High school almost didn’t happen for this Honduran immigrant. Now the Philly teen is going to college.

Jose Nolasco had his first job at age 5, picking coffee beans with his family in Honduras. By the time he was 15, he was spending long days on construction jobs in Florida. At 16, he was on his own, working 12-hour days at a restaurant in Philadelphia, but with no permanent place to stay.

Now, at 19, Nolasco is a high school graduate with a home and people who love and advocate for him. He’ll start college next month.

“I feel like the U.S. has given me a chance, an opportunity that I wouldn’t have in Honduras,” said Nolasco. “Here, it’s like, ‘All right, this door is open for you.’”

But Nolasco’s journey to that opening was anything but simple.

The choice to move to the United States wasn’t his, but his father promised the 14-year-old he could go to school when they arrived, something he hadn’t consistently been able to do in Honduras. There was no money for a plane; they scraped together cash for buses to Florida the long way, around the Gulf.

“The first month was hard for me,” Nolasco said. “I was learning a lot in construction, but we worked in the sun the whole day, 7 to 6. We didn’t have any money to buy any food or drinks. When I was in Honduras, there were other people to take care of me. But here, I had to learn how to take care of myself.”

When he tried to register for school, officials in Florida asked for documents his father didn’t have, so Nolasco never enrolled. But when the pair moved to Philadelphia, where a friend of his father’s worked, Nolasco persisted and enrolled at Franklin Learning Center, a public school with a program for newcomers to the United States with gaps in their formal education.

Days were long: up before 7 for school, class until 3, then work until midnight. His father couldn’t understand why Nolasco insisted on an education.

“My family told me that to go to school was a waste of time, and I should be working,” Nolasco said.

Nolasco spoke no English, but school had always been a bright spot, a place solely for him. And even though he felt lost with the new language, there were some constants, like math class — numbers looked the same as home.

Still, he was exhausted. His English teacher, Clare Luebbert, noticed, asked him about his life, and came up with a plan: Take a short rest in my class, catch up after your nap, then stay sharp for the remainder of the day. That kindness made remaining in school possible that first year, Nolasco said.

But Nolasco nearly did quit. He and his father had disagreements over school, and ultimately his father moved out without telling Nolasco where he was going, leaving the teen responsible for the rent on their apartment. He was 16, with only $350, and had no idea what to do.

Ultimately, a friend’s family gave Nolasco a place to stay for a time. But he had no guardian; his immigration case and his future education were in peril.

Then, “I received the most miraculous call that would change everything for me,” Nolasco said.

Luebbert had remembered that Nolasco liked soccer and called him to tell him practice for the FLC soccer team started the week before school began.

Nolasco said soccer was off the table, as was school. Luebbert sprung into action, finding a lawyer to represent him: School was possible if he entered the foster-care system.

First, he lived in a group home. It was crowded, but isolating.

“None of them spoke Spanish, and I didn’t know any English,” Nolasco said. “I didn’t know what the rules were, I didn’t know what to do and what not to do.”

In the meantime, Luebbert was still advocating for Nolasco: Was anyone she knew in a position to foster a remarkable young man?

Eileen Duffey-Bernt, a Philadelphia school nurse and her husband, Frank Bernt, a university professor, ultimately offered him a home in 2019. The couple, who live in East Oak Lane, had grown children, the third floor of their home was empty, and they speak some Spanish. They had never thought about fostering, but they were sympathetic to Nolasco’s situation.

Duffey-Bernt wasn’t naive; she knew it could be challenging having a teen who had been through significant trauma.

Eventually, though, Nolasco opened up.

“He has some kind of extraordinary way to categorize his life. He has a very realistic truth about the strains of his life, but he also comes bouncing down the steps, happy in the morning,” Duffey-Bernt said.

For his part, Nolasco “couldn’t believe how they made me feel so welcome,” he said. “It was wonderful to live in a house full of love and appreciation. These two people gave me all the hope that I thought I would never be able to have.”

Nolasco learned very little when he was working so much. At the Bernt home, it felt different.

“I started liking all my classes again, I could focus,” he said. “I came home and I had enough time to do my homework. I got very excited about school again. I had a lot of support; I learned more. I got more confident.”

Although Luebbert believes Nolasco is remarkable, she said his circumstances are not — many of her students have a painful past, some are also on their own. But, “what he has been able to do through his own motivation, his hard work, and honestly, some luck, that’s what makes the outcome more extraordinary.”

For the first time, Nolasco was able to spend lots of time with his friends and not worry about making money. His English improved dramatically. At first, Duffey-Bernt drove him where he needed to go; eventually, she helped him realize a dream: getting a driver’s license.

“Jose never gets in that car without saying, ‘Frank, do you need your car?’” said Duffey-Bernt. “Everywhere he goes, people see that he’s such a gem.”

Nolasco attended his senior prom, resplendent in a tux and blue hair to match his date’s shiny dress. A picture of Nolasco smiling in his cap and gown has a place of honor at home, where outside is a sign: “Congratulations to our 2022 graduate!” Duffey-Bernt and Nolasco recently had a joint party, celebrating her retirement from the Philadelphia School District and his graduation.

Duffey-Bernt calls him “my Jose” and can’t imagine life without him. She’ll cry when he moves out someday, but he is firmly a part of her large, extended family, forever.

“I told him, you never have to leave us, but you are not imprisoned here,” she said.

It was Duffey-Bernt who told him about a La Salle University program where English language learners earn college credits while improving their academic English and earning an associate’s degree with credits to put toward an eventual bachelor’s degree. It was a perfect fit.

Still, his immigration status complicates things — because of a backlog, it will be years before his case for citizenship is heard, blocking him from federal financial aid. He got some help from La Salle for the first year, but there are no long-term assurances.

His current life may not erase his past, but Nolasco — who will remain in the foster-care system until he’s 21 because he is enrolled in school — has perspective, and a path.

“I think I lost something, but I earned something even better,” Nolasco said. “I didn’t need a lot, I just needed some people to say, ‘You can do this.’ Some people you don’t know will help you, and that’s like a miracle.”

Nolasco often talks to his foster parents about “la buena vida” — the good life — that he has.

“I got a chance to start again, and I don’t want to waste it,” he said. “I will be successful one day, and I will be happy to know it was all worth it.”