Texas School Choice Explained: Why Most Approved Kids Were Already in Private or Homeschool
The approval email came while I was watching my fourth grader chew the collar of her hoodie in a Chick-fil-A booth. She had a library book upside down beside her fries, and she had already asked twice whether she really had to read for twenty minutes that night.
“Congratulations,” the email said. Our family had been approved for Texas’s new education savings account, the program at the center of the state’s $1 billion school-choice push. The money could be used for tuition, tutoring, certain curriculum materials, and other approved education expenses.
I should have felt relieved. We had applied during a season when Clara’s homework meltdowns had become routine. She would sit at the kitchen table, pencil hovering over a paragraph, and say the words were “swimming.” Her teacher was supportive, but the class had twenty-eight kids, and the reading specialist was only on campus two days a week. After a year of 504 meetings, stolen bathroom breaks, and emails that began “I hate to bother you again,” we moved Clara to a small private school.
So when state data later showed that seven in ten children receiving school-choice funds were already enrolled in private school or being homeschooled, I recognized our family in that number. We were not using the money to leave a public school. We were using it to help pay for a choice we had already made.
That distinction matters more than the slogans.
A school-choice account is not a school. It is not an IEP. It is not a reading specialist, a smaller class, or a guarantee that a different campus will understand your child. It is public money placed into an account that parents can spend on approved education options. For some families, that is a genuine lifeline. For others, it is a partial reimbursement that makes an already tight private-school or homeschool budget work.
I heard both versions last month at soccer practice. Lauren, whose son Javier is in third grade at our neighborhood elementary school, had assumed the program would let families like hers transfer out if a child was struggling. Javier has ADHD, receives speech services, and reads below grade level. He comes home some days crumpled into himself, saying he is “stupid” because reading groups move faster than he can.
Lauren toured two private schools. One was warm and orderly, with student art in the hallway and a head of school who looked Javier in the eye. But tuition was more than the account would cover, and the learning specialist visited only twice a month. The admissions director said the school could offer “support and accommodations” but did not implement IEPs. The other school had a waiting list and no transportation.
“Javier doesn’t just need a new building,” Lauren told me, pulling cleats out of a trunk. “He needs someone who knows how to teach reading to a kid whose brain doesn’t do it the usual way.”
She was right. A voucher can change where a child sits, but it does not automatically change what happens inside that classroom.
If your child is struggling, the practical first step is smaller than a school transfer. For one week, write down what actually happens: which subjects cause tears, how long homework takes, what time of day the trouble appears, and whether your child complains of headaches, stomachaches, or exhaustion before school. Patterns are more useful than general statements like “he hates reading.”
Then ask the current school for data, not just reassurance. A simple email works: “I’m concerned that Javier is not making expected progress in reading and is showing signs of stress around homework. I’m requesting a full evaluation to see whether he may qualify for special education or Section 504 support. Please send me the next steps in writing.”
If you tour another school, ask specific questions. How many minutes of explicit reading instruction will my child receive each day? Who teaches it, and what training have they had? Which accommodations from his current plan will you continue in writing? Is there a reading specialist on campus every day? What is the full cost—tuition, fees, uniforms, lunches, field trips, after-care, laptop? What happens if the placement does not work, and how quickly could he return to his zoned school?
Private schools are not required to follow IEPs the way public schools are. Some provide excellent support; others have limited staff and cannot serve children with dyslexia, language disorders, or significant attention needs. A nice tour and a low student-teacher ratio do not replace a clear plan.
For Clara, the private school has helped in ordinary ways. Her teacher allows typed answers when writing by hand becomes too much. She is not pulled out for cold reading in front of the class. The homework load is lighter. But she still sees an outside reading tutor twice a week, and the account helps cover that cost. We still pay a substantial amount ourselves. She still has nights when a page of text feels impossible.
At home, we stopped fighting the twenty-minute reading log. Now we set a timer for twelve minutes. Clara can read an easier book aloud to me, alternate paragraphs, or read to our dog. When she misses a word, she marks it with a sticky note instead of rewriting it five times. Before homework, she gets a snack and ten minutes outside. I cut worksheets into thirds so she only sees one section at a time. These changes have not “fixed” her reading, but they have reduced the shame around it.
That is the part school-choice talking points often miss. The real issue for many families is not simply choosing a school. It is finding a setting that matches a child’s learning needs, then managing the therapies, paperwork, transportation, and costs that come with it. A family who already homeschools may use account funds for a science curriculum, math software, or a dyslexia tutor. A family already in private school may use it for tuition. Those are real benefits, but they are not the same as creating new high-quality seats for children who are stuck.
The $1 billion program, at least in these early numbers, appears to be doing less to rescue children from failing schools and more to subsidize choices families had already arranged. That may be intentional policy, but parents should see it clearly. It does not force private schools to accept children with complex needs. It does not guarantee transportation. It does not make a $20,000 tuition affordable for everyone. It also does not repair the public school system that most Texas children still attend.
The teachers I know speak about this in practical terms. They want smaller classes, reliable reading intervention, more counselors, and fewer children waiting months for evaluations. Parents using accounts speak in practical terms too: reimbursement dates, approval windows, whether tutoring will still be covered next year.
Last night Clara read for eleven minutes without stopping. She stumbled over “enough,” sounded it out, and kept going. When the timer beeped, she asked if she could finish the page. I said yes.
The account is paying for her tutoring this semester, and I am glad for it. But I do not know what happens if the rules change, if the tutor’s schedule fills, or if her school cannot keep class sizes small. Lauren is still waiting on Javier’s evaluation, and his public school has started a small-group reading block. We compare notes at soccer practice, neither of us certain which choice will hold.
A billion dollars sounds enormous from a distance. At the kitchen table, it becomes something much smaller: a deposit, a tutoring invoice, a waiting-list email, and a child still trying to get through one more page.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » Texas School Choice Explained: Why Most Approved Kids Were Already in Private or Homeschool