization. New librarians, often young and tech-savvy, were hired to promote a startup-like culture, reinforcing the idea that technology, not social support, was the key to success.
Despite these efforts, patrons found ways to adapt and resist. Homeless visitors used strategic methods to access resources, swapping library cards to extend computer time or avoiding strict security staff. Some librarians quietly supported these efforts, helping patrons with housing applications or bending the rules to allow much-needed rest. While the library aimed to become a modern, professional space, many still relied on it as one of the last free public refuges.
Ultimately, MLK's transformation highlighted a broader societal shift. Public services, under pressure to prove their economic value, prioritized technology and digital skills over direct social support. While the library became a high-tech hub, it also became a space where the city's inequalities were made visible. Many patrons fought to maintain the library as a community space, proving that, despite its new identity, the need for a place of care, refuge, and belonging remained strong.

Flexible Classrooms

W.E.B. Du Bois Public Charter High School aimed to get every student into college, using technology like SchoolForce to track grades and attendance. Despite advanced tools and a personalized curriculum, many seniors struggled to graduate. By 2014, teachers worried that academic performance wasn't improving, even as administrators pressured them to focus on measurable outcomes like test scores and graduation rates. This led to stricter data tracking, including monitoring student phone use to enforce discipline.
By 2015, leadership took a more aggressive approach, adjusting grades and implementing targeted interventions to boost graduation numbers. Though the school promoted values of racial justice and student empowerment, administrators ultimately prioritized performance metrics over these ideals. Teachers had little control over the digital systems they used, and the school operated more like a startup—constantly experimenting to meet external expectations but unable to fully pivot like a business.
Du Bois embodied the charter school movement's belief in innovation and accountability. It welcomed all students, including English language learners and those in special education, and promoted personalized learning with one-to-one laptops. However, the pressure to achieve high test scores often clashed with the school's social justice values. Teachers and students faced constant stress from shifting policies and new teaching methods, making them feel like test subjects in an ongoing experiment.
Technology played a central role in shaping the school's academic culture. Teachers initially used it to model productive habits, but after leadership interventions, SchoolForce became a tool for strict monitoring. Students were expected to take responsibility for their own performance, but financial barriers, like a $500 laptop replacement fee, often left them without access to devices. The school didn't offer basic tech literacy classes, reinforcing its shift from empowerment to control.
The school's "hidden curriculum" taught students unspoken lessons about professionalism and discipline. High-achieving students like Irene noticed that success often meant adopting behaviors associated with whiteness, which she found frustrating but necessary. Spaces like the Think Tank, originally meant for collaboration, were gradually restricted, reflecting the school's growing focus on productivity and test performance.
Teachers also struggled with "presence bleed", where work and personal life blurred due to constant emails and digital connections with students. While some, like Sam, embraced this level of involvement, others, like Melissa, found it overwhelming and left. The school's push for faster responses, quicker grading, and constant communication added stress to both teachers and students.
Student phone use became a major point of contention. While laptops were seen as essential for academic success, phones were viewed as distractions. The school introduced "Work Hard Grades", using SchoolForce to track behaviors like phone usage, shifting responsibility to students. Some adapted by treating it like a game, while others, like Irene, felt controlled and frustrated.
By 2015, Du Bois was labeled a "turnaround school" due to declining test scores and graduation rates. Leadership responded with stricter policies, prioritizing measurable success over ideals like student empowerment. Unlike startups, the school couldn't simply pivot—it had to meet government standards to secure funding. While it continued to evolve, its focus remained on ensuring students succeeded within the existing system, even if that meant sacrificing some of its original values.

Bootstrapping

In December 2014, the Education Innovation Summit at E.L. Haynes Public Charter High School brought together teachers, administrators, and tech entrepreneurs to discuss how technology could improve education. Organized by the CityBridge Foundation and NewSchools Venture Fund, the event promoted personalized learning through digital tools. Speakers praised educators as innovators, but some comments—like comparing charter schools to Martin Luther King Jr.’s activism—sparked controversy. The summit focused on using technology to fix education but largely ignored deeper systemic issues like poverty and racial inequality. The following year, the event was replaced by Startup Weekend EDU, where educators pitched scalable, tech-driven school models.
The summit reflected a broader trend in education and libraries, where institutions are pressured to adopt a “bootstrapping” mindset—constantly innovating like startups to secure funding and legitimacy. This shift is tied to the “access doctrine”, the belief that poverty can be solved through digital tools and skills. Instead of addressing systemic problems like income inequality and racial discrimination, solutions often focus on providing laptops, internet access, and tech-based learning.
Schools and libraries reshape themselves to fit this model for three main reasons. First, the meritocratic model influences educators, who assume their own academic success can be replicated by students. Second, technological professionalization encourages schools to adopt business-like efficiency, often pushed by organizations like the Gates Foundation and CityBridge. Third, mission ambiguity leaves schools and libraries struggling to define their role, making tech-driven solutions seem like the best way to demonstrate progress.
Many teachers and librarians resist these changes, believing in education as a public service rather than a competitive industry. However, external pressures—from government agencies, philanthropists, and tech leaders—push them to adopt digital-first approaches. Schools like Du Bois Charter focus on college admissions as a measure of success, even when students have other goals. Libraries struggle to balance digital training with their role as community hubs.
Unlike startups, schools and libraries can’t easily pivot or abandon unproductive initiatives. They must follow state regulations, serve diverse populations, and remain accountable to the public. The constant push for innovation often stretches their resources thin, leading to overworked staff and shifting priorities. While bootstrapping helps secure funding, it risks undermining the core values of public education and libraries—creating a cycle where institutions must keep proving their worth rather than focusing on their fundamental mission of serving communities.

Conclusion: Reproducing Hope

In March 2017, the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library in DC was closed for renovations. On the last day, the library was busy but somber as patrons used computers, played games, and left notes about what the space meant to them. Homeless visitors, who relied on the library for safety, received flyers with alternative shelter locations, though many felt these options weren't enough. Outside, protesters—library supporters and homeless patrons—held signs and chanted, emphasizing that the library was more than just a building; it was a crucial community space.
This event highlighted a broader issue: the access doctrine, the belief that technology and skills training can solve poverty. This idea, which became dominant during the neoliberal era, suggests that individuals can overcome economic struggles through personal effort and digital literacy. Schools and libraries have adopted this mindset, shifting their focus to teaching tech skills rather than addressing deeper systemic problems like racism, low wages, and lack of affordable housing.
However, bootstrapping—the constant push for institutions to reform themselves like startups—often fails. Unlike businesses, schools and libraries must serve diverse communities with different needs, making it hard to pivot quickly. Yet, they continue promoting tech-based solutions to stay relevant and attract funding, even when these solutions don't address the root causes of poverty.
This shift has turned poverty into a "skills gap" issue, assuming that learning to code or using digital tools will guarantee success. In reality, skills alone don't create jobs or fix systemic barriers. Libraries, for example, may teach digital literacy while restricting homeless patrons from resting, prioritizing productivity over human needs.
This trend reflects a larger political shift in how society defines a "good life". Capitalism increasingly expects individuals to manage their own survival, with institutions like schools and libraries reshaping themselves to produce self-sufficient workers rather than addressing collective struggles. This model also supports gentrification, with tech industries driving up living costs and public spaces being redesigned for wealthier newcomers.
Despite these pressures, schools and libraries remain potential sites for resistance. Teachers, librarians, and community members can challenge the system by organizing for more inclusive public services. Recent teacher strikes have shown that collective action can demand better funding and policies that serve people rather than market interests. The belief that technology alone can fix inequality is a convenient myth—but real change requires rethinking success beyond competition and creating a society where everyone has access to a good life.