When Nonprofits Act Like Business Corporations: The Case of a Puerto Rican Community in Boston

Villa Victoria houses in Boston's South End, built after Puerto Rican tenants won a legal case against mass displacement in 1968. (Source: Northeastern University Archives. Copyright status undetermined.)

Inquilinos Boricuas en Acción (IBA) [Puerto Rican Tenants in Action] began in 1968 when Puerto Rican families in Boston’s South End organized against mass displacement. They won the legal battle, and Villa Victoria houses rose as a community built through struggle and resistance. That victory proved that a united community could confront Boston’s political and economic establishment.

Over time, universities, urban planners, and foundations turned Villa Victoria into a “case book” of community success. They celebrated IBA as a model of Latino organizing in the United States. That recognition came with a cost. It trapped IBA in a triumph narrative, as if the mission had ended and the only task left was to manage the legacy.

Today, IBA operates like a business corporation, not a movement. According to ProPublica’s Nonprofit Explorer (2024), IBA reported $31.6 million in revenue, $22.2 million in expenses, and a $9.3 million surplus. It controls $250 million in assets and $139 million in net assets. Executive compensation alone reached nearly $700,000. These are not the figures of a grassroots group but of a corporate nonprofit embedded in Boston’s institutional economy.

With $250 million in assets, six-figure executive salaries, and festivals staged as branding, IBA treats donors and government agencies as its actual clients, not residents. The rhetoric of community hides a corporate machine whose business is managing poverty, not solving it.

Executive pay shows this clearly. In 2024, CEO Vanessa Calderón-Rosado collected $371,000 in salary and benefits, while COO Mayra Negrón-Roche received $324,000. Department heads and chief officers earned between $131,000 and $210,000.

ProPublica (2024) also shows that even much larger nonprofits in Boston related to housing and homelessness, with several times IBA’s budget, pay their executives less. That reveals how disproportionate IBA’s compensation practices are within the nonprofit sector.

Socio-demographic data from the Center for Puerto Rican Studies at Hunter College in New York (CentroPR, 2023) reveal that the median Puerto Rican household in Massachusetts earns $41,130, and 26.7% of families live below the federal poverty threshold. CentroPR compiles this information from the U.S. Census Bureau’s American Community Survey (1-year estimates, 2010–2023) in its State of Puerto Ricans in the U.S. Dashboard.

Even states as expensive as Massachusetts — like New York (21.5%), New Jersey (13.5%), and Connecticut (21.9%) — show lower poverty rates among Puerto Ricans. This contradiction exposes how Massachusetts, despite its wealth and reputation for education, continues to leave Puerto Ricans at the bottom of the social and economic ladder. At the same time, IBA limits itself to courting the wealthy at galas and serving as a poverty manager.

The daily reality in IBA’s communities also contradicts the organization’s narrative. According to Analyze Boston (2023 to present), police calls from its properties in the South End remain frequent under categories such as investigate person, assault, robbery, sudden death, verbal dispute, and ballistic evidence.

The residents continue to struggle with the same precarity and insecurity — despite private management, manicured gardens, private security, cameras, and social programs — but without any upward social mobility. IBA can point to balanced finances and well-kept properties, but little has changed beyond aesthetics.

In practice, Maloney Properties, IBA's management company, acted irresponsibly by relocating a problematic resident to my building during renovations to a newly acquired property. Shortly after, a shooting broke out outside, forcing me to apply for a mobile Section 8 voucher, which I never planned to apply for, as that apartment held deep sentimental value as my first home in Boston after becoming homeless.

I was not a resident seeking special treatment, but rather the fair treatment owed to any low-income tenant. Instead, I felt betrayed by an organization I once believed would do a better job than the previous owner, the Boston Housing Authority.

Puerto Ricans in Massachusetts pay the price for this disconnect. Statistics from CentroPR (2023) expose that only 34.8% of Puerto Ricans in Massachusetts graduated from high school, and just 16.4% hold a bachelor’s degree or higher.

Regarding homeownership, I compare Massachusetts not with cheaper states like Florida or Pennsylvania, but with equally expensive states such as Connecticut and New Jersey. Even in those markets, CentroPR reveals that Puerto Ricans fare better in Connecticut (35.1%) and New Jersey (46.1%), compared to only 25.1% in Massachusetts.

The irony is stark. IBA began Hispanic Heritage Month 2025 with salsa in the plaza, while the rest of the Latin American community in Boston fights deportations. The deeper deception is that Puerto Ricans' U.S. citizenship supposedly shields us from ICE scrutiny. In reality, no one can tell who is who, and Puerto Ricans are not entirely exempt from wrongful ICE detentions. Meanwhile, Puerto Ricans remain trapped in structural inequality, IBA accumulates wealth, and the community accumulates poverty and stagnation.

Recently, IBA staged a mock “Shark Tank” with youth while staff played the role of investors. I commented on their Facebook post that it would have been more meaningful to invite one of their wealthy donors to give a genuine opportunity to one of the best talents. Instead of encouraging dialogue, they blocked me. That reaction revealed that IBA is about image and spectacle, similar to the glossy paper and colorful graphics in their reports, instead of real impact.

I even donated to IBA as a resident, out of gratitude. Calderón-Rosado wrote to thank me, and soon I found myself on donor mailing lists. That moment showed me that IBA had become a fundraising machine that even turned its residents into donors.

IBA carries a more profound betrayal because it was born of resistance. What began as solidarity now functions as administration. What started as a rebellion now survives as a spectacle.

I have every reason to feel disappointed. I served on IBA’s Board, gave my time, and even donated as a resident. In return, I saw only token stipends as a resident ambassador. At the same time, executives secure salaries high enough to achieve upward mobility, while the community they allegedly represent remains trapped in poverty.

My disappointment does not come from bitterness. It comes from facts and lived experience. No one can dismiss this as the voice of a resentful ex-resident, because the numbers speak for themselves — and my experience as both tenant and Board member confirms them. Only now, after years of leaving that community, am I connecting the dots, and the picture is undeniable.