Being A Good Communication Partner

image of a communication device screen with a message in the bar: "want stop tickle me tickle me"

Over the years, I’ve come to believe that changing our behavior is one of the most critical ways we support our emergent communicators. I’ve seen it happen more times than I can count… A child communicates successfully in one environment, only to struggle in another. A student has back-and-forth conversations with one staff member, but says nothing to another. We are quick to blame the student or — worse — to not believe the student, their family, or their staff about that student’s previous success. But when do we look at ourselves? What could we be doing that leads to this shut down, this quieting?

In the field of supporting people’s communication, we tend to hear a lot about “creating communication opportunities” and “engineering the environment”. The role of the communication partner is often seen as someone who blocks access to items in some way, and then prompts the student to request or comment about that item.

This is not being a great communication partner. For starters, few people would like to live a life in which access to everything we love came through gatekeepers. It is not fair. It is not respectful. It also doesn’t teach voice. Instead, it teaches that you can perform this specific action to say exactly what I want and get the item that I’ve selected. On top of this, it creates pressure and demand, two things that frequently make it more difficult for our students to access their language or motor skills.

I believe in our students. They have so much to say. And, most importantly, they have a right to say what they want, when they want, how they want. If you’ve made this mistake, if you weren’t taught to center autonomy, there’s still time to change.

Start by believing your students. This is not just the first rule, but it is the hands-down most important rule. When your students say something, that is their voice. Believe that they are saying something. Respond accordingly. Do not say, “I don’t think he meant that.” Do not say “she’s just playing around.” Do not ignore, walk away, pretend it didn’t happen. If there might be a mis-hit, because we all mis-speak sometimes — wait and see. Or ask — just don’t assume. Conversation is an art of co-creation, and we must respect our students as that co-creator. Even with our earliest and youngest communicators, who may babble and explore as they learn where words are… They benefit from us responding to their words. They learn the meaning and context of those words by hearing our response.

In my Spanish lessons, if I say the wrong word for what I mean, my teacher still responds. She works with me to figure it out. This is the basic building block of seeing me as a competent communicator, as someone who will be a fluent Spanish speaker one day. This is also why I keep trying. No shame. Our kids know whether we believe they have voice and autonomy, if we believe that they can be fluent communicators. They know whether it’s worth the effort. They also know when they will be doubted, misheard, misunderstood, and disbelieved. And they stop talking. If a student is not using their communication system in your environment, but used it elsewhere… Ask: What can I do differently? What did they do to support them? Do not just write it off as an exaggeration or that it did not happen. (That was a really, really long paragraph. But I cannot overstate this as a key difference between environments where kids are successful, and environments where they are not.)

Give plenty of wait time. Oh my gosh, guys, can we please just slow down? Have you tried to use a communication device to express your thoughts? Even when very familiar, it can take time. Auditory processing, anxiety, apraxia… There are a dozen reasons why our students need time, and zero reasons why we shouldn’t give it. Stop asking question after question. Stop assuming they can’t do it if it can’t be done within 5 seconds or 10 seconds. Stop assuming they can’t do it if it can’t be done on demand. Learn to observe. Watch for communication all day long. Comment, ask your question, or perform your action — and wait. Wait 15 seconds. Wait 30 seconds. Wait 2 minutes. Observe your student to see what their wait time is, and then wait. Count in your head if you need to. Learn to be okay with silence. Ask or observe if they prefer your attention — eagerly watching and directing your gaze to them — or if they prefer you to turn away, continue with an activity, or come back to them in a few minutes. There are a wide variety of needs. Our students will tell us what theirs are, if we’re listening.

Stop asking so many questions; comment and wonder. Think about the conversations you have with your friends, your loved ones, or even your speaking students. We comment. We draw attention. We describe our feelings, or theirs. We typically don’t engage in 20 questions every time we converse with our friends. Why do we do this when someone is nonspeaking? Why do we pepper them with questions? Why do we relegate them to the role of respondent, and never initiate? We can do the same with our AAC users. We can comment on their actions — describe what they are doing, describe our own actions, share our feelings, connect their words or actions to something else we know. If you don’t know, try wondering. Try offering choices. This allows you to be equal communication partners, but it also can decrease the anxiety and difficulty responding as the demand drops significantly. Students can respond when they are able and want to, instead of feeling pressured to respond when we want them to.

There are so many more ways to converse that don’t involve questions. Examples of adult commentary that pepper our snack times (not all at once), with key words highlighted: You look hungry. You have an apple for lunch. I love to have apples. I ate an apple last night. I wonder if you want your apple whole or cut. I wonder if you want your banana or apple first. Oh, it looks like you want the banana. I wonder if you need help to open that. Let me know if you need help. Your friend has a banana too! I had so much fun building with you before lunch. I wonder if we should build more or play music after lunch. You looked happy when you were building. I wonder what we could tell your mom about your building… It looked tall and red.

All the words, all the time, for all the reasons. This is just a reminder that our students need so much more than a few nouns. They need action words, describing words, complaints! They need to tell us how they feel, where they hurt, what they did last weekend. Even if they are not yet doing that now, they need to be able to grow into that. When we say “core words are too hard” and then don’t include them — we are creating a self-fulfilling prophecy. Every student has a right to as many words as they can access. They have a right to have those words available everywhere they go. And they need us to be modeling all of those words. We cannot just model requests or happy words. We should model “this sucks” and “I hate this” and “leave me alone”. We should model “stop” and “help” and “need” and “tell” and all kinds of words. We can model what it looks like to comment, to protest, to ask questions. (Yes, our students should be able to question us for once!) Communication autonomy cannot happen without access to lots of words (and a keyboard!) Too many times students have stopped using their communication systems or shown low interest simply because they could not say what they want to say. My students’ first words have been everything from “mad” and “stop bugging me” and “play” to “train” and “fruit snacks” and “hungry”. All the words.

Respect the power of their voice. This is honestly a repeat of the first one, but, yes, it’s that important. If our kids use their voice to tell us to stop, then we need to stop. If they tell us they need a break, then we need to give a break. We can compromise, we can negotiate, but we must listen. The quickest way to get a student to shut down is to act as if we do not care. My daughter once was asked if she liked a book. She clearly said “no” with both her voice and her body (tapping a “no” button). The teacher took her hand and said, “Yes, you do like it”. My daughter learned so many things that day. She learned that her opinion was both wrong and didn’t matter. She learned that other people could put words in her mouth and manipulate her body. She learned that it was not worth the effort. When I saw that video, I was no longer surprised that my daughter did not use her communication device in that class. Because why should she?

Go with the ebb and flow of communication. Communication growth spurts come and go. There are times when our students may be chatterboxes, and other times when they go silent. My daughter may not use her communication device for 3 months, but then use it to talk to me back and forth for 25 minutes. It could mean that she’s focusing her energy somewhere else. It could mean anxiety or illness or sensory processing or even just a temporary change in preference of communication form. It doesn’t mean everything is lost. It doesn’t mean that we stop doing any of the above things. It means that we are patient, that we stay with them, and that we respect whatever communication form they are able to access in those times.

Let’s commit to being better communication partners — though the highs and the lows. Let’s show our students that their voices matter to us. We want to hear them. Them. Not us. Not what we think should be said or done. But their truest voice. Because the world needs that voice. We need that voice. And they absolutely have a right to that voice.

Dear teachers, from your special education students’ family.

I am in my fifteenth year of working in special education, including one brief year as a coordinator. (I missed daily direct work with students far too much to stay.) But there is little that changed the trajectory of my career as much as becoming a mom to my two children did. Both of my children receive special education services — and at many different places on the “continuum of services” over the years. Sitting in their IEP meetings, building relationships with their schools, seeing the way my children were included (or not)… We teachers think we know. I thought I knew. But school and home are not the same. Parenting and teaching are not the same. There’s just so much that I want to say.

We are fighting because we have to. If we seem fierce, if we seem frustrated, if we seem like we’re always anxious about something… It’s because there’s always something to be anxious about. Other kids show up on the first day of school. They just show up. And now they have access to reading, writing, math, and friendship. They hear stories, read to their teachers, read with friends, and learn to spell words. They are taught number sense, reasoning, measurement, and so much more than counting and computation. They experiment! They go to lunch, recess, and resources with their peers. They are assumed to be capable of learning these things. My daughter didn’t get this until she was in sixth grade. My son once didn’t have some of his accommodations implemented for 4 months, despite repeated emails and meetings. On another occasion, the school implemented multiple behavior plan systems with him that were known to trigger fight/flight — despite multiple reminders that his very IEP stating “no behavior plans without team consent”. When we have a great teacher, we know. We know and we are so 100% on your side. We just want the best for our kids. I promise.

Open communication isn’t about helicopter parenting. The statistics are not great for our children and adults with disabilities. Seclusion, restraint, bullying, and flat out physical or verbal abuse are rampant. I understand that there is no way for a parent to know everything that happens every day with any child. I understand that many general education students come home and share minimally. It’s different. It’s so, so different. Our kids are hurt in places where they should be safe — often. We see these stories in the news. We may have lived these stories with our kids. And even when they are physically safe, our kids are left behind in other ways. They are taught separate curriculum, given meaningless grades, or meaningless tasks. My daughter spent several months clipping clothespins to the side of a box or sorting highlighters and pens in her fourth grade year. Their voice may go unheard, as a teacher says “you didn’t mean to say that”. (We have a video of our daughter once saying, “NO” when asked if she liked something. The teacher then hand over hand prompted her to say yes instead.) I understand this whole paragraph is very negative. I understand that if you’re a great teacher, you’re thinking — but not me! Not all of us! That’s wonderful. I’m glad. Show us. Show us that it’s not you. Show us every day, every week. Tell us what you’re teaching. Tell us about your daily schedule. Tell us when our child has a great day or a hard day. Show us some of the things our child is learning so that we can see their progress. Show us so that we can practice at home. Show us so that we can advocate for them in the future because we now know — they can.

Believe in our kids. Give me all the strength-based everything. Strength-based IEPs. Strength-based report cards. Strength-based notes home. Guys, we know our kids are behind. The doctors, therapists, education professionals, and even strangers of the world never fail to remind us. I get if you need to share what the math benchmark score is and where it should have been. But can you also tell me about the time my child was really kind to a kindergartener who was lost in the hallway? Can you tell me how they read a book independently for the first time? The time they made a new attempt at a word, stood for 20 seconds longer than usual? Or all the unconventional ways our children are leaders, go-getters, and bring value to their communities? Maybe they have skill with learning the routine, with trying to solve problems independently, with finding creative ways to self-soothe and self-regulate in a busy classroom. Every child has so many strengths. Let this part of your IEP be big and detailed and long. Let my child shine in your eyes. They will feel the way you see them. We will, too.

Be kind & listen. This probably seems like it doesn’t need to be said. But you cannot imagine the things our children have experienced, or the things that teachers and administrators have said to us. We’ve had administrators tell us that the community would be banging down the door to complain if our child was included for 30 minutes of instructional time a day in elementary school. This is a literal quote, recorded in a meeting. We’ve had home-school communication concerns dismissed as “but she didn’t hit herself that hard, so that’s why no one told you”. Listen when we have concerns. Empathize. Speak kindly about our kids and our family when you have concerns. I want to hear your concerns — just think about how you’re saying them. It’s so different to say: “He can’t be in that class! He’ll disrupt everyone!” and “I’m worried that his anxiety will really spike in this specific setting. He is making a lot of progress with XYZ supports. I really want him to feel calm, regulated, and ready to learn.” Or this: “She doesn’t know any of her alphabet,” versus “She loves to explore alphabet letters by picking them up and looking at them. She will occasionally say one of the letters, but it’s hard for her to consistently name them yet.” THEY. ARE. SO. DIFFERENT.

We are doing the best we can. This applies to the clothes our students wear, the lunches our students pack, the homework folder that doesn’t get checked, whatever it might be. I get that we sometimes might do things that are very frustrating. I am open and honest about how I AM TERRIBLE AT CHECKING THE HOMEWORK FOLDER. I suck at sending in lunch money and permission slips. I get this is a lot of work for you to remind me. I wish it wasn’t this way. Remember, we also are always juggling medical appointments, therapy visits, multiple special education teams, home physical therapy programs, etc — an enormous mental checklist — on top of all the regular ways that we just want to be a family. We just want to watch movies together, build Lego designs, and go to the park. We want to hang out with our kids and appreciate our time together. Sometimes that means that we suck at things. Thank you for being so kind and compassionate and understanding when that happens. Thanks for finding ways to work with us. (My daughter’s teacher now emails when she has a form to sign, or sticks a note in her lunchbox when she needs clothes. I SEE YOU AND I THANK YOU.)

We want our kids to have a sense of community & belonging. My kids have been almost everywhere on the continuum. They’ve been in general education with minimal supports. They’ve been in private day or hospital settings. They’ve been everywhere in between. I understand why the continuum exists. But we can still ensure our kids have a sense of belonging and community, wherever they are in the continuum. A sense of belonging comes from all the little things — having a place to hang your coat, a desk with your name, a chance to be the star of the week, even if you’re only in the classroom for short periods. It comes from teachers and administrators wanting our kids in their schools and shining a light on our kids’ talents, so that all children can appreciate the value that our kids bring to the table. It comes when other kids know your name, wave hello to you in the hall, and ask how you are doing. It’s being on the stage with your peers, not on the floor next to the stage. It’s being at the table with your friends for lunch, not separate and far away. It comes from being invited to participate in school-wide events, whether it’s PTA spirit nights, talent shows, grade level school performances, or field day. It’s about being more than an after thought.

We are a resource and can do great things together. As we grow as parents, we gain so much knowledge. We know what worked for our kids in previous classrooms. We know what helps them communicate. We know what this adapted sign, that vocal approximation, or this sign of frustration means. We have learned from all the teachers that we had before. We can help you problem solve. We can brainstorm. We can (*gasp*) help write IEPs as we share our children’s strengths, the needs we’ve seen over the years, the skills they’ve carried over or haven’t. We have so much value to add as an equal part of the team — if you’ll have us.

We Quit ABA: What We Do Instead

ball pit filled with white balls with 2 black and pink sneakers poking out

This specific post is about what we do as a family at home with my children. I am writing because I have seen an increasing pressure on families. I have even seen posts advising ABA therapists to use guilt on selling their services: “what will you regret on your death bed?”

We’ve been through some rocky time periods where we had to confront the fact that tomorrow is not guaranteed. Never once did we worry about whether we had done more ABA. We focused on the laughter, the hugs, the moments of laying in bed and singing “Mr Worldwide” or “I was following, I was following…”

Some of the things will apply universally, across environments, and some may not. Home is different from school. We’re all better off when we acknowledge that. I had to really work to let go of the idea that I needed to be “working on something” all the time. This idea is actually built on cultural ableism: if we do enough, if we continue therapy 24/7, if we work hard enough, our child will get closer to the non-disabled. She doesn’t need me to be her therapist. She doesn’t need me to structure every moment of her day. She doesn’t need to be anyone except herself. She needs her mom. She needs a childhood.

With that framework in mind, here are some of the ways that we have selected to support our children better at home — without ABA.

We start with acceptance. We accept, fully. We accept non-speaking. We accept stimming. We accept passions and routines and repetition. We accept sensory needs and movement needs and an eternal love for Pitbull. This has to come first. Read #actuallyautistic writings. Watch videos unpacking ableism. See a therapist. Phone a friend. Spend time swinging on the playground, enjoying your child as they spin and twirl and chase bubbles. Do what you need to get to acceptance — and don’t write about it on Facebook. Imagine your best friend, your mom, your partner writing about you the way that the world so often writes about autistic children — and without your consent. You wouldn’t like it. It’s dehumanizing and hurtful. Don’t do it to them.

Don’t freak about your child’s timing. Not now does not mean not ever. Allow your child to find their own way. There’s this incredible push to “get kids ready” for adulthood, and it’s striking earlier and earlier. Succumbing to that pressure is a surefire way to spike everyone’s anxiety. It’s why families resort to sticker charts for sleeping on your own, or intensive potty training programs. Doing something at 7, 12, or even 16, doesn’t mean they will be doing it when they are 26 or 36 or 70. Not now does not mean never (and, perhaps a blog for another time, never isn’t the end of the world).

We problem solve with our children regarding “challenging behavior”. A child who is not doing well is a child for whom something has gone wrong. They may be experiencing a health issue that they’re having difficulty sharing. They may be struggling due to inappropriate expectations, a lack of accommodations, or a need for scaffolding. They may simply need some extra connection and time with people who care about them and accept them. We work with our children to uncover the need and develop a solution that meets their needs and ours. For example, we stay with our son until he falls asleep each night. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, we do it again. It meets his need for accompaniment and our need to have our own bedroom space.

We create environments for success. If my child struggles with unstructured vacation time, we bring picture cards and create a schedule for the day. If my child is struggling with long trips to the grocery store, we don’t do long trips to the grocery store. If my child wants to go to the zoo but is struggling with impulsive running away, then we find ways to support their safety (e.g., strollers, kinderpack, wagons, etc). If my child is having difficulty with being safe in their room, then everything in their room is soft and safe and comforting. Our goal is not to do things my way, the “typical” way, the way everyone else does it… Our goal is for our child to be successful. So we change and adapt and accommodate to create that success.

We use restorative practices instead of punishment. We all make mistakes. We act impulsively. We hurt people we love. Teaching relationship repair is one of the most important things I’ve taught my children. When something goes wrong, we brainstorm how to make it right. For example, my son once helped a neighbor mulch their yard in the Spring after breaking something in their yard earlier. It wasn’t a punishment. My son loves gardening and mulching; he loves spending time in the yard with his dad. But it was about making things right with someone we hurt. We could likely all be a little better about that.

We immerse ourselves in augmentative & alternative communication (AAC). We talk AAC. We use AAC to talk with our daughter. We use AAC to talk about what we are doing. We use AAC all day every day. And we see AAC (and all forms of communication) as invaluable. It is as worthy and awesome and beautiful and everything as any spoken word. This can be a huge cultural shift in a world that prizes talking — talking fast, talking loud, talking often. But the thing is — it’s never really about speech. It’s about our feelings, our thoughts, our needs… About connection. And there are many, many, many ways to communicate — with even more ways to connect. Cherish them all.

We love routine and familiarity and comfort. We’re kind of homebodies. We love movie nights and binge-watching Duck Tales. We go to the same stores. We eat the same dinners. We go on the same vacations. We don’t stress about screen time. You may be wondering why this matters, as far as “what we do instead of ABA”. It’s all about removing stress and upping acceptance. There is an unbelievabe amount of stress placed on our autistic children. They are expected to get by in a world that does very, very little to accommodate. All too often, this extends to our family life. We used to be a hiking family, so we bring our kids who are overwhelmed by mountain climbing. Our family expects us at a reunion, so we go, knowing it’s too loud too busy too much. But I refuse to allow my family life to be a source of stress. We adapt. It’s not loss. It’s opportunity. We find new ways to explore our passions, new interests to explore together, new ways to connect that allow us all to be ourselves, fully.

We seek out physicians & therapists who presume competence. When we’ve decided to seek support from professionals, we seek professionals who believe our children are capable. Not capable “within a certain limit”, but capable. Period. We set goals that work on things our children value. We seek doctors who believe my daughter’s “yes” when she says something is painful. We look for therapists who avoid hand-over-hand manipulation and always ask consent. We leave therapists who limit her words or talk negatively about him in front of him. Don’t be afraid to walk away when a therapy doesn’t align with your family values.

We teach. We preview skills before they will be needed. What will be expected and when? For example, we look at maps together before they are studied in social studies. We talk about how long we will have to wait to get through security before we leave home. We model and demonstrate ways to do things. We might show our son how to belly breathe, model new words that have been added to my daughter’s communication system, or bring our children into the process of making to do lists or figuring out what we need at the grocery store. We model these skills again and again, without frustration. We encourage exploration and experimentation, with all the mistakes and problem-solving that comes with. This means that my son can hammer big sticks or plant an avocado seed to see what happens. My daughter can bang on the screen of her iPad as she figures out where and how to get to her favorite apps. We scaffold and accommodate all along the way — what supports can we put in place to allow our children to be more successful? Notice that I don’t say “more independent”. We overly prize independence, when autonomous is more valuable.

We do hard things — together. Sometimes, we have to do hard things. We have to go to the doctor and get a shot. We have to clean our rooms. We have to figure out whether we have enough money when math is hard. We have to deal with the frustrations of life — the ride that was shut down, the brother that makes bothersome noises, the memorization of some key science terms… So we do it together. Even if it seems small to us, it is big to their bodies. We empathize. We co-regulate. And we do the hard things — together.

And, oh, most of all, more than anything, we celebrate. There’s so much joy. There are so many amazing moments that we can have with our children. Different is not less. It is never less. We splash in the pool, while singing “Go, Diego, Go” on repeat for 30 minutes. We watch the same Curious George movie, because the light in my son’s eyes when George dresses up as No Noggin is everything. We joke around with my daughter, whose current favorite AAC phrase is “Got ya!” Oh, we have so, SO much fun. So much freedom. So much flexibility. And I’m so grateful for it all.

How We Do It: All Talkers, All the Time

tween girl in stroller with AAC device on lap as she talks to Donald Duck
tween talking to Donald Duck with AAC system in her lap

Whenever we start a student on an AAC system, I tell people that our first step is ensuring that the device is always available. I tell parents — spend the first 2-3 weeks just bringing the talker with you. Bring it to the bathroom. Bring it to the playground. The grocery store. The bus. Seriously: before modeling, before anything else… We have to develop routines to ensure the system is available.

The obvious reason: we cannot model if the device is not there. Our students cannot use their systems if they are not there.

But also: it shows our students that we think their systems are important. We think their voice is important. We are telling our students with our actions that we want to hear what they are saying. We want to hear it everywhere, all the time, always. This world so often silences our students. We are saying — no, not us, not now, not anymore. This is powerful.

Here are some tips & tricks that we’ve used to ensure devices are available.

Set the foundation. Know your “why” for using AAC. Know it deeply. Share it with your team. Look for the moments that reinforce that why. This commitment to voice comes first. Take every opportunity to model this commitment and be a leader in the classroom.

Students can carry their systems. This isn’t always appropriate due to age, strength, etc… Adults can certainly carry systems for children. But don’t be afraid to let children carry their system. Ask them if they want to carry their system. Of note: do not make students carry their systems. The last thing we ever want to do is turn their voices into “work” that we insist they do. Show them the power by respecting their voice and choices, even if the choice is to let someone else carry it.

Use visual supports. When we first had 8 talkers in one room, it was a challenge to get them all out on the playground. We had visual supports on the door to remind us: did we get ALL of the talkers? “See me, see my AAC”, a tagline created by Kate Ahern, has frequently been posted on our bulletin boards, data sheets, and around the classroom.

iPad in pink case next to stack of Legos

Assign responsibilities. We have one person who always checks bags in the morning to make sure all talkers are available. We have another person who always checks to make sure we have all the talkers before we go to the playground. If someone sees a talker without a child, they grab it and bring it or the student or team working. We support each other. These routines have helped embed the availability of talkers into our classroom culture.

Consider the whole system. First, make sure there is always a back-up. Technology fails. Even low-tech. There are many ways to have a back-up system, each with its own strengths. Have a second iPad, a printed version, a core word board on your keychain. Remember also that an AAC system is often multimodal, more than one specific device. My daughter uses modified signs, partner-assisted scanning, word approximations, and her iPad device. Different environments require different pieces of her system; we plan accordingly.

Straps, harnesses, and more. Every device in our classroom has an attached strap. The use of straps, carrying bags (Chat Bag), or harnesses (Jabber Jas, Safe N Sound) is an individual decision. It also can change over time. Those are the most common ways to carry systems but we’ve also used a classroom cart. Be creative! I find that having some sort of carrying mechanism makes it easier to transition a device — especially if there are multiple systems in a classroom.

young girl in a stroller holding her AAC system in her lap while she participates in miniature golf

Eliminate fear. Fear of breaking tends to be one of the reasons that systems get left at home or on tables. We match students carefully to the best case and carrying system for their needs. We’ve matched students to water-resistant cases when they liked to pour fluids. We’ve matched students to cases with attached oral-motor chews when the case was bite-tempting. We’ve doubled up screen protectors. We’ve placed systems inside Ziploc bags. We’ve printed on iGage or TerraSlate paper. We also always make sure to have a warranty or AppleCare Plus.

Have you tried any of these strategies? Are there other strategies that you would recommend?

Dear teachers, we can do better.

I have had some heart-breaking meetings and phone calls with families. They almost always involve sharing experiences that they find normal, but completely wrench me open.

Example: Families surprised by compliments and celebrations of their child.

Oh, teachers and staff members, think about what you say before you say it. Think about what message you are giving to the children you serve when criticism is followed by criticism by another criticism. Please, please, please start sharing more of the good with families. Even more important: start sharing it with your students. No one should ever be surprised that there is good news. It can be small, it can be big, it can be anything, but it’s there. Tell them about the gifts and talents you see, about their hard work, about the gains they make each week. And I promise: every single child has them. Every single one.

Example: Families surprised by staff who speak directly to their child.

When you meet a child for the first time, say hello to them. When you ask “how are you?” and “what do you like?”, say it too them. Do they use an alternative communication system? You can still speak to them. Do they not have a communication system yet? You can still speak to them. How hard is it to say, “Good morning! I hope that you had a wonderful weekend!” directly to a child? It’s not. How hard is it to say, “You seem so sad. I’m sorry you’re having a hard time” directly to a child? It’s not. Do it.

Example: Families excited by discovering that all kids participate in class photographs, graduation, school plays, field days, music concerts, or electives. 

This is their school too. Special education students are not guests. They are community members. It shouldn’t be a fight to gain access to these things. They should be so automatic that no one would ever think of it being any other way. I get that there is a spectrum of options, that least restrictive environment means a lot of things. I have a son that has advocated for himself to have more or less time in a self-contained environment over the years. But his school has always, always ensured that he was in every PTA concert, that he was in every field day, that his picture was always with his general education classmates in the yearbook, that he was seen as a member of that community. When life was hard, that sense of belonging meant everything to him (and to us). It matters. Oh, how it matters.

Folx — these things should be foundational to our practice. These shouldn’t be things that families move across districts and states to find. These aren’t things that are hard to do, but they mean everything. They mean everything to the students we teach, who deserve respect and access to a robust education. They mean everything to their families, who need to see all that is possible. And they can mean everything for us, as we see our practice, our schools, and our communities transform to become places where all children are seen, welcomed, and celebrated.

We can do better.