was originally reported by Chabeli Carrazana of .Ìę

Two years ago, Nicolle Orozco Forero walked into an in-home day care in Seattle, Washington, looking for a job. She was barely 22, a whole five feet tall — if that. But she was calm, focused. Her presence struck the owner, Stephanie Wishon, because it’s not easy to find qualified staff who can work with children with disabilities.

Orozco Forero had experience working with kids who had autism back in Colombia, so Wishon had her come in for a trial run and hired her after the first day. The children, who needed someone who had love and care to give in abundance, gravitated toward her. She was good at the hardest stuff. She changed diapers and outfits the moment they were soiled. She was vigilant; her kids stayed pristine. And she got them to do the things they wouldn’t do for other people, like say “ah” when it was time to get their teeth brushed or sit still long enough for her to twist a braid down their back.

Some people just have that way about them.

And people like Orozco Forero are exceptionally rare. Already, the staffing shortage in child care is near crisis levels. It’s far — about of those families say they face significant difficulty finding care for their kids, partly because there are too few people with the ability, expertise or desire to work with their children. Immigrant women like Orozco Forero have been helping to fill that void. They now make up of all child care workers.

At home, Orozco Forero was also caring for her own young boys, one of whom started to show symptoms of a serious illness over the past two years that doctors have not yet been able to diagnose. She took some time off to care for him last year, before returning to the kids at Wishon’s day care.

Her work has kept an already precarious safety net together. Without women like Orozco Forero, families who have nowhere else to turn for care have to make difficult decisions about how to survive and keep their children safe. Without her, the safety net snaps.

And that’s exactly what happened on June 18, the day she was detained.

It was supposed to be a routine meeting with U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). Orozco Forero and her husband had been to all their monthly meetings for the past year and change, since their asylum charge was denied in April 2024.

The family — Orozco Forero; her husband, Juan Sebastian Moreno Acosta; and their two sons, Juan David, 7, and Daniel, 5 — fled Colombia two years ago. Moreno Acosta, a street vendor, had been persecuted by gangs .

After arriving in the United States, they sought the help of a lawyer with their asylum claim, but when they couldn’t pay his full fee ahead of their hearing, he pulled out. They represented themselves in court and lost the case. With no knowledge of the U.S. court system, they didn’t know they had 30 days to appeal the ruling, either. Ever since, ICE has been monitoring them, requiring they wear a wrist tracker and meet with an immigration officer once a month, sometimes more, according to a family member. (The 19th is not naming the family member to protect their identity.) It’s unclear why ICE has allowed them to stay in the country all this time, though it’s not necessarily uncommon; ICE typically prioritized immigrants with felonies for deportation.

Orozco Forero had seen the reports of illegal immigrants being rounded up at their immigration appointments. President Donald Trump’s mass deportation effort has led to the detention of about , like Orozco Forero, who now make up of those detained. Her husband does have a misdemeanor reckless driving conviction for driving under the influence of alcohol on his record, but he completed a court-mandated alcohol course for that and has no other convictions.

Still, Orozco Forero wasn’t worried when she headed to her appointment on the morning of June 18. If ICE planned to detain her, Orozco Forero thought, they would have asked her to come with the boys, right?

And she had been doing everything right: She’d gone to all her appointments, taken documentation to show she was going to school at Green River Community College taking courses in English and early childhood education. She had completed a child care internship that trained her to open her own licensed in-home day care. Her licensure approval was set to arrive any moment, likely that same week, and the day care was just about ready to go.

But that morning, her family was still wary, asking her to share her location just in case.

Shortly after 10 a.m., Orozco Forero texted her family member: “They are going to deport us”

“Nicolle what happened? Nicolle answer me,” they texted back. “What do I do?”

“I can’t speak I feel like I’m going to faint,” Orozco Forero replied. And then: “I’m sorry it wasn’t what we expected.”

Two-and-a-half hours west, on the coast of Washington in a town called Southbend, Wishon was frantic. Orozco Forero had texted her, too. ICE was asking for the boys.

In two years, Wishon had grown incredibly close to Orozco Forero, who had cared for her own kids. After her family moved to the coast, Wishon rented out her house in Seattle to Orozco Forero, whose boys were excited to have a home with a yard.

Wishon’s husband, Gabriel, hopped into his truck and headed to Seattle. Wishon, meanwhile, got on the phone with the Orozco Forero family’s ICE agent and every lawyer she could. They were going to take them into detention at a facility 2,200 miles away in Texas, a facility that was to detain families. Wishon wanted to find a lawyer who could stop the deportation order, and she wanted to make sure the boys would be reunited with their parents if they took them to meet the ICE agent.

And that was especially important, not just because they were young children, but because Juan David is still sick.

For the past year, he’s been seeking treatment at Seattle Children’s Hospital for an illness that is turning his urine muddy. So far, doctors have determined he’s losing red blood cells and protein through his urine, indicating a possible kidney issue, but they haven’t yet zeroed in on what is causing the problem. They likely need a kidney biopsy to be sure.

“Given the complexity of his case, it is essential that Juan remain in the United States for continued testing and treatment,” his nephrologist Jordan Symons wrote in a March letter to ICE. “We kindly request that you consider this medical necessity in your review of his immigration status and grant him the ability to stay in the United States until his treatment and evaluation are completed.”

Juan David’s care team has been monitoring him closely to ensure his red blood cell and protein levels never drop too low. His condition could become serious quickly.

“You can die from that,” said Sarah Kasnick, a physician’s assistant who is familiar with his case. Kasnick is also a foster parent, and Orozco Forero provided care for her family.

When Gabriel Wishon arrived to pick up the boys, they were confused and disoriented. Where were their parents? Why was everyone crying? They didn’t want to go to Colombia, they told him on the drive. They wanted to stay in the United States.

Around 5:30 p.m. that evening, he met with the ICE agent, who had waited past her work hours for them to arrive.

“Bye boys, you are going to see your parents right now. They are right inside,” Wishon told them. He watched them walk in carrying two stuffed animals, a Super Mario doll and Chase, the popular cartoon dog dressed as a police officer.

The families Orozco Forero cares for are now in a free fall.

Jessica Cocson, whose son has been in Orozco Forero’s care for more than a year, described her in a character letter to ICE as a “blessing to us in ways I struggle to fully express.”

Orozco Forero and her husband “support working families, provide quality childcare, and demonstrate compassion and commitment every day,” Cocson wrote. “It is heartbreaking to think that someone who gives so much and asks so little could be forced to leave.”

Tamia Riley, whose two sons with autism were also in Orozco Forero’s care, said losing her was like watching “a father walking out the door.”

“These people, these day care providers, sitters, they are a form of family members for me and my children,” Riley said.

Now, the day care she was set to open lays empty. Inside, the walls are plastered with posters listing colors and sight words. There are cushioned mats on the floor and play stations. Tables with tiny chairs. A tall pink dollhouse. High chairs and a pack and play for the babies. Outside, two play houses, a ball pit, toys to ride on and little picnic tables set across an artificial turf. But no children to enjoy any of it.

Big Dreams Day Care she was going to call it, for the dreams she wanted the kids in her care to strive for, and the ones that were finally coming to fruition for her.

Orozco Forero’s detention has rattled child care workers across the country. In Texas, workers represented by the Service Employees International Union have been rallying in her name. U.S. Rep. Joaquin Castro, a Texas Democrat, of the family’s release at a rally on June 29 in San Antonio. And a group of union workers is attempting to deliver supplies to the family. It’s an effort Orozco Forero knows little about; she only has limited communication with those on the outside.

Tricia Schroeder, the president of the Seattle-based SEIU chapter that represents care workers, said that, for years unions like hers have been working to improve quality, access and affordability in child care, a system in such deep crisis it’s been called by the Treasury Department

Immigrant women like Orozco Forero were part of that effort to improve access, doing jobs few Americans want to take on.

“Detaining child care providers, especially those who care for kids with special needs, just deepens the crisis in early learning,” Schroeder said.

Orozco Forero was also the connective tissue that kept families employed. Her loss has rippled across industries.

Kasnick, the foster parent, said one of the children in her care had been tentatively set to start at Orozco Forero’s day care as soon as it opened. Orozco Forero had been the only provider who would take the child, who has autism and is nonverbal.

Orozco Forero had cared for the girl at Wishon’s day care as if she was her own, even taking her in once when the child’s care had fallen through and no foster family in the entire county would take her in because of the complexity of her needs. The girl arrived at Orozco Forero’s house at midnight on a weekend “with no clothing, toys, medication or any of her belongings 
 this did not [deter] Nicolle and Sebastian instead they immediately went and purchased all the things” the child needed, a social worker wrote in a letter to ICE. Kasnick said Orozco Forero was even considering becoming a foster parent.

Without her, Kasnick is out of options: She quit her job as a physician’s assistant to care for the child after Orozco Forero was detained.

“There are now 44 patients a day who don’t have anyone to provide their health care, and I can’t go to work because Nicolle’s day care didn’t open,” Kasnick said.

In the weeks since, Kasnick has had an overwhelming feeling of helplessness, she said. How could this happen to someone who gave back so much?

“The security of knowing that you can be in your home one day and in a prison the next week, and you didn’t do anything except exist?” she said. “It makes you feel like there’s no good left in the world.”

Orozco Forero’s family has now been in ICE detention for nearly a month awaiting a bond hearing that could buy them time in the United States. Orozco Forero and the boys are together; her husband is in the same facility but separated from them.

Juan David hasn’t been eating. It took three weeks for him to receive medical care, Orozco Forero told her attorney, James Costo.

Costo has been working to get the details of why ICE allowed the family to stay in the country with monitoring after they lost their asylum case last year. There has been an order for their deportation since then, but ICE never attempted to deport them until the Trump administration ramped up efforts. The number of immigrants without criminal convictions who have been detained has since May.

The process to fight an asylum claim and appeal a denial is complicated — there are court deadlines, documents that need to be submitted and translated.

“They think maybe they can do it themselves and go in and say what happened but they are not understanding the whole legal process,” Costo said. “The system isn’t made for things to be easy.”

Costo is hopeful a judge will allow them to stay in the country temporarily as Juan David seeks care. They have almost no family left in Colombia, and no way to obtain care for him there, their family said. If they can stay, then perhaps Orozco Forero could try to obtain a work visa as a domestic worker.

He has gathered letters of support from numerous people whose lives the Orozco Forero family touched, and Wishon set up a to cover her legal expenses.

In the letters, Juan David’s first grade teachers call him an exceptional student who went from one of the lowest reading levels in the class — 10 words a minute — to one of the highest at 70 words a minute.

“He shows the qualities of a model citizen at a young age — dependable, ethical, and hard-working,” wrote his teacher, Carla Trujillo.

They were all on their way to shaping a better future, Wishon wrote in hers. The couple “worked tirelessly to build a better life for their children and to open their own licensed child care business. In all my years of employing and mentoring caregivers, I have rarely met a couple as responsible, driven, and capable as Nicolle and Sebastian.”

“This family is not a threat,” she concluded. “They are an asset.”

The night I returned to New York City at age 5, the city felt surreal — bustling, vibrant, and intimidating. As my parents, older sister, and I got into the taxi, the city lights appeared to converge and become one. Everything seemed larger here. As the cab slowly pulled away from the airport, so did my sense of reality. From the towering buildings to the flashing signs to the rushing cars, it was all so different from the villages of Fujian province, China.

The taxi took us to the Borough Park, Brooklyn, apartment where we would be staying. When we walked in, there were boxes, furniture, appliances, and bicycles crowded into a roughly 144-square-foot living room. How can anyone live like this? I thought.

My family of four slept in a room that was smaller still, crammed with a bunk bed, a square table, and two chairs. As the clock struck midnight on what would be my first full day back in New York, I sat on the bottom bunk and ate takeout. I was full of curiosity and excitement, yet there were certain nuances to my feelings. Who were my parents? Why had they come all this way to a foreign land? And most importantly, why had I lived so far from them?

I was 7,000 miles — and a virtual world away — from Fujian, where I had lived alongside a pond overgrown with lily pads, where the breeze would fly across my face, where the sound of crickets would penetrate the otherwise silent night, and where my grandma would pluck chickens for us to cook and eat. Everything was calmer and quieter there, on our block with only a couple of houses.

I soon learned that I hadn’t always lived so far from my mom and dad. My parents explained that I was born in Flushing, Queens, less than 20 miles from Borough Park. But like many immigrants, my parents worked grueling schedules at minimum-wage jobs — my mother in a nail salon with minimal training and my father as a chef at a Chinese buffet. Overextended and unable to support a family of four, they sent my sister and me to live with our grandparents in China.

For my parents, America — a nation that purports to value individual liberty, growth, and prosperity — became nothing more than the place where they resided as they saved money to bring us back to them.

All this makes me what some researchers call a Lacking affordable child care, many Chinese immigrant families send their American-born babies to . When the kids are ready for school, at around age 4 or 5,

Because of this arrangement, I had the joy of getting to know my grandparents. But it came at a cost: I didn’t really know the very people who created me. We were family, and we were strangers — so close, yet so far apart.

In the months after I returned to my parents, I was often nostalgic for my simpler life back in China. I would think about the small shop in town where my sister would buy the most pointless toys and about the local theater where performers dressed in elaborate costumes and painted their faces to tell the story of an emperor’s favorite concubine. This longing is what happens when you’re caught between two worlds — one that holds the joyful memories of childhood, and another of a new and confusing country.

People sometimes ask me if I could go back, would I do it all again. My answer will always be yes. These memories are reminders of a time when I was smaller, but when my heart felt a little fuller.

In Borough Park, my parents enrolled my sister and me in school. As a little Chinese “immigrant,” I spoke no English. Nor had I developed a sense of independence, and I would often cry when my mother left for work. In America, life felt like a rollercoaster, terrifying but also thrilling.

By fifth grade, though, I stood on the podium at Brooklyn’s P.S. 69 Vincent D. Grippo School and gave a valedictory speech. Somewhere along the way, the naive village boy had become an industrious student in the big city. I couldn’t grasp how rapidly my life had been transformed.

Now, about a decade after leaving China and returning to New York, I’m a student at Staten Island Tech, one of a handful of elite specialized high schools in New York City. Sometimes I wonder: Does my success mean that my parents’ hard work has finally paid off? Does it mean they are proud of me?

I feel constant pressure to succeed. Not for my peers, not for my teachers, and not even for myself, but for my parents, who still work humble, low-wage jobs. This pressure doesn’t come from them, who urge me to “do what makes you happy,” but rather from within. Sometimes, the very opportunities that are supposed to liberate me feel more like a burden.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. Many experience this overwhelm. For us, the American Dream can feel like a our parents.

When I first returned to America, I didn’t even know what the American Dream was. I soon came to understand it to be the idea that if you work hard, you can succeed. I know now that it’s not that simple, that factors such as personal and professional networks, perseverance, health, and luck also play a role. Still, I always tell myself that I could be working a little harder, like when I finish taking a test and feel pessimistic about the outcome, despite having studied so hard.

The pressure could be something I, along with , navigate our whole lives. We learn to coexist with it. Success in high school and beyond feels like a given. And working in a field that doesn’t pay well or waiting for the perfect job isn’t really an option because we want to provide lives of comfort for our parents, who never lived such lives.

I feel the weight of it all because, deep down, I know that I am a big part of my parents’ American Dream.

Ocean Lin, a member of Chalkbeat’s 2024-25 class, is a high school junior who wants to pursue a career in chemistry. He hopes to make a difference and share authentic stories. Ocean started the Instagram poetry account Tide Tales to give marginalized groups a platform for creative self-expression.

This story was originally published by Chalkbeat. Chalkbeat is a nonprofit news site covering educational change in public schools. Sign up for their newsletters at .

Originally from El Salvador, he attempted school years earlier, entering the ninth grade at age 17. But he dropped out two and a half years later: Already a parent, he struggled with managing his studies and fatherhood.

“I didn’t think about it, if it was a good decision or a bad one,” Martinez said. But after toiling away at a local Mexican restaurant for years, not making any real progress in life, he came to regret the move. 

Three years after he quit school, his former math teacher came to his workplace by chance and asked Martinez how he was doing. When the young man said he lamented his decision to give up on his education, the teacher told him it wasn’t too late to re-enroll. 

Martinez knew it was his last chance: Half a decade older than his classmates, he took school seriously, earning straight A’s. Now 24, he is chipping away at business classes at the College of Alameda and encourages high schools across the country to open their doors to older, new arrivals like him.

“There are a lot of people who are very, very smart but don’t have the opportunity to continue school,” he said. “If we can help those guys who are very motivated to continue, let’s do it. It will be good for the country, too.”

But a 16-month-long undercover investigation of enrollment practices at 630 high schools across the country — in which ĂÛÌÒÓ°ÊÓ tried to register a 19-year-old Venezuelan newcomer who spoke little English and whose education had been interrupted after ninth grade — revealed rampant refusals.

Our test teen, “Hector Guerrero,” was denied more than 300 times, including by 204 schools in the 35 states and the District of Columbia where high school attendance goes up to at least age 20. State education officials in almost all these locations separately confirmed to ĂÛÌÒÓ°ÊÓ that a 19-year-old could not be turned away because of his age.

None of the 35 California high schools queried by ĂÛÌÒÓ°ÊÓ accepted Hector: The state provides no protection for general education students who wish to enroll past 18, making Martinez’s experience all the more remarkable. 

The young man said he will never forget the teacher who encouraged him to re-register. 

“You may think those are little things that are not important, but in those little things, you can change people’s future,” he said. 

Martinez’s brother, Javier, understands that lesson well. Now 28 years old, he didn’t know he could have enrolled in high school when he came to the United States more than a decade ago. The network of recent immigrants who helped him secure work upon his arrival at 17 never mentioned the possibility, he said. He wishes someone had. 

“I always said I wanted to go to high school, learn more English, learn something different,” he said. 

A house painter by trade, he would much rather work in gastronomy. 

“I would love to teach nutrition and how to cook, something like that,” he said. “I’d like to know more about the food in other countries.” 

But everyone told him that not having finished high school in America would make it nearly impossible for him to attend college. So, he’s adjusted his expectations to meet his opportunity. 

Alanys Zacarias, 22, knows what it’s like to be trapped by the limits of her education. She was turned away by a South Carolina high school at age 18, she said, even though enrollment goes up to age 21 in that state, according to statute. She had already amassed the necessary paperwork and was preparing to get all of the required immunizations when the school dealt an unexpected blow. 

Zacarias, who learned English two years ago in part by watching 19 seasons of Grey’s Anatomy, said her life would be much better today had staffers let her in. An ambitious climber who said she’s mastered new tasks with ease at both her jobs — one at a high-end pan factory, the other at a Charleston-area Walmart — Zacarias believes she would have already earned an associate’s degree or would be closing in on a bachelor’s.

Most importantly, she’d have the money to bring her mother and younger sister here from Venezuela, where daily life is a crushing struggle. The South American country’s . Water shortages and electrical outages are near weekly plagues. 

It’s hard for Zacarias to think back to her refusal from Goose Creek High School because it upended her plans. 

“When he said no, I said, ‘Really?’” she recalled on an April afternoon, adding she had no idea school enrollment would be so difficult. “I thought this is easy. All I wanted to do was go to high school. When he told me no, I thought, ‘What am I going to do now?’ I was upset. I want to be somebody here.”

A Goose Creek school spokesperson said it welcomes students from across the globe and had no comment on Zacarias’s account of her failed enrollment attempt. 

But the would-be student said the encounter has kept her from pursuing her dreams: A freak accident as a child left Zacarias missing a front tooth, prompting a years-long odyssey to replace it — and a deep interest in dentistry. For now, though, her goals will have to wait. 

“When she (her mother) comes here and she’s ready and she’s safe — she will work and my sister can learn English — that will be the time for me,” she said. “I want to try to help my mom and then try to help me.”

Monica Venegas was also intent on enrolling when she arrived on her own in South Carolina at age 20. She was accepted with ease at R.B. Stall High School in 2022. The campus is less than eight miles from the school that turned away Zacarias.

Venegas, who hails from Chile, had to complete four English courses in a single year — this, on top of American history and government — to graduate in May 2023. It was an enormous challenge, she said.

“When I came here, I heard people talking in English and I thought, ‘Oh my God, this is so difficult’,” she recalled this spring inside her apartment in Ladson, 20 miles north of Charleston. 

But she made a wide circle of friends at school, including several native Spanish speakers whose lives seemed to mirror her own. It was their support that emboldened her to speak English, even when she made mistakes. 

“They helped me to feel good about myself and make me feel more sure about myself,” she said. 

Venegas, an aspiring ESL teacher who said she loves kids and wants to help other newcomers, went on to win a partial scholarship to Charleston Southern University. 

She completed five classes there last year, including in math and American culture. But, like many students around the country overwhelmed by college costs, she was forced to halt her studies in December to earn money for tuition. 

Venegas has worked at McDonald’s for more than a year and a half, pulling in $13 an hour. She hopes to resume classes this fall, though she’s not sure how she’ll pay for them. 

No matter her next steps, she is grateful for her time in high school: There is no way, she said, that she could have gone on to college without it. 

Kharrel Medza, 25, was 7 years old when he left Cameroon for Belgium — and 17 when he entered the ninth grade in suburban Houston. Medza, fluent in French and German and equivalent to a 12th grader back home, knew nothing of English.  

“I had to start from scratch,” he said. “So the best way was to take a step back and get every foundation needed. At that time I was a little bit frustrated. But it didn’t take me too long to understand what I needed to be successful here in the U.S.”

High school was essential, even if he was far older than his peers, he said. 

“The beginning was the hardest with the language barrier,” he said. “But I was so immersed into the English world, everything was in English: I had no choice but to figure it out. Eventually, after five or six months, I got comfortable with conversation.”

Medza spent three years in high school before graduating in 2019. He then went on to college, playing D1 soccer at Gardner–Webb University in North Carolina before transferring to Houston Christian College in Texas.

Having studied finance, he graduated this spring and hopes to work in business or banking. 

But some students like Medza are kept from such milestones, prevented from entering high school at all, based, in part, on biases specific to older male teens: that they might prey upon their younger female classmates. 

Medza balked at the notion that his focus was anywhere other than academics. His strict parents had clear expectations of what he needed to accomplish — as did he.   

Medza said he “can never be grateful enough” for the opportunity that high school gave him. The idea that he or other students could lose out on that because of such prejudices troubles him.

“Denying education to someone is a crime,” he said.

This story was produced with support from the Education Writers Association Reporting Fellowship program.

Oriundo de El Salvador, Martinez habĂ­a intentado previamente, matriculĂĄndose a su noveno grado teniendo 17 años. Pero dos años y medio mĂĄs tarde se diĂł de baja: ya siendo padre, tuvo dificultad manejando sus estudios y su nuevo rol paternal.  

“No lo pensĂ©, si habĂ­a sido buena o mala decisiĂłn,“ dijo MarĂ­nez. Pero tras años trabajando incansablemente en un restaurante local Mexicano y sin lograr progresar mucho en su vida, terminĂł arrepintiĂ©ndose de su decisiĂłn.  

Tres años despuĂ©s de abandonar la escuela, su maestro de matemĂĄtica pasĂł por su trabajo y le preguntĂł a MartĂ­nez cĂłmo le iba todo. Al joven compartir que se habĂ­a arrepentido de haber abandonado su educaciĂłn, el maestro le dijo que no era demasiado tarde para volver a matricularse. 

MartĂ­nez supo entonces que esta era su Ășltima oportunidad: siendo media dĂ©cada mayor que sus compañeros se tomĂł la escuela en serio, alcanzando obtener A ‘s en todas las materias. Ahora con 24 años, estĂĄ completando sus clases de negocios en el Alameda College y haciendo un llamado a las escuelas superiores del paĂ­s a abrir sus puertas a estudiantes mayores y nuevos, como Ă©l.

“Hay muchas personas que son muy, muy inteligentes pero no tienen la oportunidad de continuar con la escuela,” dice. “Si pudiĂ©ramos ayudar a los que estĂĄn motivados a continuar, hagĂĄmoslo. SerĂĄ bueno para el paĂ­s tambiĂ©n.”

Pero una investigaciĂłn encubierta de 16 meses en la que El 74 tratĂł de matricular a un venezolano de 19 años que hablaba poco inglĂ©s y cuya educaciĂłn habĂ­a sido interrumpida despuĂ©s de su noveno grado revelĂł negaciones repetidas. 

Nuestro adolescente de prueba, “Hector Guerrero,” fue rechazado mĂĄs de 300 veces, incluyendo a 204 escuelas en los 35 estados — y el distrito de Columbia — donde la edad para matricularse a la secundaria es hasta al menos los 20 años. Oficiales estatales de educaciĂłn en casi todos estos estados confirmaron de forma separada a ĂÛÌÒÓ°ÊÓ que un estudiante de 19 años no podĂ­a ser rechazado por su edad.

Ninguna de las 35 escuelas secundarias en California a las que el 74 hizo el acercamiento aceptĂł a Hector: El estado no provee protecciĂłn legal a la educaciĂłn general de los estudiantes que buscan matricularse despuĂ©s del lapso de atendencia compulsoria hasta los 18 años, lo que hace la experiencia de MartĂ­nez mĂĄs extraordinaria aĂșn. 

El joven dice que nunca olvidarĂĄ al maestro que lo alentĂł a rematricularse. 

“Puedes pensar que son cosas pequeñas y que no son importantes, pero en esas cosas pequeñas, le puedes cambiar el futuro a la gente,” dice MartĂ­nez. 

El hermano de Martínez, Javier, tiene clara esa lección. Ahora con 28 años, no sabía que podía haberse matriculado en la escuela secundaria cuando vino a Estados Unidos hace mås de una década. La red de recientes inmigrantes que lo ayudaron a encontrar trabajo en su llegada a los 17 nunca mencionaron esa posibilidad, dice él. Desearía que alguien se lo hubiera dicho.

“Siempre dije que querĂ­a ir a la escuela secundaria, aprender mĂĄs inglĂ©s, aprender algo diferente,” dijo.

Pintor de casas de profesiĂłn, preferirĂ­a trabajar en gastronomĂ­a.

“Me encantarĂ­a enseñar nutriciĂłn y cĂłmo cocinar, algo asĂ­,” dijo. “Me gustarĂ­a saber mĂĄs sobre la comida de otros paĂ­ses.”

Pero todos le dijeron que no haber terminado la escuela secundaria en Estados Unidos harĂ­a casi imposible que asistiera a la universidad. AsĂ­ que ha ajustado sus expectativas para adaptarse a su oportunidad.

Alanys Zacarias, de 22 años, sabe lo que es estar atrapada por los límites de su educación. Dijo que una escuela secundaria de Carolina del Sur la rechazó a los 18 años, a pesar de que por ley, la matrícula estå permitida hasta los 21 años en ese estado. Ya había reunido la documentación necesaria y se estaba preparando para recibir todas las vacunas requeridas cuando la escuela le dio un golpe inesperado.

Zacarias, quien aprendiĂł inglĂ©s hace dos años en parte viendo 19 temporadas de Grey’s Anatomy, dijo que su vida ahora serĂ­a mucho mejor si la hubieran aceptado. Con una ambiciĂłn incansable dice haber dominado nuevas tareas con facilidad en ambos trabajos — uno en una fĂĄbrica de sartenes de lujo y el otro en un Walmart del ĂĄrea de Charleston— Zacarias cree que ya habrĂ­a obtenido un tĂ­tulo de asociado o estarĂ­a a punto de conseguir un tĂ­tulo de universitario.

Lo mĂĄs importante es que tendrĂ­a el dinero para traer a su madre y a su hermana menor desde Venezuela, donde la vida diaria es una lucha aplastante. La tasa de inflaciĂłn  el año pasado. AllĂ­, la escasez de agua y los cortes elĂ©ctricos son plagas casi semanales.

A Zacarias le resulta difĂ­cil recordar su rechazo de la Goose Creek High School porque desbaratĂł sus planes.

“Cuando me dijo que no, dije, ‘¿De verdad?’” recordĂł una tarde de abril, añadiendo que no tenĂ­a idea de que la inscripciĂłn escolar serĂ­a tan difĂ­cil. “PensĂ© que esto serĂ­a fĂĄcil. Todo lo que querĂ­a hacer era ir a la escuela secundaria. Cuando me dijo que no, pensĂ©, ‘¿QuĂ© voy a hacer ahora?’ Estaba molesta. Quiero ser alguien aquĂ­.”

Un representante de la escuela Goose Creek dijo que dan la bienvenida a estudiantes de todo el mundo y no hizo comentarios sobre la versiĂłn de Zacarias acerca de su intento fallido de inscripciĂłn.

Pero la estudiante aspirante dijo que el encuentro le ha impedido perseguir sus sueños: un accidente extraño en su infancia dejó a Zacarias sin un diente frontal, lo que provocó una odisea de años para reemplazarlo y un profundo interés en la odontología. Por ahora, sin embargo, sus objetivos tendrån que esperar.

“Cuando ella (su madre) venga aquĂ­ y estĂ© lista y a salvo — ella trabajarĂĄ y mi hermana podrĂĄ aprender inglĂ©s — ese serĂĄ el momento para mĂ­,” dijo. “Quiero tratar de ayudar a mi mamĂĄ y luego tratar de ayudarme a mĂ­.”

Monica Venegas tambiĂ©n tenĂ­a intenciones de matricularse cuando llegĂł por su cuenta a Carolina del Sur con 20 años. EntrĂł sin problema a la escuela secundaria R.B. Stall en el 2022. El campus estĂĄ a menos de ocho millas de la escuela que rechazĂł a Zacarias. 

Venegas, oriunda de Chile, tuvo que completar cuatro cursos de inglés en uno año, ademås de historia Americana y gobierno, para poder graduarse en Mayo del 2023. Fue un desafío enorme, dice ella

“Cuando vine aquĂ­, y escuchaba personas hablar en inglĂ©s, me pensaba ‘Por dios, esto es demasiado difĂ­cil,’” recordaba esta primavera en su apartamento en Ladson, a 20 millas al norte de Charleston. 

Pero hizo un cĂ­rculo de amigos en la escuela, incluyendo a muchos hispanoparlantes, cuyas vidas reflejaban la suya. Fue su apoyo lo que le diĂł la valentĂ­a para hablar inglĂ©s, aĂșn cuando cometĂ­a errores.  

“Ellos me ayudaron a sentirme bien sobre mi misma y a tener mĂĄs autoconfianza,” dice ella. 

Venegas, una aspirante a maestra de ESL que dijo que le encantan los niños y quiere ayudar a otros recién llegados, ganó una beca parcial para la Universidad del Sur de Charleston.

El año pasado completó cinco clases allí, incluyendo matemåticas y cultura Americana. Pero como muchos otros estudiantes en el país, enfrentados a los costos universitarios, se fio forzada a parar sus estudios en diciembre para poder generar ingresos para cubrir su matrícula.

Venegas ha trabajado en McDonald’s por mĂĄs de un año y medio, ganando $13 la hora. Espera poder retomar las clases este otoño, aunque no estĂĄ segura de cĂłmo las pagarĂĄ.

Independientemente de sus prĂłximos pasos, estĂĄ agradecida por su tiempo en la escuela secundaria: No hay manera, dijo, de que hubiera podido ir a la universidad sin eso.

Kharrel Medza, de 25 años, tenĂ­a 7 cuando se fue de CamerĂșn para ir a BĂ©lgica, y 17 cuando ingresĂł al noveno grado en los suburbios de Houston. Medza, que habla con fluidez francĂ©s y alemĂĄn y era equivalente a un estudiante de duodĂ©cimo grado en su paĂ­s, no sabĂ­a nada de inglĂ©s.

“Tuve que empezar desde cero,” dijo. “AsĂ­ que la mejor manera fue dar un paso atrĂĄs y obtener todas las bases necesarias. En ese momento estaba un poco frustrado. Pero no me tomĂł mucho tiempo entender lo que necesitaba para tener Ă©xito aquĂ­ en los EE. UU.”

La escuela secundaria fue crucial, incluso si era mucho mayor que sus compañeros, dijo.

“El comienzo fue lo mĂĄs difĂ­cil por la barrera del idioma,” dijo. “Pero estaba tan inmerso en el mundo del inglĂ©s, todo estaba en inglĂ©s: no tenĂ­a mĂĄs opciĂłn que averiguarlo. Finalmente, despuĂ©s de cinco o seis meses, me sentĂ­ cĂłmodo con la conversaciĂłn.”

Medza pasĂł tres años en la escuela secundaria antes de graduarse en 2019. Luego fue a la universidad, jugando fĂștbol D1 en la Universidad Gardner–Webb en Carolina del Norte antes de transferirse a Houston Christian College en Texas.

Después de haber estudiado finanzas, se graduó esta primavera y espera trabajar en negocios o banca.

Pero algunos estudiantes como Medza son impedidos de alcanzar tales logros, no se les permite ingresar a la escuela secundaria en absoluto, en parte debido a prejuicios específicos hacia los adolescentes mayores: que depredarån a sus compañeras mås jóvenes.

Medza rechazó la noción de que su enfoque estuviera en algo que no fuera lo académico. Sus estrictos padres tenían expectativas claras sobre lo que necesitaba lograr, al igual que él.

Medza dijo que “nunca podrĂĄ estar lo suficientemente agradecido” por la oportunidad que le brindĂł la escuela secundaria. La idea de que Ă©l u otros estudiantes puedan perder esa oportunidad debido a tales prejuicios le alarma.

“Negarle la educaciĂłn a alguien es un crimen,” dijo.

A lower court ruled that Miguel Perez, now an adult, is not entitled to sue for monetary damages for emotional distress or lost income under the American with Disabilities Act because his family settled the case under special education law. 

“The parents were really over a barrel here,” said Mark Weber, a law professor at DePaul University in Chicago who co-wrote to the court on behalf of the plaintiff. “They needed to get services right away for this kid. The kid’s not getting any younger.”

While the case, , delves into the complex procedural rules that govern special education, it speaks to the frustration many families whose children have disabilities feel in systems that often seem stacked against them. Navigating that legal landscape is even trickier for immigrant families, who are “likely unfamiliar with U.S. school systems” and are unused to the “idea of children with disabilities having a right to education,” said Cady Landa, a researcher at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign who has the obstacles immigrant families face when seeking special education services. 

Immigrant parents, she said, are often unsure how to talk to school staff and may have “smaller social circles that are less likely to include other parents who have navigated special education for their children.” 

The Perez lawsuit asks whether families can sue for damages under other federal laws that prohibit discrimination even if they haven’t exhausted their rights under the Individuals with Disabilities Act, or IDEA. Perez’s petition argues that there’s a conflict in the lower courts over this issue. 

But lawyers for the Sturgis district disagree. They also note that the Supreme Court ruled last year that the Americans with Disabilities Act for emotional distress and that Perez changed his request to ask for lost income.

“Now he says in his reply that he wants to amend his complaint,” they wrote. “Too late.”

‘Academic and social outcast’

Perez, now 27, entered the Sturgis, Michigan, school district in 2004 as a 9-year-old deaf English learner from Mexico. The district assigned him a classroom aide who didn’t know sign language and even made up hand signals to try to communicate with Perez, according to court documents.

“There was one other deaf student, but we couldn’t communicate with each other,” he said in a statement provided through an interpreter. 

As he got older, the assistant would often leave Perez alone for hours, “rendering him unable to learn or communicate with others and making him an academic and social outcast,” according to his lawyers.

Despite not being able to read or write, Perez received A’s and B’s and made the honor roll every semester. But just weeks before he was set to graduate in 2016, the district told his parents that he would only be eligible for a certificate of completion, not a diploma.

The case, Landa added, points to the need for more translation and interpretation services, specifically for newcomer families whose children have disabilities.

In 2017, the family filed a complaint with the Michigan Department of Education, arguing that the district violated IDEA, the Americans with Disabilities Act and the Rehabilitation Act, as well as two state laws.

In 2018, they settled the IDEA claim. The district agreed to place Perez in the Michigan School for the Deaf, pay for additional services and provide the family with sign language instruction. The district also paid the family’s attorney’s fees.

But that left the remaining complaints under the other laws unresolved, leading the family to file a lawsuit in federal district court, asking for social work services and additional financial relief. 

“I wish I could have gone to college,” Perez said. “I don’t have a job, but I want to have one. I want to make my own choices.”

The 6th Circuit ruled the family wasn’t eligible to sue because their IDEA complaint never went to a hearing.

‘Trying to settle’

The special education complaint process allows parents multiple opportunities to avoid drawn-out legal battles so children can be served as soon as possible. Districts automatically hold and can offer settlements before parents go to court.

“All the way, you’re trying to settle,” said Rebecca Spar, a special education attorney with the New Jersey-based Education Law Center. 

In in support of the school district, administrator organizations — such as AASA, the School Superintendents Association and the National Association of School Nurses — argued that a decision in favor of Perez would “undermine the collaborative nature of the IDEA process, and will shift the parties’ focus to money rather than the student’s education needs.”

Another issue is the cost of litigation, which often discourages families from suing.

“If you decide not to settle with them, they just start running up the legal bills. Our trial was eight days,” said Hayley Grunvald, a San Diego-area parent who is awaiting the outcome of the Perez case. “It’s unaffordable for any parent. I don’t buy Prada bags. I shop at Walmart.”

She filed a complaint against the San Dieguito Union High School District, arguing that officials didn’t evaluate her son Adrian for special education even though they knew he received accommodations and services for ADHD in a prior district.

In December, a judge agreed that the district should have assessed Adrian, but the family lost on other technical points and plans to appeal.

Experts expected the Supreme Court to settle the issues before the court in Perez back in 2017 when they heard . In that case, the Supreme Court found in favor of another Michigan family who sued under the Americans with Disabilities Act and Section 504 when officials wouldn’t allow a service dog to accompany their daughter to school. 

The girl has cerebral palsy and the dog helps her stay balanced while using a walker, opens and closes doors and provides other services that help her be more independent. The family sought monetary damages, saying their daughter experienced “emotional distress and pain, embarrass­ment, [and] mental anguish.”

The appellate court had ruled that the family would have to exhaust the IDEA process before suing under other laws even though it wasn’t a special education case. The Supreme Court disagreed, but left open the question of whether a family still has to seek relief under IDEA given that monetary damages aren’t available under that law.

“Had it clarified everything,” said Weber at DePaul University, “we probably wouldn’t have this case.”