When her son Travis was diagnosed with Down syndrome in 2009, Jessica González, then 21, knew her life would be defined by a constant search for educational, therapeutic and extracurricular support. Shortly after Travis turned 5, Jessica and her husband sold everything in Puerto Rico and moved to San Antonio, Texas, hoping the U.S. education and health systems would provide the services their son needed.

The decision was not random. Jessica grew up as the sister of a child with intellectual disabilities and saw firsthand her mother’s struggle to secure services. “In Puerto Rico, they sell us the American dream, that things are better in the U.S., that you have more opportunities,” she said. Eleven years and three moves later, Jessica is still searching for those opportunities.

Keishla and Raphael Cabrera, parents of a boy named Kenneth, also decided to emigrate after years of frustration with Puerto Rico’s health system. Although Keishla suspected her son was not hearing, several specialists on the island told her otherwise. It wasn’t until Kenneth was nearly 3, during an appointment at Miami Children’s Hospital, now Nicklaus Children’s Hospital, that they received the diagnosis: Kenneth was deaf. The experience convinced Keishla that they could not stay in Puerto Rico.

This year marks a decade since the Cabreras moved to the U.S. They now live in Pennsylvania, after stints in Texas and Florida, where they searched for a school that could meet Kenneth’s needs. At every step, they faced obstacles.

Both Jessica and the Cabreras have had to confront economic hardship, language and cultural changes, and the absence of a family support network. Both families continue fighting to secure better opportunities for their children.

Why Families Leave

“Those who can leave, do,” said María del Carmen Warren González, co-founder and spokesperson for the Steering Committee of the Special Education Class Action Lawsuit and mother of two daughters who have received services from the program. She said Puerto Rico’s situation pushes those who can afford it to migrate.

From obtaining a diagnosis to accessing services, “it’s complicated from start to finish,” she said. For Warren González, the main challenges are parents’ lack of knowledge — sometimes even among teachers — about the rights of this population, along with the stigma surrounding students with disabilities.

Because of noncompliance in providing services, Puerto Rico’s Department of Education pays about $11,000 a day in fines under the 2002 ruling in the Rosa Lydia Vélez case, said Celeste Freytes González, adjunct professor at the University of Puerto Rico School of Law.

In the U.S., about 15% of public school students have a disability. In Puerto Rico, that figure is more than double, at 37%.

The closure of more than 600 schools in Puerto Rico between 2011 and 2021 has severely limited access to services, especially for students with disabilities. “The more schools close in rural areas, the greater the need for transportation over longer distances, and the students’ progress becomes slower and more complex,” Warren González said.

While the government has justified the closures as a response to declining enrollment, the special education population has grown 3% since 2021. Today, about 100,000 students are in the program. A Department of Education report for 2023-24 showed that 360 students (4%) left the program because their families moved to the U.S. The report showed evidence of service continuity for those children

When the Centro de Periodismo Investigativo (CPI) inquired, the agency could not specify how many students were affected without continuity of services. 

According to Warren González, families that remain in Puerto Rico are left at the mercy of teachers, principals and Education Department officials. “We depend on the ethical and moral commitment of officials at every level to make sure the student gets the best educational program,” she said.

This program, meant to prepare students for independent living, rarely achieves that goal. Many, upon turning 22, leave “with a certificate and a nice party,” but without the transition process that should begin at age 12.

Amid these limitations, families like those of Travis and Kenneth felt they had no choice but to seek alternatives outside Puerto Rico.

Language as a Barrier

Jessica and her husband considered Texas and Florida because they had relatives there. But when they arrived in Texas, they had no jobs and no plan.

In San Antonio, the initial experience was relatively positive: Travis was classified as an English as a Second Language (ESL) student. Thanks to the large Latino population, he had Spanish-speaking teachers and a closer cultural connection. In Texas, 20.2% of students do not speak English as their first language. Concerned about the shock of a new language during such a big transition, Jessica decided to talk to Travis in English at home.

For Jessica, mastering English wasn’t a challenge. For Raphael Cabrera, it was. Having run his own business in Puerto Rico, he arrived in Florida without speaking English and had to start over. It took him several tries to get his first job.

The Cabreras decided Kenneth would not enter an English Language Learners program but instead integrate directly into English classes, to make up for what they saw as “lost years” in Puerto Rico. Today, Kenneth, 13, is fluent in English and has made significant progress. Still, his parents reflect on what has been lost. “He will never understand our Puerto Rican language expressions,” Raphael said. “That hurts me, but we did it for him, for his future.”

Aida Ortiz, a retired Puerto Rican teacher in Hartford, Connecticut, has seen similar struggles over her 37 years in the public school system. She described how her godson’s father attends school meetings without adequate translation, teachers who don’t review records, and Individualized Education Program (IEP) decisions made without due process.

“For translation, they hire someone who calls into the meeting. It’s not the same,” Ortiz said. Because the translator has no prior context, mistakes happen, and misunderstandings follow. At times, Ortiz has had to step in herself to correct errors.

In Connecticut, home to one of the largest Puerto Rican communities in the diaspora, 19% of the Puerto Rican community in 2021 had a disability, compared with 14% of other Latinos and 13% of the rest of the population, according to the University of Connecticut’s Puerto Rican Studies Initiative for Community Engagement and Public Policy. For cognitive disabilities, the Puerto Rican rate was nearly double that of the state population, 10% versus 5%.

Language barriers add to the challenges: one in five Puerto Ricans in Connecticut say they speak English less than “very well.” Puerto Ricans with disabilities were also four times more likely to depend on food stamps and reported household incomes nearly half the state average, $45,095, compared with $84,124.

Obstacles in the U.S. Education System

Warren González noted that even without language issues, navigating Puerto Rico’s education program is difficult. “Even in Spanish, many families don’t understand how the IEP works,” she said. The IEP is a legal document that defines support services and goals for a student with a disability. Too often, she added, documents are generic and fail to reflect students’ real needs. “You see many children with the same IEP, with nothing developed,” she said.

Jessica, a teacher by profession, encountered the same problem while seeking support for Travis in Florida. At one point, she requested a behavior plan, but teachers discouraged her, warning that if it went on record, Travis could be sent to a school for “problem students.”

“I know the teachers don’t say these things out of malice… It’s because they genuinely know the resources aren’t there,” she said.

Resources are indeed scarce. Florida ranks second to last in average teacher pay, at $54,875 compared with the national average of $72,030.

Even fluent in English and familiar with the system, Jessica often felt powerless. “I have all the information, and many times I feel helpless,” she said.

The situation worsened when Travis was assigned to a school with a history of physical abuse against students. Jessica turned to the School Choice program, designed to let parents select the most suitable educational setting. In practice, she said, it often works to push out students with disabilities.

“In theory, it sounds great… and then you realize it’s a way to move these kids aside,” she said. Many private schools in Tampa’s Hillsborough County that participate in the program rejected Travis, saying they lacked the necessary services.

Fernando Rivera, a professor at the University of Central Florida, said the School Choice model has effectively created a parallel, poorly regulated school system. In 1999, Florida became the first state to implement school vouchers, which allow public funds to pay for private schools. Today, more than half of students in Florida attend a school under this program rather than their local public school.

In 2022, after the pandemic, Jessica enrolled Travis in middle school. From the first day, the teacher complained about his behavior. Jessica called a meeting and discovered the teacher hadn’t read Travis’s IEP. Despite her efforts to seek help from administrators, the principal was unwilling to cooperate. Jessica eventually hired an advocate and refused to send Travis back until the school had a clear plan to implement his IEP.

“This happens to me, and I speak English well. Imagine mothers who don’t know the language,” she said.

The Cabreras also faced rejections when they moved to Texas, worried that Kenneth was still not receiving the attention he needed. Keishla spent months pressing a school to admit him. They finally accepted Kenneth on probation and gave him a scholarship. To persuade them, Keishla wrote to all the teachers describing his needs and asking for their support.

Before the school responded, the family decided to move anyway — risking everything without a support network and with a housing contract already signed. “I knew I had to make up for all the lost years in Puerto Rico and go the extra mile,” Keishla said. Her persistence paid off: the school not only welcomed Kenneth but later awarded him a full scholarship. The Cabreras have since paid tuition on their own to keep him enrolled.

The Cost of Seeking Services

The sacrifices of these families have been both emotional and financial. Kenneth’s ear surgery cost about $40,000. At ages 22 and 23, Keishla and Raphael knew they couldn’t afford it. Puerto Rico’s Fund for Services Against Remediable Catastrophic Diseases paid for one operation, but it only covered one ear. For the second, the family traveled to Miami, where the Barton G. Kids Hear Now Foundation stepped in.

“We came [to Florida] with $5,500 in our pockets and no support network,” Raphael recalled. Today, the couple runs an e-commerce business that has allowed them to move across states in search of better schools for Kenneth.

For Jessica, cost has also been a constant hurdle. At one point, the School Choice voucher didn’t cover all of Travis’s tuition, leaving $5,000 unpaid. She and her husband turned to online fundraising among relatives and friends. Today, although Travis attends a tuition-free charter school, Jessica supplements with weekly private speech therapy sessions at $110 each, funded by GiGi’s Playhouse, a nonprofit she calls “a blessing.” Travis needs two sessions a week, but they can only afford one.

Once a classroom teacher, Jessica now tutors online. “In-person work drained me so much I felt I had no energy left for my son,” she said. The flexibility lets her better support Travis — something she admits would be harder as a single mother.

Living Without a Support Network

Beyond financial and educational struggles, both families say the lack of family and community support has been one of the hardest parts of migration.

“With no one else, if something comes up, we are alone and have to keep working — for our son, for us, to move forward,” Raphael said.

Jessica agreed. Though she has relatives nearby, she doesn’t feel part of a close community. “They tell you: go to the United States, everything is better there… at what cost? You lose your community and your support,” she said.

Considering a Return

The Steering Committee of the Special Education Class Action Lawsuit keeps in touch with many diaspora families. “We have families who’ve had positive experiences and can’t wait for their children to finish school there so they can return,” Warren González said.

But for both the Cabreras and Jessica, returning to the island feels distant. “We would like a different Puerto Rico, but for now it doesn’t make sense to go back,” Raphael said, citing the health system as a main obstacle.

Jessica, half-joking, tells friends she has “two more years left on her sentence” in Florida until Travis finishes school. “I tell everyone: don’t move here — it’s a lie,” she said. Though she misses Puerto Rico, she also worries about health care and the fragile power grid if she were to return.

The Call for Structural Reform

For Warren González, solving this crisis requires coordination across education, health and family agencies. “It’s important to rehabilitate closed schools and turn them into day centers and training spaces that help this population develop skills and achieve a better quality of life,” she said.

She added that many public officials “lack the knowledge, ethics and empathy to guide and support parents, to make sure they know their rights and claim them — because they deserve that opportunity.”

This translation was generated with the assistance of AI and reviewed by our editorial team to ensure accuracy and clarity.