In the town where I grew up in El Salvador, we had one school.

It was old and run down.

There weren't enough teachers, there weren't enough textbooks.

But my mother was a determined woman, and she had a plan, an amazing plan.

I and my siblings would not get our education in El Salvador.

We would get it in America.

So we left our home, our family, everything and everyone we had ever known.

I guess you could say it was an extreme example of school choice.

It was a miserable bus ride to California, long and hot, but we made it.

That was the easy part.

My mother barely spoke English.

I spoke none.

When I complained to her that it was too hard to learn in American schools,

I didn't get much sympathy.

We had reached the promised land, the promise of a good education of unlimited opportunity.

English, good English was required.

So I learned it.

My mom made sure of that.

With that kind of background, you can imagine that I put a premium on the education of my own children.

So when my son approached first grade, I took a hard look at the government school in our neighborhood.

I didn't like what I saw.

Academic standards were low, discipline was lacks.

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