The right to NOT talk.

image of an iPad screen with a grid of icons for voice output. the message bar reads: "I don't want to! Grumpy"We all have times where talking is not happening. We ignore questions. We don’t answer the phone. We flat out tell others that we don’t want to talk. Some of us have times where we simply cannot talk; I’ve had many conversations with my husband via text message. At other times, we may want to talk — just not about the subject at hand. Our partner may ask if we want hamburgers or grilled cheese for dinner, but we answer with complaints about something that happened earlier during work.

Yet, this is forgotten or completely thrown out the window when it comes to the students that we serve (and children, generally, in our compliance-driven society).

We ask students what they want (often within limits). If they begin talking about something else, then we take it as proof that they weren’t listening, that they don’t understand, or that they don’t have the ability to answer. They talk about Diego, because it’s their all-time favorite, and we say they “perseverate” or “only know one word”. They don’t use their talker on demand, and it’s written off as “inappropriate” or “not being used” or “they don’t know how to do it” or “too much”.

We need to ask ourselves: what is our goal? Is our goal for students to say what we want when they want? Or is our goal for student’s to have a voice? Because a voice means they get to say what they want when they want.

A voice means being able to talk about your passions, whether they are Diego or the alphabet or worms. A voice means being able to change the topic, interrupt, or ask for something that wasn’t on the menu.

A voice also means being able to NOT talk.

It means that I don’t have to answer your questions  — not when you want me to, and maybe not at all.

It means that I can go hours without talking, or days, or whatever, because it’s my voice and I can use it when and how I want it. I can be silent, and I won’t have people then try to take my voice away.

Autonomy isn’t autonomy if it’s only allowed at the convenience of adults and professionals in students’ lives. A voice isn’t a voice unless we grant the full range of freedom — freedom to use, but freedom to not use as well.

Silence is okay.

Silence doesn’t mean “doesn’t know”.

Silence doesn’t mean “doesn’t need”.

Silence certainly doesn’t mean “take my voice from me”.

Silence is just that — silence. And everyone has the right to it.

Things We Can Retire: “Developmental age”

First and foremost, let’s remember that words matter. It’s not semantics. Words set the foundation for how people view our children. They create a framework of expectations and support services. They need to be carefully chosen, words selected to affirm and uplift individual’s humanity and right to respect. It’s why we don’t use the r-word and why the autistic community chooses identity-first language. Words matter.

One of the phrases that has been popping up in my life a lot recently has been “developmental age” — as in “my child is developmentally X months / years old”. It’s usually an age significantly below their chronological one. Other versions are “caring for my child is like caring for an infant” or “my child is really a toddler”.

Oh, parents and teachers, can we please agree to stop this? It’s not helpful, at best, and limiting at its worst. And inaccurate — so, so inaccurate.

It’s not helpful. After all, what does “developmentally two” even tell us? I see this pop up in lots of groups when asking for advice — “My student is developmentally two, what do I do about (AAC / work activity / behavior)?” Except that hasn’t really told us anything… What does the student like? Dislike? What assistive technology are they already accessing? What are their visual and sensory support needs? What comes easily for them? What is more challenging? Our evaluations, our present levels of performance, our conversations about our kids all need to get a lot more specific (at least in private… I understand keeping things pretty generic in public forums).

It’s inaccurate AND limiting. Here’s the bottom line: we don’t know what these students know. The students who have these phrases thrown around about them are the students who are the most challenging to accurately assess. They may have complex communication needs, significant apraxia, difficulties with sensory regulation, all of the above, or something else entirely. At best, our assessments may tell us the minimum that they know. For example, if a student shows that they can identify 5 letters, we now know they can identify at least 5 letters. We don’t know that they don’t have the knowledge of the other 21 letters. There are dozens of reasons why they may not have been able to demonstrate their knowledge. This is especially important for professionals, who need to be clear about the limitations of these assessments instead of presenting them as the end-all, be-all. When we use these tools to set up boxes like “developmentally two”, then we create preconceptions and limit access. We limit access to real literacy instruction, because “two year olds can’t learn to read yet”! They’re “not ready”! We limit access to general education classes and peers. We have medical professionals that won’t hear a child’s complaints about pain, because it’s written off due to their “developmental age”. We limit their exploration of new activities and adventures, whether it’s a 10th grade science experiment or going to a Nicki Minaj concert. We cannot keep doing this to our students. They deserve access to the entire world, to all the things that every other child and adult access.

It’s not respectful. Oh, friends, think about this deeply… Would you want someone to refer to you as an infant, toddler, child, a pre-teen, long after you left those years? I personally love to watch Hannah Montana and Lizzie McGuire. I saw Moana and Frozen in theaters multiple times. There have been plenty of times that I needed help with a zipper or a fastener or a total meltdown. I need reminders that it’s time to take a shower. One of my favorite ways to calm my body is to swing on the playground. It is an almost irresistible temptation to be next to the swings every day on the playground, actually. But, because I can speak, because I can demonstrate academic knowledge in a way the world has deemed acceptable, no one would think to call me a child. Our kids deserve the same respect. They can like what they like. They can need what they need. That doesn’t change the need for respect; our language needs to reflect that respect. Our kids’ age is simply their age. A teen is a teen is a teen.

We’ve lived this in our family. We’ve lived our 3rd grade daughter being taught Pete The Cat for the fifth or sixth year in a row, because her school team limited her. Or when she changed schools and they decided that clipping clothespins onto a box was even better, because she was a “pre-learner” (another version of developmental age, except somehow even worse). We’ve lived people thinking she shouldn’t say she hates school or us, because OMG, she’s such a precious sweet angel, a toddler in a taller body. We’ve also lived her pain and frustration  (and boredom!) over it. Indeed –it’s amazing how much more engaged and chatty — how much happier — she became with professionals that saw her, just her, no limits, no ages, no prerequisites required. Her current teacher talks about ecosystems and the solar system and the American revolution. Her occupational therapist celebrates her interests while challenging her and targeting written expression and continually raising the bar. Her vision therapist tried hard to convince her school team to work on literacy and number skills. These are the people who get to see all of her, who fall in love with her, who get her. I want more of those people.

So, yes, let’s retire this phrase. Let’s do better by the children and adults that we so deeply love and care for. Teachers and other professionals need to especially listen up, because we set the tone for speaking about disability at every eligibility or well-child check-up. We are why parents use these words. They hear them over and over over, from doctors and psychologists and school evaluation teams. They are cemented. We are the ones who are creating these artificial limits, making parents think that literacy and number sense and autonomous communication are pipe dreams. Except they are only pipe dreams when we don’t provide the services (due to the false limits we’ve set). See the feedback loop we’ve created?

We can break the loop. We can lead the change. It starts with our language, and continues with our practice. Let’s not limit kids with our words, and let’s not limit them with their access. We can do better. Let’s do it.

 

Me & My Headphones, or why we don’t need to outgrow accommodations.

image of smiling white woman with short dark pink hair, wearing cat ears and over the ear headphones
I went to my first convention of superfans this past week, and it was the BookCon with its 20,000 attendees. That’s a lot of people. Without anything else, that’s a lot. A lot of conversations, a lot of noise, a lot of unwritten social rules, a lot of social navigation.

It could have been a disaster for me, especially on that first day. I didn’t know where anything was. I didn’t know where I should be. I only knew that there were a whole lot of lines, sometimes with clear signs and sometimes not. Lights, sounds, smells, all of it. I would say “I almost ran away from it all” except it’s not almost. I did. I sat in a corner far from the show to eat my lunch in silence. Later, I totally quit the show floor and spend the afternoon listening to panels (a much more sensory-friendly experience for my body). There was lots of running away. There could have been more. I was always able to come back. I was able to find something that meant a lot to me. I was able to have a day that was beautiful and fun and memorable, despite any near breakdowns.

It’s because of accommodations.

I didn’t use any accommodations from BookCon… The one downside to the Con is that there really aren’t very many available accommodations. I created my own. Or, in some cases, my husband thought ahead and created them for me. He packed my headphones. I downloaded audiobooks and music that help me stay centered and calm. Oh, those headphones. They were everything. I could drown out the noise that was making my skin crawl. I could distract myself from the anxiety of losing personal space by listening to a favorite chapter in a favorite audiobook on repeat. I fiddled with wires as if they are a fidget toy. They kept people from talking to me when I was not in a place to chat. Those headphones were everything. It wasn’t all I used, but it was the biggest help. I took breaks! I found quiet spaces with no one around. I found the spaces with dim or natural lighting. I stepped out of line when I needed to. I came late or left early from panels, drop lines, autograph signing.

I share this list, these few examples of a much longer list, to say — I am nearing 34, and I make these adaptations to meet my needs. I was able to have this dream weekend, filled with my number one love, because I don’t feel shame about needing what I need. Yet, all too often, we treat accommodations as if they are something to outgrow. We celebrate when students no longer need chewies, when they don’t wear their headphones anymore, or when they decide to hand write rather than use speech-to-text dictation.

We are celebrating the wrong thing.

It doesn’t matter if someone needs to wear a chew necklace. It doesn’t matter if they need to sit at the table with their shoes off. It doesn’t matter if they need to wear a pressure vest or have a weighted blanket or use a rocking chair or wear headphones. It just doesn’t matter.

It matters if someone is living the life that they want to live. It matters if someone has autonomy. Can they do the things they most want to do? What can they access? What dreams can they pursue? What learning is able to happen? What environments are now available to them? What brilliance and beauty and talents are now able to be shared with the world?

This is what we celebrate. The celebration is not whether I was able to do the second dayimage of white woman with short dark pink hair against a rainbow book backdrop. she has white earbuds slung over her shoulder.
of BookCon with less headphone time… The celebration is this: I was able to access this event that meant so, so much to me. The celebration is not whether someone uses speech or a communication device or sign to convey their message. The celebration is that this person’s voice is now able to be heard in the world.

Accommodations don’t need to be outgrown, though they certainly may morph as people’s needs change. They may even morph from one day to the next. We need to focus our attention on the right things: helping our students have lives that they design and love. Accommodations and assistive technology are not things that leave us bound. They are things that help us fly.

 

On a final note, I was able to create my own accommodations this weekend, but that’s not the case for everyone. Some accommodations really need to be created and provided by the venue, whether it’s through universal design or access to specific needs. Most venues, restaurants, stores, even community parks need to do better. One of the ways that we can make that happen is to acknowledge that these needs exist. They are not signs of weakness or “less”, but valid needs.

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.

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.

Baaaaaaaby shark, or letting joy be joy.

Photo Jan 11, 11 02 00 PM.jpg

This is Baby Shark, with credit to Super Simple Songs for our classroom’s favorite of this viral sensation. My preschoolers loveeeeeeeeee Baby Shark. They also love Santa Shark. And Halloween Shark. If there’s a Valentine’s Shark, or a St Patrick’s Shark, or a Summer Shark? They will probably love all of those too. They dance with Baby Shark. They look for ways to make pools for Baby Shark. They sing and read and love on Baby Shark. And, really, we’re pretty huge fans of Super Simple Songs, period.

But, what is Baby Shark doing on my arm?

I love my job; it feels weird to refer to it as a job. I get paid, but that’s not why I look forward to every day. I wake up smiling because my job is pure joy. I get excited for Mondays, because I get to hang out with clever, creative, and awesome tiny humans every day. I wanted to symbolize everything that I love about preschool. But I also wanted to say more. I wanted to say: my preschoolers are beautiful and brilliant, as they are. We don’t need to change their fundamental way of being in the world. We don’t need to transform them. We just need to support them.

Thus, “respect the stim”. It’s brought up in autistic advocacy circles often, because too many — most, almost all — autistics have experienced the opposite. Shut down. Mocked. Forced to be someone other than themselves. Even my own family — who I adore, who have celebrated me, who have honored so much of my very being — spent many minutes asking me to PLEASE. STOP. ROCKING. Twenty years late, I remember it.

Respecting the stim means allowing.

Stims can be joyful. And they can be necessary. They are a powerful expression of someone’s very way of being in the world. If we catch ourselves telling a fellow human to stop, we need to ask ourselves why. For most of history, it’s because X has not been deemed “socially acceptable”. That’s not a good enough reason. If no one is being hurt, emotionally or physically, then why? Why does it need to stop? And if we’re truly worried about safety, can we find a safe way for our friend, family member, student, etc, to engage in what’s important to and for them? Can we work with them, instead of against?

Respecting the stim means celebrating.

Stims are creativity, joy, experimentation, expression, movement, regulation, and so much more. There are as many stims, ways of stimming, reasons for stimming as there are people who stim. I celebrate people — people who have the right to be their authentic selves. I look forward to a world where “quiet hands” doesn’t exist, where little girls rock to their heart’s delight, where teachers and parents can see the art that exists in a perfectly crafted line of alphabet blocks. It’s a world that feels very far away sometimes, but it’s also a world that you have the power to bring closer.

Respecting the stim means moving.

Some people’s bodies were made to move. And that’s okay. It’s okay if someone needs to pace the classroom while you read a story out loud. It’s okay if someone needs to jump up and down. It’s okay if someone wants to wave their fingers in front of their eyes when listening to your directions. It’s okay. I promise. Let bodies move the way they need to move. Learning can still happen (and often happen better).

Respecting the stim means not always teaching.

This seems to be the hardest one. There’s about a thousand books and articles out there about using children’s interests to teach. And I’m all about that, because aren’t we all better learners when we care about what’s happening?

But, sometimes interests just need to be interests. Joy just needs to be joy. Sometimes listening to “Baby Shark” just needs to be laughing and singing and making silly noises together. Sometimes you need to forget the lesson plan and throw some snowy silver glitter into the air. I mean, take a moment. Think of something you love dearly. What if someone else decided when and where and how much you could do that thing? Or if you could do that at all? What kind of world would that be? Who would you be? And what kind of relationship could you ever have with that person?

Don’t try to twist everything into a “teachable moment”. Just don’t.

 

This is what Baby Shark is to me: joy. Joy that is allowed — encouraged — to simply be. And it’s one of the greatest gifts my preschoolers have ever given me. To learn, by accepting them, what it means to accept myself. It means everything.

Ableism persists.

I promise to get back to my communication series soon, but I’ve found myself troubled over the last week about the very premises with which we approach education and interaction with those who are disabled. All of the high-tech AAC, all of the professional development on literacy instruction, all of the videos about inclusion working around the country are meaningless if we haven’t changed our very lens, the foundation upon which everything else is built.

That foundation must absolutely include:

  • Every child has worth and value to contribute.
  • Every child learns.
  • Every child has a right to equal opportunity.

The catch is — there can be no caveat. There can be no imaginary ceiling that we have placed in our mind, even subconsciously. And it’s not a smile-and-nod, “yes, these are my angels, they are so sweet, they teach me so much” condescension. Those things come through. They come through in the decisions you make (sight word instruction!) and the access you provide (ASD? We must start with PECS!). They come through in the goals you write, the interactions you have, and even the things that you celebrate. If low expectations harms children without disabilities, why would we think it any different for our students who receive special education services?

We don’t have to constantly being surprised by kids — or, worse, never be surprised because we didn’t even give the opportunity. I’ve experienced more times than I can count when a person doesn’t showcase a skill simply because of how much the other person just. did. not. get. it.

My daughter is a great example. We were at a recent medical appointment that opened with, “well, of course she can’t do that, just look at her.” My daughter then proceeded to refuse to use her talker, refuse to stack blocks, and checked completely out. The medical professional had their own opinions confirmed, but never looked to whether they were creating an environment where only their truth could exist.

Meanwhile, my daughter met our new superintendent several weeks ago. She was at school with her classroom staff that completely believes in her. The superintendent was lovely, sitting with her, speaking with her eye-to-eye, not dumbing down her language or speaking around her. My daughter then proceeded to have an entire conversation, introducing herself, telling her how old she was, where she goes to school, what she likes…

Expect greatness. You can start right here, right now, with the students you have in front of you today. Teach to their unlimited potential. Ask yourself: what would change if I really, truly believed that there was no end to what this student could learn? If I remembered that learning shows up in many forms? If I said, “It might take fifty years, but that’s okay because learning never ends”? If I thought — how can I be sure that my students are living the experience of having the right to a well-rounded education, to a voice, to autonomy? To be seen and taught as critical thinkers, as problem solvers, as global citizens?

How many words would think should be available on a communication device? What would your reading instruction look like? How much further than basic math facts could you go? What kind of problem solving opportunities and project-based learning and sense of community could you create? Would you have “Fun Friday” and movies every week if your class was filled with general education students? Would you skip creative writing if your class was filled with general education students?

There’s a lot of things we cannot control. I get that, I do. I teach in a more restrictive setting. And I often teach toddlers, which means no access to same-age peers in public schools. But there’s also a lot of things that we can control. Our expectations are at the very top of that list.

Know that you can never fully know what any individual is capable of, disability or not. My daughter has already far surpassed every limit that has ever been placed on her — and she still has so much left to show the world. My students do it every year. Learning and growth don’t end at a certain grade level or at a certain age. There is no ceiling. This doesn’t change for our students with disabilities.