When a lecturer at the University of Toronto looks out over a classroom filled with bleary-eyed students—some rushing in straight from construction shifts, others nursing takeaway coffee just to stay awake—it’s hard not to wonder: under Ontario’s proposed “merit-based” admissions rules, do these students still stand a chance?
On the surface, the province’s new Supporting Children and Students Act, 2025—a seemingly benign name for Bill 33—reads like a policy tweak. But to educators, student advocates, and policy experts across Canada, it feels ominously familiar. Some say it echoes the ideological crackdown on higher education seen during Donald Trump’s presidency south of the border, where diversity programs were slashed in the name of “academic standards” and “merit.”
But this isn’t just politics—it’s personal. Take Sheridan College in the west end of Toronto, where a student from an immigrant household balances schoolwork with part-time shifts and caring for younger siblings. Her grades are decent, not stellar. Under Bill 33’s merit-based framework, would she even make it past the application screen?
For the first time in Canadian history, a provincial government would have the legal authority to set the admissions standards for publicly funded colleges and universities. It would also control the ancillary fees that students pay—those that fund vital campus services like food banks, mental health programs, and peer support. The Ford government, critics argue, isn’t just tinkering with policy. It’s reshaping the foundational principles of higher education in Ontario.
David Robinson, executive director of the Canadian Association of University Teachers (CAUT), put it bluntly: “Merit is often a code word to avoid acknowledging historical disadvantage.” He’s not being rhetorical. When two students—one disabled, the other not—are held to the same rigid metric, the result isn’t fairness. It’s erasure.
Meanwhile, Professor Marc Spooner at the University of Regina calls the bill a distraction from the real crisis: chronic underfunding. “Ontario has the largest economy in the country,” he said, “but ranks dead last in post-secondary education spending.” He traces the crisis back decades, compounded by Doug Ford’s populist decision to freeze tuition—an appealing move on the surface that left universities struggling to stay afloat.
Ontario Student Voices (OSV), a coalition representing 100,000 students, warns that Bill 33 is a “wolf in sheep’s clothing.” While the government claims it’s about transparency and fairness, OSV argues the bill strips students and institutions of autonomy, putting vital services at risk. “Ancillary fees aren’t optional extras,” said OSV director Lynn Courville. “They’re lifelines.”
To understand what’s at stake, picture an international student in Hamilton relying on the campus food bank to survive. Or a first-generation college student navigating the emotional weight of being her family’s first shot at “making it.” If the services supporting these students are defunded or tightly controlled, the cost isn’t just bureaucratic—it’s human.
Still, government spokespersons are sticking to their script. Bianca Giacoboni, a summer intern for the Minister of Colleges and Universities, issued a statement emphasizing “clarity” and “student success.” She insists there will always be pathways for under-represented students. But critics remain unconvinced.
“If all we mean by ‘merit’ is grades,” Spooner argues, “we’re ignoring the systemic inequities that shape those grades in the first place.” A wealthy student from a well-resourced school in North Toronto will likely score higher than a working-class kid from Thunder Bay—but does that really mean they’re more “worthy”?
Then there’s the constitutional question. Programs that support Indigenous students, for example, exist precisely because of historical injustice. If Bill 33 undermines these programs, it may clash with the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms or Ontario’s own Human Rights Code.
At its heart, Bill 33 raises a deeper issue: who controls the gates of higher education? Traditionally, admissions have been the domain of universities themselves—staffed by educators who understand that a grade isn’t the whole story. Transferring that power to politicians, especially in a climate of economic austerity, sets a dangerous precedent.
Robinson notes a bitter irony: as governments defund education, they often demand more control. “You’d think more money would equal more oversight. But the less they invest, the more they want to dictate.” And it’s not just symbolic—Ontario’s institutions are already seeing course cuts, staff layoffs, and enrollment freezes.
“Instead of fixing the leaking roof,” Robinson said, “the government wants to spend time drawing up a new floorplan for who can enter the house.”
And he’s right. This isn't just about transparency or efficiency. It’s about whether we still believe that education is a public good—or whether it's becoming a privilege awarded to those who already won the lottery of birth.
If Canada wants to remain a place where higher education is a pathway—not a prize—then we need to protect both the autonomy of our institutions and the diversity of our students. Because sometimes, the student with “good but not great” grades is the one who carries two jobs, supports a family, and still finds time to dream. And that kind of merit deserves a place in the classroom too.