Tag Archives: special education

Namhee Stokvis is the mother of 2 children. She moved to Westport 2 years ago from New Jersey, in large part because of the school’s special education program. She writes:   

My son is 11 years old, and requires round-the-clock support. He is greatly impacted by the adults who guide him.

Since he entered public education at age 3, his communication, socialization and learning skills declined significantly. At age 5, within just 2 months he came home with 2 ripped jackets, a torn backpack, and tears in his eyes.

We raised concerns, offered strategies, and asked for collaboration. Instead, we were dismissed or minimized. The dominant tone was, “You are a hot parent” (their actual language), “and we are the experts who know better.”

Namhee Stokvis

In 2021, without our agreement, the district moved our son to a different classroom and changed his program. When we discovered this, the response was simply “exercise your rights,” a phrase that made clear nothing would change unless we pursued legal action.

We were frightened and confused. We had worked collaboratively through COVID, and believed partnership was possible. But from that moment on, what we encountered was nonchalance, ignorance and deception.

We met other parents experiencing similar problems, but most were too afraid to confront the district directly. They feared retribution. They kept their struggles private. We felt completely alone. Every day became painful and unbearable.

We began searching for a better place — somewhere our son could be safe and supported. After years of comparing districts, we chose Westport. We sold our home, and left everything we had built.

When we arrived in the summer of 2024, the district contacted us within days. We took that as a good sign.

And when we met our son’s new child study team, we felt something we had not felt in years: relief. Every teacher, therapist, paraprofessional and administrator treated our son with care and professionalism.

For the first time in a long time, my husband and I could focus on our work without worrying whether our son was safe or respected. He adjusted quickly, something that surprised us given his history. Our gratitude for Westport grew with each passing month.

But as we approached the one year mark, my worries returned.

Once my son’s adjustment and well-being were established, I began advocating for his education. I noticed that most decisions were already made before I entered the room. My role was often to be informed, not to make decisions.

When I requested an expert observation, it was denied. When I asked to observe my son myself, I was allowed 30 minutes in an isolated room — nowhere near the environment where he learns, plays and struggles.

I found myself worrying: If I advocate more strongly, will we still be treated collaboratively? If I raise concerns about the academic program, will I be ignored or misled? Will the same patterns that traumatized us in New Jersey repeat themselves here?

I am too afraid to test that boundary.

This year, during a community discussion at the Westport Library, I met parents who described the exact problems I experienced in New Jersey: ignorance, defensiveness, and dismissive narratives about families who speak up.

Narratives like “those parents are crazy,” “we are perfectly professional,” and “sue us if you don’t like it.”

It feels like the nightmare is returning. Sleepless nights, financial strain, and the emotional toll of simply trying to do right by my child.

I ran from New Jersey, believing Westport would be a safe place. Are we safe here?

Screenshot from Westport Public Schools’ special education page.

When a district denies and minimizes issues to avoid accountability, we lose our space to have honest conversations. And when parents are pushed toward legal battles, we are at an inherent disadvantage.

No parent has more financial power than a school district (unless you are Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos). And even when parents “win,” children still lose. The critical time for intervention passes. Opportunities to learn and grow disappear while we fight.

So, what are we doing?

A story last month on “06880” (“Special Ed: Solicit Feedback; Prioritize Student Progress Over Legal Proceedings“) shows that Westport’s legal expenditures in special education far exceed those of surrounding towns.

That alarms us. It suggests that problems are being handled through conflict rather than collaboration, consuming time and resources that should be utilized for our children.

Some parents are scared. Others are already suffering, just as I once was.

We chose Westport because we believed it is a better place for our family. And in so many ways, it truly is. The dedication of teachers and professionals here is extraordinary. I bow to their daily devotion. The richness of this town, its food, art, music and people, has made us feel welcomed and grateful.

But we can do better in how we handle conflicts and communications in special education.

When we improve the way we resolve disagreements, everyone benefits.

Students gain stronger outcomes. Teachers feel supported and confident. The district’s reputation grows. And children who rely on us the most receive the timely interventions and education they desperately need.

This is not about blaming. It is about responsibility and courage. It is about refusing to let fear, defensiveness, or bureaucracy stand in the way of our children’s future.

Let’s do better together.

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Rosa Balestrino has lived in Westport since 2016. The mother of 2 children, ages 13 and 5, she is in-house counsel to an educational technology company.

The family worships at Assumption Church, and are huge fans of the Westport Weston Family YMCA, Legacy Martial Arts, Compo Beach, the Levitt Pavilion and Westport Library. Rosa writes:

In 2018, our journey with Westport Public Schools began with a simple recommendation to postpone kindergarten. What followed was a years-long trek through evaluations, diagnoses, inability for my child to learn virtually, and the heavy isolation of the COVID-19 pandemic.

For years I struggled to square the child I saw at home — who could focus for hours on intricate Lego sets — with the child who was reportedly “failing to attend” in class.

At home, getting him to write a single sentence was a battleground of exhaustion and heartbreak. I could not understand why.

Rosa Balestrino

During the pandemic, I worked alongside my child and had a front-row seat to his ongoing struggle, frustration, and inability to do the work that was being requested by the school district. It was so painful for both my child and for me.

My child’s struggles went on for years. My gut instinct told me that something was wrong, even though the school continued to reassure me and encouraged “independence” for middle school.

My child could not even start an assignment alone, let alone finish one. Tears, frustration, my child thinking he was stupid. It was heartbreaking for a parent.

Since the school had not figured out why my child struggled year after year, I had no choice but to have a private evaluation done at my own expense.

The neuropsychologist made clear that if my child had the “capacity to become independent, he would have already done so.”

My son was failing, and was being failed by the school system who tried to assure me that my child was doing “fine.” They stated his grades, which were As and Bs, were proof of success, and that his low standardized test scores were merely “data points” or “click-through” errors.

At that point my son’s handwriting remained the scrawl of a 1st grader. External tutors warned us his comprehension was years behind grade level.

The turning point for my child came when we stepped outside the traditional system. Through an intensive summer program at The Southport School and eventually transitioning to Winston Preparatory School, the “magic” happened.

For the first time, my son felt capable. Within 2 months of starting 7th grade at Winston Prep, he volunteered that he loved school. He couldn’t quite explain the “magic” of how they taught him — only that for the first time, he was actually learning and he no longer felt stupid. His whole demeanor changed.I started to get my child back.

The cost of this “magic” was high. It required an educational attorney, expensive private assessments, and the difficult decision to leave the neighborhood school.

Today my child is thriving, advocating, and looking toward a future in engineering. My child has found his community through neurodiverse mentors who taught him that his brain isn’t broken—it’s a superpower.

To the families currently in the “exhaustion phase”: Trust your instinct.

(“06880” Opinion pages are open to all. Email submissions to 06880blog@gmail.com. To support this hyperlocal blog, please click here.)