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Of all the wonders that American ingenuity has produced over its first 250 years — from shrinking the globe via the airplane to improving the hamburger by adding a slice of cheese — perhaps our deepest imprint on modern society was made in Detroit.
Henry Ford, the son of an Irish immigrant, was born in 1863, built his first car in 1896, and by the nation’s sesquicentennial in 1926, had turned his Model T into the best-selling car in the world.
In the early days, it took more than 12 hours for Ford’s workers to produce a single vehicle. Then in 1913, using a series of conveyor belts, Ford introduced the world’s first moving assembly line. That cut production time down to 90 minutes per car. Ford’s innovation made it cost-effective to mass produce automobiles and became the template for other products. More importantly, during World War II, the auto plants were reconfigured for weaponry, ultimately producing a third of all U.S. war materiel.
By the mid-1940s, the G.I. generation had lifted the Motor City from outside the Top 10 in U.S. population into being the most important metropolis in the world.
And after the war, their children basked in its glory.
Their grandchildren saw cracks in the foundation.
Everyone else grew up in the rubble.
Sometimes literally.
Not far from where I lived as a child in Detroit stood the crumbling Packard Plant, a 3.5-million-square-foot behemoth that at its peak employed more than 40,000. Opened in 1903, the plant closed its doors half a century later. Over the decades, developers balked at the cost of reimagining the 80-acre wasteland. The decaying architecture was more than an eyesore. The community was trapped in an unrelenting loop of structural decline, with abandoned plants undermining the potential to grow the tax base needed to revitalize the area.
Rex Lamore, who runs the community and economic development department at Michigan State, coined the term “domicology” to describe the science of a building’s life cycle.
“At the end of the useful life of a structure,” he asked in his research, “who ultimately has the responsibility for the removal?” Often, that ends up being the people who grew up in the rubble. The places where taxpayers are already stretched thin.
This mirrored what happened in the South a century before.
In 1876 — as America was turning 100 — the country was the top supplier of cotton in the world. Leading the way was Mississippi, which had thousands of cotton gins in operation across the state. Today, only 33 gins remain, and the state’s top export is corn.
However, fragments of the infrastructure that once drove the country’s economy can still be seen decaying on abandoned farmland, leaving behind persistent poverty counties that still fit inside the map of old plantation geography.
It is not unlike what generations in Appalachia experienced, when coal companies would upturn land, excavate and then leave communities to pick up the pieces.
In Bayou Corne, La., there is a 37-acre sinkhole left behind. A salt cavern collapsed in 2012, forcing residents to sell their homes at a fraction of their previous value. During legal proceedings it was discovered the drilling companies knew of the potential dangers as far back as 1976, as America was turning 200, but drilled into the caverns anyway. And when the smell of methane gas forced longtime residents to flee, the companies responsible were largely able to walk away.
Different centuries.
Different industries.
Different geographies.
And the same 250-year-old pattern in which capitalists build infrastructure, extract wealth and then take off, leaving communities to absorb the cost of abandoned structures.
It is, inarguably, our history.
My point is not to condemn the pattern but to implore that we learn from it. Capitalism, by its nature, requires perpetual growth and often physical movement toward new opportunity. We also know that good times in an industry don’t last forever — although that abandoned plant on the east side of town might. And the same dynamic that drove auto manufacturing away from downtown Detroit to the suburbs and eventually overseas is the one that dethroned King Cotton in the Mississippi Delta.
And it is the same force that’s currently driving the construction of data centers across the country.
Much of the criticism is focused on the ecological and economic implications of today. In fact, hundreds of state and local bills have been filed this year addressing energy costs, water usage and utility rates.
Generally, however, there is nothing legislatively requiring builders to set aside money for the inevitable teardown and cleanup. Meanwhile Elon Musk and others are actively developing orbital computing infrastructure. Based on history, when that transition happens, or some other technological leap not yet envisioned, the terrestrial data centers of today will likely become the Packard Plants of tomorrow. And the same communities that are debating restructuring their utility grids and water systems to accommodate data centers in 2026 will be wondering what to do with that large empty building down the street when America turns 300 in 2076.
Which is why Congress should apply what we know about the nature of capitalism and pass legislation requiring companies that build above an established square footage to post a third-party decommissioning bond held by an independent trustee prior to breaking ground. And these safeguards cannot be self-bonded. Not after a series of bankruptcies between 2012 and 2016 in the coal industry resulted in more than $2 billion in unsecured self-bonds.
No — if an industry has money to build, there should also be money to take down.
Planning for a foreseeable future, using a means of accountability that is already widely accepted, is not radical. It’s wisdom.
For example, the telecom industry requires tower bonds to make sure unused cell towers don’t erode and fall on people. A bond for data centers, in conjunction with an independent oversight agency, would cover deconstruction, environmental remediation of power and cooling infrastructure, and site restoration. We may not know what artificial intelligence will ultimately bring 50 years from now, but we do know what happens to large buildings that go unused.
When America turns 300, the grandchildren of today’s decision-makers should not have to pass by empty server farms the way past generations drove past abandoned cotton gins and auto plants. At this stage, we know better and should want to begin to leave a new record on this land. One showing that its people behave more like stewards thinking of tomorrow, as opposed to locusts consumed with only today.
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Ideas expressed in the piece
The piece situates America’s 250-year history of industrial ingenuity within a recurring pattern: capital-intensive industries such as autos, cotton, coal, and resource extraction build massive infrastructure, extract wealth, then depart, leaving communities with abandoned plants, degraded land, and long-term economic decline.[1][3][13] It uses Detroit’s Packard Plant, Mississippi’s decaying cotton gin infrastructure, and Appalachia’s scarred mining sites as emblematic examples of how deindustrialization has produced persistent poverty and structural disrepair.[1][3][13]
Building on the concept of “domicology,” the article emphasizes that the end of a building’s useful life is rarely planned for by the investors who profit from it, and responsibility for removal and remediation falls on residents of already struggling communities.[8] In this telling, people who “grow up in the rubble” inherit unpaid bills for demolition, cleanup, and lost tax base, reinforcing cycles of disinvestment documented in research on legacy industrial cities and rural manufacturing counties.[1][13]
The column argues that this historical pattern is now being replicated in the digital era, as hyperscale data centers spread across the country with large footprints, heavy electricity demand, and significant water use, but with little attention to what will happen when those facilities become obsolete.[14] It notes that current political debate around data centers focuses on near-term issues such as energy costs, water usage, utility rates, and permitting, while generally failing to require dedicated funds for eventual teardown and environmental remediation.[6][14]
Looking ahead, the piece warns that emerging technologies—such as orbital or space-based computing—could eventually render today’s terrestrial data centers obsolete, in much the same way globalization and technological change rendered earlier industrial facilities redundant.[3][12] In this view, communities that are now reconfiguring their grids, zoning, and water systems to accommodate data centers may face future landscapes dotted with empty server farms, similar to abandoned cotton gins and auto plants seen in previous eras.[1][3][13][14]
Drawing on existing examples from other sectors, the article contends that Congress should treat decommissioning as a foreseeable cost of doing business and require companies constructing large facilities above a certain square footage to post third-party decommissioning bonds, held by independent trustees, before breaking ground.[9] It explicitly rejects self-bonding practices, citing past coal industry bankruptcies that left billions in mine reclamation liabilities unsecured and communities exposed to environmental harm and financial burdens.[3]
To underscore feasibility rather than radicalism, the column points to established practices such as telecom tower bonds and structured data center decommissioning processes that already exist in the private sector, including environmental impact assessments, secure data destruction, and site close-out procedures.[2][7][10][11][12] It argues that extending this mindset into law—so that “if an industry has money to build, there should also be money to take down”—would align with widely accepted risk-management tools and ESG-oriented frameworks now used for responsible facility retirement.[7][10][11][12]
Ultimately, the piece frames its proposal as a moral and civic shift from behaving like “locusts” focused only on immediate profit toward acting as “stewards” who plan for the long-term health of land and communities. In this framing, legally mandated decommissioning bonds and independent oversight would help ensure that by the nation’s 300th anniversary, future generations are not left with the same abandoned industrial landscapes and environmental hazards that marked earlier centuries.[1][3][8][13][14]
Different views on the topic
In contrast to the article’s emphasis on new federal bonding mandates, some economic development research stresses the importance of attracting large, capital-intensive projects—such as data centers, manufacturing facilities, and research parks—to distressed regions through flexible, place-based strategies rather than additional national requirements.[5][13] These essays argue that targeted infrastructure investments, technical assistance, and workforce development can leverage private capital for local prosperity, warning that overly burdensome regulations may deter the very firms communities are trying to recruit.[5][13]
Moreover, industry-focused analyses of data center decommissioning generally frame end-of-life management as a matter of corporate responsibility, technical best practice, and compliance with existing environmental and data protection regulations, not as an issue requiring specialized federal bonding rules.[10][11][12] These guides emphasize internal planning, risk management, asset value recovery, and partnerships with certified IT asset disposition and e-waste recyclers, suggesting that well-designed voluntary and regulatory frameworks already provide pathways for sustainable decommissioning without additional financial instruments.[7][10][11][12]
At the same time, environmental and sustainability-oriented guidance documents advocate for comprehensive impact assessments, ESG-aligned goals, and adherence to standards such as responsible recycling and e‑waste certifications, but they typically encourage companies to integrate these practices within current market and regulatory structures.[4][7][10] Such materials highlight how firms can mitigate ecological risks and communicate environmental commitments while operating under existing permitting regimes, thereby presenting a model of stewardship centered on corporate governance rather than new congressional mandates.[7][10][11][12]
In parallel, some policy efforts at the federal and state level prioritize accelerating review and permitting for data centers and related energy-intensive projects, reflecting concerns about maintaining economic competitiveness and meeting surging demand for digital infrastructure.[6][14] These initiatives, which streamline approvals and clarify environmental requirements, implicitly reflect a view that rapid deployment of data centers is a national priority; adding pre-construction bonding obligations could be seen by proponents of these efforts as conflicting with the goal of swift expansion, even if that tension is not always stated explicitly.[6][14]
Additionally, scholars examining older industrial cities and rural regions note that while abandoned infrastructure poses serious challenges, strict liability regimes for private investors are only one of several possible tools to address long-term decline.[1][3][13] Their work points to public investment, community-driven asset mapping, and collaborative public–private partnerships as alternative strategies for revitalization, suggesting that focusing primarily on decommissioning bonds may overlook broader structural policies needed to support local agency and economic transformation.[1][5][13]
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