Changing school with the season

For one, as the migrant student population has grown over the past decade and costly computer technology has proven one of the most effective ways to support them, federal funding rose modestly - and actually decreased slightly to $393 million in 2004. "You have more kids and you're getting whacked by the inflation rate," says Richard Gómez Jr., president of the National Association of State Directors of Migrant Education and director of Washington's Migrant Education Program, which saw its migrant students increase by 10 percent.

Another fear is what a battery of high-stakes assessments, with more states requiring graduation exit exams, may do to an already fragile group of students. And for the roughly 50 percent who graduate, there's the looming question of how to pay for college. The cost can be prohibitive on a family's subsistence wages, and those who are not citizens might not qualify for loans or state tuition.

But the biggest challenge in serving migrant students has been keeping track of them. The federal Migrant Student Records Transfer System, founded in 1969, was considered a great achievement. Besides housing health and education records, it was credited with bigger feats, like ending measles outbreaks in migrant camps. In 1994, the system was abandoned and replaced by a web of state-run programs. Now, the Education Department is looking into ways to help states link their systems, and plans to have the Migrant Student Information Exchange in place within the next few years. But it may never be as wide-reaching as a centralized federal database.

Grandview became the state's first migrant education program in 1962. Today, Yolanda Magañas, the district's migrant-home visitor, serves more than 500 families. It was she who discovered Marie's family living in an abandoned camper, cooking and bathing at a nearby labor camp. The three-bedroom single-wide, set in the Granvilla Mobile Court, where Marie's family now lives, is an immeasurable improvement.

"We have a house," says Christina. "Like a 'house,' house. There's nothing missing for us here." At dusk, Armando, in cowboy boots and a baseball cap embroidered with the Virgin of Guadalupe, ducks outside to switch on a row of twinkly blue Christmas lights.

Ms. Magañas helped them find their new home and registered the children in the Migrant Education Program. Warm, with well-coiffed dark hair, she's lived in the Yakima Valley most of her life. Her parents were migrants from Texas.

Much of the credit for improving migrant students' lives belongs to people like Magañas, advocates and educators - many once migrants themselves - who truly grasp their needs. But beyond understanding the struggle and the stigma of farm work, beyond acting as translators between families and schools, they recognize the dignity and lessons of the migrant experience.

"These are powerful people," says Cinthia Salinas, a professor at the University of Texas, Austin, and editor of "Scholars in the Field: The Challenges of Migrant Education." "They coalesce around their family and their language. They take great pride in what they do."

Marie's family arrived in Grandview to orchards thick with fruit. For the few months before school started, the children climbed apple and pear trees to help their father. Though they grew tired and their hands cold, Raul and Jorge say it was fun - an adventure like their drive from Mexico.

But work dried up mid-December. For Armando this meant a sojourn in Nevada. Marie, resolute in her decision to stay, remained behind with their children.

Kevin Chase, superintendent of the Grandview School District, has witnessed 30 years of change in the Yakima Valley. There was a time when schools hired as many as five extra teachers to meet the spring influx of migrants - so many students, he says, they practically had their own school. Classes started as late as 10 a.m. - "asparagus time" - to accommodate farm work. Today there is less turnover each year, as families hoping for a steadier life for their children try to eke out a living here year round.

Like parents everywhere, Armando dreams of more for Christina, Jorge, Raul, Mickaela, and Juana. He wants them to finish high school, a luxury he never had. And one day, he says in Spanish, "I hope they have careers and are able to do better than I have, working in the fields."

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