Michigan, You Were Never Broke. You Stopped Chosing Us.
And we remember when you did.
Let’s begin with the words of Saint Catherine of Siena.
“Speak the truth as if you had a million voices. It is silence that kills the world.”
Well, here I am. One voice. One mother. One advocate. But make no mistake. There are millions just like me.
Because for too long, all we’ve heard is:
“We’re broke.”
“Our hands are tied.”
“We’re doing our best.”
“[insert factoid] COVID.”
And because I understand those barriers because I’ve lived them, you curry my compassion. I get it.
But the math ain’t mathin’.
It’s giving: You never chose us.
Now that a vague federal form has landed on desks across the country, asking whether or not your district supports “DEI” it’s time to cUe ThE pAniC.
Cue the anxiety about special education funding.
Cue the fear of being seen as political.
Cue the hand-wringing over what might be lost.
But let me ask this:
Where have you been for the last 50 years?
IDEA—the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act—was passed in 1975.
The promise was the federal government would supplement up to* 40% of the cost of educating students with disabilities. And that promise was broken the moment it was made.
*those two little words attorneys love, and IDEA language was amended to ‘maximum’
Today, Michigan gets around 14% in federal IDEA funding. And has only EVER received between 8-12% on average. The state covers around a third. Local districts fill whatever gaps they can. Even then, hundreds of millions of dollars in shortfalls fall back on local districts just to provide the legal minimum. At least that’s what we’re told.
So I’ll ask again:
Where was the outrage?
Where was the crisis messaging then?
You want to act like this is new. Like the fear is about protecting disabled kids.
But those of us who’ve lived this system know this:
You didn’t seem bothered when it was just us losing. Even when we spoke up.
Now you sense you might lose something too, and you grab a mic. That’s interesting.
Let’s talk about wealth, boldness and consistency.
In Oakland County and across Michigan, we have districts who were once national leaders. During the deinstitutionalization movement of the 1970s—while psychiatric hospitals were closing—Michigan’s schools were opening their arms.
Districts said: “Give us the children. We will educate them.”
In fact, Michigan was ahead of the nation not to mention the world. In 1971, Public Act 198 mandated special education from birth through age 25—four years before the federal government passed its version of the same law (IDEA).
Michigan showed the country what was possible. And now? Now, in many of those very districts, autistic students somehow make up a population so flat and predictable, you could set your watch to it. The numbers don’t budge, no matter how drastically the need has grown.
You once stood at the edge of fear and said: “Give them to us.”
Now you say: “We don’t have the money.”
There were years when special education students attended school year-round. Imagine that: no summer-sized chasm to fall through. No scrambled care, no regression.
Now? We’re handed a schedule so tiny it borders on noncompliance. A couple of short mornings. Maybe one hour of speech a week, split between two days if that’s helpful. Aren’t we lucky. Meanwhile, our gen-ed children head to fully staffed summer camps with extra volunteers, extended care hours, open swim breaks, and electives like how to be a pet sitter, and a morning-to-evening structure that supports working families.
Let’s be clear: the law doesn’t require ESY to look like summer camp.
But it does require that extended school year services be “necessary for the provision of FAPE”—that is, a Free Appropriate Public Education, as guaranteed under the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA).
ESY isn’t a seasonal courtesy hidden in data-driven reports. It’s a legal obligation to prevent regression and ensure real progress toward IEP goals. What we’re being offered isn’t support. It’s scheduling theater.
Ask for a new turf for the football field? Funded.
A bigger parking lot at the high school? Approved!
A pool? Breaking ground next month.
A robotics program for elementary students? Add to cart.
But ask for sensory supports? You hand over bubbles, beach balls, tangled old Christmas lights, maybe a kite.
Or worse, teachers are chided to “ask the families” or “see if the PTA can help,” when the PTA barely knows we exist. And it’s all served with this deafening undercurrent of: just be grateful, at least you’re in the building.
You build multimillion-dollar enrichment infrastructures for general ed.
Our kids get a Target run split across personal Venmo’s and Zelle’s.
And you expect gratitude?
As George Bernard Shaw said:
“There are those who look at things the way they are, and ask why…
I dream of things that never were, and ask why not.”
But this moment doesn’t just need dreamers. It needs rememberers.
Remember who we said we were.
Remember what it meant to be first.
To say: Give us the children the world gave up on.
There is no legacy if you are not willing to live it.
And now we’re caught in the crosshairs of the DEI panic. A phrase with no legal definition. No clarity. Just a tool used to sow fear, and suppress inclusion. But can we let the reality set in? Diversity, equity and inclusion is not a political program. It’s the framework that holds the door open for every student who doesn’t fit the mold the system was built around. Strip it away, and you erode the belief that all students—ALL of them—deserve belonging, connection, joy, purpose. An education.
This isn’t about funding. This is about the difference between operating legally and living justly.
And if you can find the courage to uncover your ears, here is the truth:
Who fought for us front-and-center all the years IDEA was underfunded?
Who fixed the budget line?
Who questioned why students with disabilities are left out in quiet segregation, of six-figure fundraising, extracurriculars, or even playground design?
The panic set in because you need to declare.
If districts have the money for indoor pools, tech labs, national and local field trips, and PR consultants, it has the money for supports. For inclusion that isn’t just performative. And if you once had the courage to say give these children to us to educate, and build community around, then don’t you dare whisper now.
Stand up. Speak plainly. Lead like you used to.
You were never broke.
You stopped choosing us.
But here we are in a million voices.