Texas’ $1 Billion School Choice Program: Why Most Approved Kids Already Attended Private School or Homeschool
The spaghetti water was just starting to boil when Leo crumpled his third-grade reading passage into a ball and pushed it across the table.
“I’m not doing this,” he said. “Every word looks like it’s moving.”
I stood at the stove, tongs in my hand, trying not to sigh. At nine, Leo is bright, mechanical, and able to explain the life cycle of a frog in a way that makes his little sister listen. But grade-level text still exhausts him. His shoulders rise when he has to read aloud. He guesses words from the first letter and then stares out the window.
That night, an email from Texas’ new education savings account program sat in my inbox. The state had committed $1 billion to school choice, and the message made it sound simple: apply, choose private school or homeschool, use the funds for tuition or approved expenses. I had filled out the forms during one of those late-night parent moments when the current system feels too thin and any other door looks better.
A few days later, I picked Leo up and stood under the oak tree with two other moms. Marisol said her children had attended a small religious school for two years. She’d been approved and planned to use the account for tuition and curriculum. Another mom used the word “lifeline.” I nodded. Then I saw the state report: roughly seven in ten children who received funds were already in private school or being homeschooled. Only about three in ten were actually leaving a public-school classroom.
I kept thinking about that crumpled passage. If the program was meant for kids like Leo, why did most early awards go to families who had already made a different choice?
I don’t tell this as a partisan story. I taught first grade for eight years before I cut back to part-time work, and I know families choose private school or homeschool for serious reasons: religious values, safety, bullying, flexible schedules, a child’s disability, a neighborhood school that keeps failing its most vulnerable students. Money is tight, and I do not blame any parent for taking help that the state makes available.
But the difference between a marketing phrase and a real education plan becomes clear the moment you tour a school.
The first private school I visited smelled like lemon polish and fresh bread. The front office knew every child by name. The third-grade teacher had a calm voice and a timer on every desk. I almost wrote a check before I asked the real questions. Tuition was more than our mortgage. The account would help, but not cover the full bill, uniforms, after-care, or the two days a week I would drive across town. When I mentioned Leo’s dyslexia and attention challenges, the admissions director said, “We meet children where they are.” I waited for specifics. She mentioned small classes and “plenty of grace,” but no structured reading curriculum, no reading specialist, no written plan.
At another campus, the director was more direct. “We’re not set up for intensive dyslexia intervention,” she said. “If he can do the work with minor accommodations, he’ll probably thrive. If not, we may ask you to find another placement.”
That honesty was useful. Private schools can be wonderful, but they often choose their students through applications, testing, behavior records, and family interviews. They also may not carry the same legal obligations or special-education staff as public schools. A tiny classroom can reduce overload, but it cannot replace a teacher trained in explicit, systematic phonics. A homeschool co-op can give a child room to move, but it still requires an adult who has the time, knowledge, and stamina to teach reading every day.
I realized I had been looking for an escape hatch when Leo needed a better plan.
When we got home, I changed our homework routine instead of immediately changing schools. Leo now gets a snack and ten minutes on the backyard trampoline before any paper comes out. I cut his reading passage into four sections with a marker so he only sees one paragraph at a time. He listens to the chapter book as an audiobook in the car, then reads a shorter decodable text at night. I sent his teacher one short email: “Leo is shutting down during independent reading. What phonics pattern is he working on, and can we send home passages at his instructional level for practice?”
That led to a 504 meeting. I brought a one-page summary: Leo’s evaluation, three dated homework samples, the times he cried, and accommodations that had helped—printed directions, preferential seating, movement breaks, no timed oral reading. The school added small-group reading support three times a week. It is not perfect. The specialist travels between two campuses, and one session was canceled last month because of testing. But Leo now has a predictable plan and a teacher who emails back.
If you are staring at a school-choice application right now, here is what I would tell you from both sides of the classroom door.
Before leaving a school, request the formal meeting your child may be entitled to, bring data, and ask for a trial period with specific changes. Write down what happens for two weeks: the task, time of day, behavior, and what helped. A pattern is more useful than a meltdown.
Before enrolling elsewhere, ask questions that cannot be answered with a brochure. What reading curriculum do you use, and who teaches it? How often does a child receive intervention? How many teachers left last year? What happens in October if my child falls behind? What is included in tuition, and what costs extra? Is transportation available? Can my child visit for a full morning? For a child with a disability, ask whether the school has staff who can implement an IEP or 504 plan, and get the answer in writing.
Then do the math on a normal Tuesday: tuition, fees, gas, after-care, lost work hours, and the time your child will spend separated from friends. A school can look peaceful in a lobby and still be the wrong fit.
Leo is still in public school. Last week he brought home a decodable book about a robot and read eleven pages without stopping. When he finished, he looked up and said, “Did I really just read that?” It was one of those moments a parent holds onto. Two nights later, he cried over a spelling sort. So we are not finished.
I still have the education savings account login. I still look at private-school websites in January, when Texas public-school budget cuts and testing pressure make everything feel stretched. A spot may open next year. Our finances may change. His needs may change.
What I understand now is that the $1 billion program is doing two different things. For many families already paying for private school or homeschooling, it is a reimbursement. For a smaller group, it may be a genuine new door. But money alone does not create seats, train reading teachers, or guarantee that a child who learns differently will be kept rather than politely counseled out.
Leo’s class is currently hatching quail eggs. He talks about them every afternoon, then eats crackers and reads for ten minutes. Some days are smooth. Some days the worksheet gets crumpled. We keep the plan on the fridge, audiobooks in the car, and tour notes in a drawer. The state is still deciding what this program is actually for. At our kitchen table, the test is smaller: whether one boy sees words that stop moving, and whether someone at school knows how to help him.
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