UPDATE: Dr. Ian Andre Roberts, Iowa’s School Supterintendent is a TOTAL FRAUD

He does not have a PhD, he’s got gun charges, he’s never graduated from anywhere. All his degrees are fake.

By SyndicatedNews at SNN.BZ

Their sprawling district, home to 30,000 students from every corner of the globe, had been battered by post-pandemic chaos—test scores plummeting, teacher burnout raging, and whispers of cultural clashes echoing through the hallways. Enter Roberts: a towering figure with a resonant baritone, a resume that read like a Hollywood biopic, and a backstory that tugged at every progressive heartstring.

The Phantom Superintendent

In the heart of Des Moines, Iowa, where the cornfields whispered secrets to the wind and the state capitol’s golden dome gleamed like a promise of order, Dr. Ian Andre Roberts arrived like a gust from the tropics. It was the summer of 2023, and the Des Moines Public Schools board was desperate for a leader. Their sprawling district, home to 30,000 students from every corner of the globe, had been battered by post-pandemic chaos—test scores plummeting, teacher burnout raging, and whispers of cultural clashes echoing through the hallways. Enter Roberts: a towering figure with a resonant baritone, a resume that read like a Hollywood biopic, and a backstory that tugged at every progressive heartstring.

Ian Roberts wasn’t just any candidate. He was a self-made man from Guyana, a migrant who’d clawed his way from the slums of Georgetown to the pinnacles of American education. His LinkedIn profile was a tapestry of triumphs: a doctorate from Morgan State University, an MBA from MIT’s Sloan School of Management, bachelor’s and master’s degrees from a laundry list of institutions including George Washington University and Trident University. He’d captained track teams, earned athletic honors, and climbed the ranks from classroom teacher in Maryland to superintendent in Pennsylvania’s Millcreek Township.

By the time he stepped into the Des Moines spotlight, he was hailed as the embodiment of the American Dream—a Black immigrant educator who could bridge divides, inspire immigrant kids, and outmaneuver bureaucratic red tape. “Dr. Roberts is the leader we need,” gushed Board Chair Jackie Norris at his hiring press conference, her eyes shining with the fervor of someone who’d once served as Michelle Obama’s chief of staff. Protests erupted in his honor even then; activists waved signs reading “Educate, Don’t Deport,” as if his appointment alone could heal the nation’s wounds.

But beneath the applause, cracks were already forming. In Millcreek, Pennsylvania, where Roberts had served just before Des Moines, board minutes from 2020 revealed hushed doubts. “He lacks the educational certificate from his facilities that he obtained his doctorate,” one note read, scribbled during a hiring delay that stretched weeks. The board pushed forward anyway, dazzled by his charisma and the DEI checklist he ticked off like a pro.

Des Moines did the same, outsourcing the vetting to JG Consulting, a firm that later swore it had run every check in the book—criminal records, credit reports, driving history. Clean, they said. No red flags. Roberts settled into his corner office overlooking the Des Moines River, salary clocking in at $285,000 a year, and set to work. He launched equity initiatives, hosted town halls laced with stories of his own “hustle” from visa overstays to visa victories, and became a media darling. Local papers profiled him as the “superintendent savior,” and students scrawled “We Love Dr. R” on their lockers.

Then came September 26, 2025—a Thursday that started like any other, with Roberts sipping coffee and reviewing budget lines. By noon, federal agents from ICE swarmed the district headquarters. Tires screeched as unmarked SUVs boxed in his black Escalade in the parking lot. Roberts bolted on foot, weaving through alleyways like a man who’d rehearsed the escape. Agents gave chase, tasers drawn, until he ditched the vehicle and vanished into the urban sprawl. Inside the abandoned SUV: a loaded Glock 9mm pistol, a fixed-blade hunting knife, $3,000 in cash, and a ghost of a life—fake IDs, expired work permits, and a deportation order stamped May 2024.

The arrest hit like a thunderclap. Roberts, it turned out, wasn’t just undocumented; he was a fugitive from justice, a serial fabricator whose life was a house of cards built on pilfered credentials and borrowed identities.

DHS dropped the dossier on October 4, a 30-year rap sheet that read like a crime novel: 1996 in New York, charged with drug possession with intent to sell and forging instruments; 1998, joyriding in a stolen vehicle; 2012 in Maryland, reckless driving convictions; 2020 back in New York, sealed weapons charges; 2022 in Pennsylvania, fined for unlawful possession of a loaded firearm. He’d entered the U.S. on tourist and student visas starting in 1994, overstayed them all, bounced between states like a pinball, and filed four failed green card applications.

Work authorizations from 2000, 2018, and 2019? Expired and ignored as he taught illegally in Maryland public schools. And the voter registration? Active as a Democrat in Maryland since 2012, complete with mail-in ballots since 2020—proof of the very election fraud skeptics had long decried as a myth.

But the credentials? That was the gut punch. Universities lined up to disavow him. Morgan State: No record of a doctorate; he’d enrolled but ghosted before the dissertation. MIT: “The Registrar’s Office has no record of enrollment for Ian Andre Roberts,” spokesperson Sarah McDonnell confirmed coolly. George Washington University: Zilch on the claimed honors and degrees.

Even his athletic laurels—track captain, All-American—evaporated under scrutiny; old teammates from supposed high school days in Guyana shrugged when journalists came calling. His resume, submitted to Des Moines, had been “revised” during hiring to admit the doctorate was “in progress,” but the board let it slide. “All candidates exaggerate a bit,” one member later muttered off-record. JG Consulting? They claimed ignorance, but the school board slapped them with a lawsuit on October 1, deflecting blame like hot coals.

The fallout was biblical. Students walked out in droves, chanting “Free Dr. Roberts!”—a martyr in their eyes, collateral damage of Trump’s promised mass deportations. Activists flooded the streets, one councilwoman invoking “radical empathy” for the man who’d “fought for our kids.” But as the lies piled up, the chants faltered.

Parents seethed: How had this fraud overseen their children’s futures? Teachers unionized in quiet fury, demanding audits of every hire. The Iowa Board of Educational Examiners revoked his superintendent license on September 29, rendering his reign retroactively illegitimate. Millcreek Township, his previous post, vowed to claw back salary through fraud claims. And Roberts? Holed up in U.S. Marshals custody, facing federal firearms charges as an “illegal alien in possession,” plus the looming specter of deportation to Guyana—a country he hadn’t seen in three decades.

In the quiet aftermath, as October leaves turned gold over Des Moines, the city grappled with the wreckage. Jackie Norris, eyeing a Senate run, faced calls to resign. Protesters dwindled to a handful, their signs soggy in the rain. And in the schools, a new interim superintendent took the helm, vowing transparency above all.

Ian Roberts had come as a savior, promising to elevate the district to new heights. Instead, he left it staring into the abyss of its own gullibility—a cautionary tale of how charisma can cloak chaos, and how the pursuit of diversity can blind one to deceit. In the end, the real fraud wasn’t just one man’s lies; it was a system that let them flourish, unchecked, until the mask finally slipped. And as the gavel fell in immigration court, the only degree Roberts truly earned was in infamy.