On a crisp October morning in Keshena, Wisconsin, the College of Menominee Nation’s wooded campus buzzes quietly with activity. In one corner, 20-year-old Rihauna Fuentez, with her rainbow-streaked hair and nose piercing, carefully traces tangled wires across a wooden panel, hammer in hand, as she and her classmates work through an electrical workshop. Nearby, 14-year-old Adrin ‘AJ’ Stauber and his sisters wait outside a gas station while their mother finishes up her class. These scenes, ordinary as they seem, are now shadowed by mounting anxiety about the future of their college—and the fate of special education and tribal higher education programs across the country.
In October 2025, the Trump administration laid off most employees in the U.S. Department of Education’s Office of Special Education and Rehabilitative Services (OSERS), a move President Trump described as part of broader cuts to “Democrat programs that we were opposed to,” according to The 19th. The decision came as a shock to many, including conservative parents of disabled children and disability policy experts. Over 7.3 million children in all 50 states depend on special education services, which are partially funded and enforced by the federal government. Maria Town, president of the nonpartisan American Association of People with Disabilities, emphasized, “Special education is a nonpartisan program. Special education services are provided to any student with a disability, regardless of political party.”
The layoffs triggered a swift response from the courts. On October 22, 2025, a federal district court judge in Northern California issued an emergency order temporarily pausing the mass layoffs throughout the federal government, including those at the Department of Education. Disability advocates like Town warn that if the gutting of OSERS proceeds, the Department of Education will be unable to fulfill its responsibilities to enforce the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA), which guarantees students with disabilities the same right to public education as their peers.
“There is a perception that because IDEA, the Rehabilitation Act, and the Americans with Disabilities Act technically remain the law of the land, that enforcement from the Department of Education is redundant and that is simply not the case,” Town explained. “Although these laws remain on the books, students and children and families still have rights that need to be enforced.”
The shockwaves from Washington have not been limited to special education. In rural Wisconsin, the College of Menominee Nation—one of the country’s 37 tribal colleges and universities—has been rattled by proposed federal budget cuts and abrupt pauses in grant funding. In June, the Trump administration proposed slashing the Bureau of Indian Education’s budget by a staggering 88%, a move that, according to college president Christopher Caldwell, “would have signaled the end of many tribal colleges outright. It would have been devastating.” Lawmakers ultimately rejected the proposal in committee, but the ordeal left tribal leaders on edge.
“We could not have sustained without that funding,” said Ahniwake Rose, president of the nonprofit American Indian Higher Education Consortium, as reported by Tribune News Service. “There’s still a lot that could happen within the next few years, and anytime (presidential) priorities shift.”
Last month, a much-needed lifeline arrived: the Department of Education announced $495 million in additional grant funding redirected to tribal colleges and historically Black colleges and universities. Still, the long-term outlook remains uncertain. Federal funding accounts for 40% of the College of Menominee Nation’s $12 million budget, and the school’s modest endowment provides little cushion. Unlike elite universities with billion-dollar spending plans, most tribal colleges serve rural, low-income populations and operate on shoestring budgets.
Students like Fuentez are drawn to the college for its affordability and proximity to home. The college serves about 300 students from 83 tribes, offering bachelor’s and associate’s degrees rooted in American Indian culture—fields ranging from sustainable agriculture to geoscience. Tuition is kept low, averaging $3,572 annually, and nearly 80% of students rely on Pell Grants. Yet, as Rose notes, “We’re woefully underfunded. We’re very, very reliant on federal budgets and federal funding.”
Meanwhile, the Trump administration’s fiscal year 2026 budget proposal maintained level funding for IDEA, despite proposing cuts to many other federal programs. Rachel Barkley, director of Able Americans, a conservative think tank focused on disability policy, pointed out, “The President’s budget is a kind of ideological statement—a wish list that never gets enacted. His budget level funded IDEA, kept it at the same level, despite other programs having a 15% drop.” She added that while some conservatives oppose the existence of the Department of Education, they do not oppose support for disabled students.
Secretary of Education Linda McMahon has floated the idea of moving special education management to the Department of Health and Human Services. In a Fox News interview in March, McMahon said, “IDEA funding for our children with disabilities and special needs was in place before there was a Department of Education and it managed to work incredibly well.” However, such a change cannot legally occur without an act of Congress, and for now, the office is not being moved—just drastically reduced in staff.
Historically, major disability education laws have been enacted and expanded under Republican administrations. Former President Gerald Ford signed the first version of IDEA, then called the Handicapped Children Act, requiring individualized education plans and guaranteeing a free, appropriate public education for students with disabilities. The Americans with Disabilities Act was signed by President George H.W. Bush in 1990, and IDEA was expanded by a Republican-majority Congress and signed by President George W. Bush in 2004.
Still, the current climate has left parents divided and anxious. On social media, debate rages among conservative-leaning parents. Some express hope that shifting special education responsibilities to states or other departments will bring better resources and local control. Others feel betrayed or fearful about the lack of a concrete replacement plan for the gutted federal office. As one Indiana mother wrote in a private group for parents of children with Down syndrome, “Gutting the entire department with no replacement or plan isn’t help. It doesn’t help us.”
At the College of Menominee Nation, the uncertainty is palpable. President Caldwell, who has led the college for five years and whose family has deep ties to the school, says, “We manage what we can. Things change on a daily basis. So it’s more, ‘How do we adapt to the situation that’s in front of us?’” Despite the challenges, the college remains a vital institution for healing, cultural preservation, and opportunity. Cheryl Crazy Bull, CEO of the American Indian College Fund, calls tribal colleges “important places where healing takes place.”
For now, students like Fuentez and Stauber’s family continue to walk the campus paths, hopeful that their classrooms—and the federal support that keeps them open—will endure. The stakes, for millions of American families, could not be higher.
