We don’t need to get physical.

white background with black text reading "no means no"... the o is a red "not" sign.
Bear with me, because what I am about to say cause you to feel defensive or want to click away. Please keep reading.

We overuse physical prompts and support in special education, and we are setting up our students to be hurt in their lives.

Whatttttt? Hurt?

Yes. Hurt.

One in three children who receive special education services are victims of neglect, physical abuse, or sexual abuse — compared to one in 10 non-disabled peers. They are 3.44 times more likely to be the victim of abuse compared to children without disabilities (Sullivan & Knutson, 2000). 3.44 times! And it is likely that these are underestimates, as children with disabilities may have difficulty reporting (or having their reports believed).

How does physical prompting play into this?

We are teaching our students that it is okay for someone to manipulate their body. We often teach something even more significant — that they cannot say no. When they fall on the floor and we force them up, we are teaching them that they cannot say no. When we force their hands under the running water in the sink, we are teaching them that they cannot say no. When they say “cookie” but we make them say “eat”, we are teaching them that they cannot say no and that their voice doesn’t matter.

I know it’s not the intention. But it is the impact.

I get it. I’ve made this mistake in the past. I’ve had moments that make me cringe as I’ve grown and matured in my understanding of teaching and supporting the kids I so adore. We think that we’re helping. We’re taught this in graduate school. We’re taught this by our children’s therapists. We didn’t know.

Now we do — and now we can do better.

It is possible, I promise. I teach ten preschoolers with disabilities every day with minimal physical prompting. I parent two children with disabilities every day with minimal physical prompting. It’s a journey, but it’s a journey that is absolutely worth it as you teach some of the most important life lessons: autonomy and consent.

How do we start?

Start by noticing. Notice the little ways that you use touch throughout the day. Notice when your child or student might be pulling away. Notice when you accidentally speak over instead of working with. It’s not about shame. It’s about mindfulness. It’s about noticing the ways that we, too, have been indoctrinated by a culture that expects compliance from children (and especially from children with disabilities). Notice when your hands begin to move before your brain even notices.

And then start to do things differently. Below are some steps to moving away from physical prompts and towards a different way of interacting. Your children and students will appreciate the respect for their individuality. They will thrive on having their voice heard and recognized. And you will uncover so much more learning, so much more personality, so much more of THEM when you take the chance to step back. I think you’ll like the change.

Ask yourself: what is this child communicating to me?

  • This is too easy / hard / boring.
  • I am not ready / I need more time / I need a break from this.
  • I don’t understand the expectation.
  • I don’t feel well.

When we find the same scenario popping up multiple times a day or week, we need to do some problem solving with the child or student. We can often minimize the need for prompting when we determine what the child is communicating through their actions, whether it’s disengaging from an activity or refusing a transition. There’s always a reason. When we address the reason, we often find that our students no longer need to complain or protest with their bodies.

Ask yourself: is this necessary?

It’s amazing how many times we think we need to do more — but we don’t. I think here about the student who has exercised their right to protest by laying on the floor instead of transitioning. The instinct by most is to pick this student up and force them to walk to the next location. But why? Are they being hurt? Are they hurting someone else? Is there absolutely no way to create safety by relocating peers / furniture / adults? That is the only time where I find it absolutely necessary to intervene in some sort of physical way (such as blocking a student from hitting themselves in the head). There’s a dozen other ways to respond — first and foremost, wait.

Yep, wait. We can wait for our students to re-regulate, offering supports or strategies for regulation when appropriate. We can make sure we stay regulated! And then address the situation together. Maybe we use one of the strategies below. Maybe we all just needed to offer more time to regulate. Maybe we can talk through it together when we are both calm and regulated, such as reminding a student that we take the bus to see mama.

Offer choices.

We all want choices in our lives. We all want to feel in control. There’s a difference between a lunch someone orders for you, and a lunch that you choose for yourself. Going to a party because you want to, or because someone else dragged you. Think of all the choices that you make on a daily basis. Think about the number of real, meaningful choices that your students or child gets to make on a daily basis. It’s often pretty insignificant. We need to offer more choices all day long. But we especially need to offer more choices before activities that have frequently served as triggers in the past.

An example: I once had a student who disliked the transition to the bus. It’s a hard transition. There’s a lot happening, and the bus ride can feel very long when all you want is your mama. We’ve struggled with making it out the door in the past. We didn’t really know what to do. We didn’t want to force him through the door, even if it was just through an adult holding each hand. It’s a bit much. But we also know that he needed to be on the bus and that, for once, there was a time limit. We can’t wait for the bus for 45 minutes. You’d be amazed at the simple solution that made all the difference: asking this student if he would like to wear his backpack, carry his backpack, or have help with his backpack. This small choice gave him a sense of control. It also meant that he could tell us what his sensory system could handle each day. Some days the feel of the heavy backpack helped him feel grounded. Other days, it was just too much. That tiny change has meant no tears and eagerly hurrying to get to the bus (and eventually mama).

Moral of the story: notice where you can offer choices, instead of telling what to do, how to do, when to do. Don’t be afraid about sharing control with your students. It’s often one of those antithetical ideas: the more you give away, the more you have.

Use other prompts.

There is a whole TON of other prompts available for teaching. We can use facial expressions, such as the “expectant waiting” face. We can talk to students. We can ask questions. We can give directions. We can show pictures. We can use video. We can point to different elements. We can use pointers and lasers and visual cover-ups. We can do it ourselves while they watch. We can start the process and then hand it over to them. Basically: don’t forget about all the other prompts that are available to you. Physical prompting is fast and it is easy, but that doesn’t mean it’s best. It’s rarely best.

Use assistive technology.

We are so lucky to live and teach in the 21st century. There are so many ways to accommodate our students. The one that most often comes to mind is the use of visual supports. We can use visuals to show each step of the process to complete an activity. We can use visuals to tell students what is happening, when it is happening, and where it is happening. We can use video to capture students doing the task, or showing their peers doing the task.

We can also use accommodations to create alternatives to the task, or modifying the task in some way. If a student regularly needs physical prompting to pull up their pants, maybe a different style of pants is going to allow them to be independent. If a student has difficulty locating a button on their talker, maybe a keyguard or even just a little sticker on the screen protector will guide them. If a student cannot touch one item at a time to count with cars and blocks, maybe they practice their counting with touch screens or focus on subitizing. This is an opportunity for endless creativity — and teamwork. Call on your instructional assistants, assistive tech teams, and related service providers! It’s amazing what we can come up with when we work together.

Emphasize consent. 

Always, always remember that a student has a right to say no.

There are still times when we use physical prompting in our class, primarily when teaching a new motor skill. Please remember that many — most — students do not need that physical support even with these skills. But some students struggle significantly with apraxia or other motor difficulties that benefit from some support. I think about my daughter, who benefits from physical support to find words on her talker the first few times she tries them. She cannot see the words very clearly, nor can she see our modeling. She needs us to show her.

But we do so cautiously. We ask — “Can I help you?” Yes, I literally ask my daughter this. I ask my students this. I give them the chance to give consent, or to say no. Even if they cannot verbalize consent, I hold my hand out without grabbing them. Do they put their hand on mine? Do they pull away? And they always should be allowed to pull away.

If they agree to have support, then I offer that support by hand-under-hand. It’s less intrusive, because they can more easily pull away at any moment. Because that’s the thing about consent — it’s an ongoing process. It’s not one and done. By placing my hand under theirs, it is easy for them to pull up and away. It is easy for them to decide to hit a different button on their talker. And they always should be allowed to.

(I know I sound like a skipping CD, stuck on repeat. But it’s a lesson that simply isn’t emphasized enough for our kids, and one that needs to be drilled into our heads. They are allowed to say no. They are allowed to refuse. They are allowed to pull away, walk away, however they convey the idea of NO. They are allowed to say no.)

I think of it as if I was taking lessons to swing a golf club. The trainer may assist me by providing physical support to feel what a swing should be. But notice: the trainer is going to ask me if they can support me. And if I decide, mid-swing, this isn’t working for me and walk away — they are going to let me. The trainer is not going to chase me around the golf course, trying to grab my hands and arms. It sounds ridiculous, yet so often we do exactly that.

Really, though, that’s what it comes down to… How would we want to be taught? What would we want for our own children, or for ourselves? We are caretakers of our children and our student’s trust. We must continuously live up to that. This is one of the most important ways.

 

 

Sullivan, P. & Knutson, J. (2000). Maltreatment and disabilities: A population-based epidemiological study. Child Abuse & Neglect, 24 (10), 1257-1273.

What is play?

perfect lines of large alphabet letters in red, blue, and green, sitting on a blue rug
I have really strongly moved away from writing an IEP goal for “play”. What do I mean? I mean things like this:

  • Play functionally with X number of toys for X minutes
  • Engage in cooperative pretend play for X number of minutes
  • Appropriately play with XYZ toys

Basically, anything that includes “functional” and “appropriate” and dictates HOW a child should play. Because that’s not play.

Play is, by definition, self-directed and for the purpose of joy. It is not what someone else thinks we should be doing. It is not for some practical purpose. It is not limited to one (neurotypical) way of interacting with materials.

Lining up trains is play.

Stacking and knocking down blocks repeatedly is play.

Waving a ribbon is play.

Filling and dumping a cup of rice, creating L’s out of Legos to stack on the corners of tables, jumping on a trampoline, sitting by yourself to examine letters for extended periods, linking little cars and big cars by yarn, sticking glow sticks in any spot you can find… It’s all play.

What is the purpose of forcing a child’s play to become something other than it is? To become “normal” and “functional”? (Who defines functional, by the way?) What do we think we are teaching? And what is the child learning?

I don’t know that I can answer “what we think we’re teaching”. I’m really not sure. Because everything I think is important can be taught and experienced through the child’s own play: curiosity, exploration, creativity, shared enjoyment, communicating your likes and dislikes, learning about the world… Imitation, language, and academic skills can all be modeled and experienced without forcing the child to switch from play to work. Because play done in a specific way with specific materials is work. So I’m not sure what the answer to that is.

But I do know what the child is learning: that the things they find enjoyable are not okay. That there is one way of being in the world, and they do not know it. That being themselves is not okay.

Do I think that most professionals or families have the intent to teach this? No. Do I think most students and children are learning that anyways? Yes.

It comes back to this: we need to re-think what skills we are teaching and why. There are often other ways to get at what’s important, ways that don’t involve shutting down a child’s unique way of being in the world. Dig deeper. Ask yourself: what am I really trying to get at? What’s actually important in this moment? How can our classroom environment be changed to better accommodate this need? How can we teach peers and ourselves to better accommodate this need or celebrate this difference?

Different doesn’t mean wrong. Different doesn’t mean it must be changed. Different just means different.

 

 

 

This is part two in a series on selecting what’s important in our special education classrooms. Check out the first post here. Future posts will selecting target goals and teaching social skills as a form of code-switching.

Selecting skills: But why does it matter?

blue Thomas train leading a line of toys that includes a broom... a shoe-less foot is peeking in to the edge of the frame.When people enter my classroom, they are sometimes confused. There is a lot that looks different from a typical classroom. A quarter of our room is filled with things that one would typically see outside: ride-along trains, cars, slides. Half of my class spends their days without socks or shoes. If we are in a large group setting, students may be seated at the table. They may also be doing something else in the back of the room, pacing near to the large group, or coming back and forth from the table. Independent work happens on the floor, standing at the table, in rocking chairs, next to squeeze machines. Students engaged in child-directed play may be stacking, lining up items, or scripting. Not only that, but you’ll find classroom staff delighting in these things, expressing joy right alongside the students.

People see this and think that I am permissive and lenient, that I don’t believe in my students, or that I am not teaching them.

Yet — I get good outcomes. Scratch that — I get great outcomes. My students master their IEP goals. My students develop a ‘functional communication system’. Their self-injury, aggression, and meltdowns disappear over time. They learn to tell someone no, to be more independent, and build relationships in ways that honor and support their needs & desires. My families are very happy with the learning that happens in our room, sometimes the first big progress that a student has made. My students and families trust me, which is even more important.

And this doesn’t happen in spite of the environment, but because of the environment.

My classroom environment respects neurodiversity. My classroom expectations respect neurodiversity.

Whenever we set an expectation in my classroom, I ask myself: but why is this the expectation? When we choose a skill to target for instruction: but why are we selecting this skill? I don’t just accept my first answer, but dive deep into it. Where did this expectation come from? Is it necessary for safety? Is it necessary for learning? Is there an alternate way?

Let’s take a look at wearing shoes in the classroom. Why do we insist on this? Is it because this is what we are familiar with? This is what the neurotypical students do? What reason would we have for pushing shoes all day? Is it necessary for safety? No. Students put their shoes on to leave the classroom. They put their shoes on for the playground. But in the classroom, it is not necessary to wear shoes in order to be safe. Is it necessary for learning? No, and I would argue that it is actually counterproductive to learning. If you’ve ever had an unmet sensory need, you would know what I mean. It can be one of the most distressing and distracting experiences, causing pain and discomfort for the entire time that it is unmet. I want my students to learn. This means meeting their sensory needs.

Similarly, with large groups — why do we believe that students can only learn or learn best when seated together in a group at the table or the carpet? Can the student hear my instruction when they are pacing behind our group? Almost certainly, and possibly better than they can when seated. Can they add to the conversation or take their turn with the materials even though they had to leave for several minutes and then return?

I don’t insist on greetings and closings when entering and leaving the classroom, much less eye contact. I make sure that I greet each of my arriving students with warmth and affection in a way that works for their personalities and needs. But they don’t have to return that greeting. They don’t have to look me in the eye. They don’t have to say hello or good morning or good-bye. Once again — is it necessary for me to insist they greet us? Does it have to look a certain way? What purpose does that serve? Why do we do it? If the answer is, in any shape or form, “because that’s what neurotypical children do”, then we need to step back and ask ourselves if that’s enough for something to be necessary. It usually isn’t. Instead, we can create a classroom environment that allows for and recognizes a much wider display of “what something looks like”. We can recognize as valid and beautiful the many different forms there are to acknowledge someone’s presence (e.g., what a greeting is). We can recognize that some days, students may need time and space upon entering the room. We can recognize that people move through the world differently. It’s not only okay, but beautiful and essential.

It’s not that I don’t hold high expectations for my students. We engage in real reading, real work with letters, and real writing. We learn about numbers, geometry, and measurement. We explore patterns. We do science experiments. We create art. We participate in teacher-directed activities. We work really hard every single moment of the day on speaking and listening. We are safe with our bodies and our friends.

It’s that I recognize that our world is better when our world recognizes that validity and importance of different ways of being in the world. And that is why we do as well as we do.

 

This is part one in a series on selecting what’s important in our special education classrooms. Future posts will feature conversation on play, selecting target goals, and teaching social skills as a form of code-switching.

Our students need MORE, not less.

Students who receive special education services need more supports. The type of support they need varies — maybe they need instructional support, maybe lots of accommodations, maybe assistive technology… But, generally, an IEP is a layering on of the structures and supports that a student will need in order to access their education and make progress on their goals.

However, the reality sometimes is that our students end up with less, not more. It often doesn’t happen intentionally. It happens because we worry for our students. It happens because of outside pressure by organizations that promote discrete trial teaching. It happens for the same reasons that general education teachers “teach to the test” — because we want the best for our students.

Still, sometimes we aren’t providing the best. Sometimes we are unintentionally causing our students to fall further and further behind. It can be hard to hear that. It was for me. It still is. But, because we love our students, we have to hear it. And then we can be better, do better. Because we want to. For those students.

One of the mistakes that we make is that we remove the content — the math facts, the letter sounds, the historical timeline — from the context. We drill those addition facts every day, but we forget to spend the time we need just manipulating objects, exploring sets, and making sense of numbers. We practice sight words, but we don’t read chapter books aloud every day to our students. I know these things happen. My own children have experienced them. I’ve totally made the mistake of working on receptive language through pictures at a table, disconnected from what we are doing in blocks or pretend play.

But our students have the same right to a rich, meaningful curriculum. They deserve to learn the meaning of “wet” through puddle-splashing, sink or float experiments, and reading books about the weather — not just through a picture in an array of eight. They need to learn more than just facts about the Civil War. They need to read the newspapers, debate the pro’s and con’s to various Reconstruction policies, and see the way those choices still impact our country to this day. Does this mean that we leave our own students to flounder in a too big, too much classroom or curriculum? No. We still accommodate, we modify, we do what we need to do. We just always keep the context in mind. We keep the why of learning. We keep the love of learning. This is how our students build mental maps, expand their schema. This is how they learn to research, to think critically, to solve problems, and communicate their knowledge. Those things are important for all of our students, whether they use single words on a communication device or write beautiful essays by hand.

Another common mistake that I see is less time on instruction, less time engaged. Even the research comparing general education to special education finds that students are less engaged in special education classrooms. This remains true even when students are matched in their skill and need from one environment to the other. We need to ask ourselves: Are we providing access to all five components of literacy instruction? Are we teaching more than just math facts? What are our general education peers doing during their days? And how can we bring that same level of engagement?

Exhibit A: “Fun Friday”, anyone? Does this mean all Fun Friday activities are inherently wrong? Nope! I’ve seen some amazing Fun Friday activities, with rich instruction in literacy and mathematics, with dozens of opportunities for collaboration and communication. One teacher at my school has these amazingly planned cooking lessons that everyone in the school wishes they could do. But I’ve also seen students get coloring sheets in 5th grade, watch movies, and generally be involved in less education. If it doesn’t happen on Fun Friday, it might happen after lunch or after morning work time. I get that students need breaks. I get that students need time to move their bodies. But I also get that our students are struggling — and providing 20% less instructional time is not going to help them gain the skills they need.

There are other ways to meet those movement or social skill needs. We can read books and re-tell the story through acting, singing, and dancing. We can do more hands-on, moving around activities throughout the day. We can look for games, apps, and projects that build number sense, spatial relationships, and turn-taking between peers. I know we can because I see it happen. I’ve seen brilliant activities that connect math to real life in both general and special education. My son’s general education fifth grade class just hosted a market where everyone learned about economics through designing and selling products. There’s so much room for individualization in projects like these, so many ways to target IEP skills, provide a richness of context, and still have those super fun Fridays.

I’ve failed at this before. I know I will fail again. But failure here isn’t about shame or blame… It’s about thinking what we can do better. It’s looking at my schedule, realizing that I want my students to have more time in stories. I see what I can do. I change what I can. Because there’s always room for growth in this journey. Always. And I want to provide more, not less.

The Cost of “Normal”, or Why Acceptance Matters

I have debated writing this entry for a couple of weeks — for any number of reasons. It’s raw, deeply vulnerable. And in putting this rawness out into the world, I risk so much. I risk people telling me that I’m wrong, that I don’t know myself, that my lived experience doesn’t matter. It’s too high, too verbal, too wordy, too much this, or too much that. I risk the cuts that come a thousand times over in life, the ones that will surely come from people who think they know me… But have only known the masks I have worn early and often. I risk the anger of those who uphold stereotypes, who push ableism both subtle and obvious, who create little boxes that only further systems of oppression. 

And yet — it is an essential risk, a jump that I must take, this long and wordy essay, because I think there is also value here, for those open to receiving it. There has certainly been value to myself.

I have been different since… always. I was a toddler who read books, real books, who loved grammar and phonics rules more than toys, who recited lines from The Little Mermaid many times over, who needed my schedule to be exactly right, my 4:30pm He-Man and exactly 3 items for dinner. No more, no less, or it wasn’t dinner. The end. 

I became a child who cried for an entire day when she lost the school spelling bee, even though I was just six, because spelling, words, letters — they all mattered that much to me. I got in trouble for interrupting teachers, for correcting them, for not following the social rules of the classroom — on every. single. report. card. Grade 1 through 12. I ate little of the foods my family prepared, choking down a bite here or there, sticking mostly to deli meat and chicken nuggets, over and over. Not one single vegetable, not one, and not that many fruits then either. I remember crying if someone didn’t use separate knives for the peanut butter and jelly. I had to sit a certain way, in a certain seat, still do. Clothing bugged me. Hair bugged me. Shoes bugged me. Socks? That was NEVER going to happen. 

My reciprocal friendships were limited, one or two who always left when they found other friendships to be more satisfying. I had exactly one birthday party with multiple peers of my age in elementary school. And it ended with me on the outside, always on the outside, as they played truth & dare, as they pranked me, as they mocked me, at my own party. I don’t think I had a friendship last more than a couple months, maybe a year, until late middle school. I rarely went to others’ houses, not even family. I wanted to be at home, where things were comfortable and familiar and routine. My home, my grandparents’ home, and that was it. I remember attempting to stay at my great grandparents and having to be picked up because I could not sobbing over my need to be. at. home. 

I remember these instructions, over, and over, and over: stop spinning, stop rocking, stop making those random noises… stop incessant interrupting… stop the endless talking about my interests… dress differently, more “together”, more “girl”. Remember to shower. Remember to brush your teeth. Be more social. Do more things. One of my closer friends at the time was certain that there was something wrong with me, in the way that I needed to line things up, the way I needed things to be the same, to the point where she even said something to my family. Teachers, too. Counselors. Many over the years. But it was clear that I was not ADHD, the most common childhood diagnosis at the time. And so, I continued on, no diagnosis, just “quirky” and “odd” and “weird” — depending on who was doing the labeling.

But I am not angry at my family, my friends, my teachers. They did the best they could in a time when people didn’t understand. Indeed, they did better than most, in allowing me my endless escape into novels, buying more items for my Titanic collections, and encouraging all of the alone time in the woods and trees that I needed. They recorded my favorite shows on VHS so that I could watch them over and over. They helped me find the exact soft pants that I needed and bought multiple pairs. But these things are not enough, not when an entire culture — your entire school — is telling you constantly that you are weird, you are odd, you are not good enough. 

And so, like many others, I learned to fake it. I faked it hard in high school. Instead of being the girl who always reads and stays at home, I was the girl that was involved in everything. I was the girl who talked and talked to everyone. I studied other people. I talked myself through all the rules that my family uttered, through all the things I saw other people do. I reminded myself to look at people, to say hello to people, to laugh when everyone else is laughing. I wore the clothes that my mom picked out for me for as many days as I could (before returning to literal pajama pants and flip-flops). I pushed myself to go to youth groups, to go to football games, to sign up join do do do! 

And all of that fitting in, all of that masking — it came at a cost. A deep and treacherous cost. There is a depth of lonely aching, of being certain that there is something innately wrong with you. That you must be selfish, self-centered, egotistical, to not be able to understand all of these rules. That there is something wrong with your need to rock, to stim, to make noises. That you must be unlovable. There is an exhaustion that cuts to the very bones of your being when your day is spent pretending to be someone that you are not. It is an exhaustion that takes everything, everything from you, and leaves nothing but gaping holes. It is a cost that left me laying on the bathroom floor, too many nights to count, with tears streaming down my face. Silent, racking sobs. Gasping for air, gasping for life. I remember sitting there on that cold tile floor and wishing that I could die. Considering how I could die. Wondering what would happen if I were to die. Thinking that, whatever it was, it would be okay, because at least I wouldn’t be alive. And it was an entirely preventable depression, one that I’ve only recently learned to connect to all that painful masking. 

Because there are only two other times in my life that I felt that incredibly low. The second was in my early 20’s, when I joined a staff at a school that was filled with similar aged young women. Except I don’t have many shared interests with a neurotypical same-age woman, as if that wasn’t clear already. I didn’t want to go out for drinks, or dinner, or any of those things. I just wanted to talk about teaching. I wanted to belong, but I wanted to belong as me. And I didn’t. I couldn’t. My passion for the last 13 years has been my students, and everything classroom. I collect information about teaching the way others collect subway maps or Lego models; I wanted to talk about that information always. It was my everything. And I was mocked. I was told, again, that I only ever want to talk about one thing. So I tried to be different… To hide who I am. To go get a coffee. To small talk and chit-chat and have lunch with my colleagues. And instead of feeling as if I belonged, I felt misery. That aching, haunting feeling swept back into my life. 

Again, that third time — I took a job as a coordinator, thinking that this was a job where I was supposed to talk about my passion with others. Guess what? It’s not. Coordinating is all about social skills, small talk, and “leadership skills” that get staff buy-in. I fell apart. Every day, all of my spoons were used up by noon, between phone calls and favors and meetings and persuasion and trying so hard to be “normal” and social and follow all the rules that make good leaders.  I don’t think my husband had ever fully seen me that way, so lonely and lost. I hope that I never enter that place again. 

You may be wondering — how in the world does this relate to being a teaching unicorn?

Because you must understand the cost. You must understand that the cost of masking, of faking it, of being someone other than you are — the cost is nothing less than laying on that floor and wanting to die. It is nothing less than feeling as if you will never belong, as if you will never be loved, as if you are worth less than dirt. I’ve lived through trauma, through physical abuse, and none of that abuse brought me as low as those months of masking did. Every time. It is trauma. It is a trauma that cuts to the very essence of someone’s being. 

You must understand what you are asking your students when you ask them to be neurotypical, whether their neurodiversity stems from autism, intellectual disability, or mental illness.

You are asking them to give up everything.
To leave behind who they are. 

To leave behind everything that makes them who they are. 

To become empty in pursuit of “normal”.

It is never worth the cost. It doesn’t matter how great they get at masking, whether they pull off a 4.0 GPA and a smile while doing it. They will be dying on the inside. 

This is why the world must change, not our students, not ourselves. Because we are all worth of love and belonging. But we are worthy of that belonging right now, as we are. Every day, we make a choice. Will our teaching uphold systems of oppression, or will it teach our students that they belong? Will the subtle things we say — the things we think we say with love — support them or cut them? The goals that we select? The curriculum we use? The ways we teach? We are teaching so much more than a skill. We promote acceptance or we promote trauma. It is that simple. 

I know I’ve made mistakes. I’ve made the wrong choices. I am sure that I have accidentally bought that pain to my students over the last decade, and I mourn for any and every time I may have. I use that mourning to do better. Because I never, ever want to be the reason that a child cries alone on the bathroom floor. 

P.S. I do feel like I should add a little note of gratitude to one particular high school friend, who knows who she is, one of my only lasting friends, who always accepted me and my Harry Potter obsession exactly as I am, who always will.

Special Education: What We Do

I think sometimes there are these vague mysteries around what a special education teacher does. That this job is about having patience. Or at least that is what we most often get told — that we must have lots of patience, or that “you must be an angel” (which usually also implies patience). I guess you need to have a lot of patience, though I’ll say I have a lot of patience for my amazing students and very little for the people who call me an angel.

Our job does not require being an angel. It does require skill, talent, and careful planning. Much of our culture underestimates what teachers do every day, so it comes as no surprise that special education is also underestimated. But I think we need to fight back against this. We need to fight back against this so that our profession — and our public schools — get the respect that they deserve. The funding they deserve. We need to clarify our roles so that people don’t enter the profession half-heartedly or willy-nilly.

All that being said, here’s a preview of what I do over the course of the week.

Teaching – This teaching time could be leading a whole group activity, supporting two students to engage in shared use of materials, or targeting individual goals in a 1:1 teaching session. It could be painting, building, counting, or reading with students. It’s not baby-sitting. It’s skillful implementation of all the other things on this list, dozens of things happening simultaneously. It is interacting, relationship-building, scaffolding. It’s not time at a desk. That doesn’t exist in my particular setting.

Important: I am with students from the moment that I arrive at school until the students are on the bus. Yes, all the moments. When I taught in another state, I did have a 50 minute prep period and a 50 minute lunch. However, not every city / district / state has those types of regulations built in. So, sometimes that means that educators are with children for every moment of the day. We still have the same amount of paperwork and responsibilities, which means we do them outside of school hours. .

Behavior Support – Special education teachers may be responsible for both class-wide systems and for designing individual support systems. I want to be clear – I’m not talking about color clip charts here. The greatest teachers are not relying on that type of system. I’m talking about systems for social-emotional skill regulation, sensory integration, and skill development. Rules, values, expectations. And the necessary instruction & accommodations to be able to meet them.

Staff Support – We coordinate schedules, instruction, and accommodations between any number of staff and therapy providers. We teach instructional staff about our students and their IEPs. We train assistants or paraprofessionals on implementation of a behavior plan or an accommodation. We model and provide cues on how to teach a target skill, as well as how to collect data on that skill. We provide training on evidence based practices, such as visual supports, prompting, or reinforcement. We do this on the job, after school hours, via email, via instructional plans, or any number of ways.

Lesson Plans – Guess what? We still align our instruction to the state standards. Like all teachers, we design units and daily activities to meet those standards. We use universal design and/or differentiate so all students can access the materials, whether or not they are “on grade level”. We then create individual plans to target IEP goals and objectives. Incidental teaching or direct instruction? What kind of materials will we need? How many opportunities daily? What kind of prompting? How will we ensure that this skill is generalized and usable by the student in their daily lives? How will this be assessed? How often? This IEP instruction does not replace the grade-level curriculum. Our students access both. It’s the law.

Assessment – There are so many levels of assessment. We assess our students at the beginning of the year, of a unit, of a new skill. We assess their ongoing skill gain on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis through “formative assessments”. We check in on the way they are mastering the grade-level material, sometimes with accommodations or modifications. We complete progress reports several times a year on whether they are making sufficient progress towards their IEP goals. We complete bigger assessments for IEPs and eligibilities and sometimes just because they’re needed. I personally take data on every student’s IEP goals every single day. I can’t wait until half of a month — or half f a quarter — has gone by to course correct. We graph that data at the end of every week. We review whether students are making progress towards their goals based on visual analysis every 2-4 weeks. We change our instruction based on that feedback. I don’t teach to the void, hoping my students pick up something that I drop. I use that data, whether it’s numbers or qualitative notes or digital portfolios, to change my teaching. Because there is almost always something that we can do better.

Accommodations – We ensure that students’ accommodations are implemented across their day, whether it’s in the classroom or in the gym or transitioning from the bus to the classroom. Accommodations can vary as much as the kids that we teach, but might include things like: visual schedules, visual directions, wait time, pre-teaching, additional time on tests, communication devices, modified seating, simplified directions, on and on and on. And if those accommodations require teacher-made materials? We are the ones who are making them.

Communication Systems – Sometimes our students need additional support to communicate. We work with speech therapists that serve our students to assess which systems might be best, trial these systems during the day, and then provide ongoing instruction and support. We might do programming of additional needed vocabulary words, provide parent training, or help instructional staff understand how to use them throughout the day. We always, always make sure our students have their talkers with them.

Note:  I feel like this is one of the paragraphs that needs a caveat — the unfortunate experience of many families is that this is missing. But it’s up to us to change that. We can do better. We can make sure every child has a voice. We can ensure that their voice is both available and respected. This is why it’s important to detail all the things that we get right. We can then challenge ourselves and our colleagues to continue to raise the bar. And hopefully inspire the wider world to see us as the processionals we are, who deserve professional wages and respect.

Materials – Oh my gosh, the materials. The lamination paper, the velcro, the color ink on my home printer. The clipboards, the data sheets, the manipulatives… We’ve got to find it, prep it, organize it, store it. Clean it!

Cleaning – Yep, we clean. We clean tables. We sweep floors. We bag up trash. We wash dishes and cups and silverware. We wipe down changing tables. We help clean up bodily fluids. We do what we need to ensure that our students have a clean and safe environment all day long.

Family Communication – We communicate with families in a wide variety of ways, depending on what our students need. My students are early communicators, and it can be difficult to reflect or share their day with their families. After school, I send videos, pictures, notes, and stories to families so that they can see what their student is doing each day. I respond to questions and emails that pop up throughout the week. Other people send home daily notes, write in agendas, send emails, or call. There’s a wide variety, but generally we need to touch base with families more often than some teachers due to the difficulty our students may have in sharing their days themselves.

Paperwork – Wow, paperwork! And there is so much more than just the IEP, ESY IEP, and eligibility paperwork. I’m just going to list some: IEP-at-a-glance sheets, caseload management forms, interpreter requests, releases of information, transportation requests, consultation requests, referrals for evaluations, consent for evaluations, therapy notes, data sheets, assistive technology need documentation, medical needs documentation, ESY planning forms, communication logs, reinforcer surveys or assessments, intervention records, and general classroom documentation needs.

Spending Money – I spent a lot of money on my classroom. People are generally shocked when they hear the amount that I spend each year. But when I started, my classroom had a couple of tables, bookshelves that blocked line of sight for preschoolers, and some chairs. We were given some cast-off toys from other preschools so that we could get started. And we did have a pretty awesome alphabet rug! Over the years, I’ve transformed our room into a thing of beauty, a place that we all want to be in every single day. We have a squeeze machine, a crash pad, giant building blocks, a rich and diverse library, toddler-size bookshelves, and so much more. It doesn’t come free, and our school budgets are constantly strapped. Education has not been a priority for our national system for far too long, especially public education. I donate when I can, what I can. I have friends who help out. And I’m not the only one — the average teacher spends $500 out of pocket every year. I buy books. I buy more books to replace the ripped and chewed books. I buy toys to replace the broken toys. I buy chewelry. I buy lamination paper, velcro, tear-resistant paper, clipboards, iPad apps, Chlorox wipes, and about a million more things.

School Stuff – And then there’s all the school stuff we have to do. Attendance, email, faculty meetings, department meetings, team meetings, school events, school spirit, collaboration with colleagues, beautifying the environment. Hanging artwork, writing about the skills we’ve taught, sharing lessons. It’s a beautiful thing when a school works together to create a space that is designed for kids. I’m lucky enough to be at such a school.

Research  / PD – Teachers generally have to do a certain number of hours to renew their certification, but most of us do more than that. We read books, find research articles, follow blogs, and generally find ways to continue up our game. I have colleagues who volunteer at DonorsChoose to help other teachers, or who turn-key important information from science and social studies conferences to the larger school community. I have friends who moderate Facebook groups that challenge practitioners to grow in our understanding of children with complex needs. Very few of us are not giving back to the teaching community or seeking out new knowledge on a regular basis.

Caring – I left this one for last, because we all know it’s the most important. Learning happens through relationship. Learning happens when kids feel safe and loved. The public trusts us with these precious souls for 8-9 hours every day. I know what a privilege and honor this is. I promise to never take it light.